No Signal

By Tommy Dakar

Heathrow airport, mid morning, in a blistering heatwave. As the 737 London to Bremen manoeuvres onto the runway in preparation for take-off, a camper van swings into sight and screeches to a halt just before the plane. Panic immediately spreads through the airport like a viral tweet, as passengers and security services alike run around desperately trying to find a way to escape the pending havoc.

Suspense, intrigue, action and dark humour combine to create a tense tale of threat, insecurity and incompetence. And underlying all that, a deep and clear-sighted analysis of today's world and where it is headed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tommy Dakar
• Release date: Apr 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224550623

Tommy Dakar

Born in England Tommy Dakar now lives and works in Granada, Spain. Author of short stories, novels, novellas and song lyrics he is also a musician and composer. He has worked in factories, on construction sites, in the investigation department of an important bank, as a busker, a shopkeeper and a gardener. He was a language teacher for many years, breaking into translation and bilingual representation. His works have been published to critical acclaim on various literary sites, including Storychord, SNReview, Write this, Write From Wrong, Language and Culture etc He has also been published in Spanish on Palabras Diversas and Ariadna. A collection of short stories, Unzip and Other Compact Stories, has recently been published, along with his satirical novels Balls, and Thick and Fast. The Trap-Door, which is literary fiction, and Falls the Shadow, a dvandva or twin set of separate yet inseparable short novels are also available at Smashwords. He is also working on another novel, due out soon. Here are some links to his published work. A World Apart published on Storychord. (http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/11/issue-17-tommy-dakar-melanie-plummer.html) Also accepted for publication on MondayNightLit. Also published in print form by SNReview, Summer 2011 issue. Bellavista published on Language and Culture (http://www.languageandculture.net/backdrop.html) News of the World published 15th Feb 2011 on WriteFromWrong (http://writefromwrong.com/2011/02/14/fiction-february/#more-636) The Mystery Tour published November 2011 on Write This (www.writethis.com.) La Noche Mas Larga published in Spanish July 2011 at Palabras Diversas (www.palabrasdiversas.com) and Ariadna.com (http://www.ariadna-rc.com/numero51/lab56.htm). And if you are into music, check out Critical Moment (https://criticalmoment.bandcamp.com/)

Book preview

1

The silver and white fuselage of a passenger plane glinted in the intense morning sun as it slowly taxied into position. In the blinding glare it looked almost as if it were made of glass, translucent and fragile despite its size. On board the pilots went about their business in silence, immersed in the dull comfort of routine. Their tasks were not particularly demanding; computers had taken over most of the procedure, and their role had been reduced to that of well-paid supervisors. Captain Christopher Dorian often complained about this technological encroachment; he felt he was being made obsolete, that his years of training and experience counted for very little in modern day aviation. He was looking forward to an early retirement. His co-pilot, Carles Benavent, was also keen for him to retire.

The passengers had finally arranged themselves as comfortably as possible in the cramped space, seats upright and belts on. The cabin crew had wearily gone through the safety drill choreography and then taken up positions for take off.

Captain Dorian usually had a calm, monotonous voice, as if everything he had to say had been said so many times before that it was now devoid of all interest and as such deserved no special intonation or delivery. A pre-recorded drone inadvertently picked up after years of this-is-your-captain-speaking monologues, which had eventually spilt over into his everyday life and contaminated his speech. This made him appear detached, or bored, aloof even. Adjectives commonly used by his co-workers to describe him ran from haughty and disdainful to conceited and smug. The fact that he sported a neatly trimmed moustache did not help.

But today his voice carried an edge of surprise, of unpleasant surprise, of frustration bordering on anger, that made Carles stop what he was doing and look up sharply.

- Where the fuck did that spring from?

He suppressed the volume of the swear word, making it the oral version of f**k. It was not a term he used frequently, because he found it vulgar, a kind of linguistic crutch for the inarticulate. But sometimes it was the only one that would do.

Ahead of them on the runway they could see a coffee and cream coloured motor home swerving from left to right, and coming towards them at some speed.

The two pilots were stunned. In all their years of flying they had never seen anything like it. It was unimaginable, like part of a dream sequence. How on earth had it managed to get through security?

The radio messages carried on oblivious.

- Flight 6147 prepare for take off.

Captain Dorian shook himself out of his stupor.

- Negative. We have an unauthorised vehicle invading the runway.

He had regained his habitual deadpan style.

-What?

The air traffic controller had a more expressive tone. It managed to combine incredulity with an accusation of mental instability.

- A brown and beige camper van on approach three with erratic manoeuvring. Approximately three hundred yards off. Coming straight at us.

Carles held his breath. There was nothing they could do, perched up above the runway in their cockpit. If the van crashed into them, or rather into their under carriage, there was no time to do anything but pray.

- Wait a second. It now appears to have come to a halt.

Indeed it had. With a juddering motion the mobile home screeched and lurched to a sudden stop.

There was silence for a few seconds. No doubt the controllers had cut off the radio while they panicked and shouted at each other. A curt message followed.

- Abort take off and await further instructions.

The pilots, a little less tense now that the alien vehicle had fallen short of ploughing into the plane, looked at each other wearily. Abort take off. How they hated it when people stated the obvious. Chris Dorian signalled that Carles should reply. He couldn’t bear the standardised jargon of radio communication. If anything he managed to sound even more mechanical and tired of life when forced to do so. He particularly disliked Carles’ next line.

- Copy that.

He had to admit it was better than ‘Roger’, but nonetheless it irked him. What was wrong with alright, or even plain simple ok? It was movie talk, it was pretentious, and he would rather not copy that.

Flight 6147 was headed for Bremen. As it was a mid week, mid morning flight it was not full, but even so, there were eighty-five passengers on board. Mostly adults, but there were a few small children too. They would have to be informed of the delay, and the reason for the delay, in due course. That is when the situation would become very difficult to handle. Each passenger would try to explain their situation, hoping that by dramatising and exaggerating they would somehow be spared or given preferential treatment. One by one the crew would have to listen compassionately only to disappoint them, let them down as lightly as possible, commiserate with them. No doubt a few exalted types would make a song and dance of it and promise revenge, people who leapt at the chance to say ’you have no idea who you are dealing with’, but on the whole resignation usually won the day. Dorian and his staff hated these moments. Nobody spared a thought for them, not even for a second. Did he not have a home to go to, did they all not have loved ones and plans and schedules to keep just like everyone else? So selfish.

Things would now presumably go into protocol mode. They could already hear the sirens of police cars and fire trucks as airport security gradually woke up to what was happening. Soon they would be surrounded. It was going to be a long day.

Out on the tarmac there seemed to be no movement from within the motor home. The windscreen had a slightly tinted part near the top that, added to the reflection from the sun, made it impossible to see inside with clarity. All the windows were closed as far as Captain Dorian could see, and he wondered if they had air conditioning. They would need it sitting out there without any shade. Although still early it was already getting hot. Another sweltering day of heatwave.

As the official vehicles began to encircle the plane and the mobile home, it slowly dawned on him that mentally he was on automatic pilot. What was he thinking about wondering if they had air conditioning? For heaven’s sake, he should be asking himself if they were suicide bombers, if they had the intention of driving that camper van into the plane and sending them all sky high.

He had assumed that the presence of the van on the runway was due to some ridiculous mistake of some kind. Human error. These things always were. Until they weren’t, that is. And this was beginning to look like it was a shit storm.

Await further instructions they had said. But so far nothing at all. He knew the passengers would be pushing their faces up against the windows trying to catch a glimpse of what the hold-up was, and that, even if they would not be able to see the cause of the problem, they would certainly realise that something very serious was afoot when they were surrounded by an impressive array of flashing blue and orange lights, the colours of chaos.

At all costs he had to ensure that his passengers did not give in to hysteria. Any unexpected delay was a challenge to deal with at the best of times because the travellers, quite understandably, expected answers and explanations. They hated being cooped up in such a tight space with nowhere to go and nothing to do. At times like these so much depended on the cabin crew’s ability to smile politely and keep tempers under control.  But in emergency situations anything could happen. The minute someone started to panic, it had a domino effect on the rest of the passengers and all hell could be let loose.

-  Ask Doreen to come in.

Like all flight attendants Doreen was immaculate. Her highlighted hair was pulled back into a tight pony tail without one stray strand, her make up accentuated her natural beauty while hiding any possible imperfections, her uniform was pressed and spotless. She was an old hand, nearing her forties, calm, composed and competent.

- Fuck me, Chris, what the hell is going on?

Neither pilot replied. She was going to repeat her question when she spotted the van.

- Oh my god, it’s a fucking terrorist attack isn’t it? Oh my fucking god, oh god.

- We don’t know what’s going on, not yet. It could just be a false alarm.

That was Carles, hoping to put out the fire he saw in Doreen’s eyes. She grimaced. As if.

- Some dumbwit who’s just wandered into where he’s not supposed to. Let’s not jump to any conclusions just yet.

He gave her his best Latino smile. A nice try, but she wasn’t having it.

- Oh come on, there’s no way a fucking camper van or whatever the hell it is...

Chris, aka Captain Dorian, interrupted.

- We are to await further instructions. In the meantime we need the passengers reassured. The last thing we need is a plane full of hysterical adults.

Doreen tightened her lips, and stared at the Captain. He often did that, one minute all pally, buying you drinks, telling dirty jokes, slagging off the bosses, then, at a click of a button, wham, back to hierarchy and officialdom. Airplane mode. Now he was using it to pass the buck. Again. Delegating he called it. Let Doreen sort it out, I am above that, I am the Captain. Incompetent stuck-up twat.

- What do you want me to tell them?

If he was the boss, then she was the subordinate, also awaiting instructions.

Carles, the eternal go-between, decided to intervene.

- How about a drill, a simulation? That will at least explain the sirens and stuff.

She sighed audibly. Who on earth would swallow that? Time for the commander to earn his bloated wage.

- Chris?

- That will do for now. Tell them I will be issuing an announcement shortly.

She turned to leave with a huffy movement.

- Thank you Doreen, I’m sure you will do a marvellous job as always.

Flat automated courtesy.

When she had closed the door behind her Captain Dorian shook his head and sighed. Carles knew how to interpret that. It meant that Doreen, despite her years of experience, was all too clearly unable to maintain the necessary serenity required by exceptional circumstances. She had become emotional as soon as she had realised that there was an unauthorised and as yet unidentified vehicle in their path. Was that understandable given that she was not only an underling with limited responsibilities, but also a woman? Possibly, that was a debatable point. Treacherous ground nowadays. Far be it from him to judge. Luckily for all involved there were two capable pilots on board and in charge. Was he not right? And had he noticed how she takes liberties? Coming in here swearing like that as if we were the greatest of friends. One thing is an after work get- together, and quite another a serious situation which calls for professionalism and expertise.

Carles, unwilling to be drawn into another futile debate, assented with his silence.

10

The van sat slightly askew some way off in the middle of the runway. Heat rising from the tarmac made it shimmer as if it were a mirage in the desert. Police cars, ambulances, fire trucks and a couple of more sinister dark vehicles with tinted glass windows were surrounding both the plane and the camper like Indians around a wagon train. Nobody moved. The flashing lights added a maddened, disturbing feel to the scene.

This was a moment of tension, of impasse, while the security boys got their act together, which basically meant squabbling over who was really in charge of what. Until then strict protocol at all times. No sudden moves, no decisions made without consultation.

In the cabin Captain Dorian and co-pilot Benavent did as they were told and awaited further instructions. From their vantage point it all seemed a little unreal, as if they were watching an action film. The synchronised positioning of the vehicles, the theatrical swirling lights, the solitary mobile home as bright as a button in the morning sun. It was difficult to imagine that they were actually part of the plot.

Doreen also carried out her duties and lied barefaced to the passengers.

-  There is no cause for alarm. What you are witnessing is simply a routine security drill. Please remain seated. Your Captain will be making an announcement shortly. We remind you that all electronic devices and mobile phones should be either disconnected or put on airplane mode. Thank you.

Once the prerogative of charlatans, lawyers and politicians, such blatant disregard for the truth had undergone a process of democratisation and was now well and truly situated in the public domain. Lying, often referred to as alternative truths, was as widespread and potentially harmful as micro particles of plastic. Even so, most people did not take kindly to being treated as if they were idiots, so her words were taken with a large pinch of salt.  And a great deal of anxiety.

Malcolm and Tara, her fellow workers, breezed up and down the aisle as if this was all very entertaining and exciting, and nothing at all to worry about. More tea? Coffee, water? Some people followed instructions and sat quietly in their seats with a look of indignant preoccupation on their faces. Others ordered tea or coffee as if they had truly believed nothing was amiss. One particular man, French or Belgian she guessed by his scent and accent, pulled Doreen to one side and confessed he was, or at least had been, a police officer. What could he do to help? She offered him light refreshment and implored him with her best facial gestures to keep it under his hat. Luckily he played along. If he was really a cop, that is. Either way he winked at her and nonchalantly began to browse the in-flight magazine.

Doreen knew that they could not continue with the charade much longer before things started to get out of hand. Malcom was great, entertaining them with his wit and gay humour, but it would not last forever. Tara smiled bravely, nodded sympathetically, soothed and laughed as best she could, but she was clearly faltering. She kept readjusting her uniform, tugging at the short jacket nervously. Doreen had spotted it, Malcolm too. Some passengers could be seen surreptitiously fumbling with their phones. There was a lot of whispering. It wouldn’t be long before the social media began pouring in and then the strangest theories would start to blossom. Time was not on their side.

Back to the cockpit.

- What did they say?

Carles shook his head. The Captain shifted uneasily in his seat. He was unsure if he should just sit it out, patiently and obediently waiting to be told what to do, or if he should show some initiative, be pro-active as they liked to say nowadays, and, at the very least try and get some kind of feedback from the tower. The look on Doreen’s face when she re-entered made his decision for him.

- Flight 6147. Captain Dorian. Requesting instructions over.

A silence ensued. A hissing and clicking sound suggested he was being passed on.

- Flight 6147. Cap...

- Captain Dorian? Chief Constable Barnes here. I will be in charge of the operation, at least until Counter Terrorism arrives. Until then you are to stay where you are. Keep the engines running but do not, repeat, do not attempt any manoeuvre of any kind. The passengers are not to leave the aircraft until we are given the go ahead.

- Have we any idea what we are up against, sir?

By CC Barnes’ tone he realised that not only was he not going to get an answer; he should never have dared to ask in the first place.

- I am in no position to divulge any further information at this point.

And the communication went dead.

Resignation was the only choice left.

- Coffee?

- Thanks Doreen, that’d be great.

Carles went back to his paperwork while Captain Chris resumed his vigil. Things were warming up.

11

At the main terminal and all the other outlying airport buildings it was mayhem. Shutting down and securing something as huge as an airport is not an easy task. People rushed about in all directions at once. Some headed for the exits, straining to keep ahead of their rivals in a mad dash to be the first out of there. Others appeared to run around in circles, unsure whether to hide in the toilets or hurry to the car park area. Panicking while dragging around heavy suitcases proved to be challenging too, with many a fall and spillage adding to the overall chaos.

Perhaps to a keen observer, a learned eye, all these comings and goings, the false starts and sudden changes of direction, would have had a certain predetermined logic. Maybe someone versed in chaos theories would marvel at the almost predictable unfolding of infinite fractals and wonder at the beauty of such phenomena. But at ground level, amidst the collective hysteria of frightened passengers and the frustrated attempts of staff and security to control the situation, the overall impression was of spontaneous insanity.

A few seasoned travellers with VIP status expected to be spared the frenzy. They approached the check-in desks and waved frequent flyer cards at the ground staff. When they eventually realised that their hard-earned special status accounted for nothing, that their privileges had been suddenly cancelled, that they would be treated just like the rest of humanity, they flew into impotent rage and hurled insults at whoever happened to be within earshot. Their spoilt brat tantrums fell on deaf ears. They were now fairly and squarely back where they had come from, were simply another anonymous face in the crowd. Disasters are great levellers.

The sound that boomed and bounced around the high-ceilinged halls was deafening. Voices and sirens and car horns mingled with unintelligible announcements in various languages to create a reverberating cacophony that could quite easily be used as an instrument of torture. It added to the confusion and the overriding sense of madness, making logical thought all but impossible. A fitting soundtrack.

Groups of police officers in yellow vests barred entry or waved passengers this way and that. It was not clear if their intention was to evacuate the terminal buildings, or to group everyone in one specific place. Their serious, hard set faces left no-one in doubt; they would not tolerate enquiries or comments of any kind. No questions, no answers. They probably knew about as much or as little as anybody else anyway. Awaiting further instructions, no doubt.

The sealed off airport was like a clot blocking the free circulation of blood to a vital organ. Minibuses and taxis hovered around outside getting in each other’s way. The car park exits had gone crazy too, the barriers going up and down like a Nazi salute. People shouted at whoever got in their way, which was everyone. Beyond the airport perimeter traffic on the outlying dual carriageways had ground to a halt causing a massive tailback that was causing havoc throughout the city. For fear of further attacks the Metropolitan Police had closed down the tube stations in central London, making total collapse a question of time. A solution was needed, and fast.

All flights were cancelled, both in and out. That would have a domino effect on flights around the globe, and was therefore an unsustainable situation. From Helsinki to Buenos Aires there would be knock-on delays. Huge queues would form at major airports and transport hubs worldwide; nerves would be stretched to breaking point, questions asked, explanations and solutions demanded.  Apart from the disruption caused and its negative effect on the public in general, some very important people with very important agendas would inevitably become irate. Offended even. That had to be avoided as far as possible. Hence time was of the essence.

Those in charge knew that in the age of the internet information is available at the click of a mouse, so with every second that passed more and more details would flood in. Facts and figures and dates would accumulate at an astonishing rate and soon become confused with misinformation, misleading clues, alternative truths and deliberate lies. The longer the situation went on the more impossible it would be to sift through the enormous quantity of data, let alone make any sense of it. There was little or no time to corroborate, to fact check, to chase up and identify named sources. Was any of it useful, trustworthy, reliable? It often seemed that the more information they had, the less they knew. They were well aware that in a world of instant media coverage and vulture like lawyers, a slip up could be fatal. But there was no time, it all happened in a whirlwind. Therefore the best course of action was to get it all wrapped up as soon as possible and try to avoid making too many mistakes.

A command centre of sorts had been hastily set up in one of the Airport Authority offices. It looked out onto the runways, but the action was too far away to be appreciated without the help of powerful binoculars, of which there was unfortunately only one pair available. Still, they were in constant contact with both the control tower, the plane itself, and the forces on the ground; their physical presence was not required at the scene. Their job was to assess, to assume responsibility, to liaise and to delegate.

So far it was a