In-Fish: What Happened to Flight M-777-F Eastbound?

By Ralf G Will

IN-FISH tells of a mysterious aircraft crash, conceived in the ROOM of DOOM and interwoven with the search for the Anthrax killer. Aviation specialist Fay and Ron, researcher of sorts, dig in sordid affairs. Could a test rocket have cut the plane into two equal halves? The accident took place near the Bay of Kalomo, with an invisible Volcano range as backdrop. Freelance photoman Dick, shooting one of last rolls of False Ektachrome film, was the only witness...till found dead on the beach outside Hotel Livorno.

Ron does unearth traces of the Anthrax killer, a university prof, who hides his poisoning of students and lecturers very well. But who uses toxic spore research in a remote game park to lure more students to a horrible death.....and walks away scot-free from all suspicions and accusations.

What really happened to flight M-777-F EASTBOUND?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jun 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543490626

Ralf G Will

Baerbel Will-Trebeg, 1939 in Braunschweig geboren, absolvierte an der dortigen TH eine Ausbildung als Elektroassistentin, und schulte spter zur Bankkauffrau um. Sie war mit Gerhard Will verheiratet, und hat 2 Kinder. Seit 1983 schreibt sie Lyrik und Prosa. Sie besuchte ein Literaturseminar bei Walter Kempowski und schrieb sich als Gasthrerin am Institut fr Bayrische Literaturgeschichte in Muenchen ein. Neben selbst gedruckten Buechern wie der Gedichtsammlung Zwischenzeilenferne und den Erzaehlbaenden Im Kreis der Sthle, Interfee und Kstchen, verffentlichte sie auch viele Reportagen und Reiseberichte im Ebersberger Teil der Sueddeutschen Zeitung. Sie lebt heute in der Naehe von Lueneburg.

Book preview

IN-FISH

What happened to flight

M-777-F EASTBOUND?

Ralf G Will

Copyright © 2018 by Ralf G Will.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-5434-9061-9

               eBook          978-1-5434-9062-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ALL TEXT + PIX are copyrited to SWIFT PHOTO AGENCY© and RGW18©

For info send email to [e-mail] or to cape.socca©gmail.com

Print information available on the last page.

Rev. date: 06/14/2018

Xlibris

800-056-3182

www.Xlibrispublishing.co.uk

517743

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 1

The accident looked strange. At same time it looked familiar because what you saw wasn’t real. Could have been episode from a fantasy movie, a science fiction classic. Took place but couldn’t be seen. The crash was horrible but its implications remained as serene as the surrounding marshlands. That surrounded the airport perimeter fence. Even ran around some of the shanty towns, encroaching on the perimeter fence. Because you didn’t know crash had taken place no compassion or remorse or rage occupied nor bothered you, sent nasty little gun boats into the moral swamp of your mind - on patrol, captured from the enemy and splashing in the tropical sun, no contact envisaged… seen…suffered. Crashed into.

So it was there but it wasn’t there, gone in next second.

Even the two flight controllers in the tower on duty that morning saw or felt nothing, didn’t suffer thru anything worthwhile, agonizing over the number of dead and if there could have been survivors…let alone sweat over dereliction of duty once that scandal came out and lost its camouflage status, was withdran from jungle operations command, from CO.HQ, too, no questions asked, even less answers given…would they still keep their jobs as air traffic controllers?

Meanwhile there were none, no survivors, all 244 people on flight M-777-F EASTBOUND perished. That was it, a disaster in its most perfect execution and covered from view, no media highlight would ever shine on the calamity. Even though it occurred at rush hour, at that time of the morning when everyone is on it and planes take off and land like thousands of snowballs released from a powerful avalange. Even before sunrise. Shoot out of a fuming hot vent, high up into the atmosphere. And don’t melt away but harden into opaque particles of cosmic ice…right then, in such a busy period the crash remained unseen and unheard of. But it killed 244 people in one go and sliced the Boeing into two equal halves.

And 10 minutes was all it took to compound the damage and dis-member a planeload of people. Next, keep everyone guessing, even those hyper-curious press and media hounds who already knew about your scandalous demise long before you were born, but in the end knew nothing. And neither would the technos and airline insiders and victim’s relatives and loved-ones have an idea of what went on, as long as the 10 minute gap lasted, that is.

So the 10 minute gap managed to cancel all communications that morning, cancel them on account of a seismic event in the earth’s crust, like a flare shooting forth from the sun, almost equal in its rejuvenating power to a meteorite, hurtling thru space on its destructive collusion course. With earth. But then falls apart on entry into the atmosphere, was thwarted, cancelled out and piled on the material break-up heap, burning hot….The horrific impact of the crash remained, only to gain full consciousness after those fateful 10 minutes! 10 minutes without communications had lapsed. World-wide. Without sense, without direction, without rumours. Without foundation and right down onto the ocean floor. Because later, after the gap had perished itself, had died out and tiptoed off into a blistering sunset over the Bay of K, communication nets were restored and all radio, radar, sonar, computers, etc. came online again.

Then what GAP were they talking about?

Would there have been a chance to intercept and divert the object’s course, or whatever it was that struck flight M-777-F-EASTBOUND the moment it took off from the runway? Could the network breakdown have been detected, pre-sensed well in advance? In fact, would there have been a chance to show the accident in visible light and glean the wreckage, spread over and next to the runway, for clues?

If the weather would have played along, the flight controllers would not have been two blind ducks and a major seismic event, similar to a sun flare, wouldn’t have stopped world communications, would we have spotted what we needed to see? And not a misleading electric discharge storm over the poles, caused by eruptions in the sun, and on god knows which moon of Saturn (affects earthly message). Something to that degree we saw, although we were blinded by the oncoming sun. Then light. Then by darkness.

Would we have indeed sensed, read, sniffed out the contents of the letter that had to establish contact in the Bay of K? Or would we rather want to make it disappear into the froth and mud and silt from where it all had started, stuff it back in the dust-covered cubby hole. The seed and the fruit and the journey - to life. Along a meandering riverbed that hides insurgents very well. Covers ’em in its thick papyrus and reed stands below steep embankments. Did the letter say that? Draw a link where there was none? Between slime and mud and dust and our original awakening and the corrupted and poorly communicated results we are faced with today? The infections that never end, the terror that shines on and subverts society, lays traps in the map of the mind, fades away and inspires social decay.

Fruitful meditation on the shore, after joyful cycle tour, up the ridge, overgrown by low olive trees, was not on the cards. It could have been very well, for that matter.

So, even after a long long wait in which we grew older but not wiser, answers to probing questions remained rare and well out of sight. What we knew was the same hogwash promoted and spread by the aviation authorities, who stated, despite all prejudices scattered about, the crash was bound to happen.

There were no two ways about it. It was due to happen. Had to take its horrible course.

Hell knows where and when and how but it had to happen and split our memories into pre-crash, then post-disaster cycles. Oracle it.

That a 10 minute gap in world communications hid and slid the plane in half, and left a major tragedy unseen, subdued, under cover, could not be envisaged, preempted, at least not with those perimeters, standards and dualistic judgments that pestered the airline industry, and our western society on the whole. Bothered us up to then. Gave us headaches, nightmares and fair and square and off the mark readings in open-end grids, nets, webs. And dished out overtime work without pay. In full view of ineffective labour unions. A 10 minute gap and detour in, from and out of international relations, was all it took. To inflict the damage, the nasty stuff that seemed so diffiuclt to unwind and recap, and put it on a sound footing.

If they couldn’t get the weather forecast right, then how would they fare with plane crashes? More accuracy, better insights and clearer logbooks, on the dot, please…was that the long awaited answer?

So what exactly happened and caused a fatality so gross no one saw it, let alone heard all that excess jet acceleration grinding, exploding, no one had a brush with it close to the airport perimeter fence, on its north-eastern tip, searching for invsible light in short wave lengths and with no eruption of rock’n roll, let alone of volcanic ash. Nearby.

That’s where you would find Dick Stonebanger plying his sinister photography trade, in fact the untrustworthy and highly disreputable version of it called free-lancing….rock’n roll forward, backward, royals…rip and trip - forward, upward, backward, sideways….

Right there on the north-eastern tip of the perimeter fencing where no video-eye trailed and tracked him….let alone tracked the many asyl-umseekers and refugees in hastily erected tin shacks and cardboard abodes. His motto: What is good for no one is best for Dick Stone-banger anyhow!

He thought he reminded himself of it in case he lost his hearing from all the jet noise thundering and modulating around the area. That’s exactly the spot where noise of larger planes impacts surrounding shanty towns the most. Gives kids goose-bumps shortly before they rise and wash their faces. There. And nobody saw anything, heard the slightest screech or scratch or thatch or smash. Or noise of grinding groundhogs moaning under them pay-load pay-lords. Rent mongers. Kawhoooooorrrrrrreeee….another long-distance hauler comes in for the final approach, touches down, tyres squeaking, puffing, then rolls off to the far end of the newly upgraded runway.

Could construction works have impacted the crash, even favoured it to take place right here, not far from the north-eastern tip of the perimeter fencing? Where you would find the weasel and its camera plying sinister stuff, and telling everyone who wanted to hear it the shots so gained would hang in the National Gallery by the end of the week, would dangle there as black and white imprints on resin-coated, old-fashined analogue photo paper. With his name underneath and his agent cashing in on the ignorance of the museum’s visual director. On a certain paucity of thought and imagination.

Stonebanger already counted the remaining bundles of cash that would find their way into his pockets, sent with best regards by his hard-working manager.

So, an untrustworthy and highly disreputable, disloyal character hung around the airport fence, trying out this mean free-lancing business. In fact, Stonebanger never processed his own pictures in any case, always relied on servants and technicians in the labs and at the computers, and never gave the people he shot up a reference to their state of fame.

Neither did he give them a plain simple paper cutting with their smiling pic in middle and his credentials beneath. As reference for future generations.

That’s your slimy free-lance photoman for sure…and that the government gave him jobs was only due to fact that he did the dirty work for them….And was about the only photographer in the area who produced brilliant results from a batch of False Ektachrome Colour-Reversal film. The batch had washed ashore in a container not too long ago, but there was something else inside that broken piece of metal storage. Yet no one wanted to speak about it. Release details of its murky existence and shady origins. Just don’t trust a free-lance photographer like Stomebanger, and don’t trust the publications he uses to deceive the public, his customers, his editors. Just don’t.

Yet, could construction works on the runway indeed have sped up this invisible disaster?

The green light had been given and the works went ahead. The main runway would be extended by half a mile and the airport lounge, includes transit zone and arrival/departure gates, would be upgraded, too.

That was the least Bay offcials could do to satisfy thirst of so many tourists who had swamped 2 rows of hotels in front of huge and partly overgown basalt boulders like never before. Had arrived in thick streams of tax-free revenue, all going into the C-4’s empty coffers, and pre-empting a thorough airport upgrade. And then another one two years later, and a third one in near future….and all subcontractors involved get nice bribes floating into their off-shore bank books.

Meanwhile that whole damn mystery airport where aircraft disappear from view - and from existence – and on the upstart, and nobody knows anything about it, least of all two air traffic controllers in the control room, that damn airport had been rebuilt only 5 years before! Had been almostly completely overhauled before, with parking bays in 5-storey skyscrapers and expensive coffee shops in the departure lounge installed