Tell him I am being held hostage by a maniac.” Jessica ran to the cockpit door and banged on it. A moment later, the door opened. Captain James Miller stepped out. He was a veteran pilot, gray-haired with a look of exhausted annoyance. “What is going on out here?” Captain Miller demanded. “We missed our slot. Tower is asking why we aren’t moving.
” “Captain,” Mrs. Vanderhovven cried, playing the victim instantly. She pointed a manicured finger at Marcus. This man refuses to move from my seat. He’s threatening me. He’s threatening the crew. Captain Miller turned to Marcus. He saw the hoodie. He saw the dreadlocks. He made the same calculation everyone else had.
Sir, the captain said, his voice stern. I don’t know how you got up here, but on my plane, the crew’s word is law. If they say move, you move. Captain Miller, Marcus said, reading the name tag. I am asking you to follow protocol. Ask the passenger for her boarding pass. Ask me for mine. Whoever has 1A sits in 1A.
I don’t have time for a debate. Captain Miller barked. Brad, get security on the line. Have them meet us at the gate. We’re removing this passenger. You’re making a mistake, Captain. Marcus said, a careerending mistake. Are you threatening me, son? The captain stepped closer, chest puffed out. I’ve been flying for 30 years.
I don’t take orders from street trash. The slur hung in the air. The mask was off. It wasn’t about the seat anymore. It was about power. Mrs. Vanderhovven smirked. Street trash. Exactly. Get him off. Brad grabbed Marcus’s arm again, this time with aggressive force, trying to wrench him toward the door.
Marcus didn’t fight back physically. He knew the cameras were rolling. He could see the businessman in row two recording on his phone. “Good, he needed the evidence.” “Okay,” Marcus said, shaking Brad off with a sharp jerk of his arm. “I’ll get off, but I’m taking my luggage and I’m making a phone call. Make your call from the holding cell,” Jessica sneered.
Marcus reached into his pocket, but he didn’t pull out a phone to call a lawyer. He pulled out a sleek black satellite phone, the kind used for secure, high-level corporate communications. He dialed a single number. The cabin went quiet as he held the phone to his ear. Mrs. Vanderhovven rolled her eyes.
Who are you calling? Your bale bondsman? No, Marcus said into the phone, his eyes locked on Captain Miller. This is Marcus Thorne. Authorization code Delta Sigma 91. Execute order 66 on flight AV 402. He paused, listening to the voice on the other end. Yes, immediate grounding. Cancel the flight plan and patch me through to the JFK Tower supervisor.
Captain Miller froze. He knew what that code meant. It was an override code, a code that only the highest level of executive management possessed. “Who? Who are you?” the captain stammered. Marcus lowered the phone. He smiled, but it was a smile that promised winter. “I’m the man who just cancelled your takeoff.
” The silence that followed Marcus’ declaration was broken only by the hum of the auxiliary power unit. But then, a moment later, even that changed. The high-pitched wine of the jet engines, which had been spooling up for taxiing, suddenly began to drop in pitch. The lights in the cabin flickered once, then stabilized as the main power cut, and the aircraft switched fully to battery reserves.
The plane effectively went dead. “What did you do?” Jessica gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “I told you,” Marcus said, sliding his satellite phone back into his pocket. “I grounded the plane,” Mrs. Vanderhovven let out a shriek. “He’s a terrorist. He’s hijacked the plane with a cyber attack. Arrest him. Beat him down.” >> [clears throat] >> She scrambled backward, knocking over her poor assistant, clutching her pearls as if Marcus were about to detonate a vest.
