For Chief Pilot Gaganasparsana this was his sixteenth flight between Mumbai to Johannesburg, a routine eleven-hour job for him. Accompanying him is First Officer Nabhacyuta, less experienced than Gaganasparsana but this was his fourth flight alongside the experienced pilot.
Nabhacyuta checked his calculations and the onboard GPS reader; their position is just under 500 kilometers south-west of Réunion Island and heading right on schedule for JoBurg. He looked towards Gaganasparsana whose face etched in concern.
‘Something the matter Cap?’ ‘Yes, well, sort of. Our pre-flight weather briefing gave us clear skies all the way to JoBurg. But this is telling me otherwise.’Gaganasparsana pointed to the cockpit radar screen. Nabhacyuta saw a small purple and red patch to the left of their heading on the screen. It didn’t appear to be a particularly big storm cell, but its colours on the screen told him that it has some strength behind it. But what surprised him was how quickly it appeared before they noticed it.
He looked back at Gaganasparsana, ‘what are you thinking?’The Chief Pilot paused for a moment before answering; he studied the radar screen then looked back at his First Officer. ‘The cell appears to be about five minutes away, judging by its distance to us relative to our heading I’m thinking about maintaining our course and speed. We should dodge it without needing to circumnavigate.’
Nabhacyuta looked again at the screen and nodded. ‘Very well, I’ll tell the cabin to buckle-up. We can still expect a little turbulence.’Mathieu Andrianasolo was mid-way though his day shift as an Air Traffic Controller in his fifth year working for the Agency for Aerial Navigation Safety in Africa and Madagascar. Air traffic was typically light for a Sunday and he just made his second cup of coffee for the day.
Settling back at his workstation he studied his radar screen before a voice crackled to life over the Satellite Emergency Radio Frequency, the voice sounded urgent.
‘Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is One Five One November. Alpha November Mike One, do you copy?’ A sound of static followed for about three seconds.
Mathieu bolted upright on his chair; he almost smashed his coffee cup on the workbench before pressing the frequency button on his communication console and stamping his foot on the Press To Talk foot pedal.
‘One Five One November, this is Alpha November Mike One, what is the nature of your emergency?’Mathieu blurted the words out as he scanned his computer screen for that callsign in his Air Traffic Control Airspace Monitor. A burst of static came over the speaker before the voice returned.
‘We are experiencing severe storm activity at our position about five hundred kilometres south, south west of Réunion.’ More static, then the voice returned. ‘…instruments not responding.’Mathieu immediately knew they were beyond his radar range so he quickly scanned his Airspace monitor. No other flights in the area. He returned his foot to the pedal.
‘One Five One November, you can circumnavigate, the airspace is clear.’A long pause, then the voice returned, this time he seemed like he was screaming, but the volume was diminishing.
‘……responding.’ His voice was replaced by more static.Stunned, again Mathieu stamped his foot on the pedal.
‘One Five One November. You are broken and unreadable. Say again, over.’
Silence.The early dawn light slowly spread its golden rays across the harbour. The light danced over the water like a million sparkles dancing in the rising sun. With laboured breaths Brett strode on in the early morning gloom, each stride of his run sent shock-waves through his body.
With earplugs connecting his cell phone to his ears and his baseball cap tilted low over his brow Brett was lost in his own world of thoughts as ‘Who We Are’ by Imagine Dragons provided him with background noise. It’s only 6 am and it’s already steaming hot, the unusually hot Autumn sun was rising with fierce intensity.
Sweat poured off Brett’s face in a constant stream, it tasted as salty as the water of the glistening Sydney Harbour. Finally he reached Cowper Wharf Road and onto his final challenge, the McElhone Stairs. 113 sandstone steps elevating the pedestrian from Woolloomooloo to Kings Cross and a favourite challenge for runners.
Brett loved it, running up those steps was the equivalent to running a mile and a great calorie burner. As he approached the steps he slowed his pace, he sized up the long procession of steps in front of him and carefully began his ascent. His face in steely concentration as he paced each step at a time. Just 60 seconds later he reached the top just as his chest felt like exploding for lack of oxygen, his legs, predictably, felt like jelly. Mercifully the apartment he shared with his wife Wendy was nearby, his running is now over, now it was just a laboured half-stagger like an early morning drunk winding his way home.
When entering their modest one-bedroom apartment Brett saw Wendys handbag draped over a stool by the kitchen bench. ‘She’s had a bad night’ Brett thought to himself. Being an ER Nurse at nearby St Vincents Wendy was regularly on night shifts dealing with the worst of Sydney after dark. If it was a good night she would workout at the gym before coming home. When she’s home early and no workout, that means she had a bad night and she had no adrenaline or energy left to burn.
Retrieving a cold bottle of water from the fridge Brett took a long drink of the cool liquid. Cold water coursed down his throat and he felt his body temperature lower. He walked to the bedroom, and there she was. With her bare back to the door Wendy laid motionless but for the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She was fast asleep.
Brett stood by their bed and looked down over the woman he loved more than anything in the world. She is his world. Although he worried about her choice in career, she loved nursing, and he could not possibly bring himself to protest the taxing lifestyle it brings her.
He knew that on mornings like this it was better to not ask how her shift was when she wakes. It’s better to leave that subject alone until she is ready to talk. But talking was a rare luxury for Brett and Wendy. Communication was limited to the increasingly rare moments they did have together. Both of their professional lives conflicted with each other forcing them to live separate lives. And the strain was beginning to show.
Taking another drink of water Brett looked across the bedroom to the glass balcony door and beyond there the Sydney City skyline lays beyond. The tall structures seemed to be bathing in the light as the sun made its steady rise. Somewhere in that melee is his office, that cold windowless dungeon. With a sigh he began his morning routine as quietly as he could.
He showered and changed into his work wear. A deep blue suit, light blue shirt with red tie. He listened to the morning bulletin as he tied his brown suede shoes while taking bites from his toast.
‘Today’s forecast in Sydney is a blistering 38 degrees, so stay indoors if you can, the sun is going to be a scorcher today’, the female reporter’s tone was annoyingly upbeat as she reported the days heatwave with the golden sands of Bondi Beach in the background.
‘This is not the kind of day to be going to work’ thought Brett, but the cool air-conditioned office was a temptation too good to resist. He hated working there, ‘it was a mistake’ Brett constantly thought to himself when he thinks of his workplace. Reluctantly, he looked away from the TV to the bedroom.
Entering the bedroom Brett saw that Wendy had hardly stirred. A thick strand of her dark brown hair slung over her cheek and partially covered her slow breathing mouth. He gently lifted the hair away from her mouth and curled it over her ear. Her hair always felt smooth as silk and she always smelt of Lavender, her favourite flower emitting her favourite scent.
Her hair care products were Lavender scented, her perfume had a Lavender-like scent. She even kept small lace pouches filled with dried Lavender in the closet and clothes drawers. Her excuse of course was the old wives tale that Lavender keeps away clothes eating bugs like moths and silverfish. Brett didn’t believe it, but she did, at least she convinced herself and the scent was just a bonus.
He lowered his head to hers and kissed her softly on the cheek, she stirred a little, and resumed her deep sleep state. He took one last look at her and quietly closed the bedroom door.
Kings Cross Railway Station is just a couple of blocks uphill from their apartment block. As he made his way to the subterranean station the busy city life seemed to come alive with the ever increasing noise of heavy traffic, sirens and all manner of human noise pollution.
With each passing day his distaste for metropolitan life increased. After a few minutes Brett reached the rail platform, the city-bound line that brought tired commuters the few kilometres to the inner city centre. Brett scalded himself for not recharging his phone while preparing for the day, not that it mattered anyway, NRO, the National Research Office, forbade phones or any electrical device within its walls. So employees had to check their devices into little lockers by the front security desk, the place where phones go to die
.As he alighted from Town Hall Station the city bustle was beginning to reach its peak and would not let up for the rest of the day. He crossed George Street and made his way to Pitt Street, he looked down the street to the distant Central Station precinct. Not far beyond is Sydney University. ‘I wish I was back at Uni two years ago begging myself to study Research.’
He made his way to the sleek, but sterile foyer area to his office block and proceeded to one of the far-end elevators, the last two of the eight elevators took people below the towering skyscraper, but only for those who held a special pass. He entered an opening elevator and yanked on a chord attached to a lanyard around his neck. Brett swiped his pass at the reader beside the floor buttons, he heard the familiar beeping sound and pressed B2. He let go of his pass and it retracted back to the clip in a quick motion, just as it did Martin Quill entered the lift.
'Morning Brett', he said in his usual flat tone.
'Martin'.Brett was not particularly thrilled to see him so soon. Martin stood right beside Brett. He was young, brash and fiercely career-minded. He was one of those employees that every instinct told others to be wary. The kind of character Brett was not too particularly fond.
Martin swiped his pass at the reader and pressed B1. He stepped back, away slightly from Brett. 'So how's your research work coming along Brett?'
This was a standard question Martin liked to ask. Brett knew that Martin knew that he couldn't be frank about his work. He felt tested, so his reply was always curt and to the point.
'It's fine.'Martin seemed to hover over him like a vulture waiting to swoop on any fraction of information, which always made Brett feel uneasy. The ride down to the basement levels was painfully slow. Brett steered his eyes to his watch and then to the floor indicator, careful not to make eye-contact with Martin for fear of initiating conversation. But his efforts were in vain.
'Are you ready for the meeting this morning?' asked Martin.
'Um. No.' Brett was usually the last to learn of any meetings until they were literally about to start. 'What meeting?'
With a smug smile Martin rolled his eyes upwards towards the floor indicator. 'Well, I suppose you'll just have to wait and see.'
The sound of 'ping' reverberated in the small cubicle and the elevator doors slid open. 'See you there, don't be late' said Martin as he exited the cubicle.
The doors slid shut. 'Fuck I hate these games' Brett thought to himself as he frowned and shook his head slightly.