"It's okay, nothing to worry about," stated Kaname coolly, although the plane's swaying hadn't totally stopped. "It's weird, though, I've never been in turbulence when the weather's this nice."
Students, natural gossipers and conspiracy theorists, were buzzing about the bumpiness. Kaname tapped the student in the seat in front of her.
"Hey, what's going on?"
"I don't know. But I swear I heard some kind of popping sound just before the jolt."
"Popping?"
Ding!
"Attention, passengers. Don't be alarmed. We've encountered a low-pressure system. We've adjusted our course. We still may encounter future turbulence, but I assure you that there is nothing to worry about."
Ding!
"That's strange," Kaname decided.
Confused, Kyouko asked why.
"I mean, they don't usually say 'don't be alarmed.' Usually, they say 'please fasten your seat belts,' or something like that."
And neither one of them knew just how right she was.
CHAPTER 3
Bad Trip
"Good. We don't want the passengers to panic."
Setting down the little microphone, the pilot stole a look at the smug bastard with the laser-sighted pistol standing behind him. The man's black hair fell over his forehead, nearly covering his large scar.
"I can't believe you used an explosive on the plane! Are you nuts?"
"It was just a small one—barely big enough to get into the cockpit."
"You're lucky you didn't blow us all to smithereens!"
"Probably true," responded Gauron in a very chilling voice. "Hey, stick to the course!"
White with fear, the pilot ran his eyes over the gauges. "The electrical system took a hit in that explosion. We're in danger if we don't make an emergency landing."
"Is it broken?" The terrorist inquired, attempting to decode the complex instruments.
"It is. We'll negotiate for your demands, but if we don't return to Haneda Airport, we'll probably crash."
"I think I see what's broken," said Gauron. "It's this, right here."
And he pointed the gun's laser sight at the pilot's head and pulled the trigger. The firing of the bullet made less noise than the sound of flesh and bone ripping apart. The pilot died instantly.
"I see. It's beyond repair!" chuckled Gauron.
"What've you done?" moaned the copilot, who now was wearing a considerable portion of the pilot's cerebral cortex. The little red laser dot flickered across the copilot's face.
"You're not broken, too, are you?"
"Don't shoot! No one else can fly the plane!"
"I must admit, I've always wanted to get behind the wheel of one of these things," laughed Gauron, invading the copilot's personal space. "Tell me, is it as fun as it looks?"
"Please, don't kill me."
"I just asked if it was fun, stupid."
Painfully slowly, Gauron's finger tightened around the trigger. Just as he was about to squeeze it, another large man entered the cockpit.
"Gauron!" barked the man, who was nearly six and a half feet tall. He wore a suit and glasses but didn't really resemble a businessman.
"Hello, Koh."
"Why did you kill the pilot?"
"He lied to me and tried to make me look foolish."
Very nimble for his size, Koh grabbed Gauron's gun. "Who's going to fly the plane?"
"I'll do it; I fly transport planes all the time."
"They're not the same thing. Regardless, I thought you were supposed to bring only a knife."
"A knife? How barbaric. Please"
Koh grabbed the jeering man by the lapels. "Look, it's your business if you get off on murder. But don't forget, you're working for me and my country. If you jeopardize this…"
"Don't worry. I'm a perfect gentleman," protested Gauron, "as long as people listen to me. Right?"
He clapped the terrified copilot's shoulder. "What's your name?"
"M-Mouri."
"Mister Mouri, as you may have heard, I'm not supposed to kill you. But, if you don't do as I say, I have no problems killing other people until you learn to listen. Got it?"
"Please, don't kill anyone."
"That all depends on you."
Gravely, Mouri nodded, gulped, and focused on flying.
"I didn't tell your dead amigo, but I have people all over this plane. And they're all armed. Just keep that in mind."
"How did you ever get all those weapons on board?"
"I'm organized. I had a little help from one of the maintenance workers."
"You b-bribed them?"
"More or less." Gauron cracked an evil-looking smile.
In actuality, Gauron had kidnapped the man's family and coerced him into doing what he wanted. Then, for good measure, Gauron cleaned up the mess to prevent future trouble.
"Now then." Gauron abruptly pulled out a map. "Take her right along this route."
The copilot paled. "North from MIMOD? We're going to Sunan? Isn't that North Korea?"
"Very good, you get an A in geography."
"They'll shoot us down."
"I wouldn't worry about that. Just follow our directions to the fetter, and they'll even escort us in. They're not as precise as we are," griped Gauron, "but go ahead and use the ILS system, anyway. Once we pass this point, broadcast your identification."
And Gauron continued to lay out the details of the plan.
It took a while for the authorities to realize the full gravity of the situation when the plane entered Naha FIR, changed course northward, and flew into South Korea's Daegu FIR.
A debate arose among the Ministry of Transport as to whether Flight 903 merely was experiencing mechanical problems or if it had been hijacked.
During the most heated part of the argument, the South Korean Air Force phoned in the settlement—they just received word that the plane was, in fact, hijacked.
However, the message had to pass through all kinds of different channels and translators, so it took the Ministry of Transport almost twenty minutes to get it.
Finally, the Security Council took over handling the situation.
Meanwhile, Flight 903 carried on right into North Korea. The South Koreans called off their aerial pursuit and were more than a little surprised to see that no North Korean planes arrived to intercept the jet.
The Metropolitan Police Department had an anti-terrorist force called SAT, but there wasn't much they could do now that the plane was all the way in North Korea.
Out on the campaign trail, the Prime Minister learned of the incident during a press conference when an NHK reporter asked him about it.
Shrugging, he commented that he didn't have any information and would talk about it as soon as he did. He then, perhaps foolishly, resumed talking about other topics, giving his critics much fuel.
The strangest aspect of this hijacking was that no one claimed responsibility for it.
The U.S. AWACS in South Korea issued an announcement that Flight 903 landed at Sunan's Air Base, about twelve miles north of Pyongyang.
And the whole time, the hostages were ignorant of their predicament.
Something was amiss.
The passengers did not understand why they had been flying over mountain ranges for so long, nor why they weren't already to their island destination.
The stewardess was just as in the dark as everybody else.
"No need to worry," she assured them, smiling, "I'm sure we'll be landing soon—probably has to do with the weather."
Eventually, the plane did prepare to land. Passengers on the port side of the craft could see a town near the runway, but it looked quiet and rundown, lined by old-fashioned factories belching puffs of nasty black smoke. Looking out the window was like looking into a picture of Japan's past.