BLOCK 2 WHITE "Flight 493" Michael Fricke
1/23/2014
It isn't every day you are forced to kill your best friend.
It was a brisk Sunday afternoon when I stepped aboard the Vanhela. Flinching at the chilled winter air that seeped into the gangway, I straightened my pilot's cap and nodded to the flight attendant. She carries a thin manila envelope in her right hand.
"Morning captain Walken." She says with an upbeat inflection.
"Good morning Andrea. How are the kids?" I reply, stopping to speak with her.
"Doing great. Well, mostly anyway. Henry has a fever, and I'm sure it won't be long until we all have it!" she lets out a bit of a giggle, and I smile in return. She looks off into the direction she was heading.
"Well, I best get a move on. Your flight plans, Mr. Walken." She passes the manila envelope to me before turning a heel and heading on her way. I smile and look towards her as she makes her way down the bridge.
"Thanks!" I call after her.
She waves her hand in the air, as if to say "You're welcome.", but never turns to face me.
I chuckle and shake my head, then make way to the cabin. I reach the door and knock, knowing that James has already come aboard. Three short taps, and two long ones. That was the code.
He swings the door wide and I step in, walking past him. I stop mid step and peer back at him. The tall man is chewing voraciously on a soft pretzel, a look of content on his face. I raise an eyebrow at him curiously and give a short chuckle.
"What?" He says defensively. "A man's gotta' eat!" He scoffs through a mouth full of dough.
At that I laugh wildly. "And what about boys?" I prod at him as I shrug off my matching slick black captain's jacket. Draping it over my pilot's chair, I have a seat and spin to face Mr. Maron.
"Ah but sir there's still the question of what you eat!" A large grin creeps across his bearded face. "Well, I suppose I could always consult a National Geographic."
I step up to him, chest to chest. Even though he was a good five foot ten, I still towered over him. I pierce him with a menacing scowl of disapproval. He suddenly shrinks back, regretting what he had said immediately.
"Sorry sir." He mutters.
I suddenly burst out laughing, slapping him on the shoulder.
"Come on James! You know me better than that! "
His expression changes from fear to relief, then to a grin. He lets out a sigh and shrugs off his own jacket, then has a seat.
I swivel the chair forward to gaze out the front of the enormous steel bird. The runway seems hundreds of feet below us, and I know it's no illusion. The pilot's quarters rests on the top floor of the massive aircraft, where the front slopes down to its belly. The turbofans alone are far taller than I am, topping out at 34,000 pounds of thrust. The wingtips stretch to the very ends of the runway, waiting eagerly to slice through the air.
The entire aircraft is the size of a small hotel, and well it should be. Like a flying boarding house, the enormous Vanhela acted as an overnight flight, and it was essentially an apartment building with wings. The plane was an unorthodox creature, over doubling the size of its competitors. Instead of rows of seats, the interior featured hallways and dorms. The flight attendants were replaced with full time workers, who were more hospitality staff than anything else. Chefs, maids, janitors. They were the kind of people you would never expect to see aboard a flight. The whole aircraft was bright and beaming, inside and out. Swirls of blues and oranges accented the walls and aerofoil, while blacks and whites coated the rest. It was a truly remarkable sight.
