Continued post... Section 1 of "Rainbow Six" Opening John Clark felt uneasy. Although he had far more flight hours than most pilots in the world and understood all the safety statistics, he still did not like flying across the Atlantic on a plane with only two engines. 'Four' should be the correct number of engines on an airplane, because if one engine fails, the plane only loses twenty-five percent of its power; but on this United Airlines Boeing 777, if one engine goes out, it means losing half the power. Perhaps it was because his wife, daughter, and son-in-law were all on the plane today that he felt particularly tense. No, that wasn't right; he wasn't tense—at least not because of flying. Maybe it was just a feeling that something was off… why, he asked himself. Beside him, his wife, Cindy, was absorbed in reading a detective novel. Clark tried to focus on the headlines of The Economist, but he kept feeling a chill at the back of his neck. He looked up to see if there was any movement around him, but immediately dismissed the thought; everything was normal, nothing was wrong, and he didn't want the flight attendants thinking he was a nervous, anxious passenger. He took a sip of white wine, shrugged, and went back to reading the article describing the current world situation as peaceful. Peaceful, yes, he smiled to himself. Compared to most of the adventurous experiences of his life, the world now was indeed much calmer—no need to sneak out from a submarine to the Soviet coast to pick up a defector, or secretly fly to Tehran to do things Iranians would definitely not like, or follow a river in North Vietnam upstream to rescue a downed pilot. Perhaps in the future, Bob Hosenball would write a book about his stories, but the question was, who would believe them? Moreover, the CIA would not allow him to tell these stories unless he was dead. Clark did not want that day to come too soon, especially since he was waiting to hold a grandchild—damn it, he couldn't help but smile to himself, not really wanting to imagine his daughter and son-in-law's private matters. Peggy must have hit the silver bullet of the stork on her wedding night, since his son-in-law was eager to become a father. John turned to look at the business class seats behind him;The thin curtain separating first class from business class hadn't been drawn, and he could see the air hostesses in business class demonstrating the evacuation procedures, while the passengers mostly crossed their arms over their chests, watching absentmindedly. 'If our plane crashes into the sea at four hundred knots, please take the life vest from under your seat and pull the inflation valve...' He had heard before that the bright yellow life vests can help search teams spot the plane from the air after a crash, and that this is their only use.
Clark glanced around first class again. He always felt a slight chill at the back of his neck. Why? The plane was about to taxi to the end of the runway, and the flight attendants began their final rounds, collecting his wine glass, and finally stopping by Alistair. When Alistair set his seat upright, Clark exchanged a glance with him, noticing that the British man's expression was quite amusing. Was he also feeling uneasy? After all, no one had ever described either of them as 'nervous.'
Before being transferred to the British Secret Intelligence Service, Alistair Stanley had been a major in the SAS (Special Air Service, Special Forces). His work was similar to Clark's, handling those difficult tasks that no one else dared to attempt.
The last time they had met was eight years ago, during an unexpected encounter on a mission in Romania; Clark was pleased that they now had the opportunity to collaborate again, although it seemed both of them were too old to handle those 'fun' tasks anymore. Administrative work was truly unsuitable for Clark, but he had to admit that he was no longer in his twenties or thirties… not even close to forty. At this age, running down alleys or climbing over walls seemed a bit too much… Clark recalled the scene a week ago when Ding had shared the good news with him at the CIA headquarters in Langley; Ding's expression had been unusually respectful that day because they were about to have their first child, and Clark was about to become a grandfather. Damn, Clark told himself, at least he had survived most of his adventurous life to see today, and he could still complain about getting older — no, 'getting a bit older.' Now he had been promoted to head a newly established unit — 'head,' a polite term for an 'old guy' — but you couldn't say no to the president, especially when he was your friend.The engine noise grew louder and louder, and the plane began to sprint down the runway. For Clark, this feeling was all too familiar; his whole body was pressed back into the seat, like launching off the red-stop line in a sports car, only with much greater force. Sandy, who rarely traveled, continued to bury herself in her novel without even lifting her head. John thought this book must be good. Although he had no interest in detective novels, as he felt such books only made him dumber, and the things he had done in real life were much more bizarre than any fictional plot. As they took off, a tiny voice echoed in his mind, and almost simultaneously, the sensation under his feet told him they were airborne. The nose of the plane lifted, the body followed as it ascended into the sky, and the landing gear retracted into the cabin; the start of this flight was quite smooth. People around him reclined their seats, preparing to sleep all the way to London Heathrow Airport. John also reclined his chair, but he intended to have dinner first.
"We're on our way, darling," Sandy said, momentarily looking away from her book.
"I hope you'll like it there."
"At least after finishing this novel, I still have three cookbooks to read."
John smiled: "Who's the murderer?"
"Uncertain, but most likely his wife."
"Well, hiring a lawyer for a divorce is really expensive."
Sandy laughed and continued reading her novel. The flight attendants stood up from their seats and began offering drinks. Clark had finished reading The Economist and then picked up a Sports Illustrated. Damn, he was going to miss this year's American football playoffs; even on missions, he didn't want to miss them. Sometimes Clark wondered: if he had pursued professional sports back then, what would he be like now? He had been an excellent guard in high school, and Indiana University was willing to offer him a scholarship for it (also for his swimming skills). But Clark decided to follow in his father's footsteps, abandoning studies to join the Navy, and then became part of the SEAL team, rather than an idle sailor on a destroyer...
"Mr. Clark?" the flight attendant handed him the menu. "Mrs. Clark?"
The advantage of flying first class was that all the flight attendants knew your name, as if they actually knew you. Because of John's very high mileage, he automatically qualified for an upgrade.But from now on, due to the understanding between British Airways and the British government, he would almost always have to take British Airways flights. The menu was quite good, just like most international first-class flights, and the wine was also excellent… though he decided to have mineral water. He leaned back into his seat and rolled up his shirt sleeves; the temperature on the plane always seemed a bit too high for him. The captain's announcement interrupted the movies playing on everyone's personal screens. The captain announced that they would fly a little south to take advantage of the jet stream to speed up. "This way," Captain Will Garnett explained, "we will arrive at Heathrow Airport forty minutes early." Of course, he did not mention that this would also cause a bit of turbulence. Airlines always try to save fuel; saving forty-five minutes of flight time was enough for him to record a notable accomplishment in his personal log… well, perhaps just a minor one… The plane tilted to the right; at that time, it was flying over Atlantic City, New Jersey, followed by a continuous three-thousand-mile flight over the sea. Five and a half hours later, they would reach the west coast of Ireland. He planned to take a nap during the flight, at least this captain wouldn't bother anyone with a bunch of nonsense: "Dear passengers, our current flight altitude is forty thousand feet, which means that if the wings suddenly detach, we would fall nearly eight miles before…" The flight attendants started serving meals. The business class further back was also being served, and for a while, the cabin aisle was filled with service carts. Something was wrong on the left side of the cabin. A formally dressed man wearing a jacket caught John's attention; usually, people take off their coats after boarding, but— A Browning automatic pistol. In less than a second, Alistair noticed as well. Then two men appeared on the right side of the cabin, walking toward Clark. "Oh, damn." He cursed under his breath, so quietly that only Sandy could hear. She turned her head to see what was happening; he immediately grabbed her hand to prevent her from making a sound. But he could not stop the lady sitting across the aisle—though she did not scream very loudly either, as she had already covered her mouth in fear. The flight attendants looked at the hijackers, their faces full of disbelief—this kind of thing hadn't happened in many years, so why did it have to happen to them?Clark had the same doubts. He also thought: How could he be stupid enough to put his gun in his carry-on luggage and then stuff it into the overhead compartment? What use is bringing a gun on a plane if you can't get to it? How could he make such a rookie mistake? He looked to the left and saw that Alistair had the same expression on his face. Two of the most experienced veterans in the field, with the guns so close but unable to do anything...
"John..."
"It's okay, Sandy. Relax." Clark replied softly. It's easier said than done, he knew.
John leaned back in his seat, kept his head still, and moved his eyes to scan the cabin. There were three of them, and one seemed to be the leader, forcing the flight attendants to open the cockpit door, and then they entered the front cabin and closed the door behind them. Good, Captain Will Garnett must now know what was happening; hopefully he was professional enough to know how to react when a hijacker pointed a gun at his head. Hopefully he had a background in the Air Force or Navy, so he wouldn't do something foolish, like playing the white-knight hero who'd rather die than comply. His duty was to land this plane somewhere—anywhere. After all, when a plane is on the ground, it's much harder to try to kill all two hundred people on board than in the air.
Of the three hijackers, one stayed in the cockpit; he would monitor the pilot's operations and make demands via radio, or speak with someone. The other two stood at the rear of first class, keeping an eye on every move of the passengers in the cabin.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. Please fasten your seat belts, as we are currently experiencing some turbulence. Please return to your seats immediately. I will update you in a few minutes. Thank you for your cooperation."
Not bad, John thought, and the same message flickered in Alistair's eyes. The captain sounded calm, the villains hadn't gone berserk—at least not yet; the passengers in the back didn't know what was happening—at least not yet. That's good; it could cause panic... maybe not, at least for now no one knows what's going on. End of Part One.
