Scene Written: 23 March 1453
8 June 1374- 16:30
Jon Morough had taken missions where he was not permitted to speak to the passengers or even look at them. He had also done assignments where location names were classified. But never before had he accepted an assignment where both would be the case. This certainly was a first.
"Must be somebody important," he muttered to himself.
As soon as he reached the end of the brightly-lit, white-walled corridor, the door opened for him, blasting him with cool air. He was hoping he had landed somewhere warm, but that was not what shocked him.
"My aircraft," he said to himself through gritted teeth. "That's MY aircraft."
Sure enough, it definitely appeared to be his scram jet, the one he used during the Esurchian War, from which he had earned honorable medals. It was one of the first scram jets produced, and he was one of the first aviators to fly them. He had grown attached to the aircraft. But then he received his honorable discharge, and returned home to the Commonwealth only to struggle to find work to fit his career; the aviator market was in its decline, losing its battle to automation.
So here he was, and there was his aircraft. Except it no longer bore the signature colors and stripes of the Commonwealth. It was in different hands, an unknown foreign party now. Its skin was haphazardly painted over by new colors and symbols with which Jon was unfamiliar.
But no matter. Now was not the time to let his heart sink. He proceeded onto the craft and began making preparations. Inside the cockpit, the marks, nicks, and fingerprints were all in the right places. This WAS his craft.
"Aircraft 616. Position A. Over," said the radio.
"Present, over," replied Jon through his headset.
"Passenger load at the gate and ready to board."
"Initiating." Jon pressed a button to his right side, making a tunnel-port extend from the left side of the jet's hull to meet up with a similar-looking walkway extending from the terminal building. After a few moments, Jon received the command to withdraw the tunnel-ports. A further command was then given to him for take off.
Jon activated the engines and very slowly pushed the ascent lever. The aircraft rose majestically so that the mountainous landscape, looking ominous with its shadows against the setting sun, came into view as the landing pad fell away hundreds of feet below. When they reached a height of 500 feet above the surface, Jon took the yoke and pushed the throttle. He pulled back on the yoke as the plane tipped upward for its ascent.
The mountains fell away, growing smaller as the plane gained altitude. The landscape was lush green with only a few tips of the summits capped with snow. They were North but it was summer.
Jon reached the first waypoint of the flight and set his coordinates for the second waypoint, still to the East if not a few degrees to the slight South of that direction. The big difference was the altitude: from 3000ft to 10000ft. But this was a gentle climb for him. This, combined with the darkening dusk and the falling mountains, which began to look more like a choppy water, made Jon almost feel compelled to break protocol and give a warm commercial pilot's announcement.
Without warning, an explosion shook the aircraft.
Jon gripped his yoke with incredible strength as he struggled to steady the aircraft and sort through the orchestra of blaring alarms. He immediately went into manual control of the aircraft and declared an emergency over the radio.
"Head North-Northwest at 285 degrees," responded the radio. "We will clear all landing pads for you."
"I don't think I will make it," replied Jon. The aircraft may have been relatively steady but it was losing altitude. He looked to his left and saw a fairly big lake in his view. "I'm going in the water," he said. "Activating emergency floats protocol."
With great struggle, he positioned the aircraft to land in the lake. He went through the landing procedures and activated the emergency landing pontoons.
"When you land in the lake," said the radio. "Personally evacuate out the windshield exit and take that raft in that direction. The passengers will take the aft exit; and I forwarded their protocols to them just now. They will be concealed. Do not interfere in their rescue; we will take care of them."
Jon had no time to question these directions at this point. However, in the back of his mind, he thought he could hear through the door one of those in the cabin behind him giving instruction in a certain dialect of Notulfan. It was something he would forget about until many years later.
He was almost to the lake but then the aircraft started to dip a little too fast. He powered the throttles despite the possible danger and barely missed the treetops. Next came a wide grassy knoll extending all the way up to the lake's edge. His pontoon skids scraped against the grass three times before finally the craft splashed into the lake with a big jolt.
As per protocol, Jon opened the windshield exit and boarded the inflatable raft, which automatically made its way North. While moving over the water, he looked back at his craft and saw that half of the cargo hull on the left side had been blown out.
"Contraband!?" he said to himself. "Who in the world was I flying?"
When he made it to the shore on the North side, Jon was met by one of the representatives of the Teal Sky Aviators Agency, his new employer. The representative had flown in on a gyroplane of his own and had reached Jon in a timely fashion.
After a team of medics did a quick check on him at a tent quickly and efficiently set up by the lake, Jon was approached by the first representative.
"Don't bother," Jon said, before the representative could even speak. "I've had my run of the mill with you guys. Take me back to the Commonwealth."