Flight 19

by Grant Finnegan

  There were two large screens on the rear wall to either side of the podium. On one display was a photo of the Airbus A380 sitting inside Hangar 19, and the other was a satellite shot of the area between Hawaii and California.

  Everyone went quiet as Ross and Tony arrived on the raised platform and sat on one of the stools that had been placed in front of the podium for each of them. They looked at each other one final time before turning to the AFOAs.

  The lead investigator stood to one side of the two men, and with a microphone in his hand reintroduced Ross, and then introduced Tony to the group.

  “Most of you have spent time with Ross, although we would also like to present Tony, his copilot.

  “As most of you are aware, we are heading into the final phase of this first stage of the investigation. Our next intention is to brief the passengers and crew, who, apart from these two men, are not aware of what has occurred to them since leaving Honolulu Airport on the 17th of January 2019.”

  Although this was common knowledge to everyone in the room, it still brought a couple of suppressed gasps.

  “This will then take this process from one of investigation to immediate and round-the-clock counseling, until we are satisfied the people have worked through the initial shock.” He rested his hand on Ross’s left shoulder and continued. “Now, before we discuss the next phase, let us talk to Ross and Tony for a few moments.”

  Someone on the front row put his hand up, and Ross nodded to him to speak.

  The investigator smiled. “Ross, I know you’ve probably been asked this question a thousand times this week, though, for the last time—was there absolutely anything during the flight which was out of the ordinary?”

  Ross looked over at Tony, who sat forward and raised his hand. “It was a clear night,” Tony said. “I remember seeing the stars above us as we reached an altitude of 40,000 feet, no more than 20 minutes out of Honolulu. The plane was set into autopilot, although we both remained in our seats for what we believe was at least one hour, maybe even longer. It was a short flight, though we both had refreshments closer to 90 minutes after takeoff.”

  Ross nodded; this was what he had been going to say. As he was about to concur, Tony continued. “Other than me going to the toilet at the two-hour mark of the flight, I did not leave the…”

  Ross looked over at Tony; he had abruptly stopped talking.

  Something, a fleeting memory, as if it were a flash from a camera, had flown past his consciousness but disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  Something had happened when he was in the toilet.

  Ross’s eyes went wide for a second as he went to step in to continue the discussion with the AFOAs—for he had experienced the same sensation and now a flash of recall.

  In those two minutes while he was in the cockpit alone, when Tony had gone to the toilet, something had happened.

  And in a fraction of a second, they had lost five years.

  Chapter Eight

  The AFOA meeting lasted another four hours. The focus had shifted to the plan to debrief the passengers, and how as a group they would handle the outcome of the announcement.

  They’d all agreed that many of the passengers would not react favorably when they found out what had happened to them.

  The final plan eventually looked like this:

  Step 1 – Debrief the passengers as one large group.

  Step 2 – Break down the group into ten groups accrding to seat number.

  Step 3 – Assign each smaller group a team of three counselors, who establish a plan for each passenger in their group.

  Step 4 – This was one point that the AFOAs debated for some time: how to reconnect each passenger with their loved ones?

  The consensus was that each passenger would nominate a person who would come to Vandenberg AFB and take the passenger home. After a fiery debate, the idea of letting all the passengers and crew out at once was rejected in favor of a four-day program where passengers were let out in stages, three at a time.

  The AFOAs hoped the process would begin in about seven to ten days.

  Close to midnight, the group agreed that the first passenger debrief would be held at ten o’clock in the morning, the day after next, Sunday, in just on 34 hours.

  There was one more sticking point the AFOAs could not agree on.

  Who would be the person best suited to stand in front of the passengers and crew and tell them what had happened to Flight 19?

  As the debate dragged on, looking like it could still be going at dawn, one guy stood up and decided. Not only did he want to go to bed, but he was probably the best person for the job.

  “Stop,” he shouted, waving his arm around and silencing the large, exhausted crowd. “I’ll do it.”

  The silence in the room spoke for itself. No one could argue with his suggestion.

  He was the best person for the job.

  Captain Ross Moore.

  Chapter Nine

  Thirty-four hours later.

  The passengers and crew of Flight 19 were brought together in a makeshift meeting area within Hangar 19. The conference room was a commercial marquee large enough to take the 300-plus people who would attend.

  The AFOAs, now working as one group rather than as separate entities, had come up with a straightforward plan for the meeting. They would split the passengers and crew into groups of ten. Each group would have three counselors assigned to their respective group, who would sit with their group of ten for the meeting.

  They knew they had to think ahead. Trying to break the people into groups after the announcement could be difficult.

  Another reason the meeting was set up in this marquee, which had been hastily erected only ten hours before, was to ensure the passengers and crew did not see the large contingent of medical staff on standby outside the main hangar door.

  When the meeting started, they would silently enter the building and park the fleet of 20 ambulances within meters of the marquee. At the AFOA meeting the previous Friday, this had been deemed essential; medical assistance must be on standby for the first session. They expected the worst. Many people would struggle in those first few seconds when they learned of their fate.

  They were also expecting people to try and exit the facility upon the announcement. The AFOAs had briefed the security personnel who would be in the hangar—no one would be allowed to leave.

  The president had personally instructed Homeland Security that security personnel inside Hangar 19 were not to be armed. Only senior security personnel were to carry Tasers. These would be used only as a last resort.

  Senior security leaders went to the extraordinary length, once all passengers and crew were inside, to check every outsider attending the meeting, including counselors and AFOA representatives, who had not been on Flight 19, for any kind of recording device. They did not want any unauthorized footage to end up online.

  Even the security staff patrolling the hangar were searched for recording equipment. The AFOAs meant business.

  When the last passenger sat down, a hush engulfed the marquee.

  All eyes were on the raised platform at the front of the room, which had nothing on it but a lectern, a small bar table, and a stool. On the bar table were a jug of water and some glasses.

  At five seconds past 10am, in a crisp and dry-cleaned pilot’s outfit, his hair brushed to perfection, an immaculate-looking Captain Moore entered the marquee and slowly walked down the center aisle toward the podium.

  When he reached the podium 20 seconds later, he turned slowly and cast his first look at all his passengers as a single group.

  He reached over and poured himself some water before returning the glass to the bar stool.

  He looked at the group. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “for those who don’t know me, my name is Captain Ross Moore—and I am here today to brief you on what happened to our flight.”

  Chapter Ten

  I looked out across the sea of faces.

  I’d s
poken to large crowds before. Industry functions, things like that.

  I’d even been a member of Toastmasters, the public speaking club, in my mid-twenties. Talking in front of a crowd was no problem to me. But this was different.

  What I was about to say to those people would change their lives forever.

  Most of the passengers knew something is very wrong. They looked tired, disheveled, and desperate to go home.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I opened them, I looked to the rear of the room. Tony was standing there. Our eyes met, and he told me telepathically—well, through his expression, anyway: it’s time.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said. I cleared my throat and adjusted my posture, getting a sure footing behind the lectern, gripping both sides. “What I am about to tell you will be one of the most confronting pieces of news you may ever receive.”

  I could feel the collective gasp almost suck the oxygen clean out of the room. The people sitting closest to me looked as if they’d stopped breathing altogether.

  My eyes met those of just about all of the counselors and AFOA representatives before I looked back over the crowd. “I just want you all to know that there are many people in this room right now who are here for you—all of you.”

  Someone at the back of the room burst into tears, and the counselor in her group reached over and whispered words I couldn’t hear. The lady’s sobs were contagious, and in a matter of seconds, three more people were crying.

  I knew there was nothing I could do to help them other than press ahead.

  “My mother drummed into me, as a child, the importance of keeping an open mind,” I said with a tone of authority. “And if there is nothing else you do in the next few moments—please,” I implored them, “take her advice.”

  I took a sip of water and let my last comment dissolve in the silent room.

  “We have been kept at this air-force facility this last week, due to what you would call an anomaly, which,” I looked down at my notes and continued, “has resulted in—”

  I stumbled for a second in my mental delivery, and one of the guys in the front row whispered, “What happened, Captain?”

  I met his eyes before lifting my chin, knowing I just had to come out and say it.

  “Our plane has gone through some unexplained phenomenon, something which has resulted in—” I closed my eyes for a second “The last five years of our lives—disappearing.”

  The original looks of despair and helplessness were quickly replaced with confusion, disbelief, and, above all, horror.

  One of the men sitting in the second row raised his left hand and shouted, “what in God’s name are you talking about?”

  I looked at him and just came out with it.

  “Our plane has been missing, presumed crashed, for the last five years.”

  Someone in the third row broke into a fit of laughter. A large guy stood up and looked at me incredulously.

  “Are you trying to tell us we have been,” he held both arms up and gave me air quotes with both hands, “‘missing’ for the last five whole years?”

  I nodded with more clarity than I had ever done before. As the room began its descent into anarchy, I decided there was no use holding back.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s January 2024. All of us, somewhere between here and Hawaii, in that plane out there, have passed through some time anomaly, and the last five years have bypassed us.”

  What I saw in the next few minutes, standing in front of all those poor people, would see my alcohol consumption reach dangerous levels until I eventually came to terms not just with my memories of that day, but of everything that came after.

  Between the screams and the heartache, I managed to tell everyone that the AFOAs had a plan for us and everything would be okay.

  Many people were motionless in their seats, while others appeared to be going into shock, wailing with tears flowing freely. One person fainted or collapsed, then another … then a fifth, eighth, tenth. With each that fell, another medical team rushed into the marquee, adding to the chaos.

  The teams of counselors were doing a stellar job. Later, Tony and I would agree that without them, the whole event would have been a hundred times worse.

  As counselors set their plans in motion, I was left to myself up the front. Tony crept down one side of the room to stand next to me, then patted me on the back and whispered, “Well done, bud.” Then we sat on the raised stage and let the next few minutes of our lives dissolve around us.

  As I watched the passengers’ reaction to what I’d just told them, I reflected on my own life and wondered.

  What would we find when we left the confines of the base?

  A life that would never be the same.

  Would all our loved ones still be alive?

  No.

  Would Tony’s wife—still be his wife?

  Read on.

  Would my apartment still be mine?

  No.

  My possessions, my clothes, my rare vinyl record collection—where were they now?

  Gone.

  And was I still a Pacific International pilot, or not?

  Not.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next few hours, after I told the passengers and crew what had happened, were a blur that I would later struggle to remember.

  The passengers, now in their counseling groups, were told to nominate someone the support team could contact and organize to come to Vandenberg and collect them.

  The AFOAs had worked quickly to create a detailed dossier on every passenger and crew member on-board, including their marital status, family members, the whole nine yards. Each counselor had been given a copy of this file for their passengers and had cross-checked the details each passenger gave against their file, to ensure that the details they provided matched up.

  In many cases, they didn’t.

  For most of the passengers and crew of Flight 19, the real nightmare began here. In the end, the only escape for some would be death. It would come of its own accord for a few, while others would bring it on themselves.

  One of the senior members of the AFOAs had briefed Tony and me, and a task force has briefed our crew, so we know something of what to expect. There wouldn’t be anybody waiting for me at the gates, and I was alright with that. I was an only child, my father had long-since passed away, and my mother’s passport expired over 20 years ago. Ironically, she hates flying.

  It had also been two years—since my last serious relationship, so there wouldn’t be any romantic reunion at the gates of Vandenberg for the media to drool over. I guess you could count that a blessing.

  A press conference was scheduled for 6pm that night in one of the largest conference centers at Vandenberg.

  It was time for the AFOAs to brief the world on Flight 19 and for everyone to get used to whatever the hell had happened to the passengers and crew. The president would be one of the record numbers of people who watched the press conference, and in time it would surpass the Super Bowl as the most watched television event in history, with 1.2 billion viewers.

  “Good evening everyone,” Andrew Martin, the head of the AFOAs said to the packed room, “I am going to make this brief, and there will be no questions at this time, thank you.” The room fell into a hushed silence.

  The recently retired army general was well known to the American press. Taking a senior role in Homeland a year or so ago, he was the perfect fit to be the spokesman for the AFOA.

  “As you are all aware, Flight 19 was believed to have crashed five years ago, somewhere in the Pacific Ocean between Hawaii and California. Many of you here today were at the press conferences for this five years ago, and understand the United States undertook the most extensive, and expensive, search-and-rescue operations in history. Flight 19 was never found.”

  The man took a long drink from the glass of water at the lectern and shuffled his notes before looking back up at the hundreds of people glued to his every word.

 
“Around ten days ago, a plane fitting the description of Flight 19 reappeared in the same airspace where the original Flight 19 disappeared.” He looked down to his notes and seemed to gather his thoughts, as if reluctant to continue. Wiping his forehead, he looked up one final time.

  “We may never know how this mystery has occurred; we will spend the rest of our lives not only trying to come to terms with what has happened, but puzzling over how it happened.” He paused once more before going on.

  “We have spent the last ten days verifying that Flight 19 has reappeared into our current time, 2024, after being lost, somewhere, for the last five years precisely.”

  Every reporter, camera operator, and photographer was speechless for the next few seconds, before many made noises you’d usually hear only in private.

  “Our priority now is the passengers and crew on-board. As you can imagine, they are struggling to come to terms with losing the last five years of their lives.”

  And with that, he left the lectern and quickly exited the room, surrounded by other senior members of the AFOA team.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Emily Collins had boarded Flight 19, her father had already had to cope with the loss of his wife and only son. He’d been there for Emily through that most terrible time of their lives.

  When she had learned what happened to her, her fellow passengers, and the crew, her first thoughts were of her dad. She’d cried for days after hearing the news, thinking of him being alone for the past five years without her.

  Now, with only minutes to go, she’d never looked forward to seeing him so much.

  Dave Collins was taking his final briefing from Emily’s group counselor.

  The AFOA was being smart about all this, holding briefings with the people who the passengers from the flight had asked to come and take them home. What had happened to their loved ones would have far-reaching consequences for them, too.