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hydraulic pressure at all. The weight of the control surfaces themselves would force them to sag, and the 747 would begin an accelerating spiral into the ground.
    A decision needed to be made. And fast.
    ‘Opinions?’ asked Flemming.
    ‘Force land somewhere here,’ said Granger. ‘I don’t know how much time we’ve got. At least if we put her down now, we’ll be able to manoeuvre a little, and maybe get our flaps and gear lowered.’
    ‘Agreed,’ said Rivers, her voice tight. With no hydraulics, they had ceased to become pilots. They were now merely passengers at near-useless controls, riding in a 250 000 kilogram missile loaded with tonnes of fuel.
    ‘Agreed,’ echoed the captain. ‘Dump as much gas as we can. And get off a Mayday call.’
    Rivers looked blank. Their radios were dead. ‘But captain, the –’
    Flemming answered her expression. ‘You never know.’
    The nose of the 747 fell towards the soft, silver lake of stratus cloud spread out below them. But was a mountain hidden somewhere within it? Or did the cloud extend all the way to the ground? In either case they would simply drill a large hole in the earth and never see it coming. All three pilots on the flight deck held their breath as the first wisps of silver slid over their windows. In an instant, the stars were obliterated.
    Raptor couldn’t believe his eyes when the seven-four pulled out of its dive, seemingly in control, above the cloud. What do I have to do to score a kill? he asked himself.
    His fuel pressure and contents were still okay so he decided to wait. There was plenty of smoke trailing from the 747. The drama was not over yet. He smiled with satisfaction when the 747 began to nose under the cloud. There was rugged country beneath. Lots of immovable things to fly into. No 747 pilot would dip below 10 000 around here. Unless there was no choice.
    Raptor watched as the 747 slipped below the surface of the cloud like a torpedoed ship ploughing under a ghost sea. This was getting interesting. He beamed the jumbo with active radar and followed it down from a safe distance.
    When the plane levelled out of the dive, Joe couldn’t believe he was still alive and that the plane hadn’t crashed. The stench of vomit filled his nostrils. Much of the vibration had stopped but there was still a fair amount of noise. His mind was starting to grapple successfully with reality. He tried to place the noise and decided it was both wind and engine roar. Most of the passengers were calm now, as if resigned to their fate, whatever it would be. That was certainly Joe’s outlook. He reflected on the fact that death by plane crash was an awful, protracted way to die. It had been going on now for, he checked his watch, more than ten minutes. At least it gave you some time to say goodbye. ‘Goodbye,’ he said aloud, testing the realisation. No one said anything back.

Bali, 2036 Zulu, Tuesday, 28 April
    Abe Niko, a Japanese traffic controller on contract at Denpasar Airport, blinked with surprise. At this hour of themorning the skies were pretty quiet. There were only four aircraft on his screen: a KLM 747 out of Melbourne, Australia, bound for Amsterdam via Singapore, a Garuda 767 en-route to Jakarta, a weather delayed Qantas 747 headed for London, and a private Beech Baron on an intra-island flight, inbound, sixteen miles from the Denpasar runway.
    The Qantas plane was on the screen and then it wasn’t. It had gone, vanished! The suddenness of the disappearance made him blink, as if he wasn’t sure what he’d just seen. Qantas Flight 1. Abe’s brain worked hard to lift itself out of the torpor induced by a combination of boredom and the early morning hour. Shit, that could mean only one of two things. The first was that the aircraft’s transponders had become unserviceable. That was highly improbable. The second more likely possibility? Well, that was too ghastly to even contemplate. He noted the time – 4.36 am local time. Abe picked up the