Oxygen masks are out. I put mine on, and so does my partner sitting next to me.
I just had to help restrain a guy who was walking back and forth making a lot of ruckus, asking for an “airplane mechanic” to “fix” it. What does he think this is? He is built like a line-backer. Thankfully I didn’t have to use my weapon, which would have blown my cover. I hope he doesn’t cause any more trouble than there is already.
Altitude is dropping fast, and bags in the overhead compartment are falling all around. The engines gone, the plane will soon crash-land in the water. My partner grips my hand firmly. In her eyes I see both fear and hope. There isn’t anything we can do for the next few minutes.
We’re now approximately 500 miles off the Canadian coast. I hear cries of prayer, despair, confusion and horror. I’m not a religious man, and can’t think of any prayers to say. I know that the chances of survival are slim when the plane ditches in the ocean, but if we do make it, my first priority would be to capture our target in 22C alive.
We’ve been tracking this terrorist for some time and had planned to nab him alive and take him for interrogation. He thought he had smuggled explosives into the plane, but who did he think he was fooling? I’m Richard Holder, and sitting next to me is Samantha Bradley. We’re officers from the CIA.
The noise is getting louder. As I look over the window, I see what look like Canadian navy vessels far away.