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enough high winds in the past few years. If this one didn't break up before it hit land, she'd be battered by another. Jack wasn't sure she had it in her. He winced as he tried to put that thought from his head. He had to concentrate on the job in hand, and that job was to make sure these planes landed safely.
     
As Jack stared at the screen, however, something caught his attention. A flashing light on the screen – one of the aircraft. His eyebrows crumpled as he looked at it: the plane seemed to be losing height. And fast.
     
'You see that, Jack?' his colleague sitting next to him asked tensely.
     
'Yeah,' Jack replied. 'I see it.'
     
And then, suddenly, the aircraft appeared to stop losing height and to start climbing again.
     
The two air-traffic controllers glanced at each other, worried looks on their faces. 'Better make contact,' Jack said, and his colleague nodded.
     
Jack checked the flight number of the aircraft – GXR1689 from Grand Cayman to Miami International – and the frequency of its communication system. Within seconds he was trying to get through to the plane's pilot.
     
 
     
'Flight GXR1689, this is Miami International. Do you read me? Over.'
     
Jack waited for a reply. There was none. Just an empty crackle. He cast his colleague another worried look. 'Flight GXR1689, this is Miami International. Do you read me? Over.'
     
Nothing.
     
Jack took a deep breath. Total radio silence from an approaching civilian aircraft. This was the sort of thing that only happened in training exercises. But this was no exercise. Something was going on with this plane. It could be in trouble. Or it could be about to cause trouble. Either way, if there was no response from the cockpit, there was only one course of action.
     
Jack knew what to do. He knew he had to raise the alarm.
     
He picked up a telephone handset. 'Inform the Department of Homeland Security,' he said curtly. 'We've got a Code Red.'
     
 
     
Ben felt like he was frozen to the spot. The sight of the bodyguard's dead body did not affect him now; all the emotions he might have felt had been replaced with blind dread. It took a supreme effort for him to turn to look at Angelo. When he did, he received quite a shock. His friend's tortured face spoke of a million different emotions, none of them good. Between gritted teeth, the Italian boy spoke. ' Ben ,' he hissed. ' I need to talk to you. Now! '
     
Ben nodded. The two of them headed back to their seats, fighting their way through a scramble of people trying to look at Brad's corpse. Once they were sitting down again, Angelo spoke in a hushed, urgent whisper.
     
'I told you,' he said. 'I told you it was my fault.'
     
Ben looked at him in confusion. 'Your fault? What do you mean, it's your fault?'
     
'My father,' Angelo insisted. 'The oil refinery the hijacker was talking about – my father owns it. That's why they have chosen this plane.'
     
Ben stared at his friend. 'You know what?' he breathed. 'This is turning into a really bad day.' He took a deep breath and furrowed his brow. 'But it still doesn't make sense. How did they know you'd be on this flight?'
     
Angelo shrugged impatiently. ' Non so . I don't know. How does anyone know anything?' he demanded. 'Maybe they have been watching me. Following me.'
     
'Or maybe,' Ben replied slowly, 'it's just a coincidence.'
     
Angelo snorted. 'Some coincidence. But listen, you can't tell anyone, OK? If the people on the plane find out, who knows what they'll do to me?'
     
Ben nodded. Angelo was right. The people around them were panicking. The chances of them acting rationally and sensibly were small.
     
He glanced up the aisle to where a small group had congregated around Brad's dead body. They seemed to be arguing about something. Ben turned back to Angelo. 'To be honest,' he said, 'if we don't do something quick, it's not going to matter who your dad is – we're all going to be history in half an hour anyway.'
     
'But what can we do?'