Chapter 19, part 2.
She switched the comms system to outgoing information and immediately her ears were inundated with radio chatter.
"…I can't reach them," someone with a heavy Irish accent was saying. "I've cleared the airspace ahead and the Air Corps is talking to the RAF to scramble some Typhoons to eyeball them, but it's a jurisdictional nightmare."
"Air Traffic Control, this is flight BA 218 from Denver to London Heathrow, do you copy?" Alice interjected before whoever was listening had a chance to reply.
"Uh, this is Shannon ATC, repeat that last—is this BA 218?"
"Affirmative, this is BA 218 from Denver to London, sorry for going radio silent, we've had a bit of a situation on board."
"Oh thank God," the Irish controller sighed with relief. "We thought you'd been hijacked or crashing… You were losing altitude very fast and we couldn't raise you on comms!"
Alice smiled wanly. "In fact, we had been hijacked, but we've managed to regain control over the aircraft. I repeat—BA 218 had been hijacked but is now in friendly hands."
There was a moment of silence, not even disturbed by any static on the line, which meant they muted their microphone. "BA 218, Shannon. Confirm status, your squawk code has not changed since you've appeared in our airspace!"
"Shannon, we are free and clear of danger, we have three hijackers in custody, one dead. One of the hijackers entered the cockpit and took over the flight, so for about an hour we were flying under a hostile flag. I guess he didn't change the squawk code to make it appear as if nothing was out of place."
"An hour?!" The Air Traffic Controller repeated, bewildered. "But we've been communicating with the pilot until about fifteen minutes ago!"
Alice arched her eyebrows. "Then you've been communicating with the hijacker, I'm afraid. The Captain and the First Officer have been dead for more than an hour now."
"Dead? Then who are you?!" The poor man sounded confused and Alice didn't blame him.
"My name is Major Alice Boyd, United States Air Force," she replied. "I'm a passenger on the flight—and I just happen to be a former fighter pilot."
"Good Lord! But do you have any idea how to pilot an airliner?!"
"I haven't done it yet," she replied quite nonchalantly. "But I am a pilot and I have the aircraft flight manual right here. I can land this thing." She paused for a beat, and then added quietly, looking at the co-pilot's body in the next seat. "We don't really have another option here."
There was another moment of silence, and Alice figured the controller was asking his supervisor what on Earth was he supposed to do now.
"Alright, BA 218, can you climb back to twelve thousand meters? We've cleared the airspace ahead of you but you're about to be feet-dry over Ireland and we need time."
"Roger that, Shannon, BA 218 climbing to twelve thousand meters," Alice confirmed; she didn't figure that part to be difficult. "Shannon, we are at twelve thousand, over," she reported a moment later.
"218, keep the course and altitude, we are conferring with the IAA and the authorities, will advise in five minutes."
"Copy, next communication in five minutes, BA 218 out."
Alice kept the comms on, just in case they'd call her earlier, and as soon as their conversation ended, other flights in the vicinity started speaking up, communicating with the Tower over the Shannon Airport and more generally with the Air Traffic Control. She ignored them and reached for the flight manual. It was several hundred pages long but it contained a lot of diagrams so she hoped to be able to go through it before she actually had to begin the landing procedure.
"BA 218, Shannon ATC, do you copy?"
"BA 218, receiving you loud and clear, Shannon," she confirmed, and then added: "Shannon, for your information, I will be feet-dry in about two minutes."
"Copy that, 218. The IAA wants to know how much fuel do you have. Can you advise? Over."
"Shannon, we are just shy of sixteen metric tons, should be enough for a little over two hours of flight at cruising altitude," Alice replied. The fuel consumption was one of the first things the manual mentioned. "And let me tell you, as much as I'd like to pretend otherwise, I wouldn't mind burning the majority of it before I attempt a landing." That way a crash-landing would have a slightly lesser chance of going up in flames immediately; fuel was the most volatile thing aboard.
"218, copy that, we will relay this to the IAA," the controller agreed. "The authorities also want to know the number of souls aboard, their status, and any info you have on the hijackers."
"Give me two minutes to confirm with the flight crew."
"218, copy, contact in two minutes, Shannon out."
Alice searched for a moment and finally found a way to call the cabin. It took a minute before someone picked up.
"Yes?"
"Antonia, this is Alice—how are things over there?"
"Nervous, but everyone's behaving," the flight attendant replied, letting out a little sigh of relief—she probably had expected bad news from Alice. "I think that uncontrolled descent has put them in a more docile mood—some people were standing, others didn't have their seatbelts on, and we've had a few falls and tumbles."
"Any injuries?"
"No, just a few bruises, thank God. How are things in the cockpit?"
"Not bad, I'm on the line with Shannon ATC—they're asking me how many souls on board. Do you know?"
"Yes, two hundred and thirty-five passengers and seven crew," Antonia replied automatically, and then caught herself: "I mean… that was before…"
"Yeah, I know. One more thing, do you remember which seats the hijackers occupied?"
"Yeah, it was 12A, 14C, 14F and 16B," she recalled.
"Thanks. Alright, if anything happens, call me up."
"Yes, ma'am."
Alice switched back to outgoing communication.
"Shannon, BA 218. We've set out with two hundred and thirty-five passengers and seven crew," Alice repeated after Antonia. "But we have five fatalities, repeat, five fatalities, four crew and one hijacker. The remainder of the passengers are alive and well—a few bruises caused by that uncontrolled descent you've seen on radar—and I'm sure everyone is pretty shaken up, but nothing major. We have one dead hijacker and three in custody. We don't know much about them, they weren't particularly chatty. They spoke with a British accent, but I couldn't pinpoint where from exactly—it wasn't RP," she added, referring to the Received Pronunciation, the standard that one could hear from BBC anchors but generally not on the streets of any British city. "They were occupying seats 12A, 14C, 14F and 16B in the Business Class, so you might want to get ahold of the flight manifest and find their names there."
"Copy that, 218. The four crew fatalities—do you know who they are?"
"It's the pilot, co-pilot and two flight attendants, Tatiana and Sami," Alice replied, stealing a look at the two bodies again. "I don't know their last names."
"Roger, 218. Let us talk to IAA again and we'll reestablish contact in five minutes."
"Copy that, Shannon. BA 218 out."
Alice returned to leafing through the manual until the Air Traffic Control came back on the radio.
"BA 218, Shannon ATC."
"Shannon, 218, copy."
"218, the powers that be decided you should proceed to the British airspace, they're gonna find you a safe place to land. We will monitor and advise until the NATS takes over once you cross to their side."
"Copy that, Shannon, thank you. How long do you estimate till we're feet-wet again?"
"At current speed and altitude we estimate seven minutes till you reach the Channel."
Alice raised her eyebrows, confused for a moment—she wasn't heading towards the English Channel—but then she remembered that the basin between Ireland and Wales was called St. George's Channel. "Thanks, Shannon. Maintaining speed, altitude and heading, BA 218 out."
"Good luck, 218, and may God help you land safely," the controller replied emphatically.
Alice smiled weakly, but didn't respond. For the next few minutes, she focused on the manual again, the autopilot still doing its job brilliantly and allowing her to concentrate on the landing procedure.
"BA 218, Shannon, you're about to pass into NATS airspace, go to one-one-eight decimal seven-three for Military ATC out of Swanwick," the controller advised a while later.
"BA 218, one-one-eight decimal seven-three, copy. Thanks and goodbye." She switched to the frequency he had just given her. "This is flight BA 218, entering British airspace, do you copy?"
"BA 218, copy loud and clear. Can you confirm your status?" A new voice replied, this one a female one.
"218 is heading eight-nine degrees, flight level three-nine-three, speed five-one-six knots," Alice responded, looking at the instruments.
"218, roger that. Be advised, Command wants to talk to you, go to one-eight-two decimal three-zero. Return to one-one-eight decimal seven-three when you're done. Do you copy?"
"Copy that, ATC, go to one-eight-two decimal three-zero and then return to one-one-eight decimal seven-three." Alice switched the frequency again. "Command, this is flight BA 218, I am told you want to speak with me."
"BA 218, good to hear from you. My name is Wing Commander Andrew Powell of the Royal Air Force, Air Command. Can you identify yourself?"
"Major Alice Boyd, 21st Space Wing, US Air Force," she replied. "I would've preferred if it were under different circumstances, sir, but as always, pleasure to meet a fellow airman."
"I see you are in good spirits, excellent," he commented, sounding friendly and genuine and Alice wondered if his disposition was why they chose him to talk to her. "We have received the report from the Shannon Air Traffic Controller via Irish Aviation Authority on what you've told them, but can you confirm the situation aboard your aircraft, please?"
Alice sighed and repeated how many people there were, casualties, and all she had learned about the hijackers. "Sir, I am confident that, with a bit of time to peruse the flight manual, I can bring the plane safely down, but I wouldn't mind if we could burn off most of our fuel first, just as a precaution," she added as she finished.
"That's very good thinking, Major, we will instruct the ATC to guide you accordingly. Now, you say you can bring the plane safely down—do you have any experience piloting an airliner?"
"No, sir, but I'm a former F-16 pilot, I have over twenty-two hundred hours of flight time and the associated rating of a Senior Pilot," she explained. Most of those hours were actually for spaceflight, but, since that fact was deeply classified, they counted towards official pilot rating. "I'm also an engineer and a very fast reader, give me an hour to go through the manual and I guarantee you I can land this thing safely."
"You sound very confident, that's good," the wing commander noted, and Alice wondered if he thought she was being reckless. "We are also looking for a trained pilot to walk you through the landing procedure."
She frowned. "Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, but I'd rather not be distracted," she protested. "Sir, I know this might sound a little, uhm, foolhardy to you, but I know what I'm doing. Although—" she added, her voice conciliatory "—I probably could use someone on the line to ask a question to if I'm unsure about something."
"Done," he agreed easily. "When he's ready he will radio in on the ATC frequency so you don't have to switch for his sake. That frequency is just for you, so you won't have interference from any other aircraft, either."
"Sounds good. Where do you want me to land?"
"Civilian airports are a little too busy for our taste, so we're diverting you to Brize Norton, it's an RAF station some fifty miles north-west of Heathrow. Emergency Services will be waiting for you, along with the authorities to take custody of the hijackers."
Alice nodded to herself. She knew that Brize Norton was the largest of the RAF installations and housed mostly air transport and support units. "Sounds good, sir."
"Alright, do you have any more questions at this time?"
"No, sir."
"Good, then you can switch back to the ATC frequency. Good luck, Major."
"Thank you, sir. BA 218 out."
She took a deep breath and turned the dial to use the PA system first. "Attention, passengers. We have entered the British airspace and we have been diverted to the Royal Air Force station Brize Norton, fifty miles out of London. We have about thirty minutes of flight to get there but we will circle above for a little while until they are ready to receive us. Hold on, people, we're almost there," she added encouragingly. Then she switched back to outgoing comms and entered the right frequency.
"ATC, this is BA 218."
"BA 218, copy. We've got instructions from Command to steer you into uncontrolled airspace over Brize Norton and keep you in the air until you get close to three metric tons of fuel left. Confirm reception."
"Confirmed, we will be going to Brize Norton and flying around until we've got only enough fuel for approach and landing." This was risky—if something was wrong, and the aircraft had to climb back and do a go-around, they could actually run out of fuel, but out of two bad scenarios, Alice thought this one was less likely to end in a disaster.
"Thanks, 218. Reduce speed to five-zero-zero and proceed with heading nine-zero degrees."
"Roger that, reducing speed to five-zero-zero knots, heading nine-zero," she repeated. The radio remained quiet for a few minutes after that.
Over the next hour, she continued to read through the flight manual, the passage of time punctuated only by the ATC's instructions to change heading in regular intervals, first to get them closer to the RAF station and later to keep them circling overhead. It gave Alice the chance to finish reading the entire thing, and then re-read the landing procedures section—twice, so when she eventually closed the guidebook and put it away, she felt quite well prepared. It wasn't like she hadn't flown different types of craft without experience before—although, admittedly, they were space vessels with neural link to help her along. Still, landing any plane was guided by the same principles—it was just the different switches and sequence of actions that were unique not just for airliners in general, but for every type of airliner, too.
As she made another turn, as instructed by the ATC, she addressed the passengers again.
"We are about to begin our final approach," she told them, trying for a reassuring tone, though her adrenaline was still up and making her voice colder than she'd intended. "Please fasten your seatbelts, stow your tray tables and bring your seats to their full and upright position." She smirked at herself for saying this formula; how many times had she heard it when she was a passenger herself! "In ten minutes we will be on the ground. When we land, please remain seated until otherwise instructed; there will be authorities and emergency services stepping onto the plane before anyone is allowed out, so be patient. Thank you."
She switched back to outgoing communications just in time to hear the ATC's latest instruction.
"218, fly heading seven-zero degrees and descend flight level seven-zero."
"Flight level seven-zero, turn heading seven-zero degrees, 218," Alice confirmed after a few seconds. She was now perfectly aligned with the runway and descending rapidly, her heart beating hard as she flicked each switch or moved the yoke. The RAF station had the ILS—Instrument Landing System—activated, despite the weather being quite good for November in England, and it made the whole thing a bit easier. Nevertheless, as the aircraft wheels touched down on the runway, and the plane bounced up and down and then settled roughly, she felt incredible weight lift from her shoulder. They were on the ground!
As she reduced speed further, the engine roar died down and even through the thick door separating her from the cabin she could hear the delighted howls of joy and the wave of clapping from the passengers. Outside, what seemed like hundreds of vehicles were approaching, even though the plane was still in movement—ambulances, fire trucks, police cars, all ready to provide aid.
"Woohoo!" The controller who'd been guiding her through the landing forgot herself for a moment. "You did it, ma'am! Congratulations!"
"Thank you," Alice answered, smiling widely. "Couldn't have done it without your help."
"Good job, Major," another voice piped up, and Alice knew it was the Boeing-trained pilot they got there to walk her through the landing procedure; they had merely exchanged greetings, and that was the extent to which her contact with him had gone, though.
"Thank you," she repeated. "Gotta go now. BA 218, out."
She took off the headphones, but remained in her seat for a moment, just breathing deeply. Now that they were safe, the adrenaline that had been keeping her up for the last few hours was starting to fade and she knew she would crash soon. Fighting the wave of fatigue, she made herself stand up and walk out of the cockpit.
There was a great tumult of voices coming from the passenger cabin, but Alice ignored it for the moment. She smiled at Paul McQueen, who was still standing watch over the three hijackers with the Beretta in his hand.
"Good work," she praised him and then reached out. "You won't need that anymore."
He looked at the three men at his feet. They appeared to be conscious, now, but all they could do was throw them murderous looks. Then Paul shrugged and handed her the gun.
She made sure that it was safe and stuck it into her pocket. A moment later, Kayla appeared at the entrance to the cabin, her face looking ecstatic and tear-stained.
"Oh my God, you did it! You actually did it!" She squealed and launched herself into Alice's arms.
Alice hugged her back awkwardly. "Um, it's okay, Kayla," she said and patted the girl on the shoulder. "Um, we should open the door—I saw they were wheeling the ramp this way…"
"Oh, yes, of course!" The young flight attendant stepped back, wiping tears off her face and smudging her makeup further. "I'm a silly goose!"
She proceeded to unlock and swing open the heavy front door, just as the mobile staircase was approaching. A moment later, two men in elegant suits appeared at the top of the ramp.
"Good morning!" The older one said cheerfully as he entered. "I'm Detective Inspector Tom Lancaster, Thames Valley Police, and this gentleman's name is John Derby."
Alice smirked. "Let me guess, MI5?"
His eyes twinkled as he bowed a little, but he remained silent.
"Am I correct in supposing that you are Major Alice Boyd?" The policeman asked, not looking at her but rather watching the three men, bound and sitting against the far wall.
"Yes, sir. These three are the hijackers we managed to subdue—the body of the fourth one is in the galley between Business and First Class," Alice explained. "If you are planning to get the passengers off the plane, may I suggest leading them out the back door? That way only the ten or so people in the First Class will have to walk by the dead body." They would all have to walk under the corpses of the two unfortunate flight attendants, but since they were hidden in the crew rest cabin over the coach compartment, nobody would know it.
"That's a good idea," Lancaster agreed and pulled out a radio to relay the instructions. "And get some officers up here to bring down the suspects," he added and then finally looked up to stare at Paul for a moment. "Aren't you Paul McQueen, the actor?"
He smirked. "Yeah, that's me. I'm just helping out here."
"He's been very useful," Alice supplied quickly. "Helped me move them here and kept an eye on them while I was in the cockpit and the flight attendants kept the passengers from rioting."
"Interesting." Lancaster stepped aside; six policemen just climbed the stairs and entered the small room. "Get them out of here," he instructed, pointing at the hijackers.
The men weren't particularly cooperative but they were dragged out with little consideration for their comfort. Alice didn't feel bad for them.
She sighed and turned to the detective. "I guess I won't be needing those anymore," she said and pulled the Beretta from her pocket and the Ruger from behind her belt; it left a little bruise where it had poked her side, but she had been so hard-strung she hadn't even noticed until now. "There's an empty Sig Sauer and its magazine in a drawer in one of the galleys and another pistol is somewhere on the floor of the cockpit, I didn't have the time to pick it up."
He took the guns gingerly and checked them carefully.
"They have been fired recently," he ascertained.
"I shot one of the hijackers with the Ruger," Alice told him with a sigh. She was feeling more and more tired. "He fired the Beretta at me, but his bullet struck an internal wall safely."
"It seems like he wasn't entirely unsuccessful." It was the other man, John Derby, who made that observation, nodding at Alice's arm, where a massive clot of blood confirmed his words.
She shrugged. "It's just a scratch."
"A cat's claw can scratch you," Lancaster protested spiritedly. "A bullet wound is quite a different story!"
Alice snickered and pulled the edge of her sweater and t-shirt off her shoulder and arm, revealing the scar left by Karim during their shootout in Jareth's castle. "This is a bullet wound, sir. That's just a graze."
He cocked an eyebrow. "You are full of surprises, Major. Either way, I think a medic should see to it. Let's get out of here."
She looked outside and shook her head. "I would really like to grab my purse and jacket, first. They're still somewhere in the coach cabin, under my seat," she explained and then shrugged. "It's cold out there, plus I'd prefer to have my passport and my phone with me."
"Yeah, I'd like to grab my stuff, too," McQueen put in.
"Fine." Lancaster lifted his radio again. "George, how long on the disembarkation?"
"Five minutes," a disembodied voice replied.
"Alright, we're gonna wait here. Can you get an ambulance by the front entrance to wait for us? We have one person injured."
"Sure thing, boss."
Alice rolled her eyes, but didn't protest—for now. Obviously, she wasn't going to a hospital for a scratch, but that was a battle to be fought in five minutes. Instead, she pulled out one of the crew seats and sat down, leaning on her elbows.
"Are you okay?" Lancaster asked, solicitous.
She waved her hand dismissively. "Just tired. Adrenaline crash," she said. "It'll wear off in a moment."
"Is that why I suddenly feel so exhausted?" Paul asked, sitting down next to her. "It's like all the energy I've ever had has left my body…"
She smiled at him, quite pleasantly. "Yeah, that's something action movies don't tell you about."
"No kidding. Not that I had any illusions before, but now I realize with crystal clarity how different real life is from the movies I play in," he noted, not without some humor. Then he shook his head and added more seriously: "I honestly don't know how you managed all of that. I spent all that time locked in fear, if you hadn't been so calm and confident, I'd've broken down…"
"But you didn't," she told him encouragingly. "Being afraid and yet doing the thing anyway, that's true courage. And see, now you can tell anyone that you don't just play heroes, you're one yourself."
He chuckled. "Yeah, I wish. I just helped you carry some weight and then stood here like an idiot while you were fighting for all our lives in there…" He nodded towards the cockpit's door.
Alice shrugged. "I'm trained for this. You aren't, which means what you did has more value. You stepped up when I needed you, that's something to proud of. All of you should be proud of yourselves," she added, lifting her head to look at Kayla, who was standing by the door, silent tears still falling on her cheeks. "You've really gone above and beyond the call of duty."
"Oh! But I let the hijackers into the cockpit!" She protested, sniffling harder than before. "I should've stood firm…"
"They would've started killing passengers," Alice reminded her. "You did the right thing under the circumstances."
"You're too kind!" The girl squealed and started sobbing for real.
Alice sighed, got up and hugged her. "It's okay, Kayla—everything is fine. You're safe, we're all safe…"
It took a moment for the young flight attendant to calm down. Alice caught an exchange of looks between Lancaster and Derby, but neither of them offered any comment until the policeman's radio crackled again.
"Disembarkation complete."
"You can go in now, grab your things," he allowed and followed Alice and McQueen into the passenger cabin. He stopped for a moment when they reached the galley where the dead hijacker still lay, now stiff and ashen. "That's an excellent shot," he praised, his eyes flickering between the body and Alice.
She shrugged. "It was close-range," she murmured and walked forward. She had to look for her purse for a moment—it had been beneath her seat but must have slipped out during the uncontrolled descent—found it, and then pulled her jacket and her carry-on suitcase from the overhead compartment.
"Let me," John Derby offered, taking the suitcase away from her as they returned to the front of the plane.
"Thanks." She gestured at Paul and Kayla to go out first and, followed by Lancaster and Derby, they started down the steps.
There was a crowd of people on the ground, cordoned off and shepherded by a ring of policemen—constables, they were called here, Alice remembered—towards a number of buses that stood nearby. Alice was halfway down the ramp when someone noticed her, pointed and called out:
"Hey! That's her! That's the woman who saved us!"
And then every single head turned around to look at her and a wave of clapping and cheers went through the throng. Alice felt her cheeks go pink and she looked down, pretending to focus on the steps. The applause didn't stop when they reached the ground but continued until they ducked behind an ambulance standing just a few yards away. Then, slowly, it died away and Alice breathed with relief.
"Can you check on her arm?" Lancaster asked the medic.
Alice rolled her eyes but allowed herself to be brought inside the ambulance and seated on the cot while he examined the injury.
"You didn't seem to appreciate that impulsive display of gratitude from the passengers just now," John Derby said with a cocked eyebrow, leaning against the open door of the vehicle. "But from everything we've heard so far, you've single-handedly taken down four terrorists and landed the plane, saving every soul aboard. That's pretty heroic stuff."
"Hardly," she murmured and then winced at the sudden pain as the medic began cleaning out the wound.
"Sorry," he told her. "It's gonna sting."
"I know, it's okay."
"You don't think you're a hero?" Derby pressed.
"A hero is someone who sacrifices their own life for the good of the others," she retorted dismissively. "I was merely saving my own ass."
"That's an interesting definition. And yet you told Mr. McQueen here that he was a hero."
Alice shrugged and didn't reply.
"Don't move," the medic scolded her.
A phone started ringing and Derby fished his out and walked a few steps away to pick it up.
"Whatever you think, the press is gonna love this story—they're gonna make you both heroes," Lancaster noted.
Alice frowned. "No, they won't. Detective, I made damn sure not to give my name to the passengers—the only people who know it are the crew and Paul here, and I'm sure they'll agree to keep it to themselves." She sent Paul and Kayla an intense look and they both nodded eagerly. "I would very much appreciate it if the authorities and everyone else involved kept my name out of the press, too."
He looked genuinely surprised at that. "Why?!"
She smiled sardonically. "The kind of work that I do does not lend itself to the spotlight," she explained carefully. "I don't want press to sniff around me for any reason. I've had enough of that already."
He frowned. "You realize, of course, that if we agree to that, it'll be temporary at best—eventually you'll have to testify in court and then everyone will know it was you."
She pursed her lips. "Not if my testimony is behind closed doors," she challenged.
"There is no way this case can be tried outside of the public eye," he contradicted. "The press is gonna be all over it, and you're gonna be the star witness—there's no way they'll let you testify behind closed doors."
"We shall see about that." She grimaced as the medic poured something onto the wound—it stung even more than the disinfectant he'd used before. "Either way, I'd appreciate if you refrained from giving my details to anyone who doesn't have a clear need to know, and especially members of the press."
He harrumphed, but said nothing.
"I'll tell Antonia and Jenny, we will honor your wishes," Kayla spoke up earnestly and Alice sent her a grateful smile.
At that moment, John Derby finished his phone call and came back to them.
"Well, that was headquarters. They're having trouble confirming your ID, Major. Apparently, there's nobody awake in the Pentagon who'd know who you are."
Alice looked at her watch, irking the medic again with the movement. It was still set to MST. "Well, it's the middle of the night there, so I'm not surprised." She meditated for a moment, and then asked: "Are you going to tell your Prime Minister about this incident?"
"I'd imagine he's already had an initial briefing and will be getting updates throughout the day," Derby acknowledged. "Why?"
"You can ask him about me. I gave him a briefing about two months ago," she explained, seeing everyone's raised eyebrows. "I'm sure he'll remember me. Your Secretary for Defense was there, too."
"You met with the Prime Minister?!" Lancaster repeated, shaking his head.
"What was the briefing about?" Derby asked.
"Space Program," she lied smoothly. "I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to divulge any details."
The police detective opened his mouth to say something, but he stopped when Derby put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.
"Excuse me," the MI5 agent said and stepped away again, phone in hand.
"You're done," the medic announced, tying up the edges of the bandage that went around her arm. "Don't get it wet and see a doctor tomorrow or the day after to change the dressing and check for signs of infection. You should've had it wrapped up as it happened," he castigated her softly.
"There wasn't time," she answered, standing up and jumping down onto the ground. "Thank you." She then addressed Lancaster. "What happens now?"
"Now we debrief you all," he replied, waving his hand up and down—signaling two police cars to get closer. "The passengers are being sent over to a hotel in Oxford where they will be sequestered and questioned, one by one, until we have all the information and are satisfied that none of them were working with the terrorists."
Alice nodded; so the police had the same concerns as she did. At least it meant she wasn't being overly mistrustful.
"You, Mr. McQueen and the remaining crew members, on the other hand, will come with us to London where you will be debriefed in detail."
"It's, what, two hours drive?" Alice shook her head. "I could use a bathroom break before we go."
"I second that motion!" Paul exclaimed eagerly.
"We'll make a stop at the Air Terminal," Lancaster agreed. He turned around, exchanged a look with Derby, and then gestured at Alice, Paul and Kayla to get into the cars. The latter two got into one, and Alice was joined by Lancaster and, a minute later, by Derby in the other.
Twenty minutes—and a trip to the bathroom—later, they were leaving the RAF station. Alice pulled out her phone from her purse and looked at Derby who sat in the back with her. "Do you mind if I make a phone call?"
"You want to call your family, let them know you're alright?" It was Lancaster who asked, half-turning around on the front passenger seat.
"No, my family doesn't know I'm here," she replied, shrugging. "No, I want to leave a message for my CO."
"Okay, go ahead—but please put it on speakerphone," Derby allowed.
She rolled her eyes and dialed the contact. Someone picked up after just two beeps.
"Good evening, Sergeant Rattle speaking, how may I help you?"
"Hey, Sergeant, this is Major Boyd calling. I know it's the middle of the night, but—is General Carter or Colonel Mitchell around by any chance?"
"No, ma'am, I'm afraid they aren't."
"Alright, thanks, that'll be all." She ended the call and caught Derby's look. "I'll text her to call me when she can," she explained, pulling the messenger app on her smartphone. "She and her second-in-command work odd hours, so there was a chance one of them would be at the base."
He only nodded. Alice sent the text and it didn't even take five minutes for her phone to start buzzing.
"On speakerphone, please," Derby reminded her.
Alice rolled her eyes, but obeyed. "General, you're on speakerphone," she said without preamble.
This did give Carter a pause. "What's going on, Major?" She asked. She didn't sound as if she had been pulled out of sleep.
"There's been an incident on my flight to London," Alice reported. "Four unknown men hijacked the plane, killed two flight attendants and both pilots."
"You took care of them?"
"Yes, ma'am. We've landed safely and I'm cooperating with the local authorities."
"Good. Any reason to suspect connection with us?" Carter's voice was wary.
"No, ma'am. It seems like a random occurrence. Just unlucky to be there, I guess." Alice caught another significant look exchanged between Derby and Lancaster.
"Oh, I don't know, seems to me it was lucky you were there to intervene," Carter disagreed. "You need any support?"
"The British can't find anyone at the Pentagon to confirm my ID," Alice said lightly. "And I could use some pressure from the top to keep my involvement out of the public eye."
"Done and done," Carter promised. "Otherwise, you're okay?"
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."
"Alright, I'll make the call now. If you need anything else, let me know."
"Thank you, ma'am." Alice pressed the red receiver to end the call.
"That was interesting," Derby commented, his eyes sharp as he watched Alice. "Why would your CO suspect a connection to them?"
"She didn't, she asked if I did, and I don't," Alice replied lightly.
The agent smiled, a bit mockingly. "Yeah. She seemed to have taken it rather well—like it was completely normal her people were involved in taking down terrorists any day."
Alice shrugged and didn't reply. It wasn't really a question—he was merely speculating.
"You're an interesting bird, Major," he commented offhandedly, but his eyes were shining with interest.
"Well, sir, this bird is kinda tired—you mind if I close my eyes for a while?" She asked, mostly to stop the conversation, but also because she did feel fatigued still.
"Not at all, go ahead," he allowed, so Alice leaned back on her seat and let her mind drift off.