Final Destination
“Mr. Jackson, here is the lime soda that you specially requested”, said the air-hostess smiling. ‘Jackson Hardly’ was sweating profusely like an Arab sheik at a solar energy conference. He gulped down the soda with gusto. He craved for a better drink– one stiff enough to slap some courage into him but not so strong that he could understand the laws of physics. The alcohol would have to wait.
The air hostess opened the cockpit door to give the pilots their evening cup of coffee. It was the opportunity that he was waiting for. Scrambling from his first class seat, he grabbed his overhead bag and barged into the cockpit like a spurned lover trying to stop the nuptials.
Opening his bag, he whipped out a pistol fashioned out of plastic that he had fabricated to avoid the metal detectors at the airport. He pointed it at the pilot and said in his most menacing tone — “Your destination has changed. Fly this plane to Syria. Now!!”
The pilot looked at him incredulously — “Are you kidding? Our actual destination is Syria!!”
A sense of shock overcame him. All those knocks to his head during combat training as well as the ideological brainwashing must have altered the wiring in his brain. The tension of the mission, his inexperience, and the constant sense of foreboding must have blinded him to the mistakes he was making. Maybe the very word ‘Syria’ itself had triggered something in his subconscious.
His commander’s instructions, imparted at the beginning of the mission, flooded his head again — “Go to Heathrow airport. Pick a plane. Any plane. Hijack it to our home — Syria. We will make a statement to the world. They will respect and fear us.”
The pilot, co-pilot, and air hostess continued to stare at him, half hiding their smiles at his major goof up, hoping not to provoke him into anything violent. After all, the pistol, although plastic-y in appearance, could be loaded with something lethal, like airline food.
Jackson returned back to his seat and pondered as to how to ameliorate the situation. Maybe he could claim that it was a training exercise or even a dry run, but the laughter emanating from the cockpit made him realize the pilots were already making him a legend in aviation circles. Maybe he could claim that MH370 was his doing, but then realized that he would have to produce the plane as evidence and he couldn’t fabricate something that big out of plastic.
He ate his roasted peanuts in silence and licked the salt off his fingers. A drink to wash down the saltiness would have been lovely, but he was scared that the air-hostess whom he had encountered in the cockpit might respond and sneer at him.
There would be hell to pay. The commander would not be pleased, but then again, it would be good to be back home. Maybe they would assign him a desk job this time. He could get one of those revolving chairs that he could sit in and swivel it round and round. That would be fun.
Finally an idea struck him — he could emigrate to America. Surely the Americans would welcome him — after all, wasn’t he the main reason behind the foiling of a potential hijack on an American airline? He leaned back in his seat, finally relaxed.
He was just day dreaming that he had casually flashed his gun at the duty free store and persuaded the cashier to give him a bigger discount on the Irish whiskey, when he heard something that made him wish that he had worn adult diapers.
“Hi Jack!” boomed a harsh, stentorian voice in his left ear. After a few heart stopping minutes, he opened his eyes and turned his head. It was his Chinese neighbor seated in the next seat, handing him a business card. It was just a friendly greeting and not professional competition. He sighed audibly in relief and shook his head half smiling. The plane was still going to Syria. Thank God — he couldn’t handle anything more.
Syriaously.
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