MH370: A Novella

By Scott Maka

"A gripping thriller ... an interrogation of faith and fanaticism. Maka's turns of descriptive phrase are evocative" - The Daily Beast

Short of cash, and afraid of missing her night-flight from Kuala Lumpur to Beijing, globetrotting backpacker Jane splits a taxi fare with two mysterious men – unwittingly enmeshing herself in a deadly international intrigue. At the airport, the lonely young woman forges a bond of friendship that offers her clues into the nature of dark forces threatening hundreds of lives. When night falls over the South China Sea, and her airliner’s cabin-crew switch off the lights, Jane must draw on everything she has learned as she seeks a confrontation that will spark one of the greatest mysteries of modern times.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Maka
• Release date: Jun 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9780473288891

Scott Maka

Scott Maka was born in Palmerston North, New Zealand, in 1969. After finishing school he worked for five years as an orchardist and beekeeper in the Bay of Islands. Boredom prompted him to retrain (via university and journalism school) as a news reporter. He wrote more than 2000 stories for the Waikato Times and New Zealand Herald before being promoted to Chief Reporter at the Bay of Plenty Times. In 2005, he resigned in order to travel with his partner, Jo. As of 2014 they were still travelling - surviving on incomes earned as English language specialists.

Book preview

MH370

a novella

by Scott Maka

Published by Maka Media

2nd Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Scott Maka/Maka Media

Cover design by Maka Media

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, then please purchase an additional copy. If you are reading this book and you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase an additional copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Title page

Author’s Note

MH370

About Scott Maka

Also by Scott Maka

Author’s Note

Malaysia Airlines Flight MH370 vanished in the early hours of 8 March, 2014, during a scheduled flight from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, to Beijing, China. At the time of writing it was believed that the aircraft had veered wildly off course, crashing in the Indian Ocean with the loss of 239 lives. Despite being subjected to the most intensive search and rescue operation in history, no wreckage had been found.

This novella is a work of fiction. The author has attempted to paint a credible scenario – within the boundaries of publicly-known facts – of what may have happened to the aircraft. However, the author makes no claim that the events in this novella actually occurred. The reader should note that the characters and their actions are products of the author’s imagination.

Scott Maka

June, 2014

For the departed

MH370

The younger of the two terrorists fingered his knife – or, more precisely, he knifed his finger – and quickly drew blood.

It’s very sharp, he said.

Of course it’s sharp, said his elder. Did you think they would give us toys?

No, but it’s as sharp as metal. I didn’t expect that.

The more senior terrorist picked up his own knife and ran his finger along the blade. The knife resembled a short ivory-coloured bayonet with two edges and a pointed tip.

They’re made from some kind of super-hard resin, he said. Our handlers told me they can be seen by x-ray machines but are safe to carry through metal detectors. That is why we have to hide them in the soles of our shoes – we are going to walk through metal-detectors while our luggage goes through x-rays. The worst that will happen to us is that we will get patted down.

Allah willing, said the younger man.

The older terrorist was standing over the younger one, who was sitting. Three tables had been arranged around his chair in a semi-circle. Each table supported a computer screen showing images of an aircraft cockpit interior. The tables and computer gear, with its attendant cables and leads, took up nearly a third of the space in the stuffy little hotel room. A ceiling-fan was spinning above the men at full speed but it did little to stop them from sweating because, although Malaysia was cooler than their native Afghanistan, it was also a lot more humid. On the edge of one of the tables was a small, open box with Pos Laju courier labels fixed to the outside. As recently as two minutes earlier it had contained seven items – the two knives, a Sony Tipo cellphone, two passports, and two Malaysia Airlines tickets from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, to Beijing, China. Now, the box was empty and the items were sitting on the table next to it.

I don’t like these knives at all, Hamza, said the younger terrorist. It is a sin to draw Muslim blood, and there is a good chance that the pilots will be Muslim.

Aamir, said Hamza, You’ve been focusing too much on the negatives. And I think that we should stop using our real names from now on. We have to get into the habit of using our passport names, so that we can do it without thinking. It would be a disaster to use our real names at the airport. A little slip like that could be the difference between success and failure.

That may be true, said Aamir. But I don’t know your passport name yet. You haven’t shown it to me.

Hamza opened one of the passports and said, This one is yours. You are … ‘Andrew Hamilton’. And I am … I am … ‘Bartolomee Simit’.

That doesn’t sound right. Let me look at those.

Hamza held out the passports, which Aamir accepted.

Unbelievable! he said. These have photos of European men, and we are dark-skinned Afghanis. How are we supposed to get through security with these?

But that is precisely the reason why we were chosen – because we look like the men in these passport photos, and because you speak English.

We do resemble these men somewhat, but we have much darker skin. And their hair is shorter than ours. We’ll have to get haircuts.

You’re forgetting that White men turn into Black men when they go outside in the sun. I saw many Whites frying themselves on Pangkor Island yesterday. Worrying about these matters is pointless in any case. If Allah is with us, then he is with us, and if he is not, then he is not. And I do believe that Allah is with us.

There followed a pause, during which Aamir leaned back in his chair with his face clouded by doubt.

They should have given us these passports much earlier, he said. They must have had them for at least three months already, because it’s been that long since we were recruited. We could have spent all that time memorising the names and details. Your name is ‘Bartholemew Smith’.

Bartolomee Simit.

Bartholemew Smith.

Bartolomee Simit.

You’re doing it all wrong.

Well, you’d better help me then. You’re the English-speaker. That’s one of your jobs.

"Go like this … thhhh … thhhh … thhh."

Sssss ... hhhhh … shhh …

"That won’t do at all. You have to place your tongue just lightly behind your front teeth and push air through forcefully, like this … thhh … thhh … thhh."

Shhh … shhh … shhh …

Bartholemew.

Bartolemoo.

Well, at least that’s a bit closer. Try ‘Smith’.

Simit.

Aamir breathed in, deeply, and let the air out slowly.

I think you should avoid using these names, he said. Wait just a moment.

Aamir turned to the largest of the three computers and typed their names into an internet search engine.

Westerners often shorten their names for everyday conversation, he said. I can use the name ‘Andy’ and you can be ‘Bart’.

Andy and Bart.

Perfect. You said both names correctly. But I still think the handlers should have done a better job with the passports.

Hamza picked up his passport and ran a finger over the personal-information page.

They can’t replace the photos in these things, he said. They’re printed directly onto the passport paper. These are actually real passports, issued by the United Kingdom government. One of our agents stole them in Bangkok.

Don’t stolen passports set off alarm bells when they’re scanned through security?

In some airports, yes – but not at Kuala Lumpur. Several of our people have passed through there without incident already. That is why our handlers chose to start the operation from here, even though it risks Muslim lives.

"It doesn’t risk Muslim lives, said Aamir. It dooms them."

Hamza did not immediately reply, so Aamir turned back to the main screen. He switched on a video that was streaming live from another location. The video showed a small room with nobody in it. The room did, however, contain a variety of cables and several panels that were dotted with switches, buttons and gauges. The layout roughly mirrored the flight controls that were being displayed on the screens to Aamir’s right and left, except that the controls in the other room were real, solid items whereas Aamir’s were just images.

Aamir said, It’s unusual for him to be late.

It doesn’t matter, said Hamza. You don’t need any more lessons. The only lessons remaining are the ones for landing the aircraft, and that is something you will not have to do.

I realise that, but I had to agree to the landing lessons so that he would not be suspicious. The September Eleven martyrs ignored their landing lessons, and instructors are on the lookout for that kind of thing now.

Well, your instructor is late and we have to get moving. Why is this guy mucking you around anyway?

Aamir swivelled in his chair.

We can’t blame him for being late, he said. Don’t forget that he’s been teaching me for free, and that it’s just a hobby for him to run these flight-simulator lessons from home. He’s a busy commercial pilot and he probably has lots of important things to do. I’ll send him a message saying that I’ll log back in tomorrow for the landing lessons – even though we’ll be dead by then, Allah willing.

Aamir tapped out a message to the pilot and switched off the computers.

He said, You still haven’t responded to my point.

What point?

About drawing Muslim blood. It is a sin. I don’t think the sloppiness of Malaysian security is a strong enough excuse for killing our brothers and sisters.

Hamza walked over to one of the arrow-slit windows that lined the wall and placed his hands on either side of it. He looked out over the Malaysian coastal town of Lumut. His gaze drifted along the quiet street and past the grimy-walled buildings. In the distance, he could just make out a sliver of water – an inlet from the Straits of Malacca.

I must admit that I’ve been concerned about that too, he said. On the one hand, our actions will cause Muslim deaths. On the other hand, we are doing Allah’s work. I am certain that what we are doing is not a sin. The Muslims on the plane will be martyrs, just like ourselves, Allah willing.

Yes, but we have made a choice to be martyrs and they have not.

Hamza turned back from the window.

What does ‘choice’ have to do with any of this? Can you honestly say that you are here because of choices you have made?

I suppose not, said Aamir. Not after what happened to my family.

Precisely.

Hamza crossed his arms and looked out the window again.

Allah is the author of all things, he said, and the events that have led us to this time and to this place must have occurred for a reason.

True, said Aamir. He stood up from the computer, stretched his arms back behind his head, and looked around the room. It was