Chapter 7 - Ferry Flight 9012
The tarmac at O'Hare was shrouded in a thick, freezing fog as the black utility van Leo had rented pulled up near the cargo gate.
I wore the oversized dark navy pilot’s jacket, a dark beanie pulled low over my hair, and non-prescription glasses. My heart was pounding so hard against my ribs I was certain the security guard at the gate could hear it as he checked our fake credentials.
"Ferry Flight 9012 to JFK," Marcus told the guard, passing him the digital manifest from the driver's window. "Repositioning crew and security detail."
The guard scanned the tablet, hit the barrier switch, and waved us through.
We were in.
In the distance, sitting under the high-intensity halogen floodlights of the maintenance apron, was the massive, familiar shape of the Boeing 777-300ER. My plane. The aircraft where this nightmare had begun less than six hours ago.
Seeing it brought a sharp wave of nausea. I could still smell the ozone, still feel the desperate grip of Anthony Bennett’s hand on my wrist, still hear the chilling rattle of his breath as he suffocated.
"You okay?" Marcus asked from the driver's seat, watching me in the rearview mirror.
"No," I said honestly, pulling the beanie lower over my eyes. "I'm terrified."
"Good," Marcus said flatly. "Fear keeps you sharp. Panic kills you. Know the difference."
We parked near the mobile boarding stairs attached to the forward door. The tarmac was quiet, populated only by two ground crew members pulling fuel hoses away from the wing.
I stepped out of the van, the freezing Chicago wind whipping through my coat, and walked up the metal stairs. Marcus and Leo followed closely behind, carrying their small bags of electronic gear.
At the top of the stairs, I stepped into the cabin.
The Boeing 777 was dark, lit only by emergency strip lighting along the carpet. The air was cold, stale, and smelled of chemical cleaners. The plush leather seats of First Class were empty, the pillows and blankets stripped away by the cleaning crew.
I walked down the narrow aisle, stopping involuntarily at Seat 2A.
The tray table was clean. The floor had been vacuumed. All physical traces of the frantic struggle—the dropped stethoscope, the open medical kit, the spilled water—had been thoroughly erased. It looked like a showroom display, serene and pristine, pretending that nothing terrible had ever happened here.
"Evelyn?"
I turned around. Standing near the cockpit door was Captain Dave Miller—a fifty-year-old veteran pilot I had flown with dozens of times over the years. He was holding a clipboard, his face drawn with fatigue.
"Dave," I breathed, stepping forward.
Dave’s eyes widened in sheer shock. "Evelyn?! What... what are you doing here? The airline said you were under police protection at a hotel! They said you were unfit for duty after what happened!"
"Dave, listen to me," I said quickly, moving close to him so my voice wouldn't echo through the empty cabin. "The official story is a lie. The men who tried to kill the passenger in 2A are trying to frame me. If I don't get to New York this morning, they're going to destroy my life and kill Anthony Bennett."
Dave stared at me, his mouth opening and closing in disbelief. He looked past me at Marcus, whose imposing frame filled the aisle, his hand resting casually inside his jacket.
"Evelyn, this is crazy," Dave whispered, shaking his head. "I have a flight plan to execute. I can't take unauthorized passengers on a maintenance ferry! If dispatch finds out—"
"Dispatch won't find out," I interrupted, placing my hand over his on the clipboard. "Look at my eyes, Dave. We’ve flown together for five years. You know me. Do you really believe I had anything to do with what happened in this cabin last night?"
Dave looked into my eyes for a long, agonizing five seconds. He looked at the bruised, battered state of my face, the bandages on my feet, and the fierce, desperate truth burning in my gaze.
He let out a long, defeated sigh.
"The jump seats in the cockpit are clear," Dave murmured softly, turning his clipboard over. "Get inside. Sit down. Buckle up. The moment we cross into New York airspace, you were never on this aircraft. Clear?"
"Thank you, Dave," I whispered, relief washing over me like warm water.
Ten minutes later, the massive GE90 engines roared to life with a deep, vibrating rumble that shook the entire airframe. The plane taxied out onto the dark, foggy runway of O'Hare.
May you like
As the aircraft accelerated down the strip and lifted off into the cloud layer, heading east toward New York, I looked out the cockpit window at the shrinking lights of Chicago below.
We had survived the night. But the war was waiting for us at twelve thousand feet, and three thousand miles ahead.
