The overnight flight was normal up to that point, an hour after takeoff on a six hour journey. The aircraft commander had leveled off the plane at 35,000 feet over the Gulf of Siam and set the cruise control for the non-stop flight to Peking. The first leg would be over water and there would be nothing to see, especially since it was night and there were only a few fishermen far below in the dark. The cabin crew had nothing to do; the passengers were almost all asleep in the darkened aircraft, cruising with barely a whisper. The pilot had just signed off with Kuala Lumpur Area Control, saying “All Right, Good Night” and the aircraft call sign when a hidden monster broke loose.
Something, somewhere, deep in the unbelievably complex electronic guidance, navigation, and communications system decided it was time to die. A little whiff of smoke and a few sparks were all that anybody could see, but nobody did see it, for the mystery was hidden deep in a printed circuit board buried deep in an electronic panel that was hidden deep in the soul of the aircraft. A few clues were given, an audible alarm, a red light, and an urgent shaking of the control wheel that told the pilots that something had gone wrong, something had gone seriously wrong, and they had only seconds to react.
Abort! Return to land. Command the flight computer to turn 140 degrees to port, command descent to stay below most traffic, in an effort to return to the nearest land, the north-east coast of Malaysia only thirty minutes away. The aircraft obeyed his commands and started the slow turn to left while beginning the descent smoothly and silently. Few of those on board sensed the turn or saw the stars turn to the right. Nobody called home to say “Honey, I think something is wrong.”
The co-pilot was back on the radio, having just switched off from area control, trying to reach approach control to get back into a landing pattern when the hissing started. The hissing in the earphones, the hissing of an electronic fire crawling like a snake through a dying circuit board, killing the connections, turning off the transmitter. And then the smoke started. He knew this meant terrible trouble, as did the pilot, but there was nothing they could do about it. Still they tried; they tried everything they had learned in thousands of hours in the air. Nothing worked. The smoke got worse. Deadly.
Almost two minutes passed. The aircraft autopilot leveled off, and finished its turn so smoothly the passengers barely noticed. Few were awake enough to notice, but the cabin crew knew that something was wrong. The chief steward tried to open the pilot’s compartment door, but it was securely locked from the inside to prevent hijackings. Then, the crew also noticed the smoke, now just little wisps from the ventilation system indicating that the smoke was spreading, poisoning the air throughout the entire fuselage, putting everyone into a long, final sleep. The aircraft flew on. Over Malaysia, over Sumatra, and out over the southern Indian Ocean, cruising straight and level as it had been told to do. It was on a course that would minimize damage and injuries on the ground. It followed its latest instructions exactly. It would do so until it too died.
Seven hours later, somewhere over the southern Indian Ocean, the aircraft ran out of fuel and quickly descended, a silent ghost ship, with 239 souls on board, slipping from the glorious sky to meet the cold waters that would embrace it for centuries.
© 24 April 2014 by Douglas W. Boucher
This work of fiction is dedicated to the memory of the Crew and Passengers of Malaysia Airlines Flight 370. It was originally published 24 April 2014 and slightly revised 31 March 2016.
The author is a retired Air Force Major and a private pilot who has experienced several in-flight emergencies including an explosive decompression and rapid descent half way across the Pacific in a C-141, an engine explosion and fire shortly after takeoff in a DC-10, and had a close friend who died of smoke inhalation on a commercial plane that had an in-flight fire in a bathroom. He has written a memoire of his Air Force career titled “Watching from the Edge of Infinity.”
