 
_Smashwords Edition |_ **Copyright 2014 Frank Kale**

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Love And Loss On Flight 370

A Romantic Thriller

By: Frank Kale

Note: This is a fictionalized account of the events that occurred on Malaysian Airways International Flight 370. The disappearance of flight 370 is one of the greatest tragedies (and mysteries) of the 21 century. Billions of dollars have been spent and there is still not one shred of conclusive evidence as to what happened.

While the technical details of this fictionalized account attempt to be as accurate as possible, all characters are completely fictionalized and any similarity with those on the flight is pure coincidence.

Although the events described in this book are fictitious, these events have been determined by statistical analysis to be the most likely outcomes to have occurred on flight 370.

Thus, this book describes in chronological order and with vivid detail what most likely happened on flight 370.

**Row 32 Seat H** : Sasha Dickerson. **Nationality** : USA. **Age** : 41

**Purpose of Trip** : Pleasure

**Row 32 Seat I** : Tim Dickerson **Nationality** : USA. **Age** : 46

**Purpose of Trip** : Pleasure

**Row 32 Seat F** : Tiffany Blondin. **Nationality:** USA. **Age** : 31

**Purpose of Trip** : Pleasure

**Malaysia: Kuala Lumpar International Airport: 12:30 a.m.** : It had always been on Sasha Dickerson's bucket list to join the Mile High Club. But it is one thing to put some crazy thing on your bucket list and it is another to actually do it. Still, Sasha was on the fence and in her heart of hearts, she wanted her husband Tim to overcome her resistance.

"Come on, you only live once," said Tim, poking her in the ribs, and because they were already strapped into their airplane seats she had nowhere to escape. She giggled and tried her best to slap away his ridiculously muscular arms.

What had gotten into him? Ever since they had arrived in Malaysia he had become a different person. Back home in the states he was predictable boring Tim. But here it seemed that he always wanted to experience life to the fullest.

On the small Island of Redang in the eastern part of Malaysia, Tim had been obsessed with watching the turtles lay eggs on the beach, which sounds like a nice idea in theory but it had meant that they had to stay awake for 36 hours straight.

But they had seen the turtles! And it had been amazing!

And as those turtles waddled up the beach, reaching the final leg of their thousand mile sea journey, Tim and Sasha French kissed under the moonlight like two teenagers kissing for the first time.

Everything about their vacation to Malaysia had been magical, and she hoped that they could keep the magic going in China. She even wondered if they should get off the plane right then and there and spend the rest of their vacation in Malaysia instead of continuing onto China like they had planned.

"You and your Mile High Club: it is all you have been talking about for the last couple of days," Sasha whispered quietly, knowing that there was a good chance that she would go through with the offer to join the club, and also not wanting to disturb the passenger's who were trying to fall asleep (The flight was a red-eye, one taking off after midnight.)

"Because it will be awesome! Because it needs to happen," said Tim, a huge grin on his face.

Sasha was smiling too. But suddenly she became serious saying, "Tim, Malaysia has been so amazing. I really do think it has saved our marriage. Maybe we should just get off this plane and stay here. Maybe we don't need to go to China."

Tim was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Baby, if that is what you want, I say fuck it let's get off this plan right now."

"Do you mean that?" Sasha asked.

"100% -- I don't care if the tarmac is gone. I'll demand that it needs to come back," said Tim.

"We'll be throwing away thousands of dollars on wasted tickets," said Sasha.

"That's nothing compared to my baby's happiness," said Tim with a look of pure sincerity.

"But the Mile High Club?" said Sasha.

"We'll do it on the way home. But this means you are doing it," said Tim, nodding, the big smile back on his face.

Sasha laughed as Tim began unbuckling their seatbelts.

"But they are getting ready for take-off. It won't be long," said Sasha.

"I don't care. They can wait. My baby is a queen," said Tim.

Sasha laughed again. She could tell Tim was serious.

"Ready?" Tim asked, grasping her hands.

"But what about our luggage?" Sasha asked, adding, "It is in the bottom of the plane, maybe they won't get it for us."

"We can buy new stuff, a shopping spree just for you. I'll just get a couple things. Malaysia equals happiness, you are right. We should have thought of this before. But better late than never," said Tim.

Sasha wavered. Staying in Malaysia did seem like a good idea, and she hated to admit it, but she had never been particularly fond of Chinese people, finding them, on average, rather brash. So why did she feel the need to surround herself with a billion of them? Especially considering that the Malaysians had been so friendly?

She stood up with a look of determination, saying, "Okay, let's get off."

But then she foggily remembered something that at first seemed only half-important, "But what about Tiffany?"

Tim nodded. They both laughed. They had forgotten about Tiffany! They had forgotten about their travel-mate! But hadn't they been forgetting about their travel-mate all trip long?

At first, when they had been planning the trip three months ago, Sasha had been opposed to lugging along the token family friend, saying, "Tim, don't get me wrong: I am really excited that you have agreed to go at all. But I think bringing a friend is a bad idea."

Tim replied, "I disagree, we need that buffer just in case things don't start off smoothly. And Tiffany knows her role with the trip: to lighten the mood and keep us happy. She is like one of your best friends! Why wouldn't you want her to come?"

Sasha sighed, shaking her head. "First off she is not one of my best friends. I like her a lot and we are friends, but she is your buddy's wife. So don't make it out like she is some old friend of mine who knows all my deep dark secrets."

"But you two always seem to be so close whenever the four of us get together? Should we ask someone else?" Tim asked.

Sasha sighed again, saying, "That isn't the point. The real issue is that this trip is about resetting our own marriage and we need to do that together. Having a third wheel will just make things awkward. Besides, even if she agreed to come, that just may be because she feels too bad to say no -- she might not actually want to go at all."

But Sasha quickly learned that had been the wrong argument to make because Tim instantly showed her all the texts that Tiffany had recently sent him about how excited she was about the trip, one text reading, "Malaysia party time and America BYE-BYE time!"

For the next week Tim continued to be steadfast in his desire to bring Tiffany along, so Sasha eventually asked the marriage counselor Mark for his opinion, and to Sasha's dismay Mark had seen no problem with a family friend tagging along for the get-a-way, even somewhat echoing Tim by offering, "I have actually had other couples use this same technique. It can help to diffuse the tension..."

So Tiffany had tagged along and now sat in the center aisle three seats away with head phones in her ears, looking absurdly tan.

Sasha guessed that Tiffany had been miserable for most of the trip: Sasha and Tim had been so engrossed with each other that they had practically treated their dear friend like an Indian Untouchable. They had even apologized to Tiffany many times during the trip for their absurdly exclusionary behavior.

And Tiffany -- true to form of a tag-along friend and an irresolute third wheel -- remained chipper, continuing to make light of their apologies with replies such as, "Nothing could make me happier than never having a word to say edgewise because you two are so completely ingrained! This trip was about you two. But I am not in need of a pity-party. Look around! We are all in an amazing country. I'm taking in the sights, so I don't need idle chit chat from friends. Seriously, keep on getting romantic and getting that marriage back on track!"

Still, Sasha had her doubts that Tiffany's martyr-like replies actually represented the way that she felt deep down. Sasha believed that she had a good read on the unspoken things rattling around in people's brains, especially the unspoken rattlings of her friends, and Sasha believed that what Tiffany was failing to say was something like, "God I never would have come on this trip if I had known that you two were going to be continually submerged in your own private world together. I could understand you two being in a private world for some of the trip, but not the entire trip."

Sasha knew she should feel guilty for not including her friend, but she did not feel guilty in the least: her marriage was just too important -- and during this last ditch effort to save it, she was prepared to make all the sacrifices necessary.

Besides, she hadn't even wanted Tiffany to come along in the first place. So why should she feel guilty about not being her tour guide?

Yet Tiffany obviously needed to be consulted during this impromptu decision to exit the plane just before take-off.

"I'll explain the situation," said Tim.

Sasha watched Tim make his way into the crowded aisle (there had been no seats available in which they could sit together as a group) and watched him speak into Tiffany's ear.

She did not even discuss anything with him. In seconds she was standing up!

Sasha sighed. Tiffany really was sacrificing her own happiness during this trip for the prospect of her friends' future happiness.

Sasha thought, "I may be selfish right now during this trip because I need to be in order to regain footing for my marriage, but I will make this selfishness up to Tiffany at some point back at home. She may not be one of my core friends from the old days, but her self-sacrifice during this trip is perhaps more than any of my old friends have ever done for me. I will have to be nicer to her in the future and I will have to think of some big way to pay her back..."

Tiffany smiled at Sasha and all three laughed as they climbed into the aisle, quickly searching for their carry-ons in the overhead bins.

A stewardess began rushing down the aisle, saying in broken English, "Take off soon. We take off soon."

Tim said, "We are getting off."

"Take off soon. We take off soon," the stewardess repeated, as if this was the only bit of English she knew.

Suddenly the captain's voice boomed over the intercom saying, "Welcome, this is the captain speaking. I would like to welcome you to Malaysian Airways flight 370 destination Beijing China. It is an overcast night but no rain is expected. Please turn off your cell phones and stay in your seats. After we receive confirmation we will have lift off and should arrive in Beijing as scheduled."

As the captain spoke, Tim spoke over the captain, saying to the stewardess, "Yes, but we are getting off."

The stewardess motioned to another stewardess for help, perhaps one who understood more English.

Suddenly Sasha got cold feet and tossed her luggage back into the overhead.

"What are you doing?" Tim asked.

Sasha said, "I changed my mind. Let's just go to China as planned."

"Are you sure?" Tim asked.

Sasha was not sure. For some reason, an instinct perhaps, or a premonition, she felt that continuing on to Beijing was not the right course of action.

"I really don't mind getting off. I've got 90% of my clothes in my carry-on," said Tiffany.

Sasha tried to hide the smirk that she felt forming on her face, because Sasha was surprised that Tiffany was not carrying 100% of her clothes in her back pocket: all Tiffany had seemed to bring for her two month trip half way around the world was about two dozen skimpy bikinis. Every day it was a new skimpy bikini.

Tiffany even wore a bikini when they were not going to the beach, just walking around town or while shopping, even having the gall to wear a bikini to some sacred Buddha temple and later to a fancy restaurant. Sometimes Sasha wondered if Tiffany truly did not notice all the Malaysian man ogling her and her perfect Barbie body.

But Sasha ground her teeth, thinking, "Stop this unproductive train of thought: you have no reason to be jealous of your friend just because she is thirteen years younger, has bigger boobs, a bigger butt, and is prettier than you ever were. She is married and she is a friend who is just trying to help you. So Wandering Mind stop being such a Bitch Mind!"

Tim read the confusion in Sasha's face and thinking that this confusion applied not to Tiffany and her plethora of skimpy bikinis but rather to the plane departure situation, he said, "Don't worry about inconveniencing the boarded passengers: your happiness is the only happiness that matters on this world."

Sasha smiled, thinking again about the matter at hand. Perhaps Tim's compliment was all she needed to hear and this need-to-get-off-the-plane-thing was all an elaborate compliment fishing expedition. She was not sure. But in any case it was thrilling to see Tim putting himself out for her -- he'd been doing it all vacation and yet it never got old.

But she did not want to waste all these other traveler's time. It would just be too rude. And she wondered if Tiffany really did have no reservations about staying in Malaysia. Perhaps Tiffany was just being martyr-like again and in actuality she was dying to see China.

Yet wasn't that Washington D.C. Sasha speaking, not Malaysia Sasha speaking? Malaysia Sasha did what she wanted when she wanted. Washington D.C. Sasha was very careful to consider the feelings of everyone involved before she took the smallest step.

Oh how boring it was being Washington D.C. Sasha!

"I don't know," said Sasha, adding, "I just feel like maybe we should stay here."

"Then why did you put your suitcase back?" Tim asked.

Meanwhile, the first stewardess was busy explaining the situation to the second stewardess.

"Because I feel like maybe we should go to China," said Sasha, her eyebrows raised in apology for being so undecided.

Tiffany laughed. At least she saw the humor in the situation. Or perhaps she was just happy to finally be involved in any situation during this trip.

As Tim grabbed Sasha and began whispering in her ear, Sasha couldn't help but think, "Well there goes Tiffany being involved in the situation."

Then Sasha listened intently as Tim whispered, "I know it turns you on and the sex is better when I make the decisions -- like I am making the decision that we are eventually joining the Mile High Club. And when we join it I am taking you doggy-style, your head planted in the sink, your feet on the toilet, my feet behind yours on the toilet. I looked it up on my smart phone earlier today and that is the recommended position for doggy style plane bathroom sex -- it is possible!"

As Sasha laughed at Tim's preposterously gratuitous statements, she briefly caught Tiffany's annoyed glance, and she thought, "Wow, that is the first time I have seen Tiffany look annoyed all trip. And yes bikini bitch we are having another private joke!"

But just as quickly Sasha thought, "Why is my Wandering Mind such a Bitch Mind!"

Tim continued, "But this is a vacation decision, and I think you should make it. You know you have my support either way."

Sasha twisted on her feet. As she watched Tim holding his carry-on luggage in one buff arm and with at look of complete attention on his face, she started to get really horny. They had already had sex two times that day, but now she wanted more and fast.

And the way that he had detailed the sex act that he planned for their admittance into the Mile High Club had drastically increased, for her anyway, the club's appeal.

She thought, "Is a quickie possible just before leaving? But then we would not be part of the Mile-High club, we would be part of the About-To-Take-Off Club, which doesn't sound nearly as exciting."

Meanwhile, Tim ignored the second stewardess who was trying to get his attention, repeating, "Sir?"

Sasha said, "And it isn't just that we have been so happy here. I have the strangest feeling that maybe taking this flight isn't the best idea, that the flight itself is a bad idea."

"You mean you are afraid to fly?" Tim asked, adding, "But you have never been afraid to fly, have you?"

"No," said Sasha, "But that's just it. Why now? I just get a bad vibe about this flight. I think we should get off this plane."

"Fine by me, get that suitcase back down," said Tim, pointing to the overhead.

Tiffany said, "I believe in stuff like that. My grandmother used to look into the future all the time. She once predicted that..."

As Sasha twisted on her feet -- and realized that she had stopped listening to Tiffany -- she considered the situation: on one hand she wanted to stay in Malaysia but on the other hand she had a bad feeling about the flight.

Yet could she really bring herself to inconvenience all the people on the plane?

It seemed that perhaps Washington D.C. Sasha was just too firmly rooted in her psyche when it came to big decisions that affected a bunch other people.

She said, "Let's just stay."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Tim put his carry-on back on the overhead, explaining to the stewardesses that everything was okay, and adding, "We just wanted to make sure we had our toothbrushes."

Tiffany laughed as she also stuffed her carry-on into the overhead.

But neither stewardess looked amused, though each seemed to accept Tim's statement as fact.

Sasha wondered if the stewardesses were thinking, "Stupid Americans, so rude!"

It seemed hard to believe that their vacation was only half-way finished. Sasha decided that when they did get back home to Washington D.C., she would buy their marriage counselor, Mark, an expensive bottle of wine: the trip had been his suggestion and so she thought that he deserved a reward beyond the normal order of business.

At first Tim had been reluctant to take the trip, saying, "I just don't get it. Yes, I admit that we are having huge problems in the bedroom. But taking a vacation? I just don't see the point. It seems like we would just being trying to escape our problems..."

Oh, but how it had solved them! The moment their plane had descended into the vibrant city of Kuala Lumpur they were instantly reinvigorated -- as if the fountain of youth could be found in the small cups of water handed out by the overworked stewardesses -- and that first night in Malaysia they had partied all night in the world famous Kuala Lumpur Beach Club, reliving their 20's, and both completely forgetting that they were each almost 40.

Yes, the beach club had clearly been filled with Malaysian prostitutes. But as Tim joked, "I guess I missed that part in the Lonely Planet guidebook."

And Sasha had simply laughed at the sight of the prostitutes because she understood that it was time to throw off their parenting, do-gooder, upstanding-community-member, civic-minded, volunteer-oriented hats: and live in the playground of life.

In their hurry to return to the hotel and fuck, they had left Tiffany at the club all alone -- which had later been their first reason for needing to apologize to their travel-mate. And as earlier hinted, it would be by no means their last.

But accidently abandoning their friend, while consumed by lust, had been more than worth it because the sex that first night had been the best of their lives -- or at least that is what Sasha had written to her friend Penelope in an email the next day.

With mischievous glee Sasha had even outlined some of the details, an act of gratuitous gossip that she had last engaged in when they were newlyweds:

"Okay, so please stop reading if this makes you uncomfortable, but I have to tell someone and the Asian staff here speaks broken English. Where to start? Penelope, I feel simply radiant! The sex, no, I can't start with the sex. It was the man really. It was Tim! Okay, so I know -- because you have told me so plenty of times -- that you have always been envious that I married a man who used to be a body builder and still maintains his body in pristine shape. And yes, when I look at the other Dads, I know I am lucky he has not let himself go at all. So why these problems in the bedroom Penelope? I mean at home when he comes out of the shower wrapped in a towel (or not wrapped in a towel, sorry lol) and his manly chest and 6 pac abs are wet and glistening (God I feel like a romance writer, but that is just it Penelope I do feel romantic right now!) yeah I get horny, and yeah he can still get me wet when I just look at him."

Smiling, she stopped typing, and pulled the luxury hotel bathrobe tight around her. It felt like Tim, not the bathrobe, was squeezing her tight, perhaps because she still so clearly remembered Tim's passionate embraces from the night before, as if every embrace had left its implant forever upon her. She sipped seltzer water. She continued:

"And by the other token I know that I turn him on. I'm no fool. I see the way the young boys look at me. Not to toot my own horn Penelope, but I would be, in that most vulgar term, labeled a MILF. So it obviously hasn't been attraction that has been keeping us apart. Was it familiarity? I don't know. Wait, sorry Penelope I know you don't want to hear all this, you aren't our marriage counselor for Christ's sake..."

Again Sasha had stopped typing, realizing that she was having a difficult time describing the sex to her friend.

Absentmindedly, she glanced out their hotel room window, a 34th floor window which offered an amazing view of the modern Kuala Lumpur skyline, stylish skyscrapers all around.

But having let her mind wander she suddenly realized why she was having such a difficult time writing to her friend about the sex, thinking, "Because I can't even admit to myself that it actually happened: because it was an event so out of the ordinary that my logical mind tells me that it was only a dream."

She laughed because it had not been a dream. Looking up from her laptop, she stared at Tim lying on the bed. He was still sleeping. He was snoring. His white bare butt emerged through the sheets and she thought he looked like an underwear model without the underwear. She wanted to pinch his snow-white butt or perhaps bite it right on the tan-line.

But he was sleeping so peacefully. And there would be plenty of time for that later.

So she continued her email to Penelope, mischievously detailing the not overly scandalous sex-details of the night before, her heart thumping as she pressed: SEND.

Was it possible that her life had really taken a turn for the good so quickly?

And just by a mere change in locations? At home, when she had been trying to persuade Tim that the vacation was a good idea, even she had had her private doubts.

So she had never imagined that during their first night in Malaysia they would complete a love making session that could only be described as a love fest, a sexual orgy of two in which Tim would ejaculate seven (yes seven!) times, and during which she would have five multiple orgasms -- a feat that she had not accomplished in at least 10 years, and which she had assumed she was no longer capable.

She laughed as she remembered the last line of the email that she had sent to Penelope, "Penelope let me sum it up this way -- if someone secretly recorded a sex tape of what went on in this hotel room last night, and sold it I think the thing would go viral and make billions of dollars and I apologize for this crass statement but it just may have been the best fuck of my life \-- yes fuck of my life, because I was pure passionate fucking!"

All at once it felt like her man was really her man again: the man who she would never think of straying from, the man who she would day-dream about again and again, whose every expression was cemented in her heart, whose weathered massive hands she knew better than her own; the man capable of bringing her to a point of ecstasy that she had never thought possible, who was her one and only future, her foundation, her soul mate.

She sighed as if an ordeal had finally ended, as if a continuous storm had stopped and everywhere people were gathered in the streets pointing at a resplendent rainbow.

What is life without crazy hot love? How had they lived so long in Washington D.C. without passion, lust, or fervor?

How had they lived as robot people, merely going through the motions, always doing the expected thing, the right thing?

Yes, back home in Washington D.C. they had fallen into such an endless rut of work and child rearing activities, that for the last few years they had set almost no time aside for their own happiness, instead living vicariously through two their children: and as much as they loved their kids more than anything on earth, it simply was not healthy to sacrifice all their spare time for the sake of those two adorable youngsters.

(Or so their marriage counselor had been gently admonishing them for the last few months -- and thus his suggestion for the vacation.)

But helicopter parenting had become all the rage and Sasha had fallen under its spell. She was also a devote follower of Sheryl Sandberg and her theory of Leaning-In: the theory that busy modern women could never have too much on their plate, that there was always another charity to volunteer for, that there was always another committee to join, or an organization to head.

And on one hand Sheryl Sandberg's advice had been spot-on because Sasha found herself excelling as a community member, but on the other hand she was failing as a wife.

And for his part, Tim had become that thing that he had sworn to never be: the quintessential executive, always working late, always putting the final touches on one last final project.

But when would the final, final late-night project finally arrive? And how many times could he continue to say with a straight face, "This will be the last time I need to be at the office this late..."

For how long could they keep up this madness? Didn't they need to breathe? Didn't they need to stop and just stare deep into each other's eyes with nothing except pure peace in their souls?

When they were first married the peaceful love had come so easy -- like a faucet in the kitchen with the water always ready to flow -- and so Sasha had assumed that their love would grow always with little effort applied, simple as twisting a knob.

But lately at the end of each day, the day had left them each so worn down that they had no energy to speak sweet nothings or any words of passion, never mind to rattle the headboard. If they did make love it just felt like another act of work.

For the last few years their sex (when they actually did have sex, a rare event indeed) had been sex without love, without hope, without meaning.

As robot people they had robot sex. And it was the same pointless sex they had been having for years. It was sex without life! It was sex as a ritual, as if done only because a ritual needed to be completed. And so, oddly, it was sex that seemed to exclude them -- as if they made it a practice to allow strangers to fornicate in their bedroom.

Or put another way: it was sex that had as much importance to Sasha as flossing her teeth.

And she knew that for Tim it was much the same. How did she know? Mark, the marriage counselor, had forced him to admit it!

He hadn't wanted to. He had resisted. He had flexed his big muscles and gotten mad. Once, he even stormed out of Mark's office, and Sasha was worried that he was going to have a temper-tantrum in the waiting room -- that he was going to flip the magazine table, or box the secretary's ears, or perhaps moon the waiting couple.

And Sasha found herself almost apologizing to Mark for marrying the man she had married, she literally found herself almost saying, "I'm sorry I married this guy. If I had not married him I wouldn't have to bother you with all my problems."

She had bitten her lip, but at that moment she knew that their marriage had hit rock bottom. And she knew that at that moment the marriage was either going to fail or begin its long climb out of the muck.

Fortunately Tim burst back into the room and exclaimed, "Yes the sex fucking sucks! Okay, I admit it. Okay! Okay, I admit that yes I have been staring at every attractive girl I walk by and I have been thinking about hitting on them -- and even screwing them. I haven't, but I think about it, all the time. Okay! Is that what you want to hear! Because it is fucking true and yes it is because the sex fucking sucks. And I am fucking sorry, yes sorry, that this awesome marriage has gotten to this horrible point because that is exactly where it is. I'm sorry about the language. But I don't. I guess. I don't. Maybe it is hopeless..."

The anger having subsided, Tim's teary eyes met Sasha's and though they were both wallowing in the oozy muck of rock bottom, her soul smiled because she knew the expression held in his eyes, having seen those eyes for so many years now the expression was unmistakable: hope.

And so Sasha knew that Tim had chosen to make the climb up from oozy marital rock bottom. And as if her mind reading capabilities of Tim needed to be instantly validated, he said, "I don't know. I've been saying that I don't want to. But maybe a vacation is a good idea..."

And was it ever! That much had been clear from the first night. But while planning the vacation in Washington D.C. they had no reason to suspect that in Malaysia their reboot would be instantaneous, and therefore they had scheduled a large block of time from their hectic lives for the vacation in case they needed an extended period to become intimately reacquainted: two months total, divided as one month in Malaysia and one month in China.

Simply put: Malaysia had been one month of pure bliss. And what had been unimaginable to them after that first night was that the sex was only going to get better. Yet it had been a series of continuous sexual nights and days that had built to a crescendo pitch of love making perfection.

It quite literally seemed that Tim had a permanent hard-on and that Sasha was always willing to get down and dirty.

They had even created a private pet-name for themselves (that they knew only they would find humorous), "The Randy Travelers," and had developed a habit of referring to themselves in the third person through the use of that pet name, saying things to each other like, "Do you think this restaurant is somewhere The Randy Travelers would like to go?" and, "This Randy Traveler needs to make a pit stop, wait for it, wait for it: of sexual healing."

One month ago, when they took off in D.C., the Mile High Club would have sounded like pure insanity, and for making the suggestion Sasha would have carted Tim off to the loony-bin instead of the marriage counselor.

But now it simply seemed like some ordinary event that had perhaps a 50/50 chance of happening, like a day with light rain or a day with no rain, and that either way was no big deal.

Sasha laughed as she thought, "Bang in the bathroom? Yeah, maybe I'll do that."

So she winked at Tim.

"Is that a yes?" Tim asked, his voice momentarily drowned out as the captains voice boomed over the intercom, "Welcome flight 370 this is your captain speaking. It is now 12:39 a.m., take off should happen soon, which means that we are scheduled to arrive in Beijing China at approximately 6:30 a.m. For those of you who wish to sleep, the lights will be shut off after take-off."

The message was then repeated in Malaysian and Chinese.

"Once we are at cruising altitude we will see," said Sasha, who was still undecided.

"I just thought of something?" said Tim.

"Oh my God, call the pope. It's a miracle -- my man is thinking," said Sasha.

Tim laughed, saying, "If you are right and this plane is going to crash or something, then we obviously have to first join the Mile High Club."

Sasha punched his gargantuan bicep. It didn't even budge.

"Stop it," she said.

"What?" Tim asked.

"That is a horrible thing to say," said Sasha.

"But it is the truth. Don't you agree?" Tim asked.

Sasha nodded. Suddenly she felt a pain in her stomach and she grimaced.

"What is it?" Tim asked.

"Pain in my stomach," said Sasha.

"Are you okay? Should I get the stewardess?" Tim asked.

Sasha rubbed her stomach. She felt like she had been swiftly kicked in the stomach, but just as swift the pain had passed.

"No, I am fine it is gone," said Sasha.

"Maybe you are pregnant," Tim said.

"It is certainly possible," said Sasha.

"Oh, don't say that -- I think then our problems would be starting all over again," said Tim, running his hands through her long blonde hair.

Sasha sighed, saying, "I wonder how the kids are doing."

"Every time we check in they seem good. In fact they seem better than good. I mean a vacation away from their parents, with their best-friends, no wonder they are fabulous," said Tim.

"You don't think they are just putting on their brave faces, for our sake, because they know Mommy and Daddy are having problems?" Sasha asked.

It had been a tough call whether to tell Brian and Jessica the purpose of their trip, but at 10 and 8 respectively, the marriage counselor had suggested that the children were developmentally mature enough to hear the truth and that therefore the truth was the best option.

And of course during that explanation, Sasha and Tim did not get into the birds and the bees discussion, instead explaining the situation in terms of "Mommy and Daddy's relationship together."

And Sasha had to admit that the children had seemed to fully grasp the situation, which only further confirmed what Sasha had already believed: that kids always comprehend more than adults suspect.

Every couple of days they managed to get the kids on the phone. They had an international cell phone and it usually worked (though sometimes the connection failed).

Sasha always felt homesick after speaking to the children, and at that point her mothering-instincts were on high alert, but she was always surprised at how quick the guilt subsided.

But that was only because she knew that this seemingly selfish trip was of immense importance for the children too and so the trip trumped any feelings of temporary separation between parents and children.

Both Sasha and Tim came from separated families and they had sworn to never allow that dynamic to inflict its insidious wounds on their own children.

The plane began to lift off.

"Do you hear that?" Tim asked Sasha as the plane ascended.

"Hear what?" Sasha asked, her face blanching as she wondered if the pain she had moments ago felt in her gut was a physical manifestation of her ill giving's concerning the flight.

Suddenly she realized something odd as she recalled the Captain's speech. The Captain had referred to the flight as flight 370. Sasha's father had died on her birthday. She was 37 years old, which meant that she was 37 years old and 0 days \-- or 370.

Before living in Washington D.C., Sasha and Tim had previously lived in Dallas Texas, at 370 Lion's Drive. It was before they had children and when they returned one night from a taco dinner, their house was in flames. It completely burned to the ground. Had they been inside, it is possible that they would have died.

Also, Sasha had a twin sister named Stacey who had died on January 5th, only five days after her first birthday -- which meant that Stacey had lived for a total of 365 days plus 5 days, or 370 days.

There were just too many coincidences that were all popping into Sasha's head all at once. She had never realized her macabre connection to the number 370 before.

So why realize it now unless it was of the utmost importance? She did not know what but something -- and whether that something was her own spirit, a fellow spirit traveler, her conscious reasoning mind, God, a demon, random chance, fate, or something else entirely -- but it seemed undeniable (at that shaky moment of ascension) that this something was trying convey a very important news item to her brain:

That Malaysian flight 370 was DOOMED!

She gulped hard as her husband continued to ask her if she heard the sound that he was hearing, and with panicked eyes she thought:

"Please no, I don't want to die during a take-off. And I know the statistics. I've heard that most planes crash during take-offs and landings. The rest is hunky-dory. But I don't want to die now. Please God not here! Not with my children so far away! Not with my children still so young! I have so much that I want to teach them. I have so much about life that I still have not told them because I did not think that they were ready. But I did not know that I was going to die. If I had known that I would have told them everything, even the things that they were not ready for -- they could figure them out later. Or at least I could have written these things down. Why didn't I write everything down for my children? It's because I was so sure that nothing catastrophic would happen to me like dying in a plane crash! But why did I think such a thing? Catastrophic things happen to people every day -- just read any newspaper. So why did I think I was immune. I don't know. But I did think I was immune. But now everything is fucked because: WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE IN THIS FUCKING PLANE!"

Sasha thoughts continued racing, her life flashing before her eyes: it was like the plane was already in the act of crashing and was not steadily climbing into the quiet night sky.

But Sasha found the quiet night sky deafening because she saw the sky for what it was: a big fat lie.

That night sky was coaxing them to their deaths; that night sky was as quiet and peaceful as the breath of the black angel of death, and Sasha shuddered as she remembered the phrase: RIP or rest in peace, "Yes, peace can equal death, and so it will be for all of us here!"

She looked to her left and looked to her right and though the faces that she saw were very much alive -- though perhaps nervous on average as the ascent into the skies continued \-- she saw nothing in her mind but corpses, pale, boney, and worm ridden: flight 370 was a plane of death!

Three Hours Earlier (Before Take-Off)

**Crew Member** : Guntur Tengku **Nationality:** Malaysian. **Age:** 27

Purpose of Trip: First Officer (co-pilot)

**Crew Member** :Captain Intan Megat **Nationality:** Malaysian. **Age:** 52

**Purpose of Trip:** Pilot

**Malaysia: Kuala Lumpar International Airport: 9:30 p.m.** :

Guntur sighed as he climbed the Flight 370 staircase. He had not bothered to iron his co-pilot's uniform and it showed: in some places the wrinkles were so ingrained that they almost appeared to be embroidery.

Neither his hair not his teeth had been brushed for days. Running his tongue over his front teeth, he felt the slimy film that had gathered there.

Entering the plane, he wondered if any of the stewardesses would comment on his state of disarray. But they said nothing.

They had not even glanced in his direction.

Guntur thought, "It is like I am invisible and no one cares, Indah especially."

Two days ago Indah was still his love, his obsession, and his very reason for living. Some days he felt as if he could not go a minute without thinking about her. He showered her with affection at every opportunity. Recently, he had bought her an expensive ring.

"You know I don't want to talk about marriage yet," said Indah with a frown.

"I just felt you should have it," said Guntur, feeling unhappy because she looked unhappy.

Indah ran her fingers over the ring. Sliding it onto her index finger she smiled and instantly his mood lifted!

"But why?" she asked.

"Because you deserve everything in this world," said Guntur, kissing her on the lips.

Oh, what a sweet kiss that had been!

Guntur delayed his journey to the cockpit and sat in a first class seat. He stretched his legs. It was the perfect place to remember that kiss. He touched his lips with his fingers, the tears rushing down his cheeks again.

It had been their last kiss.

Would he ever kiss those tender lips again?

He drew his hand into his wrinkled pocket, pulling out the ring: she had returned it to him two days ago.

She had told him she loved another.

Guntur tried sliding the ring onto one of his fingers but it would not fit: he thrust it back inside his wrinkled pocket.

"No, her fingers are too delicate to be compared to mine," he thought, hot tears welling in his eyes.

When they broke up there had been no argument.

How could he argue with such beauty?

Such beauty could make any choice that it pleased!

Such beauty could even choose to destroy him, to leave him broken, and un-repairable.

"Don't you have anything to say?" she had asked him after breaking the news.

He had just arrived home to their apartment from a long two week international flight route. As always, he had been very excited to return to her waiting arms and his luggage was filled with gifts from foreign places.

But her revelation had left him wordlessly dumbfounded and he had simply stared at the empty places in the apartment where all her things had previously been kept, such as her Hello Kitty collection, her shoe rack, her posters, her computer, and so on...

Where was her stuff kept now?

He realized that she had been waiting inside solely so she could tell him this horrible news in-person.

But that also meant she would be leaving once their discussion was over!

Where would she go now? He wondered but did not ask. He did not think it right to ask beauty such things.

She had been dressed in all black, which seemed fitting, as if the end of their relationship was something to be mourned. And yet even dressed like an undertaker, Guntur could not help but admire how radiantly she glowed. Was this shining light really leaving his life?

All would be darkness!

"Don't you have anything to say?" she repeated.

Resigned, he merely mumbled, "But I love you so much," after which his tears began (tears that had not stopped flowing for the last two days).

Indah had replied, "It isn't you. I have fallen in love with another."

And as soon as she spoke those words, a horrible thought flashed into Guntur's mind, "Kill yourself!"

Still sitting in the first class airplane seat, he pulled the lever and reclined.

He thought, "I have tried my best but life is too painful. It really is time for me to die."

Over the past two days, alone in his now mostly empty apartment, he had wavered between life and death. At one point he was certain that it was time to slit his wrists. He even drew a bath and wrote a suicide note.

At another point, he was certain that he would contact his gun salesman friend and that he would buy a gun and blow out his brains. He even called his friend and set up an appointment. But when the meeting time arrived, he called and cancelled.

The only thing that had kept him going was the preposterous thought that Indah might decide she had made a mistake and that she needed him back.

"I have to at least give her time to reverse course," he said to himself the second evening home as he stepped off the ledge of his building, having decided not to jump (for now).

Wearily, Guntur stood up from the first class seat and made his way into the cockpit. The Captain had not yet arrived and Guntur breathed a sigh of relief because at that moment he did not feel like talking about anything or even making small talk.

Guntur stowed his carry-on and took his seat. It was late and the night was dark. All felt gloomy.

He was tired. And not just tired because he wanted to sleep: but tired of life, tired of love, tired of work, tired of everything.

"Yes," he thought, "If Indah does not message me tonight I will end it all. Perhaps here on the plane! I don't know how but it shouldn't be hard. I suppose I could even just jump off!"

Guntur imagined careening, without a parachute, through the night sky.

Would he die of a heart attack or would he die when he made impact?

He thought, "But what difference does it make? The important thing is that I will be wiped from the face of the earth."

He searched through his flight materials, morbidly wondering about the details of his (potentially) final flight. Skimming them over, he thought, "Yes, that's right. This flight is numbered 370. Well then, I suppose that 370 will be the number of my death!"

Organizing his flight materials, he pondered his seven blissful years with Indah. He felt much older now than when he had first met her. His hair-line had receded. He had grown a gut.

But it wasn't so long ago, before he met Indah, when he was a young man who felt much like he did today: a young man who felt that all was hopeless.

It had been a long time since Guntur had considered his younger self. Indah had saved him from that painful memory. But his life had come full circle, now back at the exact same point he had been before he met her.

Yes, if he tried to kill himself tonight on flight 370, it would not be the first time that he had attempted to end his life.

Many years ago, Guntur had tried to hang himself. He was a young man at that time, and the thought of ending his life had been building in his mind for quite a while. So he had placed his head in a noose, kicked out a chair, and tried his best to become nonexistent.

Guntur blinked back to the present. If everything was so meaningless why was he working tonight and flying to China? If he wanted to die what was the point of doing his job?

He thought, "Because you did not know what else to do, because without Indah you are a man without a purpose, you are a man with no point in living."

The hot tears began flowing again. Guntur wiped away the tears and opened his eyes wide. The runway lights were the only thing to be seen through the airplane windshield and Guntur sighed as he envisioned his earlier suicide attempt.

He thought, "When I was a young man I tried to kill myself in such a boring manner. Death by hanging! Who cares! My death will be my last act. So I should make it something big."

But he lamented his fate, not because he wanted to live, but because he felt so life-weary that he wanted to do nothing at all. He thought, "Yes, even suicide feels like a chore."

As a young man his suicide attempt had failed because his uncle had randomly walked into his room to steal some socks, and discovering Guntur hanging from the ceiling, he had lifted him by the feet, a simple act of elevation which returned Guntur to the land of the living.

For a month after the attempt Guntur could not talk. (During the hanging, his tongue had been badly mangled.) So at the hospital he requested, by writing, reading materials. He was brought Malaysian books but Guntur had a knack for languages and spoke fluent Chinese and English too.

His favorite writer was Shakespeare and he had always been obsessed with Shakespeare's sonnets. So he wrote on a notepad, "Shakespeare: the sonnets." And the next day his mother arrived with a hardcover copy.

Guntur's mind was like an iron trap and as a child he had memorized many of the sonnets. As he convalesced, he studied the ones he had not previously committed to memory. For many nights, Shakespeare's lines brought him bitter-sweet tears.

One message of those sonnets is that youth is beautiful, but that beauty fades and eventually vanishes. Therefore, the only way to fight this inevitable outcome is to father as many beautiful children as possible.

Unlike most boys his age -- Guntur at the time was 20 -- he did very much want to have children. But he had only had sex a few times, and two of those times were with prostitutes. The third time was a one night stand. He hadn't worn a condom but he also doubted that the girl had been impregnated.

His family wondered why he seemed so content reading beautiful literature and yet he had so recently tried to commit suicide?

Of course many specialists at the hospital had asked, but even Guntur was not sure of the exact reason for his suicide attempt. He wondered if it might be a combination of forces: that everything seemed bleak, that his family was poor, that he was ordinary in looks, that he had no great prospects for love or life, that he found little joy in anything, and finally, that the reasons themselves seemed to multiply the more he considered the matter.

His only solace was the hope that someday he would have a beautiful child. But that seemed a hopeless quest because to have a beautiful child he would need to sleep with a beautiful woman -- and he knew that was never going to happen.

And yet the second part of his wish had happened, the beautiful woman part! It had happened because Indah, a nurse, had fallen in love with him at the hospital.

As his ability to speak returned, he quoted sonnets to her in English. She spoke English too but she told him that Shakespeare sounded like another language entirely.

Therefore Guntur meticulously explained each line, and as he did so, he could see her radiant eyes glowing brighter with kindness.

One night in the hospital, as Guntur lay day dreaming in his bed, she leaned down and kissed him passionately. It had been totally unexpected. And with that single kiss, Guntur felt completely healed. It was like a fairy tale.

Later, she told him that he was like a bird with a broken wing and that she wished to bring him back to life.

Guntur had never before received the affection of such a sweet and beautiful girl. His life was instantly changed. With Indah in the picture, living life to a ripe old age was the only possibility to be considered!

Every night for the next seven years, his dreams were filled with images of Indah.

He knew that he did not deserve her so he worked as hard as he could to make her happy.

Discovering that the airlines needed Malaysian pilots who spoke Chinese and English, he attended a fast-track flight school and obtained his license in no time at all.

And it wasn't long before Guntur was helping to financially support the love of his life, which only made him happier because he knew it gave Indah a reason to keep him around.

So while he circled the globe, she worked at the hospital and tended the apartment. She spruced like a champion and cooked like a maestro. The only thing that was missing from the picture: children. But Indah was adamant, no children until marriage.

Guntur proposed multiple times. But Indah was adamant about that too, no marriage until she was ready.

Life would have been better with children, but Guntur was satisfied just to have Indah.

But now all that was gone.

Guntur flipped the switches on the co-pilot dashboard to their pre-flight positions and as he did so a nefarious thought entered his mind, "You could crash the entire plane! You could take the whole thing down in one blaze of suicidal glory!"

Somewhat shocked that he had even entertained the possibility, he instantly laughed away the thought, vowing to consider the matter no further, "And Indah would not want you to harp upon such a wicked thing, even as a lark."

But bored with everything and feeling the beckoning song of death, the idea was too ridiculous not to consume his mind. He thought, "Sure it would be a big way to end it all, but what about all the other people on the plane? Should you drag them all down into the pit of your misery?"

For as long as he could remember, Guntur had been filled with self-loathing. (His only respite had been his seven years with Indah.) But he had never been consumed with a loathing for others.

He thought, "But then again, why should they live if I am fated to die?"

At just that moment Captain Intan bounded cheerfully into the cockpit. Busy gabbing on his cell-phone, he nodded to Guntur.

Guntur nodded with an expression of warmth, though while feeling as cold as an angel of death, and he thought, "But the Captain surely does not deserve to die."

Guntur had always liked Captain Intan. He was humorous and had an interesting perspective on the world. Although successful, he wasn't one to rub it in your face. And he always had some new ridiculous true life story to talk about: he was a man to which adventurous things effortlessly seemed to happen.

As the Captain's cell phone conversation continued, Guntur put together the pieces: the Captain had seduced, on the dance floor, an English floozy and planned to bed her when he returned from China, and based on the intensity of their brief courtship it seemed that he was expecting an especially freaky fuck-fest. The cell-phone conversation ending on the Captain's side with the statement, "Yes, I am sure that she is not a hooker!"

The Captain's stories of womanizing had always filled Guntur with mischievous glee. But tonight, he could sense that this story was going to rub him the wrong way.

For one thing, the Captain was married, a fact that had never bothered Guntur before, because as he saw it, while such philandering behavior was theoretically reprehensible, the Captain was certainly free to make his own choices and live his own life.

But having been dumped by Indah, his perspective had changed.

He wondered, "Why can't people just be satisfied with what they have? Why do they always have to go looking for something more? The Captain may not be an ex-patriot, but he can certainly act like one at times."

And American and English ex-patriots in Malaysia had become a particular sore spot for Guntur.

When Indah had dumped him, she had provided him with all the details. He had not asked for them, but still they had been provided.

So two days ago, as Indah was just about to leave the apartment for good, she turned back and gazed intensely into his eyes, sighing with the sigh of final words needing to be spoken.

Guntur, who had collapsed by his luggage into a heap on the floor, looked up to meet her gaze. He hoped that she would pity him and return. He hoped that she understood that he was nothing without her.

But instead she had only held a look of contempt as she said, "Guntur, we may never see each other again. I know this is sudden. But in life sometimes this change quickly. I know you don't do well with change. I've told your parents about my decision, so they will help you if you need it. You have really gotten your life together since you met me. You are a different person now."

At that moment the only person that Guntur felt like was the boy-man she had met in the hospital ward, the suicidal one. But he did not tell her this. He did not think it fair to threaten her outright with his death: beauty should not have to hear about the existence of such ghastly things.

So he merely mumbled, "I will think of you always. You will always be the love of my life."

"Oh Guntur!" she exclaimed, reaching down and hugging him.

The tears flowed from his eyes unrelentingly, but more than anything he wanted his crying to stop because he wanted to be strong for her one last time. But the tears would not stop. He was broken and there was nothing he could do: the crying was completely out of his control. He was hyperventilating now. He felt like his heart was going to burst like a supernova.

"Oh, Guntur, Guntur!" Indah exclaimed, the contempt having vanished, and now she too was shedding tears (or rather she shed a couple tears). "I do still care for you."

Guntur nodded -- his face covered in a preposterous amount of mucus -- and pinched himself so hard in the hopes of awakening from a nightmare that he drew a small droplet blood from his arm.

"You are bleeding!" she exclaimed, her nurse-side roused. She cleaned his cut, and bandaged it (a bandage was not needed but perhaps she wanted to feel like she was doing one last thing for him).

"I love you so much," said Guntur again, his eyes bloodshot and bulging, snot running from his nose and dribbling down his chin, collecting between his legs and onto his shirt.

He had turned into a complete mess in about three minutes. She had that power over him -- and now she had the power to take away his life.

"Oh, I know you do Guntur, and I still love you too. I will always love you. You were my first love," said Indah, and Guntur, through his tears, saw her tremble as she spoke, perhaps because she had implied the unspoken: that now there was a second love.

But Guntur bit his tongue, not wanting to entwine beauty in a vulgar accusatory discussion. An outside observer might have thought Guntur acting passively aggressively, but there was nothing passive aggressive about it. Even at the moment that she was ripping his heart from his chest, Guntur wished only the best for his love.

He smiled through his snot, knowing there was one question he needed to ask, "Will I see you again?"

Indah looked tense, and her body twisted before she spoke and so Guntur wondered if her thoughts had twisted also. He hoped not. He did not want to make her uncomfortable. She said, "I don't know. It might not be a good idea."

Guntur nodded as she handed him a box of tissues. He took the tissues and began wiping his face. But even after multiple tissues the mucus remained as if now a permanent facial fixture.

His hyperventilating had slowed but his nose continued to dribble snot, his eyes oozed puss-like tears, and his mouth excreted thick (and even somewhat smelly) saliva.

And it was from this state of absolute emotional wreckage, that he forced himself to gather the bravery needed to mutter words that he had hoped would never have to be spoken a final time, "Goodbye Indah."

"Oh Goodbye Guntur, goodbye my special man with a poet soul," said Indah, speaking the sentimental language of their early love, though she was no longer crying.

Guntur nodded and wiped his nose again, unable to believe, even amidst all his teary heartbreak, this out-of-the-blue breakup was really happening.

"Death cannot come too soon," he thought as he waited for her to open the door and leave his apartment and leave his life, perhaps forever. "Why did my fucking stupid uncle need socks that day? If he hadn't I wouldn't be feeling this pain right now."

Guntur noticed that Indah continued to tarry before the threshold of the door. It seemed she had something further to say. It seemed that she wanted him to ask her to say it.

But he did not need her to explain herself. It had been a miracle every day that she had remained with him: so those were the days that needed explaining, explaining because they were so fucking miraculous.

Therefore, though a painful ordeal, there was nothing unexpected about her departure: Guntur knew that he did not deserve her, not in the least.

Finally he muttered, mucus choking him at first, "Go, you don't have to say anything."

Indah nodded and opened the door. She walked through it. She was gone.

Guntur thought, "She did not look back. I wish she looked back one last time."

Suddenly the grief overtook him. He pounded his fists into the floor, feeling them bruise, and wanting to break them and shatter his whole body at once. He screamed a muffled scream of pain and bellowed a multitude of swears.

But as he looked up as the door swung open: it was Indah!

Had she changed her mind?

No, he could see from her sullen face that she had not.

She shut the door and approached. Guntur stared through the tears but there was such a hefty tear-sheen covering his eyes that her form appeared as a hazy blob only.

He felt her hug him and as she hugged him he continued sobbing, the tears once again outside his control.

"I...love...you...so...much," he said again, though as if speaking to her from underwater and while choking on his spit, mucus, and the other assorted bodily fluids that had risen from the dank and craggy depths of his soul.

She whispered to him, "And I love you. But I must go. Promise me that you will be kind to yourself."

He realized that she probably recognized in his eyes the dark thoughts racing through his mind: she had met him when he was still suicidal after all.

He did not want to lie to her, but he also did not want to cause her pain. So he nodded.

She walked slowly back to the threshold of the door, her heels clacking on the floor, each exiting clack a dagger to his heart. Again she paused at the threshold.

"Just go," he tried to say but his words were entangled with so much mucus that his statement sounded more like, "ouu...ooo," as only the vowels could be heard.

He thought about repeating himself but he realized he did not have the strength, and he thought, "Right now I have the motivation for one action only, completing my death."

Indah said, "You deserve to know something."

Guntur tried to say, "I deserve nothing," but again his words were weighted down with mucus and only his vowels could be heard. Guntur realized that she had not even understood that he had been trying to speak, instead probably assuming his vocalization to be a weak wail of some sort.

But what was the point of speaking? It would do no good. It would not stop his one and only love from leaving his life: she had already made her choice.

Indah continued, "This will be hard for you to hear perhaps, I think especially now. But it needs to be said now, so forgive me. This is difficult for me to say: I have met another."

Indah stopped speaking, perhaps waiting for Guntur to reply. But he only replied with continued sobs, already having guessed as much.

Indah continued, "He does not want me to have contact with you. At first that angered me. But I came to understand his point. He does not want us to see each other because he knows how deep and strong our love runs."

This time Guntur did start wailing, and also began balling his hands into fists, ready again to start punching the floor, ready to be as unreasonable as a child in the midst of a fit.

He thought, "What cruel monster would do such a thing to us? And why would she agree to it?"

Indah continued, saying, "You are probably wondering why I would agree to live by this rule. It is for one reason only. It is for the sake of my unborn child."

Guntur's expression instantly brightened. Was he a father? Being a father was the only thing in the world that he wanted as badly as he wanted Indah.

Finding a reserve of energy, he cleared his throat, saying quite clearly, "We are having a baby?"

But when Indah's head hung in shame, Guntur perceived the truth, and once again he began wailing, the hot and heavy tears flooding to his eyes.

Indah said, "I'm sorry Guntur. A couple of months ago when you were away on a Malaysian Airlines flight, I cheated on you with an English ex-patriot. It was a one-time thing. I had never met him before. Lately, I was gathering the courage to tell you about my mistake, and to beg for your forgiveness, when I discovered that I was pregnant. At first I assumed that the baby was ours. But then I remembered my indiscretion. Just to be on the safe side, and while you were away on this last trip, I convinced the Englishman to take a paternity test. To my utter shock, he was the father."

Guntur felt so horrid that he froze: his tears and mucus seeming to freeze also. He did not know what to say. He did not know what to think. Everything had become so overwhelming that he just wanted to stop thinking.

Indah continued, "I am so sorry Guntur. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me some day."

Guntur said swiftly, "I have already forgiven you. Indah, my love is unconditional for you."

"Oh Guntur!" Indah exclaimed, the tears once again flowing from her eyes.

Guntur pressed his back against the wall, trying his best to lift his head. He said, "So this Englishman, he wants you to keep the child?"

Indah nodded, saying, "He has no children. He told me that he has always wanted children. He told me that he was old-fashioned and that he wanted to do the right thing, so he proposed to me. We are to be married."

Involuntarily, Guntur's sobbing returned. This Englishman had apparently just met his girlfriend but he was getting everything that Guntur had ever dreamed about (1) marriage to Indah and (2) a child with Indah.

Furthermore, Guntur did not trust ex-patriots. They had a bad reputation as prostitute seekers and drunkards. And they threw their money around as if that made them better than all the locals.

"We could bring up the child as our own," said Guntur, realizing that his eyes held the expression of a common street beggar.

Indah said, "Briefly I considered that but I think it is important for a child to be with their actual father."

The sobs returned again. Being an actual father was all that Guntur had ever wanted with Indah! Again he thought, "Yes, the sooner my death arrives, the better."

And feeling especially self-destructive, he said, "Does he have money?"

Indah nodded, saying, "He is very well off, my child will be taken care of and will never go hungry."

Guntur thought, "Your child would never go hungry with me either because I would never let that happen!" but he knew this was pointless to say. He knew he could not compete with the wealth of the ex-patriots. Those old fucks could simply buy the love of young Malaysian girls. And so what could he do when life was so unfair?

He could do the only thing left to do, he realized: determine the method of his death.

But before leaving, Indah had told him one last thing. He had asked her for the name of the ex-patriot. He had assumed that she would refuse, especially considering that she had told him she could not see him again.

But to his surprise she had replied without a second thought, "Brian Whitman."

And now he held that name as firmly in his mind as a noose around his neck, and once he reached the other side, were he to discover any manner to place a curse upon the living, he would place the blackest of curses upon this ex-patriot English rogue, Brian Whitman.

Yet at that moment everything imaginable seemed so utterly pointless, including his after-death plan to get even with Brian Whitman.

So he sighed gloomily while trying to ignore Captain Intan's insufferable humming.

Oh why hadn't he simply jumped from his apartment roof? It was ten stories high; death would have been certain. Now he was trapped on a plane going all the way to China.

He did not think he could wait that long to die. Barring a miracle -- Indah asking him back via text -- he would have to concoct a manner of death on the plane.

His mind returned to the two options that he had earlier considered (1) jumping out of the plane or (2) crashing the plane.

But at the present moment he was overcome by an urge to smash his head against the control board until he bruised into an indiscernible lump of flesh; it was only his lack of energy that prevented this action from occurring.

"You look a little under the weather," said Captain Intan.

Guntur did his best to nod.

"Did you hear me?" the Captain asked.

Guntur nodded as vigorously as he could manage, which meant that his head had slightly budged.

"Are you okay?" the Captain asked.

Guntur moaned.

"You aren't drunk are you?" the Captain asked.

Guntur managed to say, "No."

The Captain was silent for a moment. Finally he said, "You are having girl problems aren't you?"

Guntur smiled masochistically.

"I knew it," said the Captain, who had apparently not noticed the psychotic pain contained within the smile.

For the next few minutes the Captain said nothing. But thankfully he had ceased his humming.

But finally he said, "You have been with your girl for a long time haven't you?"

Guntur nodded.

"Did you break up?" the Captain asked.

Guntur nodded.

"She broke up with you?" the Captain asked.

Guntur nodded.

"Guntur, I am sorry, that is tough. What was her name: Indah?"

"Yes," Guntur managed to say quietly.

"Yeah, I met her once. She was beautiful and a very nice girl. Seriously though, you don't look so good. Are you going to make this flight?" the Captain asked.

"Yes," Guntur grunted.

"Because you look like you are about to nod off \-- you look like you haven't slept for at least a couple of nights," said the Captain.

"Not really," said Guntur.

"I understand. You want to work your way through the break up, that's probably what I would do too," said the Captain.

Guntur grunted.

"Hey, you seem like you are pretty cool. We have partied together before right?" the Captain asked.

Guntur nodded, though he could remember no instance of partying with the Captain.

"How about a little pick me up?" the Captain asked.

The questions were unrelenting and it felt as if the Captain was pressing a sledge-hammer against his brain. He just wanted peace, eternal peace.

But he could sense that the Captain was not going to leave him alone until he had answered all his questions. So Guntur roused what little energy his body still contained, and said, "I don't drink coffee, tea, energy drinks, or anything else like that."

Suddenly the Captain slapped his hands together loudly. Guntur would have jumped if he hadn't been so comatose. In any case, he jumped internally and so the sudden slap was still annoying to him, even though he didn't show it.

First locking the cockpit door, the Captain leaned in close with a conspiratorial air, saying quietly, "I'm not talking about coffee my friend I'm talking about a little Sneeze."

Guntur's expression did not change. In any case, he had no idea what the Captain was talking about.

"I'm talking about a little White Pony," said the Captain.

Guntur's expression remained blank.

"I'm talking about a little good old Central American co-co-co-co-caine," said the Captain.

Guntur had not expected to be interested by anything that the Captain had to say, but this comment actually succeeded in causing him to glance in the Captain's direction, and he wondered, "Is he fucking with me?"

But the Captain was obviously well-versed with such glances, because he said, "No, I am not fucking with you."

And suddenly he produced from his front jacket pocket, a small baggy of white powder.

Shocked into talking, Guntur asked, "Don't you get nervous going through security?"

"No, because I sniff a little Nose Candy first, and after one sniff, my fellow flying friend, I am back on the top of the world. And the security don't fuck with the Captain unless the Captain fuck with the security," said Captain Intan, saying the last line, randomly, with a rap beat.

"What the fuck? You are high right now?" Guntur mumbled, wondering if his mumble had been comprehendible.

But apparently the Captain had understood because he nodded enthusiastically, and followed his enthusiastic nod with an enthusiastic smile.

"Aren't you nervous telling me this?" Guntur asked.

"I would be if we hadn't partied together, but we have partied together. When you party there is always something left in your system, so we have all flown in the fucked-up state to some extent. You party on the dance floor or you party in the cockpit, you party all the same my fellow flying friend," said Captain Intan, adding, "But we have been selected for the all-star team!"

Uncertain he had completely followed the Captain's manic speech, Guntur simply nodded.

But a moment later the Captain's countenance completely changed, "Wait a second! I was thinking of someone else! We haven't partied together. Why did you lie to me?"

Guntur tried to muster more energy, saying, "I thought you meant something else."

"So we haven't partied together?" the Captain asked.

"No," said Guntur.

"But you are cool -- you aren't going to fuck me?" said the Captain, his face growing with exaggerated alarm. "I met your girlfriend. I think I have met your family. We are close. We get along. We are of the same mind!"

The Captain was speaking so rapidly that Guntur wondered just how much cocaine he had already snorted. He realized that if hadn't been suicidal that the situation would have scared the shit out of him.

But considering that he planned to die before the end of the flight, he couldn't care less that this intoxicated blow-head would soon be responsible for flying an incredibly complicated machine 30,000 feet in the air.

Guntur thought, "Perhaps the Captain will crash the plane, and save me the trouble of designing my manner of death."

Guntur told the Captain that he was not going to fuck him over.

The Captain replied, "Then you know what that means, that means you have to do some blow. Have you ever before?"

Guntur said no.

The Captain suddenly slapped his hands together again, and again Guntur was inwardly annoyed.

"I'm going to pop your Snow White cherry," said the Captain, quickly cutting a couple of lines onto the control board.

"Are those both for me?" Guntur asked.

"No, you greedy fuck," said the Captain, laughing. "But I like your style."

It surprised Guntur that the Captain was planning to consume more. He already seemed so fucked up.

From another jacket pocket the Captain produced two shortened straws. Guntur thought, "This guy is like a walking drug store. But that explains why he is always so upbeat, so no wonder I have always enjoyed working with him."

"Just follow me," said the Captain, as he snorted the line. "Just don't stop sucking, you need to inhale it all. Otherwise you are just wasting it. And this shit is pure my friend, so it cost me a pretty penny."

Guntur snorted the line. He did not feel anything.

"I don't feel anything," said Guntur.

"Oh, but you will my little treasure trove of not-experienced experiences. Soon it will be like you are dancing with the mind of every mind in the world," said the Captain, suddenly busting a dance move in the cockpit.

The cockpit door handled rattled. Someone was trying to get inside.

"Fuck," said the Captain, quickly brushing away the cocaine residue from the control board and stuffing his cocaine bag and his straws back in his front pocket. "Are my eyes red?" the Captain asked, looming in front of Guntur and invading his personal space.

"Yes," said Guntur, stating the obvious.

"Fuck, don't tell me that. You answer the door then," said the Captain, producing a bottle of Visine from yet another pocket and quickly administering drops to his eyes.

Guntur was not sure that he had the strength to move, but when the Captain shot him an angry glance, he forced himself onto his feet.

Slogging to the door, he pushed it open. He was met by two bubbly stewardesses, their hands around a little boy. Guntur considered the boy further. He looked perhaps 9 years old. He looked bored. Guntur realized that his parents were probably forcing him to meet the Captain. Not wanting to drag this out for any of the parties involved, Guntur grabbed a toy airplane from a box, wordlessly handed it to the kid, and slammed the door shut.

"What was it?" The Captain asked, his speech rate actually seeming to have grown faster.

"Little kid," said Guntur.

"Fucking kids, hate em," said the Captain, now setting his dials to the (probably) proper position.

"I thought you had some?" Guntur asked, surprised by a silent flow of energy that had entered his body, and he realized that the cocaine had already started to kick in -- that was fast!

"I do, fucking hate em," said the Captain standing and invading Guntur's personal space again. "Never have kids."

As Guntur laughed hard, he realized that it was cocaine fueled laughter.

"What?" asked the Captain.

"Nothing," said Guntur, though surprised to sense the whole story on the tip of his tongue.

"Come on, come on, come on, come on. If anyone knows relationships, I know relationships. I've been in about a million of them. Hit me with the situation and I will deconstruct it, reconstruct it, and tell you just what kind of structure you are left with now my boy," said the Captain, and as he lay two more lines on the control board he held up a straw and added, "Snorty? Snorty?"

Guntur took the straw. He wasn't going to miss this. What did he have to lose? His life would soon end anyway. Snorting the line, he felt his gums go numb but meanwhile he felt his body infused with energy.

And all of a sudden the answer to his death dilemma appeared as brightly as the rising sun and he thought, "There is only one way to die. In a fucking burning blaze of glory! So fuck all these people! I'm taking down the fucking plane! I'm going down in a big-time way! And no one is going to stop me!"

"So I am waiting here," said the Captain, who was now rattling his fingers against the control board in a manic sign of impatience.

The cocaine was propelling Guntur to speak. So he spilled the entire tragic story with one manic thrust, the Captain nodding the whole time as if he hadn't missed a single word (which he probably hadn't).

For once, the Captain seemed at a loss for words.

"Yeah, pretty fucked up isn't it?" Guntur asked, realizing that he also had an urge to admit to the Captain that he was completely suicidal, though knowing that this fact needed to be kept a secret, especially considering that taking down the entire plane in a burning blaze of glory seemed to be -- at the moment anyway -- his best death option.

"Yes, but I was just thinking about that name you told me: Brian Whitman. It is oddly familiar," said the Captain, as he twirled the hair on the top of his head around his pointer finger in a clockwise motion and then stopped and reversed direction.

"Really?" Guntur asked, adding, "Because I know nothing about him, like I said I was surprised that she told me the name. But now that I know it I can make things happen."

The Captain slapped his hands together -- and strangely this time it was not annoying -- and said, "Yes, that name is the key to getting Indah back. He is what is keeping you away from your woman. Those fucking ex-patriots! He is probably just going to fuck her until the baby comes. And then he is going to toss her out the door. He probably cares more about his toothbrush than he cares about the love of your life!"

"Yes, I was thinking the same thing!" Guntur exclaimed.

"But where have I heard that name?" the Captain wondered aloud, now drawing two more lines onto the control board.

"Aren't you worried you are doing too much?" Guntur asked.

"No, two reasons (1) as you know everything is pretty much automatic pilot these days and (2) as you know the White Powder only makes you sharper -- which is why I actually doing another line. It is going to help me remember, my fellow flying friend, exactly where I heard that name: Brian Whitman," said Captain Intan, snorting the line with a flare, and then handing the other straw to Guntur. A moment later, Guntur had consumed his third line of the pre-flight.

"So yes," said Guntur, "Brian Whitman, Brian Whitman -- where do you think you heard it?"

But Guntur realized that his brain was thinking simultaneously at multiple levels, because while he was talking to Captain Intan about Brian Whitman, he was meanwhile considering an even more important matter: whether he should crash the plane during take-off.

Could he wrestle the control stick from the Captain and force the plane into a nose dive? Guntur estimated that it would all be over before it had even seemed to start.

Guntur thought, "The big question is whether I should crash the plane during take-off, during the flight, or during our landing? Who cares about Brian Whitman?"

And yet he somehow he proceeded to talk to the Captain about Brian Whitman as if Brian Whitman was the most important man in the world.

During the Take-Off

**Malaysian International Flight 370: Row 32: 12:41 a.m.** :

As the plane continued its take-off, Sasha, although Catholic, and in order to hedge her bets, prayed to every god she ever remembered hearing mentioned: Yahwe, Vishnu, Allah, and so on...

Tim grabbed Sasha's hands, and said loudly, "You look pale, do you need the barf bag?"

Sasha laughed because if all she needed was the barf bag then life was playing upon her the greatest of practical jokes.

Finally, the plane stopped its ascension and straightened. The Captain's voice boomed again, "Flight 370 this is the Captain speaking. We have reached cruising altitude. We are expecting no storms for the near future and the weather reports are good. We are still expected to arrive in Beijing as scheduled at approximately the 6 a.m. hour."

The Captain's message was then repeated in Malaysian and Chinese.

Strangely, Sasha began to feel her misgivings subside. She shook her head, wondering how everything had come upon her so strong. Perhaps it was the stress of the trip. Perhaps it was the fact that everything was going perfectly with Tim.

She thought, "Yes, and so I feared that I did not deserve such perfection, and that it all must come at a high price. But it is simply fanciful speculation that there will be some numerical connection between my life and a future plane crash."

She sighed and released the tension from her body in one long breath, just in the manner that Mark the marriage counselor had taught her.

Tim said, "I know that sigh -- it is the Mark long sigh of released tension. I actually use it sometimes you know when I am coming home from work and I am in bumper to bumper traffic: but truthfully I think it just inflames my road rage even more. So what worry are you exuding from your body? That you were about to barf?"

Sasha rubbed her temples as she realized that Tim had no idea how horribly she had just felt, then saying, "I think I just had a panic attack."

"How so?" Tim asked.

"All these coincidences flashed into my head at once, and I could not help but start to worry. I was just being stupid," said Sasha, while hoping that was true.

"Coincidences?" Tim asked.

Sasha wondered if she should just forget about the whole thing and tell Tim it had been nothing. But lately they had been totally honest with each other -- as if they were one mind \-- so she told him all the foreboding connections for the number 370, which she concluded with a small flare of the dramatic by stating, "And it is also the number of our flight."

Sasha laughed as she finished, but she noticed that when Tim joined in and started laughing that his laughter seemed rather forced and not at all spontaneous.

At first she believed that he was forcing himself to be polite, and thus forcing his laughter, but she also noticed concern in his expression, and she asked, "Tim, what is it?"

Tim smiled widely, saying, "Oh, nothing dear."

Sasha frowned, saying, "I told you everything, remember what we decided on this trip: no secrets."

"I remember," said Tim, looking serious.

"Then what is it hunny?" Sasha asked.

Now Tim frowned too, saying, "Just before we boarded the plane I read the ticket and noticed it was numbered 370, which reminded me of an overdue bill for the engraver of my father's grave, and I'm sorry to say it hunny, but exact amount I owe is $370."

Sasha laughed. What else could she do?

Tim laughed too.

They held each other tight.

Sasha said, "It is probably nothing."

Tim said, "Yes, it is probably a bunch of coincidences."

They sat in silence for a moment.

Finally Tim said, "Still, I wish we had gotten off."

Sasha laughed, saying, "Me too."

Tim added, "And you have had a bad feeling from the start."

Sasha said, "We know it is nothing, but what should we do?"

Tim said, "I think we should tell Tiffany."

"She is just going to think we are crazy," said Sasha.

"She already thinks we are crazy -- all we do is fuck like two newlyweds," said Tim.

Sasha laughed.

Was this how God wanted her life to end? With one last chance to remain with her husband? Or perhaps one last chance to save her wedding vows?

Perhaps God had given her one last fulfilling journey with Tim. And now God was going to take them back together as a reunited couple in the peaceful night sky.

But that was a preposterous thought, she realized, because the sky would not be peaceful at all for them if they were crashing towards the ground in a ball of flames and plumes of smoke.

"What about the children?" Sasha asked.

Tim laughed, "You do know we are being silly. You do know that what we are doing is akin to telling ghost stories around the camp fire?"

"So all that 370 stuff, you don't think it means anything?" Sasha asked.

"It is pretty strange I have to admit. But I don't think that would mean that this plane is in any danger at all," said Tim.

"Bullshit," said Sasha, though smiling.

"Excuse me?" said Tim.

"You heard me. I am calling it: bullshit. You are just trying to be the tough husband protecting the weak wife. But you are worried too, because after all those connections, to my dead twin sister, to my father's death, to the burning house that almost killed us, and to your father's grave -- you can seriously say we have nothing to worry about?" Sasha asked, her heart seeming to skip beats.

Tim nodded, saying, "Well, when you sum it up like that it does sound not quite normal," and he held her tight again, "But I think everything will be okay."

Sasha pulled away, saying, "Why?"

Tim shook his head, "Because this is madness."

"Is it? Is this madness?" Sasha asked.

"Yes, this is madness, those were all coincidences, number coincidences happen all the time," said Tim.

"I don't know Tim," said Sasha, adding, "I have a bad feeling about this one."

Tim gathered himself in his seat and Sasha could see that he was considering carefully what to say.

He cleared his throat and began, "Listen baby, we have been trying so freaking hard this vacation to make our marriage work, and it has been working -- it has been working beautifully. But as much fun as we have been having, we have been forcing ourselves to have fun. It has been like petal-to-the-metal fun. I think we have put so much pressure on ourselves that it was inevitable that we would need to release everything at some point \-- release all the old baggage, the regret, the worries, the past, the failures we have had, everything baby, and for whatever reason that time is now. And we are pinning it all on this number 370. This number 370 has become in the last couple minutes a scapegoat for our marriage. And that is fine because this camp fire ghost story is all in good fun. But we don't really have anything to worry about. Our marriage is back together. We don't have to think about nightmares baby. Your man is here for you and he is here to stay."

Sasha smiled, saying, "That was the same thing I was thinking, the exact same thing. We really are back on track baby. We are thinking as one!"

But after a few seconds Sasha added, "What was that sound you heard anyway?"

"That was bad timing," said Tim, "because I was making a very badly timed joke. I was just pretending that I heard something because you were talking earlier about having a bad feeling about the flight, but I didn't really hear anything."

"Really?" Sasha asked, looking deep into his eyes.

Tim had such nice dark brown eyes but some days they seemed almost black. And when he was happy, very happy, and he spoke no words, and his eyes spoke instead, Sasha could sometimes see straight into his soul: and there she saw a good a man who only wanted the best for his family.

Now that the plane was in flight the passengers had begun scattering and searching for greener pastures for lounging, bathroom breaking, or sleeping, and so by chance the seats separating Sasha and Tim from Tiffany had emptied. So Tiffany moved directly beside her exclusionary traveling companions -- perhaps just to spite them and disturb their seated oneness.

As a group of three, they outlined their travel plans for China: the Great Wall was a must, but other tourist spots were not so certain, and they debated the best places to go, each quoting guidebooks and internet articles.

For once, Sasha felt happy that Tiffany was being included, and made a mental note to figure out more ways to include her in the activities during the second leg of the trip.

But in her heart of hearts she knew that this mental note would be tossed into her mental garbage bin and that once they were in China she and Tim would fall back into their insular private world.

She thought, "The only reason we three seem closer now is because these plane seats are bringing us artificially close."

Although Sasha could feel that she was filled with adrenaline, it was late night and so she also felt sleepy. She lay down her head and quickly fell asleep.

When she awoke she had no idea how long she had been dozing. Neither Tim nor Tiffany was seated.

So Sasha stood up and by chance saw Tim walking back to his seat. Sasha laughed at the sight because he had such a manly large frame that it was difficult for him to fit between the seats and so he walked sideways and even then sometimes caromed between the seats like a pinball.

She loved him so much!

Oh, how had they ever fallen so far apart?

Sasha had packed a surprise for the trip -- their wedding photos -- and she felt that the time was finally right. It had been eons since they had flipped through them.

Over the years, piles of attic stuff had gathered on top of the album and Sasha felt like an archeologist as she salvaged the photos from the dig site that the attic had become.

As Tim sat in his seat, he looked winded. Sasha thought, "My poor man really does need a bigger aisle!"

He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. The kiss felt good, yet the scent was off. Sasha considered the scent for a moment and could not place it. No matter, at that moment the wedding photos were all that mattered!

She placed the album on Tim's lap.

He instantly recognized it, saying, "Oh my God! Where did you find this? You know I was actually worried that we lost this at some point?"

She ran her fingers through his thick mane of hair, saying, "You know maybe we should renew our vows."

Tim said, "We could certainly, but I have to say that I never understood why people did that: a vow is a vow. Once is enough because what is the point of swearing a vow if you don't mean it? You make it and don't break it."

"So you don't want to?" Sasha asked, fluttering her eyelashes.

Tim laughed, "You know you can get anything from me when you do that. Yes, I suppose we can do it, even though I think it is silly. I meant my vows the first time just as I know that you did, which is why we are flying to China, because we are both doing everything we can to see those vows through to the end."

"Please don't talk about the end," said Sasha.

"Are you still thinking about this plane crashing?" Tim asked.

"Just a little," said Sasha.

Tim nodded, "Okay baby, I promise I won't talk about the end."

"Is that a vow?" Sasha asked.

"Yes, that is a vow," said Tim.

"Then you may kiss the bride," said Sasha.

They kissed. It felt very sweet. But again there was a scent and this time also a taste that Sasha could not quite place.

"Have you been eating something?" Sasha asked.

"Me no, why?" said Tim.

"You taste strange -- I don't know, almost like bubble gum," said Sasha.

Tim laughed, saying, "Oh, that is it. I found a piece of bubble gum in these pants. I was chewing it while I pissed but it was gross so I spit it out."

"I hate stale bubble gum," said Sasha.

"Yeah, and it sounds like it failed to freshen my breath," said Tim.

Sasha replied, "It was an epic fail. Hey, where is Tiffany?"

"I don't know, bathroom probably, nowhere else to go I don't think," said Tim.

"Yeah, she's been gone for a little bit -- I guess she is doing a number two," said Sasha, laughing.

Tim said, "Hey, be good to our fellow traveler. She is looking out for us."

Sasha pouted, saying, "I'm sorry, I should have said that she is probably in the bathroom changing into a bikini."

Tim raised his eyebrows, saying "Well, that is actually not a bad guess."

They both laughed a laugh that rang with the possibilities of life, a laugh only heard from the lips of contented couples deep in love.

Just as the laughter was subsiding, Tiffany returned.

And of course she asked, "What's so funny?"

It somewhat surprised Sasha at how quickly and convincingly Tim blurted, "Wondering if we would be in jail if we had jumped off the plane like we had planned to do."

It also somewhat surprised Sasha that Tiffany had not changed into a bikini and so she almost started laughing again as she had this thought.

As Tiffany started hypothesizing about the possibilities had they left the plane, Sasha wondered if she should continue her nap.

But then she remembered the pictures!

Just at that moment Tim opened to the first page. There they were: he in his tuxedo and she in her wedding gown, as radiant as the sunny day that had surrounded them that happy October afternoon.

They flipped through the pages, chatting and howling in laughter together. (They tried to keep the laughing to a minimum for the sake of the sleeping passengers.)

At first Tiffany peeked in too, but she quickly realized that this was another of those private moments where, even if she was included on the guest list she was not seated at the table of honor and instead had been relegated to some orbital table, one with an annoying uncle who had sclerosis and kept picking at it while blabbing about things that no one at the table, or anywhere for that matter, wanted to hear. So she grabbed a magazine from the seat in front of her and began reading.

But Sasha felt guilty about excluding Sasha from this happy moment, perhaps because they were all sitting so close. Suddenly Sasha stared for a bit at her fellow traveler -- who was just then reading a duty free magazine -- and she considered her qualities and wondered what to say in order to bring her back into the fold, even if for just a moment, when she noticed that her fellow traveler had something, food probably, stuck on her cheek and a little on her chin too: a white and clear food.

Sasha wondered what type of food it was, thinking, "Probably sound strange Asian sauce."

She caught Tiffany's glance and motioned that she had something on her face.

Tiffany quickly found a napkin and wiped it off \-- she seemed very embarrassed.

Sasha thought, "I remember what I was like at ten years younger -- little things like that would terribly embarrass me too. These days I really don't give two shits what anyone thinks about me. No, that is a lie. But I would say I care a good deal less. In any case, I really do have to make a more concerted effort to include our traveling companion in at least some of our activities: the poor girl is probably turning into a bundle of nerves."

Although Sasha did not want to draw undue attention to the something-on-your-face situation, she was still curious about the nature of the substance and so she asked, "What was that?"

Tiffany said, "Not sure, some gunk -- I don't know. I was just in the bathroom, maybe I put my hand in some hair product that someone left around and then wiped my face or something."

"Gross," said Sasha, adding, "Was it sticky?"

"Yes it was a little sticky," said Tiffany, rubbing her face, "But it isn't sticky anymore."

"Gross," said Sasha again, "I wonder what it was? White, almost clear, and sticky -- ewww, I don't know, maybe you should go back to the bathroom and wash your face, especially if you don't know what it is. There are too many people in planes. Packed places like this can breed germs."

"Yeah, I am going to take that advice," said Tiffany, standing up and returning to the bathroom.

"Did you see that stuff on her face?" Sasha asked.

"No," Tim said.

"Gross --- it looked like hair gel or some Asian sticky sauce," said Sasha.

"Hmmm, odd," said Tim.

"What?" Sasha asked.

"What do you mean?" Tim asked.

"What is odd?" Sasha asked.

Tim laughed, "Well, what you just described, the stuff on her face."

Sasha nodded and then deep in thought for a moment, whispered, "Yeah, if we do join the Mile High Club we should probably wipe down the bathroom first, sanitize it. Who knows what kind of weird things people are doing in those bathrooms, and what kind of weird substances they are leaving behind."

"Weirder than fucking?" said Tim.

Sasha laughed, whispering, "I would say yes -- look how many weird looking people are on this plane -- we don't know the customs of these Asians, not really. Did you know half the world's population doesn't even use toilet paper? So never assume that you know what someone else is doing in the bathroom."

"That is not true," said Tim.

"What the toilet paper thing?" Sasha asked.

Tim nodded.

"That is a fact. I saw it on 20/20," said Sasha.

"Why would people not use toilet paper?" Tim asked.

"Cause they don't have access to it -- they don't have the money," said Sasha.

"Wow, that really brings home that phrase -- I guess that is how the other half lives," said Tim.

Sasha punched him playfully in the arm, saying, "That is a mean thing to say."

"What?" Tim asked, smiling.

"People can't afford toilet paper, they have to shit in a hole, and you make fun of them for it," said Sasha.

"Wait, shit in a hole? Was that on 20/20 too?" Tim asked.

"Sure was -- usually no toilet paper and no bathroom go hand in hand. What is left? A hole that is what," said Sasha, laughing.

"Now you are laughing," said Tim.

"I get to laugh because I am the expert, and experts can laugh about painful things because they are in-the-know," said Sasha.

"Oh, is that what it is?" said Tim, tickling Sasha.

Sasha started laughing and telling him to stop all at once.

When he finally stopped, Sasha whispered, "So anyway, if we join the Mile High Club what bathroom are we going into?"

"What do you mean?" Tim asked.

"Male or Female?" Sasha asked.

"I don't know. What do you think?" Tim asked.

"Your little phone article didn't say?" Sasha teased.

"I don't think so," said Tim.

"There is probably a different article about that," said Sasha.

"Probably -- there are articles about everything on the internet," said Tim.

"Okay, let's do it," said Sasha, suddenly feeling really horny.

"You mean it?" Tim asked.

"Yes," said Sasha, already starting to get wet.

"When?" Tim asked.

"Right now," said Sasha.

"Really?" Tim asked.

"Yes, let's go," said Sasha.

"You really think it is the right time?" Tim asked.

"There is no right time. This is the kind of thing that you just have to do," said Sasha.

"I don't know," said Tim.

"Oh, now you are going to make me have to talk you into it?" Sasha asked, grinning.

"No, it isn't that --."

Sasha interrupted, "Yes, it is! It isn't enough for you that we join the Mile High Club, you want me to beg for it."

"I never said that," said Tim, smiling.

"But that doesn't mean that that isn't what you want," said Sasha.

"How did we grow so far apart? You know me so well," said Tim, laughing.

Sasha whispered with her sexiest porno-imitation-face, which meant squinted eyes and a square shaped dirty mouth, "Please, oh, please big boy take me to the Mile High Club."

Tim grabbed her and soon they were making their way down the aisle.

As they reached the bathroom, Tim said, "I'll go in first. Then you wait a minute and come in too."

"Are we really doing this?" Sasha asked.

"There is no going back now, you better not leave me all alone in there with my dick in my hand," said Tim, laughing.

"Gross," said Sasha, kicking him in the leg.

Sasha worried that they were being too frisky, but no one seemed to notice. (Most people were sleeping but about a third were using their personal lights.) She raised her eyebrows suggestively to Tim just as he entered the bathroom. He smirked and then slammed the accordion style door shut.

She waited for a few seconds and realized that she was getting really horny. She imagined Tim taking her doggy in the bathroom. It was going to be so hot! So hot that she might not even be able to tell her best friend and closest confidante Penelope about it. No, she laughed to herself, she would definitely end up telling Penelope about it -- who was she kidding?

During Take-Off

**Row 7 Seat A** : Lanfen Lee. **Nationality** : China. **Age** : 30

**Purpose of Trip** : Pleasure

**Row 7 Seat B** : Manchu Chow **Nationality** : China. **Age** : 74

**Purpose of Trip** : Pleasure

**Malaysian International Flight 370: Row 7: 12:41 a.m.** :

Her iphone gripped firmly, Lanfen refrained from checking her texts for Manchu's sake. She knew that he loathed flying almost as much as he loathed her iPhone and she did not want, at the moment of the plane's wobbly ascent, to smack him with a double whammy.

Like many things that Lanfen knew about Manchu, she had learned about his flying phobia through simple observation. During the flight from Beijing to Kula Lumpar his constant frown had been slightly more pronounced than its standard droop.

And for the attentive Lanfen this subtle change in Manchu's expression was tantamount to him screaming, "Get me off this fucking plane!"

At his core, she thought Manchu more like a Japanese foreigner than a Chinese national -- and over the years Lanfen had tangled with her share of Japanese foreigners. (They were generous and paid well for brief encounters). Some Japanese were talkative like Americans but most were stoic and did not share their feelings never mind their fears.

Almost all her fellow Chinese clients had been braggarts, usually gabbing about money and figures.

Although Lanfen found quiet cliental more difficult to manipulate than the talkative kind, she liked them better and even, she had once admitted with a shudder, sought them out.

Perhaps it was the challenge or perhaps she appreciated that they seemingly had nothing to prove. In any case, she knew that her preference for the strong silent type was stupid: it cost her money.

Fortunately Lanfen was somewhat educated and could hold her own in a heady conversation; that set her a step above most other kept-women, especially the rural farm girls.

The man who had taken her virginity ten years prior had been the talkative braggart type. They had both been college students. Following her family's advice to the letter, she had left a poor student she loved for a rich student who inspired indifference only.

Then she had bone-headedly (in hindsight) assumed the rich student would marry her simply because he was ugly and she was drop dead gorgeous.

In her mind, he was wrapped around her finger, partly because each time they fucked he reached such obvious ecstasy during ejaculation that he seemed on the verge of self-immolation.

But the rich student, or rather his family, understood too well the unwritten rule of modern Chinese life -- the golden rule -- and had calculated that he owed her nothing in terms of vows because she could give him nothing in terms of standing (and therefore investment potential).

After their break-up, he continued to fuck her for a couple of years and he, or rather his family, paid her well (as is convention for a beautiful mistress who is kept by the wealthy man who has completed the deflowering).

But she grew bored of his spongy small dick and began to dread his abusive hard hands.

So she moved from the snazzy apartment that he rented for her.

It was the biggest mistake of her young life and years later her mother would force this admission from her, when she demanded, "So all these men, one after another, they give you a pittance and so you give your parents a pittance. It all could have been prevented, and you know exactly how!"

With teary eyes she had nodded. It was a humiliating admission but for thousands of years there has been no worse sin in China than to disrespect your parents and Lanfen did not judge herself capable of defying the ages.

He mother continued, exclaiming, "You know we did not have the money to pay the penalty! You know that I could easily have had you aborted in favor of another chance for a boy! That once I kept you that were my one chance for a child! All my friends told me to abort! My family told me so too! But I was young and foolish and I let you live, thinking that you would be a good daughter, an obedient daughter. And we broke our backs to send you to college and there at college you find the man you were meant to find -- the man that we meant you to find! And you leave him! And so you leave us...penniless that is, because you are a thankless balinghou!"

(Balinghou: a carefree Chinese youth who never knew the hardships of China's recent past, such a food rationing and mandatory farm work.)

That her rich college lover had grown into a cruel man did not enter the equation because it did not change one iota the financial scales. Knowing this, Lanfen had never even bothered to mention it (to her parents at least, her friends were another matter).

As a kept-woman, she had reached an earning ceiling at 25 when her manipulative powers were at full force and her body was at full figure, and she believed that she would never again be paid as well as the wages she had earned from the family of her first love; she was no longer a virgin and so she was no longer a prize.

But Manchu, the godsend, had proven this financial prediction incorrect. She made more money through coupling with him, much more, than she ever had with her wealthy college lover.

Where the fuck had he come from? A millionaire real estate developer with government connections: a man people feared, a man who owned property all over the country, a man who could provide for her and her family without a second thought.

True, he was no billionaire -- and lately they seemed to be popping up in China like mushrooms -- but he was the next best thing.

Even better he loathed his wife. And even better that that he really enjoyed fucking -- and Lanfen knew that she could out- fuck most any mistress around.

For one thing she was nearing her sexual prime and so genuinely enjoyed the act. For another, she did not get hung up with taboos and was ready to try all sorts of freaky sexual shit: she had no problem fucking his friends or fucking him with other girls or fucking him while he tied her up and slapped her around or did anything else that entered into his perverted old man mind.

Yes he was old, older than dirt -- he wouldn't even say exactly, but she guessed at least 60. But he was often youthful in the sack, so she just kept her eyes locked on his (in an attempt to ignore his sagging rotting flesh) and willed herself vibrant and sexy with all her love-making performances.

Even so, she counted her lucky stars every day that he returned to the luxury flat (that he rented for her in Beijing).

She was not so foolish as to think that she was his only mistress. And she surely was not so foolish as to think that he loved her in the least.

But that he returned to her bed with such frequency shocked her into a dreamy state of submission, her manipulative wiles practically abandoned. She did not try to stir his jealousy. She did not pout for gain. She did not trick him into causing her harm so as to trap him into buying her things in apology. She did not sway his will with fucking or conversation. She did not take measure of her standing among the others in his life. She did not pry information for later trickery, advantage, or blackmail. She kept no end goal for him in the back of her mind.

All in all, she used almost none of the standard maneuvers that she had painstakingly gleaned over a decade of pretend-loving men for money. In some ways, she was completely abandoning her craft.

And make no mistake: her job was a booming part of the Chinese black market. Other than your standard wealthy Chinese elite with their standard mistress or two, it is also a fact that in 2014 China there is no government official without a mistress who can claim to be worth his salt. Even gay government officials hire mistresses for the sake of appearance.

When making underhanded deals, Chinese officials will small talk about their mistresses the way that most people small talk about the weather or sports.

In China, the kept-women are the grease on the cogs that keep the gears of capitalism running.

If asked, Lanfen could easily explain the reasons for this cultural convention. She'd had plenty of time to mull it over. One reason of many: modern China is a country run by men and as is the case in any boy's club the objectification of women is usually at least one of the goals.

For what good is manly power and success if not accompanied with the fulfillment of juvenile desires?

And Chinese men -- unlike men from India for example -- have always had a knack for standing in line, for following the leader, for being good sheep -- which is why capitalism has exploded so magnificently in China: the Chinese, remarkably, make better sheeple than Americans and so are even more eager to buy The Next Great Thing.

And just like any luxury good, Lanfen and her peers could be bought, and so were bought -- as status symbols, and female flesh embodiments of The Next Great Thing.

Lanfen understood her role as female object: submissive concubine, free spirited lover, dream-maker, fantasy conjurer, orgasm producer, fun-provider, stress-reliever, time traveler (becoming lost loves) and complication reducer (among many other things).

Although the details of her role varied with the client there was a constant too: that the client should feel less like a client and more like a lover.

The degree of a client's gullibility for this illusion depended on their shrewdness, experience, and ego -- though a client's complicity with the illusion was another matter entirely.

And so while she guessed that Manchu was too shrewd and experienced to believe that she loved him in the least, she also guessed that he understood the relationship would not function properly without his complicity regarding its sincere nature.

Admittedly, she acted the part more for her sake than his: without it she would have felt like a pure prostitute.

And so she was thankful that Manchu played along. As previously mentioned, he hardly ever spoke. But when he did speak it was usually to say some sweet thing.

Although she knew these sweet statements to be as phony as a back-street Prada knock-off, she treasured them nevertheless.

One morning, after he had spent the whole night in her bed, she awoke to him nibbling on her neck.

"I wish you could stay here all day," she said, her eyes only half-open.

"And I wish I had married you first," he had replied.

She had laughed and begged him to fuck her. She knew that line was like a crowned king of bullshit lover lines. But still it warmed her heart hearing it come from his lips -- he who spoke so seldom.

And strangely he had not fucked her immediately after she had begged him. (He liked her to beg but usually she did not have to beg twice.) Instead he had thrown on his pants and dressed in a hurry, his clothes making that hurried dressing sound of skin against cloth.

So she had, on her hands and knees, planted herself in the middle of her bed and began waving her naked ass at him. When he pretended not to notice she started barking like a dog, slapping her ass at the same time, and moaning the words, "I'm a horny dog and I want you to fuck me."

When he continued ignoring her by carefully tying his tie in the marble bordered mirror (that he had bought her the week prior), she added further nasty sexual comments one after the other until eventually he did succumb to her charms.

Another time they had been at dinner and he had told her that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever known.

"After three bottles of wine that is," she added, while tapping the massive ruby ring he had bought her (that day) against each of the three nearly empty, hundred year old wine bottles on the table.

His expression did not change and he did not argue the fact. And although she knew beyond doubt that this mere line had been plucked from some manual of standard compliments for mistresses, her heart had been filled with lightness, and she even sometimes caught herself mouthing this compliment during solitary happy moments, attempting her best imitation of his measured voice while saying, "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known."

But how long could she continue with the sexual adventures, the freaky fucking?

And at what point would he decide that he had penetrated her one time too many?

And why did she care?

She knew that just as all businesses eventually run their course, all business relationships eventually run their course too.

So what was going on in her mind and her heart?

Was it hope that perhaps he cared for her?

Was it loyalty for his time?

Was it awe at her luck?

She did not know. But all speculation aside it was unarguable that she had finally been able to provide the means for her parents to move into a house of significance.

True, her mother still glared at her like she was nothing but a walking, talking, flesh and blood, air-breathing mistake: but her words were more measured, and at the edges, somewhat softer.

To be clear: in no way had her mother said anything like, "I made a huge error in my judgment of you and I should not have spent my life trying to make you feel like a worthless human born of the wrong gender."

But her criticism had been toned down, and peppered, every now and then anyway, with a compliment, something like, "It's nice that you bought me this Rolex, and maybe next time you can bring one for my sister too..."

Lanfen had long ago discovered that talking to her fellow countrymen was often like talking to a calculator, and now that her father had become a man of means, he had apparently become a talking calculator too because like many of the government men she known he had begun talking figures: the square footage of the house, the number of rooms, the year it had been built, the number of similar homes built by the developer, the expected appreciation in value, and so on and so forth.

Admittedly, she sometimes wondered if she had coldly pursued, by any means possible, the almighty Yuan so that her mother could criticize her continued existence a smidgeon less harshly and her father could do his best imitation of a tally machine.

Existential angst aside, she judged herself happier and more content now that Manchu was part of her life, and so she planned to do everything possible to further the illusion that she was his deeply-in-love, freaky, nasty, crazed, and foaming at the mouth, lover-girl -- even though she knew that he knew that she knew that he believed in the illusion not one whit.

And so she did not check her texts as the plane began its ascent. Instead she kissed him on the neck and held his hand tightly.

Manchu did not look in her direction. He also did not look out the window. Instead he stared straight ahead at the next first-class seat.

"Yes, he is nervous," she thought. But she recognized that it would be foolish on her part to point out this fact.

Although she automatically used less trickery with Manchu, it was inevitable that sometimes she would fall back upon her wiles: they had been practically ingrained into her soul by this point and she said nervously to him, "I get so frightened when the plane starts to go up like this!"

At first he said nothing and continued to stare ahead. But she knew that the cowardice trembling from his brain would soon give way to machismo.

"Do you think it would help if I stare at the floor? Or do you think I should just close my eyes?" Lanfen asked with hurried speech.

She squeezed his hand tighter.

Finally he looked in her direction. Trying her best to appear panic-stricken, she also began quivering her chin, as if on the verge of tears.

He looked her over, and satisfied of something, he placed his clammy old-man's hands over her eyes, saying, "You close them too and I will tell you a story."

Although Manchu's hands were covering her eyes, she still closed them tight.

She felt Manchu speaking directly into her ear, as he said, "Once there was a little girl. She had nothing at all and she was hungry. At school she heard her belly rumble and then it began to speak to her. Her belly told her to think of a clever way to get her fed. So she went home and she thought and she thought but she could think of no clever way. She hoped the food would come as if by magic but the food did not come and she became hungrier still. At this time, many children were turning their parents in for being traitors to the Worker's Party. And when these children did this these children were well fed. 'Yes! Yes!' her belly exclaimed, 'that is exactly what you must do!' So she looked at her parents and they were starving and practically dying. So she thought, 'What harm would that really do, they are so near death in any case, and I am so, so hungry.' So she went to school the next day, determined that she would tell her teachers about the traitor's that her parent's had become. And, well what do you think happened?"

Lanfen felt Manchu's hands leave her face. So she opened her eyes. His eyes looked so loving, almost like the look of the loving father that she had never had. She said, "I don't know. What happened?"

"I want you to guess," said Manchu, a rare smile on his lips.

"The little girl decided that would be a bad thing to do," said Lanfen, hoping that this story was not a convoluted way of accusing her of some betrayal.

Manchu nodded, saying, "Yes, more or less. She stopped thinking about the problem, her hunger, and the problem went away."

Lanfen laughed, saying, "Wait a minute you tricked me! The plane isn't going up anymore."

Manchu winked.

Lanfen wondered if that story had significance in Manchu's own life. If perhaps he was the little girl. If perhaps he had been tempted, during the time of food shortages and famine, to betray his parents.

But that was the sort of question that she could never ask, the sort of question that could shatter the illusion they had created.

She stared past him at the black night sky, a shiver settling on her neck as she caught her reflection in the glass.

Malaysian International Flight 370: Outside Bathroom: 1:11 a.m.:

Preparing to enter the bathroom and join the Mile High Club, Sasha took a deep breath, but just then she heard the Captain's voice booming over the intercom, "Flight 370 this is the Captain speaking..."

Sasha sighed, thinking that the Captain was probably going to ask everyone to return to their seats for safety.

The Captain continued, "...and I would like to inform the entire plane of some important developments..."

Sasha's train of thought changed as she thought, "Developments? He isn't going to say that the plane is having mechanical problems? Or that we have to make an emergency landing?"

The Captain continued, "...developments that we usually don't have here on Malaysian Airlines, and I for one can certainly say it is a first for me..."

Sasha waited, her heart thumping harder.

The Captain continued, "...and it is my pleasure to inform the entire plane that a gentleman flying in business class has just proposed to his girlfriend, she said yes! They are groom and bride to be!"

The Captain had been speaking in English and only some of the plane cheered, but once the announcement was repeated in Malaysian there was a much louder round of cheering. Sasha joined in during both rounds of cheering.

Some of the passengers who had been sleeping could be seen looking around confusedly, as if awoken by something more jarring than a beeping alarm clock.

Just as Sasha grabbed the bathroom door handle, the Captain began speaking in English again, saying, "But that is not all flight 370, there is more to this story. The groom has asked his bride to marry him tonight on this flight because another passenger happens to be a justice of the peace! Yes, passengers of flight 370 we are going to have a night-wedding on the plane! Apologies to the sleeping passengers, but I thought this was too big of announcement. There will be more announcements to come!"

There was further (sleepy) cheering. Although Sasha did not know the couple, she felt happy for them. But she could not help feeling perturbed that the Captain kept referring to the flight by its flight number -- she had never heard a Captain do that before, and she felt like he was tempting the fates, or rather her fate, as there was a clear correlation between the number 370 and morbid occurrences within her family.

It just seemed to be inviting bad luck every time he spoke that number over the loud speaker -- she wasn't sure why she felt this way, but it was a strong feeling, and one which she found difficult to ignore.

But what option did she have? If she gave the Captain no reason and simply asked him to stop referring to the plane as flight 370 she would just seem crazy. Likewise, if she told the Captain why she wanted him to stop referring to the plane as flight 370 she would just seem crazy.

She thought, "Yet, maybe I am crazy. I mean I am about to join the Mile High Club after all."

She opened the bathroom door and to her utter surprise discovered a completely naked Tim, socks and all, leaning nonchalantly against the wall. In fact, the only thing he wore was the expression on his face, one which seemed to say, "Is something out of the ordinary here?"

Throwing her hands over her mouth to muffle her gasp, she remembered the situation and slammed the door shut, which pinned them together in the tiny bathroom.

Immediately caressing his naked body, she reached between his legs and grabbed his dick. It was limp so she started pumping. Just as she was about to drop to her knees and suck him hard, he said, "No, that's ok. We better get into position. We may not have much time."

"Right, right," Sasha whispered, still somewhat in shock that she was joining the Mile High Club.

Tim was already standing on the toilet, and he was furiously stroking his penis. Sasha tried not to laugh because she knew that they had to stay quiet, but the sight of Tim standing there naked on the tiny airplane toilet and stroking his dick was so ridiculous that she couldn't help giggling as she herself climbed onto the toilet and grabbed the sink with her hands.

She turned back, having taken her butt-up position, and whispered, "Is this right?"

"Yes, perfect," Tim whispered.

Sasha waited but nothing happened. Then she felt her body lurch forward and at first she thought that Tim had grabbed her by the hands because he was gearing to penetrate -- but she quickly realized it was only turbulence.

She looked back. He was still madly stroking himself, his penis flaccid.

Sasha rolled her eyes. Really! After all that talk-the-talk because I can walk-the-walk about the Mile High Club he was actually going to have performance anxiety?

"Hey give me a break here?" he whispered, "I am under a lot of pressure to get this done fast."

Sasha knew from experience that dirty talk could help so she whispered things like, "Take me to the Mile High Club Big Boy, stuff that cock into my naughty cunt, make me your Mile High Slut..."

And so on and so forth, and she really did whisper these things in a convincingly sexy way, like the way that everyone imagines a phone sex operator would talk (cause really who has actually called one?) but to her surprise it was no use -- he remained completely flaccid.

So now Tim shot her the I-Don't-Know-What-To-Say look.

"Should I give you a blow job?" she whispered.

He nodded in the affirmative, which brought them back to square one.

Tim remained standing and Sasha climbed down to the floor, which put her mouth at just the right level. First, giving him her best porn star imitation face, she swallowed his tip and continued sucking for at least two minutes, and while sucking Sasha thought about the BJs she had given him during the past month; he had been so virile and passionate that every sex act had been practically orgasmic.

But now it seemed that inside the Malaysian Airlines Flight 370 bathroom they were finally going to have their first loving-making failure of the trip, because try as she might it was a no-go, literally, and just as she was wondering if she should continue, she felt his hands on her shoulders gently pushing her off: it seemed that they both been running the same internal clock concerning when to exit.

"This isn't going to happen for me right now. You leave first," whispered Tim.

Sasha slipped out the door, realizing that in trying to not look suspicious that she probably looked more suspicious, and with her head down she returned to her seat.

Fortunately it was well past midnight, so most people were sleeping -- yet an odd numbered seemed still awake for so late an hour (probably because of all the Captain's announcements).

As soon as she sat down, Tiffany leaned over and whispered, "Were you two just in the bathroom -- together?"

"Was it that obvious?" she whispered.

And just as Sasha finished her statement, she noticed a woman slowly walk past her row, staring at her the whole time. The woman was white, attractive, and seemed to be smirking. Sasha thought, "She knows, and perhaps she is a member of the club herself."

Tiffany replied to Sasha's question, "Only because I know you two and how crazily sexy active you've been on this trip."

Sasha laughed and at that moment Tim sat down. He looked sullen.

Sasha was about to say something to Tim when she noticed that the lurking woman had returned. She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, but nothing was said, and she returned back the way that she had come.

"Did you see that woman staring at me?" Sasha asked.

"No," said Tim, still looking sullen.

"Poor baby," Sasha thought.

Sasha rubbed his shoulders, whispering, "We can always try again later. Don't worry -- we will get into the club."

Tim shook his head.

"It's okay," whispered Sasha with a giggle.

But truth be told, Tim's failure to achieve an erection did somewhat concern her. Their love-making had been red-hot all month and its intensity had seemed to be (Sasha believed) the fuel that had ignited -- and perhaps sustained -- their reunion. So she hoped that things were not slackening off.

True, it may have been the performance anxiety that had confounded Tim (or more specifically, confounded what she referred to -- with Penelope only -- as not-so-tiny-Tim).

Yet they had been sexually successfully during all sorts of anxiety inducing situations over the past month: sex on the beach, sex on a roof, sex by a pool, sex in a hall, a sex act in an elevator, sex in an alley at night, sex in an alley at day, a sex act in a taxi, etc -- and the list really did continue for quite a while (Penelope could attest to that).

So why now the sudden shyness? While it was true that their most passionate, sensual, memorable, and craziest sex had occurred behind the closed doors of their hotel rooms, they had also, when outside their hotel rooms, practically become full-fledged sexual exhibitionists.

During one dreamy night out in a fancy Eastern Malaysian restaurant, Sasha said to Tim, right after they returned from an especially pleasurable bathroom screw, "I think I am going to talk to Mark when we get home and make sure we have not developed some sort of sexual perversion."

Tim laughed. But after they drank a couple glasses of wine, he said, "You know, I was just thinking about what you said earlier about that sexual perversion concern. You might be right, and so maybe it is a good idea to talk about it with Mark. But on the other hand, the sex has been so good I'd hate to do anything to slow it down."

Sasha practically choked on her food. After she had gathered herself, she said, "Wait, you don't mean to say that you want to do all this public stuff once we are back in Washington?"

"Why not?" Tim asked.

Sasha knew that her husband was a creature of habit, one who hated new things, but once new things were habit he would never do them any other way.

Yet this was a different animal altogether. This was risqué public sex. The kind of sex that could ruin a career, that could get you arrested, and that at the least could get everyone gossiping if it were ever found out.

"So are we just going to leave the PTA meeting in the middle, bang in an empty classroom, and then return and talk with serious faces about things like background checks for school volunteers," said Sasha, laughing with wine-reddened lips.

Tim leaned over the table and kissed her, then saying, "I like the way you painted that. I think I have a hard-on right now."

"Gross!"

But Sasha did not really think Tim was gross, not in the least, and she leaned forward in her airplane seat, stretching her shoulders and like clockwork, Tim instantly started massaging them, continuing until she thanked him with a kiss.

"Do you remember the night out, when we had sex in that restaurant bathroom?" Sasha asked.

Tim nodded.

"I was just thinking about it," said Sasha with a smile.

Tim nodded, looking even more sullen. Sasha realized that he probably thought she was complaining. But she was not. She had simply been sharing a really good memory.

Yet hadn't she been remembering this event precisely because her mind had made the association between the two events? The triumph in the restaurant: the failure in the restroom.

She sighed, thinking, "Damn Wandering Bitch Mind, you are at it again."

The memory had been so good that she had not followed her train of thought back to its origin -- which was confusion as to why Tim could not get it up here when he had been getting it up in other semi-public places.

Pondering whether she should apologize, she noticed how beautiful the moon glowed in the clear night sky and which, Sasha noted, was fortuitous, because the weather report had predicted a moonless night.

Sasha ran her fingers through Tim's thick blonde hair. As a child she had never imagined that she would marry a man with blonde hair, but as a child she had never imagined Tim. When they first met, Sasha was working as a lingerie saleswoman and Tim was holding up a red teddy.

She was instantly drawn to his magnetic presence and she knew that she had to say something to him.

"Cross-dresser?" she asked. It was the sort of question that could have gotten her fired, but the question -- a joke -- had simply slipped out.

He laughed and they exchanged numbers at the cash register. From that point they never looked back and the first years were like the Malaysia trip, crazy passionate and dreamy. But the last three years had been like the failure in the flight 370 bathroom -- a time of unmet expectations and excuses galore.

She kissed him on the cheek, thinking, "I am just being paranoid and reading way too much into this. Everything is fine. He desires me and will continue to desire me. We are back!"

**Row 25 Seat H** : Kean Rinne . **Nationality** : Ireland. **Age** : 20

**Purpose of Trip** : Pleasure

**Row 25 Seat I** : Darcy Kilduff **Nationality** : Ireland. **Age** : 22

**Purpose of Trip** : Pleasure

Malaysian International Flight 370: Row 25: 1:11 a.m.:

It was obvious to Kean that the two old blokes outside the bathroom were considering a foray into the Mile High Club. He could read it in their facial expressions, or rather the facial expressions (indecision and euphoria) that they were trying to conceal.

Their hidden expressions had been easily discerned by Kean because likewise (or ever since leaving Ireland anyway) he had been trying to conceal most of his facial expressions: the main one had been fear, though now it was pain. So that sort of thing was just on his mind.

He could see that Darcy was trying to hide her pain too.

She wasn't doing a very good job though, looking as despondent as a mangled -- though perhaps still breathing and writhing -- unknown variety of road-kill. Kean guessed that he looked that bad too. But he didn't want to know for certain. So he didn't ask her.

Suddenly, she glanced at him and simply buried her head back into her hands.

"She probably wonders what she looks like, and looking at me, she gets an approximation," Kean figured.

He wondered which of them was experiencing more pain. He really had no idea. But his pain, in any case, was excruciating.

His last good memory took place in Dublin two days before they had left for Kuala Lumpar. Earlier that day, Darcy's father had slid an eviction notice under his door for non-payment of rent and Kean had simply slid the note back under Darcy's father's door, first scribbling on the back, "Funds in Transit," which he figured sounded official enough to delay the process until he returned from China flush with cash.

Kean had just flattened Darcy in his apartment for an hour straight, though the sex might actually have been longer: time had been bending like the bending clocks in his hash-stained Dali poster.

They had been shooting high-balls all day, which are a dangerous and extremely potent combination of heroin and cocaine.

Although Kean was only 20 years old, about a quarter of his schoolmates were already dead from heroin overdoses. Most of them had made a mistake that he had sworn to never duplicate: they'd gotten clean and then they'd had a relapse -- and always at the point of relapse they had miscalculated their tolerance and OD'd.

So Kean figured he'd just keep a steady supply in his veins -- that way he'd never have to worry about his tolerance decreasing.

"That will keep me safe," he had declared to Darcy one afternoon as they lay naked in his bed together, comparing tattoos after screwing.

"You're a feckin mongoloid," Darcy had told him, "For one thing it wouldn't work. Your tolerance will just keep going up and you won't be able to afford it. You might be able to sustain but you will never get high. And even that will cost you an insane amount of cash. Believe me, I have seen people try."

Kean figured that Darcy was forgetting about his dazzling thievery skills. Over the last week, he had managed to steal three new cars -- and no one stole new cars anymore, not with their remote locks, GPS trackers, and alarms.

"Everyone knows that new cars are pointless to steal in 2014," Darcy had told him. "It would be as pointless as swiping an iPhone."

"Which is exactly why I'm going into new cars," Kean had explained to Darcy. "No one will expect it."

Kean had a mechanical mind and was able to strip valuable parts before the cars were even registered as missing. It had allowed them to stay high for a fortnight.

Before that he had stolen an absurd quantity of toilet paper from a storage center.

"Who the feck wants fleeced toilet paper?" Darcy had asked him before the theft.

"Exactly! So no one will expect us to swipe it. So no one will be watching it. It is genius!" said Kean.

"Bollocks! Where would we sell it?" She'd asked.

"Anywhere, everyone needs feckin toilet paper," said Kean.

She'd called him a mongoloid then too. But after he'd stolen a crate of it -- the extra-soft double-sided pre-dampened kind to boot -- and he managed to sell it quick, he started referring to TP as, "White Gold."

The sixth time he'd called TP, "White Gold," Darcy had punched him in the gut, which got them into a heated argument, which then got them screwing.

(Kean quickly learned that make-up sex with Darcy was considerably better than regular sex with Darcy. Arguments, confrontations, disagreements, verbal altercations, and shouting matches -- these were like aphrodisiacs for this island beauty.)

After they screwed, they bought some heroin. After the heroin they slept for 20 hours.

When they awoke they needed more heroin and Kean needed to pay his last two months rent.

"Toilet paper isn't going isn't going to cut it with your father," said Kean. (Darcy's father was his landlord.) But when this statement was only met with silence from Darcy he added, "Unless he is one of those guys who likes to get things in bulk, cause we could give him a real good bulk discount. Two month's rent for toilet paper at a discount? He might not need to buy it again for years."

Kean knew this sounded preposterous but he was dead serious.

"Jaysus, how I started hanging out with you is beyond me," said Darcy.

It was beyond Kean too. Darcy was hot, and older, which meant she really knew how to screw. She was a major league bitch to Kean whenever she talked to him but when they screwed she let him take control. He loved it. All the other girls he had screwed had been fat; Darcy was lean and she had big tits and curves.

She also had that black Irish thing going with the bright blue eyes. He was desperate to keep her around for as long as possible and sometimes (but not often) he found himself valuing her as highly as heroin.

Getting his Dublin apartment in the first place had been a miracle. Back home he'd broken into an old-timer's flat and stolen all his cricket memorabilia. It is almost impossible to get serious money for cricket memorabilia without certificates of authenticity, but he had put them on EBAY and gotten a good lump sum for the entire collection from a stupid American.

He'd been planning on spending it all on smack. But the cash had been such a windfall that he figured it would be admirably forward-thinking to utilize part of his newly acquired funds to flee the area, especially considering the cops were actively looking for the thief and in his tiny town of three thousand he was one of the only known thieves around. And furthermore, because the other area thieves were all part of his family too, it would be a short time before his interrogation (beating).

His parents were tinkerers, otherwise known as gypsies, gyppo, padjo, pikey, knackers, or traveling folk, and he had stolen from them all he could before leaving for Dublin. It wasn't much but it had helped him set out on his own.

During his first month in Dublin he met the self-declared last member of the Irish Republican Army, a man named Danny Quinn. Danny ranted constantly about the merits of Catholicism, especially to the captive audiences inside pubs, though he only ever drank milk having sworn off booze as a youth due to his drunken alcoholic father.

Kean learned that Danny had inherited a boatload of cash from a relative who had made a fortune in Irish real estate before the bubble had burst. So Danny always had extra cash available for buying charity drinks for the seriously down and out.

His goal, it seemed, was for Dublin's vagabonds to gain revelation through his informal sermons, and so he'd apparently concluded that enabling their drunkenness was an acceptable trade-off for the Word of the Lord.

Kean once observed him say to a bearded hobo, one who was, unsettlingly, watching everything in the room by virtue of his two lazy eyes, "You may be a lost muckshit in this world but I will save your soul for the next."

Kean wagered that Danny was somewhat mad, but Danny reminded him of many of his own pikey relatives who also like to rant, so he felt altogether comfortable in his presence even though he could care less about the Kingdom of God.

One day at Grogans -- a well-known Dublin pub in the heart of the city -- Kean outlined his dazzling thievery to Danny, concluding his narrative with the sarcastic question, "So does Jaysus still love me?"

Danny bought Kean another Guinness and placed his giant hands on Kean's forehead, saying with the deep voice of ceremony, "You are absolved."

"But you aren't a priest," said Kean.

"I channel the Holy Spirit," Danny replied.

A few days later Danny told Kean that he could offer him a job.

Kean accepted on the spot.

"Well what was the job?" Darcy asked Kean later, after they had finished a dirty screw on the floor, their sweaty limbs still entwined, their track marks skipping from limb to limb like a human version of connect-the-dots.

"He didn't say, but he said I would make a lot of money and that it had to do with traveling to Malaysia and China. He said that the work that I've done, though sinful, could be of use to the Lord," said Kean.

"That wasn't working; that was being a mongoloid," said Darcy.

A few days later Danny told Kean the details: that he would be acting as a mule and transporting a package from Malaysia to China and that for this delivery service he would be paid an astounding sum: 10k.

"Can I take me mott?" Kean asked him.

"Darcy isn't your girlfriend," said Danny, straight-faced.

"I know but I still like to call her that when she isn't around," said Kean.

"She'd be bollocks if she knew," said Danny.

"I know," said Kean, his heart warming at the thought of her seething mad and the eventual make-up sex. "You can tell her if you want. I don't care."

Danny nodded, saying, "Yeah, bring her, you won't seem so suspicious with a good-looking Betty by your side."

Kean figured that Darcy would be more apt to agree to everything when she was high on smack: so later that night, after they had shot up and were on the verge of nodding off, he explained the details of the job offer.

Although she could hardly keep her eyes open, she mumbled, "What are we smuggling?"

"He didn't say," Kean mumbled.

"You didn't ask?" said Darcy.

Kean shook his head.

"You're a mongoloid," said Darcy before falling asleep.

So the following day, while Kean remained at home watching reruns on the tube, Darcy located Danny at the pub.

"Well, what did he say?" Kean asked Darcy when she returned.

"Stuff," said Darcy.

"What stuff?" Kean shouted with exaggerated vehemence just in case Darcy was trying to bait him into an argument -- he never missed an opportunity for make-up sex.

"What the fuck do you care? You don't even care what we are transporting. So why should I tell you?" Darcy asked, her back facing him as she spoke.

Kean knew that the turned back was a good sign; it meant she was really pissed.

"I'm just making feckin conversation. You know what? I don't fuckin care. You know why? Because it doesn't fuckin matter. Because obviously if he wants us to smuggle something, then that something, whatever it is, is feckin illegal -- so if I don't know what it is I don't have to think about it. And if I'm not thinking about it I won't look so suspicious. And then I will just coast through customs happy-go-lucky as a baby sucking on a lollipop," said Kean, impressed with himself for creating that reasoning on the spot -- but he knew the real reason he had not inquired was that he had been so stunned by the figure offered, 10K, that he did not want to risk ruining the deal by seeming needy about the details.

"You mongoloid, a baby would choke to death on a lollipop," said Darcy, adding, "You just have everything figured out don't you?"

Kean examined her long black hair, a thick mane which flowed past her squeezable bum in glimmering cascades: he so wanted to flatten her and hoped he could give it to her soon.

"Pretty much yeah," said Kean, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Well genius did it ever occur to you that it was odd for a bible crazed millionaire to pursue, through us, an illegal act of smugglin? I'm betting that this simple thought did not occur to you because if it had, I think that yes, you would wonder what he wanted us to smuggle," said Darcy, staring out his grimy kitchen window.

She had a point. Why did that crazy proselytizer want him to do something that Jesus would not approve of? But he snuffed his curiosity, knowing this question would not increase the odds of a verbal tussle and so would not increase the odds for make-up sex.

Therefore, he yawned, loudly.

She turned, snapping, "You are such a mongoloid!"

"No, I'm just not a paranoid arse muncher," said Kean, following his statement with another yawn while simultaneously adjusting his package, a package made conveniently accessible with one leg sprawled over the couch and the other dangling to the floor.

"What did you call me?" she demanded.

Yawning again, he pulled his t-shirt over his navel, revealing his ghostly white belly, replying, "I didn't call you anything you arse muncher. I stated a fact."

She hurled a dish and it whizzed over his head, smashing against the wall behind him.

He did not change his lounging position one inch, now rubbing his chest with a distracted air.

Soon both items and curses were hurled in his direction. He continued the game, pretending that her concerns were so inconsequential that he would not even deign to utter a response: it was his newest strategy, one intended to escalate her anger as swiftly as possible. It worked like an efficacious medicine and they were busy screwing in less than ten minutes.

However pleasurable their screwing was -- and Kean thought it quite pleasurable indeed -- it somewhat disappointed him that post-sex their relationship tension was never diffused in the least, and instead, like a tea pot left on a red hot burner, they were quite literally always ready to blow.

In fact, it had only been during the past couple of days that they had finally experienced their first quiet moments together as a couple.

But this surface-calm was not related to any relationship progression, instead caused by a circumstance now outside their control (while in the plane anyway), a circumstance that constrained them in a vice of indescribable anguish: opiate withdrawals.

"I feel like manky pissflaps," Darcy muttered, her sweaty head still between her legs and her barf bag held like a good-luck charm in her hands.

"If we can just make it to China I think we will be okay," said Kean, astounded that he had spoken so clearly from his itchy, drooling mouth.

Jaysus, what the feck had happened?

Why had no one in Malaysia been able to find them smack?

They had bought supposed heroin in Malaysia three times but each time it had turned out to be fake.

A week earlier, Danny had been confident that they would find opiates during their trip.

"Because if I go long without it I start to feel like a slapper's cocktrough," Kean had explained (by comparing himself to the manky vagina of a tramp).

Danny had proceeded to sermonize, attempting to weave together disjointed stories from the Bible.

"Yes, yes, I agree with all that," Kean lied, "But that is stuff for later, my addiction is right now and it's not going away. I can't do this job for you if I'm fecked. I won't be able to do anything if I am fecked. So I have to be able to get opiates once I get to Malaysia."

"You won't have trouble, but if for some unforeseeable reason you do have trouble, break the locks from the luggage, and look inside," said Danny.

"Are we smuggling heroin?" asked Kean with a hint of glee.

"No you are not, but as a last resort, and then and only then, look inside the luggage," said Danny.

Kean decided that Darcy was right: he did very much want to know what they were smuggling.

So he said, "All right, I've played the part of the clueless bogger long enough and I haven't asked. But I have to know. What the feck are we smuggling?"

"Sorry, I can't tell you," said Danny.

"But you told Darcy," said Kean.

Danny nodded.

"Then why can't you tell me?" Kean asked.

"She said that you wouldn't go without her. And she said she wouldn't go if I told you what was in the luggage. I told her that you hadn't asked. She told me that you would ask. So I promised her that I wouldn't tell you if you did ask, which leaves us right here exactly," said Danny.

"Bollocks!" Kean exclaimed.

A minute passed in silence while Kean sipped his stout and Danny sipped his milk.

Finally Kean said, "So you are sure the opiates will be easy to find?"

Danny promised Kean again (and Darcy later) that finding opiates in Malaysia would be a cinch.

But it had not been a cinch, and after what they had smuggled into Malaysia in Darcy's bra had run dry, they had been left needleless on an island thousands of miles from their home. They both panicked, demanding to Danny that he fly them home immediately, or rather Kean had demanded and Darcy had screamed.

But Danny, having the everlasting bulwarks of God on his side, was immovable and refused, saying, "Get the package and take it to China as soon as possible. Opiates are everywhere in China. The Chinese ship opiates around the world."

Kean and Darcy did not want to continue traveling but because they had no money they had no choice.

Sitting in their narrow airplane seats, they were both dripping in sweat. After dry heaving above the barf bag, Kean went to the bathroom (where he dry heaved above the toilet).

While inside the bathroom he spotted a large rat staring at him through a hole in the wall.

The rat squeaked, "Where is my feckin food you shite?"

After returning to his seat Kean said, "I'm starting to hallucinate."

"Hallucinations haven't started for me yet," replied Darcy, business-like, her head still held between her legs.

Kean watched the MILF as she returned from the bathroom, her head held low. As she passed his seat, he caught a glimpse of her eyes, eyes which seemed to be glaring with displeasure. A few minutes later, the man followed sheepishly.

Everything was making him nauseas. The fact that the MILF and her man had so obviously failed to join the Mile High Club made him nauseas. The plane made him nauseas. The sight of nauseas Darcy made him nauseas. The thought of feeling nauseas in the future made him feel nauseas. Even the thought that at some point his nausea would subside made him nauseas.

If he had thought it would have made a difference, he would have asked every person on the plane if they had some smack to sell.

But then he remembered what Danny had said, that if he was unable to find smack and he was suffering, that he should open the luggage.

The luggage was the answer!

Grimacing, he leaned towards Darcy, whispering, "So what is in the luggage?"

It took Darcy a moment to respond and she hissed, "I'll never tell, you feckin mongoloid."

Kean tried to lift her head from between her legs and rest it against her seat. She fought him at first but eventually she let him pull her up.

"What?" she asked, her gnarly hair covering her face like a veil.

"Danny told me that if we were ever having a hard time that we should look inside the luggage. Why did he say that?" Kean asked.

"You're hallucinating," said Darcy, pulling her barf bag to her mouth -- but she only dry heaved.

Kean tried his best to talk softly so that he would not upset her (which was a new experience entirely) and he said, "No, he really did say that to me. Why would he say that?"

Darcy remained silent. She was pale and looked as if she might dry heave again at any moment.

Kean leaned close to her and whispered, "Are we smugglin heroin?"

Darcy laughed, her laugh quickly transforming into a gagging cough and after that a dry heave. Wiping the spittle from her lips she gathered herself.

She said, "That would be nice, but it wouldn't matter anyway. The luggage is somewhere in the belly of the plane and besides you saw the state of the luggage: it is covered with locks."

Yes, Kean had thought it preposterous to seal the luggage with four locks -- if anything the lock overkill made the luggage look suspicious. But Kean didn't say anything to Darcy, not wanting to spook her willingness to smuggle.

(Although in retrospect it would not have mattered if he had spooked her because Danny, the slave driver, would have obviously commanded them to press on with their mission, just as he was doing now.)

"Why would he tell me that the answer was in the luggage? I asked him if it was heroin and he said no. But what if he was lying?" Kean asked in a whisper.

"He's a man of God, he's not supposed to lie," said Darcy, her head having again collapsed between her legs.

"No he isn't, but he also isn't supposed to smuggle things or order us forward when we want to come back home \-- perhaps Danny isn't what he seems to be. He did claim, when I first met him, that he was the last member of the IRA: maybe he is still partly an IRA outlaw, maybe he isn't so squeaky clean," said Kean.

"It's good of you to figure this out now, when we are stuck on a plane, practically dying, you feckin mongoloid," mumbled Darcy, speaking only the last word of her statement with any clarity.

Kean knew there would be no make-up sex on the plane because joining the Mile High Club was out of the question in their condition. But still he needed to probe, so he asked, "Just tell me already. I am trying to figure something out."

Darcy sat back up, pulling the barf bag to her lips. This time she did vomit -- uncontrollably -- the barf bag almost overflowing.

Springing up, she hustled to the bathroom. When she returned she looked a sicklier greenish pale.

She seated herself with a moan.

"Cash, okay, now leave me alone," she sneer-whispered, as if his question had been the cause of her bathroom trip.

"Cash?" Kean whispered, not certain he had heard correctly.

"You could have done this when we weren't feckin dying," said Darcy.

"Sorry," said Kean, realizing it was the first time he had ever apologized to her.

She blinked at him, shocked. Then she said, "Folk from China have to stash their cash in other countries, because the government will take it."

"The government will take it?" Kean repeated slowly in an attempt to understand the situation (even though the attempt was making him nauseas).

"I don't know that's what Danny told me. So from what I understand some powerful Chinese bloke who had previously stashed his money, now he needs it back, and so we are bringing it to him," whispered Darcy, looking as if she might hurl again, her normally bright eyes depressingly dim.

"Are we going to meet the Chinaman?" Kean asked.

"We have a contact to give the suitcase too when we arrive in Beijing," said Darcy.

"How did Danny get involved in this?" Kean asked.

"He didn't say," said Darcy.

Kean had an urge to ridicule her for not asking, but he bit his tongue -- without the prospect for make-up sex, there was no point in arguing.

Besides, he suddenly needed to take a massive crap. So he jogged to the bathroom, almost reaching the toilet a millisecond too late because his seated arrival was heralded with an immediate explosion, all liquid.

Before leaving the bathroom he made the make mistake of slightly inhaling which initiated his gag reflex but instead of vomiting he dry heaved. As his flatulence continued wafting forth, insufferable as chanting Hitler youth, he couldn't help but think, "Come and try to join the Mile High Club now you American arses!"

But in reality he did not want anyone to enter the bathroom for a good long time, embarrassed that his body was capable of producing such foul smells of layered complexity.

Half way back to his seat he realized that he needed to crap again. It was a dirtball move (yes he knew) but he entered the other bathroom: he just did not think himself capable of inhaling his own rancid production so soon.

(True, these productions would be created in the second bathroom as well, but only at a moment of his choosing; he would not, in the second bathroom, enter into a space where his abhorrent smells had already taken up residence. He would not, in effect, enter the second restroom and discover that during his brief absence that his smells had become engaged or started a family. In the second restroom, he would not arrive to discover his smells lounging on the couch and clicking through daytime TV or reclining in an easy chair and smoking a tobacco pipe while contemplating the great philosophical questions of life, such as, "I poop therefore I pee," and "What came first, the poop or the pee?" But these occurrences were entirely possible in the sullied first restroom, thus his dirtball move to enter the pristine second restroom.)

Predictably, the same thing happened in the second restroom that happened in the first, another world war where Kean had been given the authority to drop the hydrogen bombs.

So after flushing, he washed his face and removed his shirt, dribbling water upon his sweaty chest too. Taking a hot shower and scrubbing his body head to toe would have been blissful, but for now meekly splashing his face and chest in a rancid smelling tiny enclosure would have to suffice.

By the time he returned to his seat the sweat had also returned, and he thought, "Yes, I'm a feckin manky slapper's cocktrough."

Most of their row had cleared -- no one who glanced in their direction wanted to sit anywhere near them: they were sweaty, smelly, farting, pooping, vomiting, anxious-appearing, yellow-faced, poorly-dressed, red-eyed, hostel-type, backpacker looking wild things.

And Kean had not failed to notice that the two newest folk to enter the restrooms had both abruptly retreated with pained expressions. One guy had even tried both restrooms. Kean would have laughed if he had not been in so much pain. Besides, the thought of funny things made him nauseas.

"I don't buy it," said Kean.

Darcy said nothing.

"I don't think it is cash," Kean whispered.

"So what, you're a mongoloid," said Darcy, her breath nearly knocking him over.

"Like a wee-one feeling out his Christmas presents, I fondled the luggage," said Kean.

"Fondled it did ya?" Darcy asked.

"I did. That was no cash," said Kean.

"Was it drugs then?" Darcy asked with a cheery tone, but Kean guessed she was being sarcastic.

"It might have been," said Kean adding, "Think about it: why would he tell us if he was smuggling heroin? He knows we are addicts. If he told us we would sample, and if we sampled, he'd make less money."

"But why would he be smuggling drugs, he's feckin loaded?" said Darcy.

"Maybe the honey-pot is running low. He buys a lot of Guinness for the degenerates," said Kean.

"He's said to be worth feckin millions," said Darcy. "I think he's just doing this as a favor because his grandfather owed a debt to some Chinese bloke. I think he means to right a debt, not make a profit."

"Could be -- but I have a hunch on this. And my hunches are usually right," said Kean.

"What are you, a feckin TV detective? And when have you ever had a hunch turn out right?" Darcy asked.

Kean explained that growing up, he always knew what old snowball in the town would die next, "And I don't know how I did it. It was always just a hunch. Mrs. O'Toole, nice old snowball, she seemed healthy enough. I said to me bunch, she looks ripe and healthy, but just you wait, she'll be next below ground, and six months later she's dead in worm land and a prophet is born: me. It was the same with Mrs. Ward, Mr. Boggin, and Mr. Greerer. I called every death, like I was having a winning streak at the horse-track. Me blokes tried to play, but they never guessed a death. I spotted four and guessed at only them."

"But how many died overall?" Darcy asked.

"More than that -- I didn't spend every moment looking at snowballs and considering their fates. It was a casual operation. I'd see a snowball, perhaps at the store, and then BAM, this feeling would strike me, and I'd know it in my bones that BAM that one is next!" said Kean.

"Just snowballs?" Darcy asked.

"I never tried to guess a young death. We had many heroin OD's. But I didn't see those. I don't know. Maybe I just wasn't looking," said Kean. "Or maybe I wasn't allowing myself to be open to the feeling."

"Do you see dead people like that boy in that movie?" Darcy asked, referring to The Sixth Sense.

"No and I don't hear any voices either. But for some reason, when I'm surrounded by snowballs, I know which one of them is next for their place in the obit-section of the paper. It just comes to me, like an instinct, an instinct of death," said Kean, realizing that speaking had caused him to sweat even more, a bead of sweat now dripping from his nose.

Darcy nodded, but after a moment she still reached her common refrain, stating, "You're a mongoloid,"

Kean did not respond.

Later they both managed to sleep. But when Kean awoke he felt like a Frankenstein shocked into existence, his cravings for heroin even stronger than before. So he tried to calm his panicking mind.

As if hearing his mental clatter, Darcy awoke too.

"I still feel like manky pissflaps," she said.

Kean nodded, but as the plane continued to fly straight into the darkness he was overcome with the strangest feeling: Death.

"Oh, not here," Kean mumbled.

"What?" Darcy asked.

"That feeling we were just talking about," said Kean.

"Yeah ya arse, because we were just talking about it," said Darcy.

"No, it doesn't work like that," said Kean. "I can't make it happen. It just comes."

"You were probably dreaming about it you manky arse. So who is next then for the Reaper?" Darcy asked as she released a loud fart.

Their section was already so smelly that Kean did not even comment on her steamy production. But he did answer her question, saying, "That's the strange part: you."

Darcy thought he was making a joke so she told him his joke was not funny. He told her that nothing was funny right now, sick as they were, but that he had not been making a joke.

Darcy replied, "Let me get this straight: you think I will be the next person to die out of everyone we are around, so everyone on this plane?"

Kean frowned, saying, "I hope not. But I was right about Mrs. O'Toole, Mrs. Ward, Mr. Boggin, and Mr. Greerer. So I hope I am not right about you too. I'm sorry to tell you that Darcy. But the feeling hit me, and when the feeling comes, there's no denying the feeling."

"Is this some feckin pikey shite?" Darcy asked.

"I don't think so," said Kean, adding, "But I wish we weren't all fucked so we could think this through straight."

"You said it only happened with snowballs," said Darcy.

"Yes, until you, until just now, it was always snowballs. I didn't think I could have the feeling about a young person. But I just had it about you," said Kean.

"So how long do I have?" Darcy asked, clearly not concerned in the least.

"With the snowballs it was never long. Remember, I was just predicting who would be next. It might take a week or it might take six months," said Kean.

"So I have time to say goodbye to me loved ones," said Darcy in a mocking tone.

"Well hopefully I am wrong about this whole thing, but if I do happen to be right I would think you would have time. Yet, here on the plane the feeling was different...Jaysus, it just hit me again!" Kean exclaimed, as the Death Feeling ran over his body in a shockingly intimate manner, a manner that he had never before experienced.

It was as if Death had whispered into his ears and spoken a series of ancient words.

The Death Feelings concerning the snowballs had always been much more subdued, relaxing even, like watching blossomed flowers float slowly to the ground. But here on the plane his Death Feeling had been indescribably intense.

Perhaps it was just his withdrawals?

"Yes that must be it," he thought, starting to breathe easier again.

And yet the feeling he had experienced was difficult to shake: it had been the Death Feeling for nearly everyone on the plane, a composite feeling of unspeakable terror.

Darcy's sweaty hand was just as sweaty as his, but still he squeezed it.

Looking her straight in the eyes, he said, "You know I really like you. You've made my life much better."

Suddenly, his cold turkey heroin withdrawals did not seem so important.

He squeezed her hand harder.

"Don't worry about it," she replied with a half-smile, "People say strange things in withdrawals."

She had said nothing loving and yet at that moment he felt loved. He had seen the glimmer return to her eyes.

For once he wished Danny was around speaking about God. He tried to remember Danny's sermons but nothing particular came to mind. So as if Danny were God himself, he tried to send Danny a mental-message, thinking, "Danny you feck. You sent me on this wild goose chase and this feckin plane could be fecked. I'm trying to remember the things you told me about God. But I can't remember piss. So I'm just thinking about the way you moved your arms when you spoke. It was very heavenly --."

But Kean broke from his train of thought, thinking instead, "You are thinking ridiculous shite. Obviously the withdrawals are getting to you. Stop panicking and get yourself together. Make it through the flight and everything will be roses."

So he relaxed his mind and the next thing he knew he easily released a series of long winded (though thankfully silent) gas productions, productions that had previously been as tangled inside his belly as a ball of tangled yarn.

"If I am going to die, I would rather do it without the smell of your arse in my mouth, you manky feck," said Darcy, glaring at him.

Kean replied, "This is going to sound strange. But all that silent farting I just did -- that was my way of celebrating. I think my feelings are off. I don't think we are all going to die."

"Wait a minute? A moment earlier it was just me, now it is everyone?" Darcy asked while pinching her nose.

"Ooops, that just slipped out," said Kean, while joking to himself: like that series of Silent-But-Deadly's just slipped out too.

He continued, "I'm getting delirious. I think I might have a fever."

"Then why are you smiling about it?" Darcy asked.

"Because it means we aren't all going to die on this plane -- it means that I am simply sick," said Kean.

Darcy shook her head, "You are a mongo \--."

Kean interrupted, finishing, "loid -- yes I know, and I think that is wonderful!"

But Darcy wasn't ready for him to have the last word on the subject, and she said, "Yes a mongoloid."

Kean smiled through his excruciating nausea, happy to be alive.

Earlier: Ten Minutes Before Take-Off

**Malaysian International Flight 370: Storage Two: 12:30 a.m.** :

The space was dark. The space was quiet.

The noise seemed to be coming from outside the space.

He poked his head around but could see nothing. It was too dark.

He did not want to make noise. He did not want to see others. He vaguely remembered eating a big meal. But that big meal was his last memory. There were no memories before that.

No matter, this did not concern him. He was in a pleasantly warm space: the type of space where he could scuttle along, inch by inch, and not think about a thing.

Suddenly he stopped, the ground was bouncing. He stood completely still, not even breathing.

He thought about how nice this dark space was. He hoped he would not have to travel far. He hoped he would find food in this nice dark space.

He sniffed. He smelled many odors, some of them new.

He followed the nicest odor slowly, careful to make no noise, careful to be careful.

He stopped. It felt so good to stop and be still. Even though he was hungry and he knew that he needed to find food, he felt content when still.

He felt safe when still.

He sniffed. The odors had changed and so he changed direction.

That last big meal had been so nice, but it was fading from his memory now. Soon the taste would be gone from his mouth forever.

No matter, he was in a nice safe dark place. He was content.

The hunger ate at his belly, and yet he stopped and was still. It felt so pleasant to be still.

He sniffed. The odors were the same. He continued in the same direction, slowly, inch by inch and while being so careful to make no noise.

He stopped. He thought of nothing. And then he thought of his last meal. It had been bright in that space and there was much noise. It had made him uneasy. There had been many others around. They were very loud. But the hunger had been so strong that it had pulled him into the light. The food had been so plentiful there. He had eaten his fill.

What had he eaten? He could no longer remember. But he still remembered the light and how uneasy the light made him feel. The light did not make him feel safe. He hoped this new odor was not leading him to light. But the hunger was growing and so he needed to find food.

Yet he decided to sleep because this space was so warm and it felt so safe. When he awoke the same good odor remained.

He followed the odor. He stopped. There were no new sounds. There were no new smells.

The odor he was following smelled so nice. But he had reached the end of the world. There were no more steps for him to take. And yet he could still smell the odor on the other side of the world.

So perhaps it was not the end after all. There might be some way around. He scurried along the edge, but the edge continued and then stopped, leading to its own edge.

How could this be?

The world was such a strange place. But he was glad to be in a space that was quiet and dark and warm. So he stopped and became quiet too. It felt so good to be quiet.

But the odor propelled him forward and back to the edge.

He pressed his snout against the edge of the world. He could smell so many good things on the other side of the world.

But how would he get there?

He scratched with his paws, though slowly and quietly. The edge did not move.

He became still. It felt so good to be still. He sniffed. There was so much to smell here.

Suddenly he opened his mouth and bit into the world's edge. Something, he was uncertain what, had just told him to do this -- had compelled him to do it -- so now he was chewing.

It surprised him that the edge of the world could be so easily chewed upon. Before long he had created a new space to climb through, so long as he squeezed through by becoming very small.

He climbed into this new space slowly, carefully. He liked that this new space was dark like the old space and warm like the old space. He felt safe in this new space.

And yet it seemed right to stop and be still. So he stopped and was still.

But later it felt right to start scurrying, but he scurried slowly, quietly. He did not want to make a sound. When he was quiet he felt very safe.

He traveled a long distance. He heard the rumblings of others. He felt his paws step upon new things -- wiry things. He wondered if any of these new things were food. The pleasant odor he had been following still lay deep in the distance. And these new things were here already. He sniffed these new things.

These new things did not smell like food, and yet these new things were so smooth and skinny, and so different from the things in the old space that they made him wonder. He wondered what they were. He did not know.

So he decided to stop and chew upon one of these wiry new things. He nibbled. His teeth were so strong and he nibbled into the new thing quickly.

Its taste changed: the outside was smooth and the inside was rough and hard.

No matter, he continued chewing. He stopped. There were no new sounds. He continued chewing. He stopped. It felt so good to be still.

Later he took the new thing into his paws and began chewing again.

He continued chewing. He decided that he would keep chewing until he discovered what was inside.

It felt so nice to be chewing.

**Malaysian International Flight 370: Row 32: 1:29 a.m.** :

Suddenly the plane bounced around in another pocket of turbulence. A bell was sounded and the seat-belt light activated. Sasha fastened her seatbelt. The turbulence became heavy and Sasha hoped that all the crew members were strapped into their seats.

Sasha looked at her watch. It was 1:30 a.m. which meant that they had been flying for only 45 minutes (apparently she hadn't fallen asleep for long).

Sasha realized that she had almost completely forgotten about her earlier misgivings concerning the flight (almost because she was remembering them right at that moment!).

She prayed to God, thinking, "Dear God it has been a while since we have spoken. I guess I have been too busy, but I know that is no excuse. And I am sorry for never going to church, but please God, allow us safe passage. I think everything is going to be okay, but still I just wanted to send you this prayer because I am feeling a little nervous. Oh, and continue to look after my children and keep them safe at home in America. Thank you. Amen. Goodbye for now..."

Tim said, "You look like you are thinking about something serious?"

"I was praying," said Sasha.

"Oh," said Tim, and then after a long moment of silence had passed he added with a laugh, "Not the plane thing again?"

Sasha smiled, and said, "Just a little, but I was praying for the children to stay safe too."

"They will be fine," said Tim. "They take after me and don't get into trouble."

Sasha hoped that was true. She wanted to believe her husband always kept his nose clean but sometimes she could not help but wonder if during his frequent business trip he was really being faithful -- a thought that had only begun to occur over the past few years. It had even been brought up with the marriage counselor, and Sasha had apologized for asking.

But Tim did not get angry. Instead he responded with earnest eyes, "I swear to you -- nothing has ever happened on a business trip. You believe me right?"

She had believed him then and she believed him now (even though he wasn't specifically talking about adultery at the present moment).

But she did not believe him with 100% certainty. It was more like 99.9% certainty -- and she had discovered that this mere .1% of doubt, small as it might be, still managed to cause some gnawing sleepless nights.

After all these years Sasha still did not completely understand the exact details of Tim's work, partly because he was so vague in his descriptions.

What she did know for certain was that Tim worked as a business consultant and this meant that he was often traveling. The only co-worker she had ever met was Tiffany's husband George.

There was an internet site for his employer, Elonta, on the internet. But the address was an office suite in Dallas (Tim worked from home in D.C.) and the phone number always rang to voice mail.

Once, just for the hell of it, she called and left a message and two days later when a secretary from Elonta rang Sasha had nothing to say.

She did sometimes pry and ask her husband about his business dealings and Tim always obliged with answers -- and yet still Sasha never quite felt like she understood what exactly he was doing. But that was fine. She had no head for business and the very subject made her drowsy. Although Sasha had spent her life with Tim as a stay at home wife, she had attended Texas A & M for marine biology.

Her main area of concentration at A & M was plankton ecosystems. But by this point she had forgotten most of the theories and she did not keep up with current developments.

There were times (especially over the past few years) when she considered a foray into the 40-hour-a-week job-world. But these were always short lived aspirations. She enjoyed, too much, spending as much time as possible with the children.

Sasha looked away from the moon and back at her husband Tim, marveling at his strong jaw-line. But past his profile, she saw, once again, the lurking woman walked past the row and again seeming to stare at her.

"Did you see that?" Sasha asked Tim.

He nodded, "Yes, I saw her that time."

Suddenly the Captain's voice came over the intercom, "May I have your attention please? I know it is late, but it is my pleasure to announce that the engaged couple flying in business class have just been married. Congratulations to Ronald and Melissa Bowlby."

The message was then repeated in Chinese and Malaysian and the plane began cheering loudly. It seemed that no one on this late-night flight was sleeping!

Although a crying baby -- the only complaining passenger at the moment -- was loudly wailing about seven rows ahead.

Tim, Sasha, and Tiffany all smiled and spoke for a moment about what a wonderful thing it was for a couple to be married on a plane only moments after they had been engaged.

"Do you think it was the Ronald and Melissa that we met?" Sasha asked Tim.

Tim said, "It is certainly possible. Once you told them our plans to travel to China, they -- or at least Ronald \-- also seemed quite interested in going. Didn't they even want to know our exact flight?"

Sasha replied, "Yes, I think they did. I suppose it really could be them! But I can't imagine that those two would ever get married."

At that moment a second crying baby could be heard crying louder that the first.

Tiffany said, "I hate crying babies."

"That's just because you don't have any children," said Sasha.

"Sorry, I should have said that I hate crying babies on planes," said Tiffany.

"That is also because you and George don't have any children. If you did it wouldn't bother you as much."

Tiffany looked to be considering this for a moment, saying, "Maybe -- but anyway if it was me I would have wanted to do that thing where you get married while parachuting."

"Did you ever tell George that?" Sasha asked.

"I should have, perhaps he would have done it," said Tiffany, laughing.

"I don't know," said Tim. "I can't see him doing it."

Tiffany continued laughing, saying, "Neither can I."

Sasha said, "Maybe we should go congratulate them. Plus I am dying to know if they are our same travel friends."

But right at that moment the lurking woman returned, and this time she introduced herself, "I'm sorry, my name is Kelly Chomar and I just have to ask -- are you Hannah Druid?"

"Hannah Druid? No," said Sasha, wondering what this was all about.

"Oh, I see, you are a doppelganger," said Kelly, waving her hand and adding, "I feel like such an idiot. I'm sure you noticed me peering in at you multiple times, actually I don't think you saw me do it the first couple of times. But I kept looking because I wanted to make sure that you actually were Hannah so that I didn't have to deal with this awkward situation that would occur if you were not Hannah, and which is occurring right at this moment."

"Oh, it is not awkward, I don't mind, people have mistaken me for other people before," said Sasha, relieved that the woman hadn't been loitering around because she had wanted to chastise her for seeming suspiciously Mile High-like.

"No, you don't understand. You look exactly like her. I mean exactly like her," said Kelly. "And just listening to you talk right there -- you sound exactly like her."

"Well now you have me curious," said Sasha. "Just who is this Hannah -- what was her last name?"

"Druid, Hannah Druid -- Oh, she was a wonderful person. Everywhere she was she seemed to light up --."

Sasha interrupted, "Wait! What do you mean -- was? Are you comparing me to a dead person?"

Her face white, Kelly covered her cheeks with her hands. It seemed she had only now realized how strange this fact made the question -- especially considering that she had clearly been gathering her courage to ask the question in the first place and so had ample time to consider all angles.

"Oh this is even more awkward! I'm sorry -- it is just you look so much like her!" said Kelly, pressing her back against the opposite seat in the aisle as a stewardess walked past.

"Well, thank you for bringing up the resemblance, but the comparison is a little, forgive me for saying it but: off-the-wall, so maybe, you know..." said Tim, waiting for Kelly to fill in the blank.

"Yes, I am sorry, let's stop talking about it. I am just going to go back to my seat -- pretend that I never brought this up," said Kelly, nodding her head for no reason, as if agreeing to agree with whatever else was said in her absence.

"No, wait!" said Tiffany. "You don't have to go just because you put your foot in your mouth a bit, like maybe just your big toe in your mouth -- right guys?"

Kelly quipped, "Yeah, a cold big toe with a toe tag."

But the reference to a cadaver toe tag was lost on the group and no one laughed -- which perhaps made the situation even more awkward for the white-faced-Kelly.

Meanwhile Sasha thought, "Tiffany sees herself in this woman Kelly, because Tiffany has been feeling awkward all trip (even if she will not admit to it), and so Tiffany is attempting to include this woman in our group, just as she (subconsciously) wishes herself to be included."

And so Sasha decided to throw Tiffany a bone by including Kelly for a moment or two, saying, "Of course not, grab a seat next to Tiffany -- by the way this is Tiffany. We are all from D.C. -- you seem like you are from the States too. And like us I guess you are obviously a night owl!"

"Night owl yes, but USA Nope, Toronto," said Kelly, adding, "Which makes traveling easier -- you know, on account of everyone hating Americans these days. Do you really want me to seat down?"

"Please," said Tim, motioning for her to sit.

Sasha knew exactly what Kelly meant about foreigners hating Americans. It wasn't because any Malaysians or other tourists from other countries had been outright rude to Sasha herself but she had certainly gotten the hint:

For example, an English speaking French couple had been flabbergasted when they learned Tim and Sasha's country of residence. It was Tim and Sasha's second week in Malaysia and they had been visiting the famous Snake Temple in Penang, which is in the North. The temple is aptly named: it contains pit vipers.

"No, no, you say -- how do you say: no good? No true?" said the Frenchwoman with a thick French accent, and while waving her finger from side to side as if scolding a child. "No, Americans, no!"

The French man chimed in, "Yes, South African, Australian, New Zealand, English, Canadian, but American? I do not believe."

Tim happened to be carrying his passport so he handed it to the man.

The Frenchman raised his bushy eyebrows. It reminded Sasha of a scene from the Pink Panther, but of course, she kept this thought to herself.

The Frenchman returned the passport with a shrug as if the passport was of no consequence at all.

"But the Americans we see -- fat people, very large -- and loud, oh how so loud. And how do you say, small pantaloons?" asked the Frenchman placing his hands on his knees.

"Shorts?" Sasha asked.

"Yes! Shorts, Americans love shorts -- love to wear shorts with very white legs. This you love very much. But you are not loud and you are friendly -- and shoes, no shoes," said the Frenchman pointing at their bare feet, implying that actually Americans would not follow the rules of temple and so would not remove their shoes.

The conversation had continued in this vein for quite a while. Similar conversations would occur with other travelers and even some Malaysians during the next three weeks, and so Sasha had a good grasp of just how universally loathed the American traveler had become.

(Incidentally, this gave their public sex adventures another element of risk because other than the simple risk of being caught there was also the risk of being caught and branded as typical vulgar Americans.)

Sasha could have shared these experiences with Kelly but after throwing the bone to Tiffany and asking Kelly to sit, she was hoping that this Canadian weirdo would leave as soon as possible and so didn't want to provide her with any additional conversation fodder.

However, Tiffany seemed to be doing her best on that account and Tim even joined the conversation, a conversation which included recent vampire movies, best cheap meals in Malaysia, and why kids don't do anything anymore besides play video games.

So Sasha elbowed Tim.

Tim whispered, "I'm just being polite."

Sasha whispered, "Yeah, but I want her to go away."

Tim laughed.

Sasha whispered, "Or we could go away -- we could go congratulate the married couple."

Tim whispered, "Or we could try to join the club again."

"Do you really want to?" Sasha whispered, while hoping that Tim had not been joking.

"Why not?" Tim asked.

"Yes, let's do it," Sasha replied.

"Okay," said Tim.

Just then the Captain's voice came over the intercom, "Flight 370 -- I apologize for the late night announcement: but we ask that you return now to your seats -- we are approaching an area of heavy turbulence."

Sasha sighed.

"A little bumpiness might add to the experience," said Tim.

Sasha laughed while buckling her seatbelt.

"Okay fine," said Tim with a pretend pout, buckling his seatbelt too.

"Well it was nice meeting you all. I better get back to my seat, my husband will get worried I got sucked through the toilet," said Kelly.

The travelling trio said goodbye to Kelly -- and just as Kelly was standing up, she added, "Isn't it odd that the Captain keeps referring to us as flight 370? I've never heard a Captain do that before."

Because Kelly was now leaving for good, Sasha said, "Yes, I was thinking the same thing earlier. I think it is very odd. Well, have a good trip in China."

As the first vibration of turbulence was felt, Kelly nodded and walked back down the aisle.

"She was nice," said Tim.

"Yeah, but she thought I looked like a dead person," said Sasha.

"Yeah, but she was nice," said Tim again.

"Yeah, but she thought I looked like a dead person," Sasha repeated.

Tiffany butted-in, saying, "That is a little weird, but she was pleasant to talk to."

"Yeah, I guess. But this plane ride is weird enough. I really don't want to add anymore weirdness to it," said Sasha.

"Weird? How so?" Tiffany asked.

"Oh, she hasn't told you yet? I'm surprised," said Tim, adding with a spooky voice, "Flight 370..."

"Stop it!" said Sasha, clearly not amused.

"What?" Tim asked, laughing.

"You are tempting it," said Sasha.

"Tempting what?" Tim asked.

"I don't know. Whatever it was that caused all those crazy coincidences to occur. You are tempting that!" said Sasha, practically yelling.

"Oh, this is starting to sound interesting," said Tiffany.

Sasha snapped, "It isn't a joke okay!"

Tim tried to hug her, but she pushed him away.

"Not now, get off of me!" Sasha shouted.

Tim placed his hands meekly in his lap, while Tiffany started reading a magazine.

Sasha sighed, realizing that she had been a brat.

"Tiffany," she said, "I'm sorry, it's just I was trying to forget about the whole thing, and now it is back on my mind."

"What?" Tiffany asked, leaning closer.

Sasha decided to be polite and spill the beans but first she sighed again (because she really wasn't thrilled about divulging all this at that moment).

So in quick succession, Sasha told Tiffany all the coincidences with the number 370, and as she spoke she could see Tiffany's smile growing.

Why was Tiffany smiling about all this? It was nothing to make light of!

So finally when Sasha had finished her story, she asked, "What is so funny about all that?"

Tiffany looked serious for a moment, saying, "I'm sorry all those tragic things happened to you and all that stuff is really sad -- but I love conspiracy theories. This isn't exactly a conspiracy theory, but it is some kind of theory, and like you said there is something weird about all of it. You know once my Uncle Mark had a poodle that died, and a week later it came back from the dead and visited him for an afternoon. Everyone thought that it was just a stray that looked like his dead dog, but he was convinced that it had been a ghost dog! I believe in weird stuff like this, so you have my support Sasha!"

Sasha snapped, "Tiffany you are beautiful but you can be such a freaking airhead! Why would I want your support? I'd rather that you disagree with me. Don't you see that if I am right that that means something horrible is going to happen to this plane -- which means that something horrible is going to happen to us, which means you too!"

Tiffany was silent. Tim looked like he was about to say something but then thought better of it.

Meanwhile Sasha tried to calm her beating heart.

Finally Tiffany said, "I don't really think all that means anything. I just like a good story, and that was a good story. But I'm not superstitious. I do things like walk under ladders all the time."

Sasha shook her head, "Don't tell me that."

"Why not?" Tiffany asked.

"Because I feel like this whole plane could be like some bad luck plane, and so if you have been walking under ladders and things like that then the bad luck might have been building and waiting to strike all at once," said Sasha, her heart beating rapidly again.

"Okay baby, it is time to let it go," said Tim, grasping her hand.

Sasha knew she was being a brat but she couldn't help it. And besides, was it really her fault that she was the only one who seemed to believe in the supernatural? Everyone had become so science and computer oriented nowadays that it was like they thought that nothing out of the ordinary could ever happen: that if something had not been verified by a news anchor or explained in a textbook then it did not exist.

And Sasha was not even making an argument for what force had caused all these coincidences to occur. She was simply expressing that the existence of all these coincidences was, in no small way, imminently terrifying because they were on a flight numbered 370.

She sighed, knowing that she had been too harsh on her husband and her friend. But she was not going to apologize! Not when she had been bearing her fears and others had judged her!

So she continued to pout and after a minute tears began welling in her eyes. She thought, "I wouldn't be practically crying if there weren't children involved. But this is a scary situation and I don't want my children to grow up without parents!"

"I'm sorry," said Tiffany. "I didn't mean to upset you."

A statement that Sasha realized made her look like even more of a brat.

"But I'm still not apologizing!" Sasha thought, her arms now tightly crossed. Although Sasha was ten years older than Tiffany, she knew that at that moment it was Tiffany who appeared the more mature of the two.

"Baby what do you say when someone apologizes to you?" Tim said, in a playful voice, a voice Sasha figured had been used in an attempt not to offend her

She thought, "But first he fails to fuck me in the bathroom and now he is going to take another girl's side! Really! I mean really!"

Sasha sighed, finally saying to Tiffany, "You don't have to apologize, and I shouldn't have called you an airhead."

"Oh don't worry about it. I've been called that plenty of times. It doesn't bother me. In fact, I've always thought it was kind of accurate, not because I am stupid, but because I don't let things weigh me down. I just go with the flow," said Tiffany, her flawless smile as weightless as a leaf over a waterfall.

"Tiffany I admire your attitude. I wish I was as glass-half-full as you are," said Sasha.

"Oh, thank you," said Tiffany, beaming.

Sasha thought, "She is always nice and she does not take offense or get in the way -- so why does she peeve me so much? No, it isn't her at all. It is my Wandering mind being bitchy again! Stop it Wandering-Mind!"

"I think we are going to go congratulate the newlyweds, would you like to come with us?" Sasha asked Tiffany.

"Yes, I would love to come," said Tiffany, beaming again.

30 Minutes Earlier

Malaysian International Flight 370: Cockpit: 1:00 a.m.:

Guntur stared blankly into the inviting darkness. And the more he stared, the more the darkness seemed to beckon.

He felt ready for an eternity of nothingness.

Although he had carefully watched the controls during the take-off, the Captain had not presented him with a suitable opportunity to thrust the plane to its destruction.

Over and over again, Guntur imagined the plane careening into the sea with an explosive splash. He felt as if watching rain running down a window pane on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

"I'm coming crashing down," said the Captain, apparently on the same wavelength as Guntur, as he prepared two thick cocaine lines on the control board. "And this pilot likes to stay flying high when he is flying high."

Guntur joined the Captain and snorted another line. For a moment he felt like a superhero capable of singlehandedly propelling the plane forward.

"I just felt like I was flying -- I mean really flying," said Guntur.

"I do all the time my unstoppable sidekick. If there were more stars I could stare at them for hours. And stare long enough, and you always start to fly... This cocaine is so pure that it's pure fucking bliss," said the Captain and with his arms open he declared, "I'm the king of the world!"

Guntur tried his best to ignore him.

The Captain asked, "You didn't see that one? Titanic?"

The Captain had been ranting for most of the flight. But it was all pointless chatter. For Guntur, the only thing that mattered was the completion of his one and only goal: death. Until that point he simply had to blend in and play the game of life.

"Nope," said Guntur.

"It was a great love story. I don't want to tell you the ending but I want to tell you the ending. Can I tell you the ending?" the Captain asked.

At this point, so close to death, a spoiler was impossible: Guntur nodded in the affirmative.

The Captain continued, "I can't believe you haven't seen that? Leonardo DiCaprio? Kate Winslet?"

"Can't say I did," said Guntur.

"Wow! So Leo dies saving Kate. What happens at the end is this: the Titanic smashes into an iceberg and sinks, I know big surprise. Leo and Kate have waited until the last possible moment to jump off. Why? Because that was Leo's plan! So Leo treads water in the open ocean and holds Kate's hand while she safely floats on a wooden headboard. But here is the problem: if he climbs on the floating headboard they will both sink and die. So he holds her hand and tells her that everything is going to be okay -- tells her this while he is the one in the freezing ocean, treading water, and dying!" the Captain exclaimed, pausing to allow for the consideration of this stupefying fact.

Guntur remained expressionless.

The Captain continued, "He comforts her right up to the point where he turns into an ice cube and sinks to the bottom of the sea. What a cinematic moment! Great flick, a classic, and a great performance by Leo, one of his best. He really nailed it!"

After a long silence Guntur realized that he was expected to say something. So he said, "It sounds good."

"Fuck good, try great on for size my film doubting co-snorter. All the elements of that movie came together... I challenge you to watch that movie and that not tell me that it is one of the best movies that you have ever seen," said the Captain.

"The women like Leo," said Guntur, who had stopped listening and was instead imagining a successful smash through the windshield followed by a satisfying plummet to his death.

"Yeah, but he is a top-notch actor too. Some women may like Leo merely because they think he's some semi boy-toy semi man-meat hottie but Leo's not operating based on his looks. Men, like me, respect Leo because he works hard and transforms himself for his roles -- it's like he becomes a new person," said the Captain.

"Is that so?" said Guntur, who even with his recent snort sensed that the earlier manic cocaine boost was fading, an occurrence which made playing the game of life more difficult.

Besides, the only thing he cared about in this world was Indah's love.

And Indah's love was gone.

No, the end would have to come soon. Also, the Captain's meaningless opinions seemed inexhaustible and he felt the urge to escape them (for all of eternity).

For most of the flight, while the Captain had been ranting in his loud grating voice, Guntur had been ranting silently inside his head. His silent ranting continued as he fought the urge to grab the Captain by the collar and shout, "You can take the Titanic with perfect hairdo Leo prancing on the deck and shove it up your fucking ass!"

Yet to Guntur's frustration, the Captain continued, "It's a tragedy that Leo has never won an Oscar. Think about all his great roles! Besides Titanic there are many others..." And as the Captain outlined these movies his intricate descriptions sounded like a Wikipedia entry.

"Yes, he is very good," Guntur interrupted, trying to demonstrate that he also had a man-crush for Leo, in the hope that the Captain would drastically curtail his ranting: the message being, "You are preaching to the choir."

But this only seemed to add wind to the Captain's sails. He continued, "It is no secret that Asian women are gaga for Leonardo, his blonde hair, his blue eyes, his rascally face. You would think I would be jealous? But I am not. Do you want to know something that is very true my friend?"

The Captain leaned so close that they were practically kissing and Guntur considered smashing the Captain's head into the control panel: it appeared an opportune moment for such an action.

However, the Captain just then pulled back, continuing with renewed vigor, "The truth is this: I would let Leonardo DiCaprio fuck my wife whenever and however he wanted to!

Guntur said nothing and moved not a muscle.

The Captain said, "That's right: He could just call me on the phone, drive to my house in his environmentally friendly car, and I would make it happen. That's how great of an actor I consider Leonardo Dicaprio! That's the love that I have flowing in my veins for the man."

The night sky, like the remembrance of a lost love, continued beckoning Guntur.

The Captain continued, "I may be a romantic and I may have no problems with the ladies. But I can't solve problems like Leo. When he was running down those narrow Titanic corridors with a torrent of water chasing him like a heard of charging rhinos, he never looked nervous. When he was trapped in the middle of the ship, his love separated from him by an impassable iron door, the water rising over his head, his air supply running low -- he always had a solution ready!"

Guntur managed to nod.

The Captain said, "When in a tight spot, Leo would try one thing and if that did not work he would try another thing," and here the Captain started fiddling with the plane controls like he was Leo searching for solutions.

And as the cocaine crazed Captain fiddled with crucial flight machinery (though just as quickly fiddled it back to the correct position), Guntur again noted how petrified he would have been if he still valued his life in the least.

The Captain finally stopped playing with the flight controls, saying, "You might say the director told Leo to do those things. I say so what? If the director is so good why isn't the director saving Kate Winslet? Because the director, James Cameron, could not have pulled it off and Kate Winslet would have drowned. That would have been a movie that no one wanted to see! And James Cameron knew this! So he gives Leo the role. Why? Because Leo is an amazing fucking actor who can do amazing fucking things..."

As Guntur reflexively nodded the ranting seemed to ramp up yet another level.

The Captain continued, "What about someone like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Leo's place you say? Well I say he would have blown up the Titanic before it had a chance to sink! What about Al Pacino? To give Al his due, he is a great actor. In the Godfather it was an epic transformation from a meek mouse into a monster Mafia boss! He killed his own brother after he swore to protect him to his own mother! And in a family where family is supposed to be everything! Talk about a twist! But can you imagine someone like that on the Titanic? He probably would have double-crossed Kate and stolen the Heart of the Ocean and perhaps would have made a shady deal for a lifeboat so he could paddle to safety, alone, and without a second thought!"

As the ranting continued, Guntur dreamed only of death.

The Captain repeated a question, "Seriously what do you think about that?"

But Guntur had lost the crux of the rant, so he just guessed, saying, "Yes, I agree."

The Captain said, "Good, I'm glad I'm not the only one."

Begrudgingly curious, Guntur asked the Captain to repeat his question.

"I asked you if -- you were still with Indah -- if you would have let Leonardo bang her," said the Captain, a rakish smile on his lips.

"No FUCKING way!" exclaimed Guntur, practically screaming, as all the cocaine in his body seemed to have flown into his eyeballs where it felt perched and ready to blast through his pupils and into the ether.

The Captain was finally rendered speechless. Guntur sighed with relief. And indeed, they momentarily flew in silence, a silent moment which felt so good that Guntur again remembered what he liked about living: peace.

Yet with Indah gone everything had become chaos.

The Captain said softly, "I did not mean to insult you my friend. I can see that you still love Indah."

"I love her very much!" Guntur shouted, the words involuntarily spewing from his mouth like projectile vomit.

"And that is good to be capable of such deep love. People who love deeply are the only people I surround myself with. Did you ever wonder why I always put in the request for you to be part of my crew?" the Captain asked.

Guntur remained silent.

"It is because I sensed that you love deeply. Usually I get this feeling around women and I use this knowledge to take advantage of them. I have my fill and then I throw them to the curb. It is a horrible thing. Do you know why I admit this to you?" The Captain asked.

Guntur said nothing.

"Because I consider you more than a friend: I would never want to take advantage of you. You are like a son to me," said the Captain.

The crassness of the world was too much and Guntur shouted, "What about your own children? You told me you hate them."

The Captain hung his head. Then he said, "This is true, but that is because I cannot share moments like this with my children. They would not snort the White Pony and ride on the Dream Ship of the Night Sky while speaking of Great Things."

"Well how old are they?" asked Guntur, wondering why he was allowing himself to get pulled into the Captain's problems, death was his only concern.

"I have many bastard children. But my wife's children are two, four, and seven," said the Captain, pausing as he said each number, clearly needing time to calculate the ages.

"Then how could they do this shit with you?" Guntur asked, incredulous.

"It is not the reality. It is the feeling. My children are not capable of Great Love. I sense it in my bones. So even if my children were adults they could not share a moment as true as the one we share now," said the Captain.

Guntur snickered.

"Do you know how I know this?"

Guntur said nothing.

The Captain continued, "Because those who are capable of Great Love are also capable of Great Pain. I know you suffer greatly right now. I know that it takes all your self control not to break down and smash your head against some hard object. And yet you do not and instead you snort cocaine with your good friend and you talk of Great Things."

Guntur wondered how the Captain knew of his pain.

The Captain continued, "You have lost your great love Indah. Because you love deeply you hurt deeply, so deeply you do not know what to do. It is a pain which wants to break your soul!"

Guntur stared at the Captain. They locked eyes. It was like the Captain was reading his mind.

The Captain continued ranting about pain. He got off his seat and knelt by Guntur. He hugged him. Guntur did not know what to do so he remained as motionless as if already dead.

The Captain said, "You are an astounding man. You hold the weight of immense pain around your neck and yet you blithely continue on with your job as if nothing is amiss. You are a true crew member and this plane could not fly without you. I thank you. I am in your debt!"

Shocked, Guntur merely nodded.

When their eyes met again Guntur could see that the Captain was crying.

Staring deep into Guntur's eyes, the Captain said, "The depth of your love I feel in my soul. I cry because I could never love like you. So I cry for the beauty of your love and the beauty of your soul. I love women like they are worthless creatures. I pretend to listen to their words but I am an empty vessel. But you loved your woman so deeply that you would even consider throwing away your own life in despair. I marvel at the depth of your love..."

How did he know!

"You are wondering how I know you are suicidal? And also how I know of the depth of your love for Indah?" said the Captain.

Guntur nodded.

The Captain stood up. He paced. Finally he said, "You have the same look as Leonardo in two of his roles. When he played Romeo, Leonardo loved Juliet so strongly that he took his own life. His look was the same as your look now! And in the Titanic, when Kate was on the lifeboat and Leo sacrificed his own life so that she could live -- he welcomed a cold grave at the bottom of the ocean. You, my friend, look just as Leo did in that scene like you would welcome a cold grave at the bottom of the ocean too! That is the power of Leonardo DiCaprio's acting!"

Guntur sighed. Was the rant continuing? Everything was bleak again...

The Captain continued, "I don't know if you are waiting for the right moment to jump from this very plane to your death at the bottom of the ocean. But that would be a horrible action to take. You who have so much love to give to the world."

Guntur could not help himself and he began crying. The Captain hugged him again.

They embraced as the plane, on autopilot, continued flying into the endless night.

The Captain released Guntur, asking, "Do you want to know something that only a few people know in this world?"

Guntur nodded, wondering what further secrets the Captain would reveal about his soul.

The Captain said, "My friend the real reason that Leonardo is such a great actor is that he can do two things simultaneously (1) act by pretending to be something he is not and (2) sincerely love so deeply that he breathes actual life into the pretend roles -- though it also helps that he is very handsome."

The rant was back.

The Captain continued, "Guntur you do not have all of Leo's gifts. But you have the most important gift that anyone could have on this planet, the capacity for great love. Do not throw this gift away. Do not allow your pain to destroy you."

It annoyed Guntur that the Captain kept ranting about Leo. But otherwise the Captain was quite accurate with his insights.

Guntur felt that he needed to say something, so he muttered, "Thank you."

As the Captain silently prepared two lines of cocaine, Guntur wiped away his tears.

Handing Guntur a straw, the Captain said, "Come back to this world. Come back to life."

Guntur took the straw and snorted his line.

The Captain shook his head, saying, "No my friend -- this time they are both for you."

Guntur snorted the second line too.

The Captain said, "A high as sweet as the one provided by this pure Columbian Cocaine you will never find in death my friend."

Guntur nodded while laughing, surprised at his laughter.

Was he really coming back to life? But how could he without Indah's love?

Yet the Captain seemed to understand him. But the Captain could never love him like Indah.

So what did it matter if the Captain understood him?

Still, he felt somewhat less despondent and even that he owed the Captain something. He thought, "Perhaps I will spare the Captain's life and wait until I am in Beijing to kill myself."

The Captain prepared another line. And just before he snorted it, he exclaimed, "Together we ride!"

Suddenly Guntur did sense that they were on their own private trip of sorts while everyone else on the plane was on the standard scheduled flight.

The cocaine seemed to infuse Guntur with words-to-be-spoken and he blabbered, "That was amazing. You just said amazing things and perceived things about me that no one has ever perceived before..."

The Captain laughed, saying again, "We ride! Yes, together we ride!" and suddenly he added, "So fuck this autopilot shit!"

Guntur, who had suddenly experienced the slightest flickering of an appreciation for life, asked, "Do you think that is really such a good idea?"

"No, I think it is a great idea!" exclaimed the Captain, overriding the autopilot, and activating the intercom. He addressed the plane, saying, "Hello Flight 370 this is your Captain speaking. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts. We are expecting some heavy turbulence shortly. Thank you."

A moment later, as the Captain enthusiastically yanked the control column, the plane ascended at a rapid rate, bouncing shakily though air-pockets.

Guntur realized that the Captain was flying in such a manner to create his own state of turbulence.

Guntur also realized that his heart was beating quite rapidly.

Did he no longer know with absolute certainty that he wanted to die?

In any case, he said, "It's just we are both kind of fucked up."

The Captain laughed, and while righting the plane, said, "That was just my little test, my friend. You do care about life! You looked into my cocaine ridden face and you thought, 'Fuck that cokehead Captain is flying this plane to its demise and I don't want to die.' Admit it!"

Guntur laughed -- though only laughing freely because the Captain had returned the plane to its autopilot status \-- saying, "Okay, I thought that a little, which I have to admit surprised me. So maybe I am feeling a little better."

The Captain deactivated the seatbelt light, adding, "And don't worry about the landing -- you know as well as I do that the Boeing 737 can land on autopilot too."

"Is that why you always use the autopilot to land?" asked Guntur, though joking.

"Bingo!" said the Captain, straight-faced.

Realizing that the Captain had not been joking, he said, "So you are always --."

"Bingo!" the Captain interrupted.

"Suddenly I feel nervous for all the flights I have survived," said Guntur, though while mostly wishing that one of the flights had already crashed. He thought, "So why did I try to stop the Captain from flying like a nutcase?"

"Don't be, I'm just messing with you. It's like I said before: Sneeze only heightens my senses," said the Captain.

"Then why the autopilot to land?" asked Guntur, somewhat curious.

"I prefer it," said the Captain, matter-of-factly.

On the surface, the light banter had lifted Guntur's spirits. But in the back of his mind he still knew the task that needed to be accomplished: his death.

Malaysian International Flight 370: Row 32: 1:40 a.m.:

After the turbulence had passed and the seatbelt light had been deactivated, the traveling trio walked to the front of the plane, passing through the grey curtain that separated the haves from the have-nots.

Once in the middle of the first class cabin, Tim with his deep voice -- and completely ignoring the sleeping passengers -- asked, "So where are the newlyweds?"

(A statement, Sasha realized, that for the first time during the trip actually connected Tim to his vulgar American traveler origins because (1) it had been loud (2) it had been made with no concern for any of the sleeping passengers and (3) it was but the opening for a bout of garrulous conversation.)

"We are here!" said a man with a British accent.

"Ronald?" Tim exclaimed.

"No!" said Sasha, embracing Ronald, and then hugging Melissa.

"Am I missing something?" Tiffany asked.

Sasha and Tim began laughing.

Sasha said, "Ronald this is our traveling companion, the one that we were telling you about, Tiffany!"

Ronald said, "Oh, you are the one who is never included in anything. It is nice to meet you."

Ronald offered his hand and Tiffany shook it.

"Wait, you all know each other?" Tiffany asked.

"And I can see that you would look lovely in a bikini," Ronald added, laughing.

"Wait -- and you've been talking about me?" Tiffany asked while making a pretend-mad-face.

"Watch out Ronald, you can't be talking like that anymore you are a married man now," said Tim.

Ronald laughed.

"Hey, he isn't joking," said Mellissa, then planting a kiss on his lips -- a hot newlywed kiss.

Sasha finally explained to Tiffany, "We met these crazy Brits a few times during our first week in Kuala Lumpar. In fact we met so many times out and about that Tim and I started to joke that they must be following us!"

"How simply American Spy Movie of you! Tiffany this is my wife Melissa," said Ronald referring to the beautiful woman on his lap.

While Tiffany exchanged pleasantries with Melissa, Sasha marveled to herself that this oddly matched pair had actually married each other.

She and Tim had discussed these English travelers more than once. They were an interesting pair, partly because they were such an odd match. He was a professor and she was a bartender. Apparently they had bonded in Malaysia through thrill seeking activities such as bungee jumping, sky diving, and mountain climbing. (Now getting married on a plane could be added to that thrill list too.)

As for the origins of their relationship, Sasha was of the opinion that Melissa was either a current or an ex-student of Ronald's (Ronald was a professor at Oxford). She was also of the opinion that the relationship would end just as soon as they returned to England, while Tim opined that Melissa simply looked young for her age and that there was nothing untoward about the relationship at all.

Sasha had replied, "So you are trying to say that dirty old men are not dirty old men?"

Tim laughed while kissing Sasha on the forehead, "Why do you want to paint your husband as a defender of dirty old men?"

"Because that is what you are doing," Sasha replied, wiping the kiss from her forehead with a mock angry stare.

"Only if he is a dirty old man -- but I am saying that he is not fucking a current or a recently past student," said Tim.

"Fine -- but I don't think you are right," said Sasha.

She couldn't remember what he had said next but she did remember that their little tiff had ended with some great make-up sex: a sexual romp that began sensually in their hotel room bathtub and had ended in a nasty slutty way on their hotel room floor in such a definitive manner that she had reached a particularly peculiar state of orgasm, a state she had never before attained (it had always been too painful but this time the raunchy bliss had overcome the discomfort).

As she put it the next day in an email to Penelope: It was like I'd been spending my entire life enjoying the bouncy gravity of the moon and now here I was on the floating reality of mars...

After a few more confusing allusions she eventually spelled it out: While I am sure you have guessed, I am going to state for the record that what I am referring to is ANAL SEX!

Sasha blushed as she remembered the scene. She couldn't help herself because she was growing uncontrollably aroused -- she pressed Tim against an airplane seat and sucked on his neck, sucking until she had reached that fine-line of hickey potentiality.

Tim smacked her ass and then continued talking to Ronald as if they were still all chatting in the drunken flow of late night Kuala Lumpar while dining on street food.

But Sasha realized that sucking on Tim's neck had just made her even hornier and that there was only one solution: Mile High Club attempt number two.

"This plane needs a bloody bar. That was poor planning on my part, that's for sure," said Ronald. "If this plane had a bar we would have more room to mingle and I would order drinks all around!"

However, the first class travelers seated next to Ronald and Melissa offered to move a row back into some empty seats, a move which would, a few moment later, allow Sasha to be seated by the newlyweds while Tim stood in the aisle and Tiffany sat one row over.

Tim thanked one of the Chinese passengers who was making the move, and the man nodded happily and introduced himself in broken English as Mr. Wu, saying, "No problem Sir. These our seats. We move up to wish good luck. Now we go back to fall sleep."

"Oh, well thank you again," said Tim.

"You American Air Marshall?" Mr. Wu asked with a big toothy Chinese smile.

"Me, no, why?" Tim asked, looking puzzled.

"You very strong man -- you must be military man?" Mr. Wu asked.

"Nope, just a regular guy, a businessman," said Tim, smiling.

Mr. Wu laughed, saying, "You no businessman."

"I am," said Tim.

"You funny man," said Mr. Wu with a big smile as he sat in his seat.

As Tiffany continued gabbing with the newlyweds, Sasha had been observing her husband interacting with Mr. Wu. At first she had been trying to get Tim's attention because she wanted to suggest they start planning another bathroom rendezvous, but suddenly Mr. Wu captured her interest. She could not quite place what but she sensed something altogether disingenuous about this large Chinaman.

So she considered the matter further: although Mr. Wu was dressed smartly in a suit with a yellow silk tie, he had shifty eyes, an uncertain bearing, and when he smiled a big gap could be seen between his front teeth.

His shirt was buttoned to the top and the edge of a red and black tattoo could just barely be observed sneaking over his crisp collar -- and this hint of a hidden neck tattoo didn't seem to jive with the rest of his expensive get-up.

As Sasha continued staring and watched him while seated, she noticed the weary look of his face when held at rest -- a ragged weariness that made his easy smiling of a moment earlier ring altogether phony.

Sasha wondered if he was a gangster. But just at that moment of wondering, Mr. Wu caught her staring and winked. Sasha shuttered and looked away, now turning back towards her husband and friends.

Ronald and Tim were talking about the empty first class seats. Ronald said, "Yes, it had long since passed when they would offer to move lucky passengers from the back to sit in the front..."

For a brief period, the conversation shifted to the impromptu marriage, as Sasha asked, "So why did you two decide to get married in the middle of the night?"

Then discussions continued, touching on other subjects, and the stewardess brought a second round of vodka martinis. The group toasted to good health and long marriages, soon finishing two more rounds of drinks.

Somewhat buzzed, Sasha brought up the 370 coincidences to Ronald. He did not seem alarmed in the least, saying, "As you know I am a professor of mathematics. Numerical coincidences happen all the time. Trying to find meaning in them is pointless."

But his new bride disagreed, saying, "I don't Ronald, this might be our first argument as a married couple. I believe in astrology and Tarot card and all that --."

"Rubbish!" exclaimed Ronald suddenly.

"Excuse me?" Melissa asked, looking suddenly uncomfortable in her comfortable first class seat.

"I was finishing your statement -- and all that rubbish, because that is what superstitions are," said Ronald.

"We will have to agree to disagree," said Melissa, adding, "Well at least if this plane starts to go down we can use the parachutes."

"Parachutes?" Sasha asked, intrigued. She knew that Ronald and Melissa were thrill seekers, but she wondered why they would be flying with parachutes.

"Yes, Ronald and I have been skydiving for a couple of months. We recently got into base jumping -- our parachutes are in our carry-on luggage," said Melissa.

"I remember you told us about the sky diving," said Sasha. "But I've never heard of anyone taking parachutes into their carry-on. That sounds like someone who is really afraid to fly -- that sounds like someone who is hoping for an escape route."

Melissa laughed, saying, "Maybe he is -- I don't know -- I haven't known my husband for too long. Is that some secret that you have held back from me? A fear of flying?"

Sasha noticed that briefly Ronald's face contorted, involuntarily, in a strange manner, but after this awkward-faced moment he laughed, replying, "No it is nothing of the sort hunny pie. And we've been on so many planes with all our skydiving lately that I think you would have noticed by now. No, we simply didn't have enough room in our regular luggage and the airlines charge you up the yin-yang now for every extra bag. I thought it the best way to maximize space."

"My husband the expert packer," said Melissa, kissing him on the cheek.

Sasha remembered those early newlywed days, when every discovery about Tim seemed a gift from heaven. But she blushed as she realized that now she felt that way about Tim yet again. So she turned and kissed him on the cheek in the same manner that Melissa had just kissed Ronald.

After more debate and further drinks, the traveling trio bid adieu to the newly married thrill seekers, promising to meet up for dinner somewhere nice on their second night in Beijing.

Drunk and woozy, they wobbled back towards the cattle class.

One of the crying babies was at it again, so Sasha offered to cradle it. The mother smiled. It was clear she did not understand the offer.

"I will hold your baby," Sasha repeated, while rocking her arms from side to side, as if holding an imaginary baby.

Suddenly the mother seemed to understand and she laughed. She handed Sasha her baby, saying, "Phon."

"Phon," Sasha repeated, while cradling the baby.

Then Sasha started singing (perhaps because she was buzzed or drunk): "Hush little baby don't say a word, Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird, and if that mockingbird don't sing, Momma's gonna buy you a golden ring..."

At first the baby continued to cry, but after a minute Phon was cooing peacefully. Finally Phon closed his eyes and started sleeping.

Sasha handed the baby back to her mother.

"Thank you," she said, smiling.

But just at that moment the second baby took up where the first baby had left off, wailing so loud that it seemed the plane windows might shatter.

So Sasha followed the crying, moving laterally down the row until she had located the second mother and baby. She offered to cradle this baby too.

Sasha had always had a knack for rocking discontented babies to a state of peaceful slumber. When bringing up her children it was something that other new mothers often commented upon. And when convenient, these new mothers would enlist Sasha to coax their own children to the Land of Nod.

They asked her how she did it, but she herself did not know. She seemed to be doing the same thing that every mother did, rocking and singing -- except that when she performed these same actions the results were always successful.

The second mother was, like the first, Asian. But she spoke good English and so she introduced herself, "Hi, I am Sue Lee. This is my child Lin Lee. She often cries at night. She is not a relaxed baby. I feed her, I change her, but still she cries."

"May I?" Sasha asked.

Sue Lee handed Sasha her child. Sasha brought the baby against her chest, rocking her slightly. Instead of singing she simply hummed. The baby's cries soon changed to coos and the coos soon changed to heavy breathing: the plump Asian baby was now sound asleep.

"You have a good soul," said Sue Lee.

"Thank you," said Sasha, handing Lin Lee to Sue Lee.

Just at that moment Sasha noticed that she was only a couple of rows in front of the rowdy Ukrainians. They were laughing and seemed to be pointing at her. She tried to ignore them and spoke to Sue Lee for a moment before walking back towards her seat.

But as she neared the Ukrainians she became convinced that they were indeed speaking about her. Their laughter became louder. How rude!

She considered saying something but decided to bite her tongue. Besides, perhaps she was only being paranoid and they were not speaking about her at all.

But right as she was passing their row, the man at the end of the aisle said, "Good Momma."

Sasha could not help herself, blurting, "Excuse me?"

She looked down at the man who had spoken to her. He was leaning back in his seat and had a shinning white head that been shaved almost bald with only a light peach fuzz remaining.

He looked to be in his early-thirties, was wearing faded jeans and a black t-shirt, and had strong arms and bruising hands. She guessed he was 250 pounds because he was the same size as Tim. Overall, he had a hulking presence.

But it was his face that alarmed her. First off, he had multiple facial scars: a big one on his forehead, a thick curving one on his left cheek, and a small slanting but also thick one on his chin. Second, he had a flat boxer's nose, which meant that someone had probably broken it in a fight. Third, his eyes were grey and empty. Fourth, his mouth seemed to be held in a continual snarl.

Sasha thought, "Of course -- he considers the aisle to his right to be a direct extension of his personal space, and now I am standing in it -- and so like a dog he is snarling at me or perhaps trying to smell my asshole to determine if I am mating material."

She glanced down the row at his traveling companions -- most of the remaining rowdy bunch also had closely shaved heads and similar snarling smiles.

She hoped that they were not Neo-Nazis or some other fringe group. But even if they were not, she wished that she had not just spoken in anger to this menacing figure.

What good could come of it?

As she waited for his reply, he looked her slowly up and down (she felt his elevator eyes pause as he reached her waist). Growing uncomfortable, she considered leaving reply-less while simultaneously hoping that he hadn't understood her comment.

But just as she began to shift her weight from her heels to her toes, he said, "You good mother."

"Oh, thank you," said Sasha, trying to smile, and hoping he hadn't noticed the perturbed tone of her earlier question.

"You like baby?" he asked, a snarling smile on his lips.

"Yes, I do," said Sasha, noticing that his friends were whispering and laughing.

She did not like the way they were looking at her (they also were in full elevator-eyes-mode) and so she wanted to return to her seat immediately but for some reason -- like a deer sensing danger -- she felt frozen where she was standing.

"I want be baby," said the man, his words suddenly louder and his smile having changed to an outright snarl.

She felt her heart beating rapidly.

"I don't understand," said Sasha, as she spied Tim sitting in his seat. But he was turned away from her and talking to Tiffany. Had he been looking her way, she was certain that he would have read the alarm in her face.

"I want suck tits like baby," said the man, then making a sucking-smacking sound with his lips. His group broke out into hysterical laughter.

Unable to believe what she had just heard, Sasha almost tripped as she rushed back to her seat.

Collapsing next to Tim, she tried to calm her heavy breathing. She looked in the direction of the rowdy bunch, but from her seated position they could not be seen: that was a good thing because it also meant that they probably could not see her.

"What is it?" Tim asked, looking her over with concern.

More than anything -- and much like a little girl with a bloody knee -- Sasha wanted to blurt out all the details of the painful ordeal. But even in her semi-drunken state she had the wherewithal to question if that was a good idea.

Tim was also drunk, she reasoned, and so he might try to take matters into his own hands. There could be a fight and if not on the plane, perhaps once they landed.

And that mouthy Ukrainian looked as if he might enjoy getting into scraps, might even look for them. Perhaps he was the sort who could pummel her husband into a bloody heap with little to no effort expended.

And perhaps the mouthy Ukrainian knew they were Americans and hated Americans? And what if he was some psycho skin-head?

And if a fight should occur, there was no guarantee the mouthy Ukrainian was a fair fighter. What if he had smuggled a knife onto the plane, or worse a gun? The security at Kuala Lumpar hadn't been exactly as airtight as JFK, not by a long-shot.

Also, what if the whole gang jumped Tim?

Long story short: she did not want to spend the rest of the trip in a Chinese emergency room.

But on the other hand, a grown man had literally just told Sasha -- on a plane of all places -- that he wanted to suck on her tits! It wasn't like they had bumped into each other on a nightclub dance floor.

A person just does not say something like that to another person on a plane!

So that alarmed her, because if he was capable of saying such a thing on a plane, what else was he capable of doing on a plane?

Therefore, she wondered if perhaps she should tell her husband, not so that he could confront the man, but so that he would be aware of the presence of a potentially dangerous group in the immediate vicinity. That way Tim would not be blind-sighted should some worse-case scenario occur, whether on the plane or off.

She weighed the two sides. She decided to tell him. However, she prefaced with, "Please don't over-react, and don't say anything, but I think you need to know this..."

And then Sasha described what had happened.

For a moment Tim was silent. But Sasha could instantly see that she had made a mistake. Tim was not going to let this go.

He nodded slowly and asked her to repeat herself. She did.

"You are sure that is what he said?" Tim asked.

Sasha nodded. Tiffany chewed on her bottom lip, looking as if she had something pressing to say.

Finally Tiffany blurted, "Yes, I saw them in the airport. I think one of them whistled at me. You know, like a cat-call."

Sasha added, "But please don't do anything Tim. There are a bunch of them and they look crazy. They could be skin-heads."

But Tim's head already looked like it was going to explode.

Yet he spoke softly, saying, "I'm not going to do anything. I'm just going to have a chat with the guy at the end of the row and his mates."

"Please don't," said Sasha.

"I really don't have a choice. I'd like to sleep at some point on this flight, and if I don't say something I am never going to get a wink," said Tim, standing and shuffling into the aisle.

Sasha watched as Tim made his way over to the group.

"I hope it goes okay," said Tiffany.

"You shouldn't have told him that one of them whistled at you," said Sasha. "That just added fuel to the fire."

Tiffany nodded.

As Tim strutted across the plane, Sasha held her breath.

Malaysian International Flight 370: Cockpit: 1:20 a.m.:

Guntur's mind returned to Shakespeare, though this time to Hamlet's famous "to be or not to be" soliloquy.

Moments earlier, Guntur's mind had been firmly set on the "not to be," option.

But now, like Hamlet, he was uncertain. He needed to clear his mind. So he said to the Captain, "I'm stepping out of the cockpit for a moment."

"Good idea -- could you do me a favor though? Find Mazlin and tell her that I need to speak to her," said the Captain, referring to a stewardess.

As Guntur stood up, the cocaine effects became momentarily magnified. Quelling an urge to jog in place, he opened the cockpit door and walked into the main aisle.

Nodding to a seated stewardess, he asked, "Where is Mazlin stationed?"

"Section H, I think," said the stewardess.

Guntur noted the oddness of the situation: that this calm stewardess seemed totally unaware that she stood, like a blindfolded soldier before the firing squad, on the precipice of death.

"She should not have replied 'Section H, I think,' instead she should have begged me for her life. But people always fail to perceive the important things right in front of their faces," a thought which caused Guntur to again marvel at the Captain's insights. "But even the Captain does not seem to realize how close he is to his own death," Guntur noted with perverse satisfaction.

It seemed to Guntur that he was floating more than walking. Occasionally he peered down at a sleeping passenger as if looming above them like a dream. At one point he studied a snoring woman's face, finding her quite repulsive and he wondered if she was any more attractive when awake.

He thought, "You may have had a hard life with such looks. But the pain might be over for you soon ugly one, sleep peacefully now and perhaps for eternity."

Further down the aisle he discovered a sleeping baby being cradled in her mother's arms, a sight which stopped him in his tracks because the baby was so perfectly serene that she seemed almost otherworldly.

Didn't that unoffending baby deserve a chance to live?

Guntur thought, "My existence is unbearable. Be that as it may, perhaps I should wait until we land in China to put an end to my suffering... But on the other hand, this baby probably wouldn't even know the difference."

At just that moment the baby stirred awake, her glowing eyes staring directly into Guntur's. It was a look of such loving curiosity that Guntur felt his soul nearly shatter, and it took all his masculine reserve to contain his tears.

Guntur thought, "Could I really kill this baby?"

"Are you the Captain?" asked the mother in Malaysian.

"No, I'm the First Office, the copilot," answered Guntur, though not even glancing at the mother as he spoke, still unable to break eye-contact with the angelic creature.

Suddenly Guntur had the realization that the baby understood every thought passing through his head. "And yet this perfect being does not judge me!" he concluded.

"Will you please keep my baby safe?" asked the woman.

As Guntur wiped away a tear, he nodded, and then rushed down the aisle, thinking, "A baby as sweet as any that Indah and I could have conceived... No, killing this baby would be an unforgivable act, as unforgivable as killing my own child."

In the back of the plane he located Mazlin and delivered the Captain's message; but all the while the sweet face of the baby remained in his mind.

Mazlin asked Guntur why she was being summoned. Guntur shrugged.

"Will you wait a moment?" Mazlin asked.

Guntur nodded. It almost seemed as if Indah had spoken. He imagined Indah full-bellied with child and for a moment was happy.

Fixing her hair, Mazlin left the bathroom door open. Bouncing out, she said, "Okay, I'm ready!"

Unexpectedly, cocaine surged through Guntur's limbs and speckles of light fluttered about the cabin like dancing fairies. Trying to snatch one, he almost fell into a row of sleeping passengers. Luckily, Mazlin grabbed him by his belt and steadied him with a yank. As she laughed Guntur could see the joy streaming from her mouth in colorful ribbons.

Mazlin took his hand, whispering, "I'll help you back to the cockpit."

She sounded so much like Indah that Guntur closed his eyes and imagined Indah's face. She was always smiling. She was happiness incarnate.

Back in the cockpit, Guntur noticed three lines of cocaine on the control panel.

The Captain said, "Don't worry Guntur. Mazlin is cool."

Without saying a word, Mazlin took a straw from the Captain's offering hand and snorted a line, then saying, "I've been waiting all night for that. Guntur, I didn't know you partied?"

Guntur was about to respond but the Captain interjected, "There are a lot of things that you don't know about Guntur."

Mazlin looked intrigued, her eyes giving Guntur the once-over, and she said, "Is that so?"

Guntur glanced at the Captain, not sure what to say. Flirting did not come naturally to him. In fact, for the last seven years he had made a conscious effort to avoid even the hint of flirting, thinking it a betrayal of Indah's love.

But Indah's love had ended.

So was it not true that his life had ended also?

So why was he still living? Why hadn't he spontaneously combusted?

Mazlin laughed, saying, "Well, that figures. Guntur you are quieter than the dead. I always wondered if it was because you were insufferably boring or just plain conceited."

And then she shot Guntur a smile that showcased her sarcasm.

Briefly taken aback, Guntur smiled as he realized she had been joking.

The Captain led Mazlin back to the cocaine trough, then saying, "There is another possibility that you did not consider Mazlin."

Her second line already down her nose, Mazlin said, "Oh?"

The Captain nodded, saying, "Guntur is like you. His capacity for love is so strong that he is different from the vast majority of people in the world. He has always been restrained around the stewardesses because he did not want to betray his lover, not in the least."

How was it that the Captain knew everything about him?

Guntur thought, "I dismissed all the Captain's earlier cocaine rants as meaningless blabbering. But he knows so much about me that perhaps he knows about other things too... If I happen to go on living, maybe I should watch the Titanic..."

"Oh, that is sweet," said Mazlin, smiling, and exchanging glances with Guntur.

The Captain continued, "And he loved his lover for seven years. It was a love so strong that it defined every aspect of his life. But now, just today, his lover has left him. Here, before you, is the broken shell of man who can love deeper, perhaps, then any man you have ever known."

Mazlin laughed, saying, "Are you trying to set us up?"

Guntur became white. After meeting Indah, he had never considered being with any other. And it seemed that no other had ever considered being with him either. Yet Mazlin was flirty and also breathtakingly beautiful.

Guntur thought, "No, she is just putting on a show for the Captain so she can score more free cocaine. She has no interest in me."

But the Captain took a bold step, one that Guntur would never have dared, as he said, "Mazlin, I'm going to be straight with you. I think you should give Guntur a chance. I think you two could be a perfect match."

Guntur was glad he was sitting because suddenly he felt dizzy.

"Is that so?" said Mazlin, a coquettish smile on her lips.

"And what's more, a man who can love like Guntur won't stay on the market for long. You need to seal the deal now," said the Captain, then snorting another line.

He handed the straw to Mazlin. She snorted another line too. Then her brows furrowed as she looked Guntur up and down.

Guntur had been lingering on death's precipice for days, but it was only now, with a sexy woman's judgmental eyes fixed upon him, that he felt truly afraid.

He knew he should say something, something witty perhaps. But the cocaine, which had earlier made him so verbose, had for some reason rendered him mute.

He said nothing.

"I'll give him a try," said Mazlin finally, offering Guntur her hand.

"Wonderful!" the Captain exclaimed.

Guntur took her hand, unsure what was happening. She led him out of the cockpit and immediately to the left which brought them into the sleeping quarters.

The sleeping quarters contained two bunks that were used during the stopovers when the Captain or the First Officer, or both, needed to sleep on the plane.

Guntur had never been inside the sleeping quarters while the plane was in-flight, and sitting on the bottom bunk, he folded his hands neatly, wondering if they were here for private conversation or perhaps something more.

He watched as she locked the door. She smiled. They were alone. He scooted down the bed, making room for her to sit.

Instead she remained standing, a shimmering smile on her face. So Guntur tried to smile too.

She wore the standard Malaysian Airways stewardess uniform, a blue skirt, a blue jacket, and white flats. But Guntur had long ago noted that the uniform looked much better on Mazlin than the other stewardesses: her body was so shapely that the square-cut uniform failed to hide the oversized curves of her hips, her ass, and her tits.

He felt his dick growing hard. And she was merely standing there and twirling a strand of her hair.

She said with a slight pout, "So do you like me?"

"Yes," said Guntur, the comment seeming like the first he had ever spoken to her.

"Why do you like me?" she asked, her pout growing more pronounced, the twirling strand covering more of her fingers, and her knees turned inwards and bending just a bit.

He told her she was sweet. He told her that he appreciated that she had had always been nice to him. He told her that he liked her smile.

"Should I get naked?" she asked, her voice rising to an artificially high pitch.

Guntur nodded.

As she stripped, Guntur grew so hard that there was no way to position his pants to hide his pulsing boner. He hoped he could last because he already felt like he was going to explode into his underwear.

Now naked, Mazlin was still standing while Guntur remained sitting, fully clothed. He wondered if he should do something. Unsure, he did nothing.

Mazlin had placed her left arm over her breasts and her right hand between her legs.

"Ravish me," she said.

Guntur stood and began kissing her tenderly in the tender way that Indah had liked to be kissed. He kissed her neck. He gently pulled her arm away from her chest and kissed her breasts. And as he kissed, he began removing his clothes, item by item, his skinny naked flesh soon pressed against hers in the tiny sleeping quarters.

As he closed his eyes, Mazlin became Indah for him. And later as they had sex, he had sex with Indah. It was only after he ejaculated, and he opened his eyes again, that Mazlin returned.

But Mazlin actually resembled Indah and he began wondering if he could simply pretend, for the rest of his life, that this woman was Indah.

However his hopes were dashed as he noticed Mazlin quickly dressing while harboring a scornful expression. Guntur wondered if she had guessed that he had just fucked his old girlfriend instead of her.

"Thank you for trying," said Mazlin, her expression having softened.

"Trying what?" Guntur asked, still naked, and feeling somewhat content, even perhaps -- dare he think it -- happy.

"For trying to love me," said Mazlin.

Guntur understood. He said, "But that -- what we just did I mean -- that wasn't what you were looking for?"

Mazlin nodded, saying, "You are a sweet boy. You will find a sweet girl to love you. But this never happened right?"

"Ah, no," said Guntur hesitatingly, inexperienced with the customs regarding one-night-stands, this being his first.

"Okay, good," said Mazlin, adding, "See you around especially now that I know you party. But this never happened."

"Yeah, I understand," said Guntur, while thinking, "Had it been so bad that she needs to reiterate that fact?"

Before leaving Mazlin said, "Hey, don't look so sullen. On the bright side you're a member of the Mile-High Club."

"I am?" Guntur asked, the thought not having crossed his mind.

"So you weren't before?" Mazlin asked.

"No," said Guntur.

"Well then, congratulations," said Mazlin, her shimmering smile returning.

Guntur laughed feebly as she left with a wink.

Indah had been so close!

Guntur dressed, tarrying for a minute as he dreamed of Indah, a dream which was followed by a black dream of death.

He returned to the cockpit, still feeling like a slave to life. Yet he was thankful for what the Captain had tried to do. So he immediately told the Captain that he appreciated his matchmaking efforts.

"So how was it then?" the Captain asked, clearly wanting all the details.

In a quick cocaine burst, Guntur described everything that had transpired.

After which the Captain looked lost in thought, finally saying, "Yes, she loves deeply. But she searches still. It was worth a try my friend."

Guntur nodded.

"So do you feel better now?" the Captain asked.

Guntur lied and told him that he did.

"That's good, very good," said the Captain, adding, "You must cling to life. It is such a precious thing, every moment is special..."

It seemed that the Captain's new rant was that of the motivational speaker.

Then came a long period of silence, which surprised Guntur: was the Captain finally descending from his cocaine pinnacle?

That seemed improbable because he was continuing to snort lines.

Finally the Captain said, "Guntur, I have to tell you something that is very difficult for me to say, but it is something that I feel must be said, man to man, friend to friend, and even as I have said before, father to son."

Guntur nodded.

The Captain sighed, saying, "I need you to utilize, in this situation, your deep capacity to love. Can you do that?"

Guntur wished the Captain would simply spill the beans but he appreciated (even if he was still planning to depart the land of the living) that the old horn-ball had managed to get him laid. So he played along and nodded.

The Captain continued, "I think we can both agree that life is complicated."

Here the Captain paused, waiting for Guntur's reply. So Guntur joked, "Okay, I will now use my deep capacity to love to agree that life is complicated."

The Captain laughed, saying, "That is the first joke you have made all night: that is a good sign. You are coming back to life my boy!"

As if this were true, Guntur nodded.

The Captain continued, "So in this complicated world unintended things happen. Let me give you an example: I have at least twenty bastard children throughout the world, though most of them are clustered in Africa, in Kenya. To focus on Kenya: well, I obviously never intended for these Kenyan women to get pregnant and they all assured me they were taking birth-control. But of course they were not. So you might ask: why didn't I just wear a condom?"

Surprised to find that he being drawn into the conversation, Guntur said, "Especially in Africa with the high rates of HIV and AIDS."

The Captain continued, "Here is the thing: I always wear a condom. So what happened? Well, I'll tell you: sometimes the Africans use needles to poke holes -- practically invisible to the naked eye -- in the condom's tip. Why? They think foreigners will provide for them financially if they birth their children. So anyway, I never intended to have the approximately eight children that I have in Kenya. But I do. And so I have to accept that now."

Guntur said, "That is rough, especially considering you never planned to have any of those children. How do you manage to provide for them?"

The Captain said, "Well, I don't give them anything financially if that's what you mean. I also don't contact them. It would get too complicated were I to do so. But what I do is this: I father them from a spiritual distance. How does that work? Well, from time to time, I think about the situation and I accept that I am their father."

"But you never talk to them?" Guntur asked.

"No, as I said it would get too complicated, especially with the mothers," said the Captain.

Guntur said, "But to be a father don't you need to do something? Isn't that the whole point of being a father? To care for little beings unable to care for themselves?"

The Captain said, "I can see you would make a better father than I have been and that is because of your capacity for deep love Guntur. You made light of it a moment ago but it is always there. It is a gift. Do not squander it!"

Guntur said, "Well, why don't you make some effort on your own children's behalf. My whole life I have desired very strongly to be a father but I have never had that opportunity. You have that opportunity with many children. You should help them and be a father to them, even if they were born due to some duplicitous act."

The Captain nodded, saying, "If I were a child, I would certainly rather have you as a father than me as a father. That said: everyone parents in their own way. I do so from a spiritual distance. We are often in Africa on international flights. And there are many women there for me to easily bang. Yet, sometimes I take the time away from my banging to find my bastards, and I watch them from a distance, sometimes in their schoolyards, sometimes as they wander the street. Even if I don't do anything directly for them, I am in fact there. So while they very well may go their entire lives without ever meeting me, I will always be there for them from a spiritual distance."

Guntur said, "That sounds like a copout and bullshit."

"Perhaps, but it is my method of fathering is the point that I am trying to make," said the Captain.

"Let me ask you this? As you watch them wander the streets are they shoeless?" Guntur asked, having been to Kenya many times on international flights.

"Yes, most of my Kenyan bastards do not own shoes: the last time that I observed them anyway," said the Captain.

"Why don't you at least do something like buy them shoes? Shoes are so cheap in Africa," said Guntur.

"Two reasons (1) although to us never having shoes would seem like a big deal, to them it is merely a regular part of everyday living and (2) it would bring me back into their mother's lives. Remember, these are woman who have poked holes in condoms. Therefore, they are not exactly the honest type and so who knows what else they are capable of?" said the Captain, obviously having already thought through the shoe-situation.

"Is this what you wanted to tell me? So I can tell you that it is okay for you to do this? Captain it is your life. You have to live with it. So parent how you want. But personally I would take a more active role," said Guntur, though as he spoke he felt somewhat hypocritical, knowing that he cared little for the world and still desired to leave it -- yet he wondered if his entire outlook would instantaneously change were he to have just one child, if by being a father he would find meaning enough to continue living (he believed he would).

The Captain said, "I know you would take a more active role Guntur, and no this is not what I wanted to tell you about. I was first making an example of how unintended things can happen in a person's life. Here is another example: a week ago I was driving my car through a parking lot. I didn't see the parked car behind me. I smashed into it. My car was fine -- unscratched even -- but the other car was thoroughly damaged, a massive dent. What do you think I did?"

Guntur almost laughed as he said, "Probably nothing."

"Bingo," said the Captain, "I just drove off. It was late and I didn't think anyone had seen me. If I had crashed on purpose, say in a fit of rage, I would have accepted my punishment: higher insurance fees and so on. But because it was unintended, I decided to just go on my merry way."

"But that doesn't change the fact that it happened!" Guntur exclaimed.

"Which is exactly how someone with a big heart should react, but for me it is different. Instead of tattle tailing on myself to the authorities, I instead accept responsibility that I have crashed into a stranger's car from a safe spiritual distance. So I apologize to the stranger in my mind and accept responsibility for what I have done on a spiritual level \--."

Guntur interrupted, saying, "Are you serious? This is a complete bullshit way of dealing with things."

The Captain said, "I am serious, dead serious. And the reason that I brought up your great capacity to love earlier is so that you will be ready to accept that people act in different ways in this world based on who they are -- I think with your big heart you should be able to accept that --."

Guntur interrupted, "But everything you just said is complete bullshit."

The Captain said, "To you, yes, but not to me: that is how I live -- and if this conversation is going to move forward, if our father son friendship is going to move forward, that is something that you are going to have to accept about me."

"That you can be a scumbag?" Guntur asked, laughing.

"Sort of, yes," said the Captain, smiling like a scumbag, sort of.

"Is that what you wanted to tell me?" Guntur asked.

"No, there is more. But first you have to accept me for who I am," said the Captain.

Guntur laughed, saying, "Okay I accept you."

The Captain asked him if he really meant that. Guntur said he did. The Captain asked Guntur to swear that he meant that. Guntur swore it.

Satisfied, the Captain continued, "So I told you those things so that you could see that unintended things happen to the best of us. But there is also a second reason: as you can see from my past, such as my plentiful bastards and my glossed-over car accidents and so on, I usually do not directly speak to those affected by my problem situations. Instead I speak to them from a safe spiritual distance. But because I value your friendship at a more intimate level and perhaps because we have snorted an insane amount of cocaine together tonight, I am going to admit something directly related to you, right here, right now."

Guntur waited.

"I'm just going to say it without an further build up, though first I am going to add that (1) it was unintended and (2) the fact that I am directly admitting this problem situation, rather than admitting it from a safe spiritual distance, demonstrates how much I care for you, much as a father for his son, though a father involved in a direct parenting presence and not a spiritual distance type of parenting. Anyway, here it is: I've slept with Indah," said the Captain, his voice cracking half-way through the last sentence.

Although Guntur laughed, he knew that the Captain had not been joking. He had laughed in order to gain time because on the inside he was instantly filled with visions of the horrible violence that he intended, in the next few moments, to inflict upon the Captain and everyone else on the plane -- visions that entailed panicked screams, plumes of smoke, and flight 370 sinking to the bottom of the sea.

Guntur thought, "He's fucking serious! Does he know who the fuck he is fucking messing with! I will fucking take this plane down, right the fuck now! I will kill him and everyone on this plane without a second thought!"

But then Guntur remembered the baby. He sighed. He did not want to kill the baby.

So with the baby in mind, his most radically raging thoughts grew somewhat subdued. But inwardly he still seethed as pure hatred echoed through his bones.

And a moment later his ears felt like they were bleeding as he heard the Captain say, "No, I am serious: that wasn't a joke."

Guntur raced from the cockpit, the tears streaming down his face. He bolted down the aisle like a rabid dog foaming at the mouth. He wanted to pull the exit door open and jump out, but at the present height, thirty thousand feet, the entire plane would implode.

Suddenly he laid eyes on the serene baby and he felt his breathing relax.

"Is everything okay?" the baby's mother asked him.

"No, I just got bad news," said Guntur.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Would you like to sit with me?" asked the mother.

The seat next to the mother was empty. Guntur had nowhere else to go, so he sat by her side.

"The cockpit does not require your services right now?" the mother asked, looking somewhat nervous.

"By regulation we can leave for short breaks for the bathroom and things like that," said Guntur, adding, "The plane flies by autopilot usually, you know, but the Captain is in there anyway."

The mother nodded. Guntur again became transfixed by the baby's harmonious demeanor, a demeanor so serene that it somewhat calmed the tempest raging in his own soul.

What a sweet child!

Guntur blabbered, "My girlfriend is pregnant."

"Oh congratulations," said the mother.

"That came out wrong," said Guntur, clarifying, "She's my ex, and she is having a baby with another man."

"Oh, in that case I am sorry: that must be difficult. Is that the bad news you just got?" asked the mother.

"Pretty much, yes," said Guntur. "Things like that make the world seem so crazy, so hectic, and so disordered. But I take one look at your sweet, innocent, angelic baby and everything seems right again."

"Would you like to hold her?" asked the mother.

"No, that's okay," said Guntur, as he stared contentedly at her cherubic form, "If you don't mind I'll just sit here with you both for a little while."

"Of course not -- it is your plane," said the mother.

"What is her name?" Gunter asked.

"Lin Lee," said the mother.

They flew in silence. And as Guntur tried his best to focus on the baby's pleasantly round face, he found himself failing at this simple mental task because for some reason the imagining of the Captain mounting Indah from behind and slapping her ass as her railed her while wearing white tube socks only, just would not leave him.

And Guntur had no idea if they had ever fucked in such a manner or if the Captain even wore tube socks. It was a false memory but one now stuck in his brain like a jingle.

Guntur decided that the silence was not helping him. So he said, "You know I've always wanted to have a child more than anything in the world."

"There is nothing like it," said the mother.

"You never regret it?" Guntur asked.

"Never," said the Mother.

"But what about all the evil in the world? Doesn't it worry you to raise your child with such evil all around?" Guntur asked.

"It does worry me, but I keep my faith in God. And I ask for help when I need it. And I try to be careful," said the mother.

With tears glazing his eyes, Guntur said, "Every day on the news there are more horrific events, shootings, bombings, rapes, fires, murders. Nigerian girls are constantly being kidnapped and who knows what unthinkable horrors their captors subject them to and yet the whole world can do nothing? Please! The whole world can do something if it involves the smallest drop of oil! But the world lifts not a finger when innocent bystanders are swept into the swirling muck of the cosmos! And I look at your little baby so sweet, so innocent, and so pure. And then I think of all the unspeakably bad things around every corner just waiting with drooling open jaws to corrupt and defile the innocent and the pure -- like your peacefully sleeping baby here -- and I wonder how innocence stands a chance against such constantly multiplying evil? It breaks my heart."

"Are you okay to fly?" the mother asked, as she held her baby as far from Guntur as her out-stretched arms would allow.

Guntur wiped away his tears, saying, "I didn't mean to frighten you. I just had to get that off my chest. I had to digest the bad news. But after this peaceful breather with you and your baby, I will be okay -- and an effective First Officer."

The mother looked doubtful.

Guntur said, "You have my word."

"Okay," said the mother.

Guntur sighed, saying, "Okay, I'm going back to the cockpit."

"Okay," said the mother.

Guntur noticed that she looked nervous. He really hoped that he had not frightened her. She had such a sweet child.

Heading back to the cockpit, he attempted to gather himself. But as he began walking, the hideous realization returned that the Captain had been fucking his one and only true love, that the Captain had literally been shoving his cock into Indah's cunt.

And who knows what other sex acts the Captain had been forcing upon her? He shuddered to think of it. But he did think of it and his seething grew with raging ferocity.

How the fuck was he going to sit in the same cramped room with that man for the remainder of the flight? Especially considering that the only thing between the Captain and certain death was the serene baby snoozing in row 25.

No, he could not return to the cockpit: to do so would be self-destructive and perhaps destructive for everyone else on the plane as well.

A stewardess approached Guntur, asking him if everything was okay.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Guntur asked with an exaggerated smile.

The stewardess explained that a passenger had spoken to her, concerned that the First Officer might be having an emotional breakdown.

So the mother had turned against him!

He thought, "That mother has no idea how much I love her baby. I love her baby so much that she has saved the life of everyone on this plane. And yet this mother reports my crying episode to the nearest authority figure at the earliest opportunity. What a goody two-shoes! What a disappointment! I hope her child develops into a better human."

And trying to hide his bitterness from his stewardess-interrogator, he laughed loudly, though somewhat mechanically.

"So you are okay?" the stewardess asked.

"Of course," said Guntur, waving his hand back as if to say he was a man without a care in the world.

"Have you been crying?" she asked.

"Why?" Guntur asked, trying his best to appear confused.

The stewardess told him that his eyes were bright red.

"Yes, I was just laughing so hard with the Captain -- tears of joy in fact. If you will excuse me I have to be getting back to the cockpit," said Guntur, who could think of nowhere else to go other than the cockpit and did not want to arouse suspicion, especially concerning matters related to his mental fitness: Guntur figured that if a medical professional gained an accurate estimate concerning the depth of his despair, he would be secured into restraints inside a padded room for a good long time, "And once released from the asylum, who knows, they may have brainwashed me into no longer desiring a suicidal end, and then it would be anyone's guess how long it would take me to resume my goal."

So it was back to the cockpit.

"Fuck," he thought, because the idea of facing the Captain not only made him feel dangerously violent and spasmodically suicidal but also sick to his belly.

He wished there was somewhere else to go. But it seemed that the stewardesses were onto him and he knew from experience that outside the cockpit they were nearly impossible to avoid, swarming like drunken revelers and gossiping like paparazzi.

But then he remembered the sleeping quarters! He could hide there because no one used the sleeping quarters during the flight.

And the sleeping quarters were close enough to the cockpit that the stewardesses wouldn't be nosily poking around. And furthermore, because he was outside the cockpit, the Captain was obliged to stay inside the cockpit (at least one of them was required inside at all times). So he also would not encounter the Great Defiler.

Suddenly things seemed to be coming together. He imagined himself sleeping peacefully in the bottom bunk until the plane landed in Beijing and then not long after, sleeping peacefully for an eternity somewhere else.

"And I deserve a good long rest," he thought with a sigh.

Nearing the sleeping quarters, Guntur was surprised to hear voices coming from inside, and a moment later was even more surprised to identify one of those voices as the Captain's.

So who was flying the plane?

Guntur rushed to the cockpit. It was just as he had suspected. Empty! If there was ever a moment to plunge -- with no resistance from the Captain or crew -- the plane into the ocean, this was it!

Guntur greedily grabbed the control column, knowing that he held the key to his eternal sleep in the palm of his hands.

So what was stopping him?

Surely not the baby! Hadn't the mother just betrayed him? So he owed her family nothing! Why should he care for a baby who would probably grow into a human as annoying as her mother?

But as he prepared his thoughts for the final end, the baby's sweet baby face involuntarily returned to him, her glowing eyes locking with his own, her peaceful soul rejoicing, her harmonious demeanor calming his thoughts, and her soothing stare relaxing his mind.

"Damn you baby!" Guntur exclaimed aloud, smashing his fist upon the control board.

But it was no use -- the baby had won. And as he released the control column, he realized that he would never be capable of crashing the plane with that angelic baby on board, "Another baby perhaps but not this baby!"

But needing at least a modicum of satisfaction, he sat in the Captain's chair and squeezed out, with red-faced intensity, a good long fart.

Then he pulled down his pants, and cupping his sweaty balls, rubbed them over the Captain's controls with a-sweaty-ball-rub-precision that he had mastered years ago but had not used for ages.

Euphoria rushed into his brain. The ball-rubbing had been a spontaneous decision and yet it felt remarkably gratifying. And it surprised him to note, as he continued his rub-down, that he had actually started humming.

All the Captain's controls now shining bright, he ceased the rub-down and re-buckled his pants, sighing as it occurred to him that using his ball-juices as a furniture or metal polish was an adolescent form of revenge unbefitting the gravity of the crime: the defiling of his one true love.

So he was surprised to realize, a minute later, that he desired to drop his pants and do it all over. However, nervous that the Captain would return and catch him in the act, he simply returned to the Captain's chair and squeezed out another long fart, which was also gratifying (though not quite as much as the ball-rubbing).

But all this farting and ball-rubbing raised a serious question: Did the Captain really deserve to die for sleeping with Indah? And if not, what was the punishment that fit the crime?

Ever since the Captain had admitted his defilement of Indah (only a few minutes prior), Guntur had assumed, somewhere in the back of his mind, that even if he did not crash the plane that he would still kill the Captain before taking his own life.

But did that really need to happen?

Guntur still did not have the facts and had reacted to the situation with pure passion. What if there were extenuating circumstances? So perhaps it would make sense to hear the Captain's side first, especially before sentencing him to vigilante justice.

He thought, "Its noteworthy how much more clear-headed your thinking seems after blowing off some steam through a little good old-fashioned ball-rubbing."

Ball-rubbing was not the sort of thing he had ever penciled into his day-planner but at that moment he questioned if perhaps it should have been. In any case, he decided that he needed to gather more facts.

Therefore, he stealthily made his way towards the sleeping quarters, muted words becoming clear as he pressed his ear against the sleeping quarter's door:

"So the sex was no good?" said the Captain.

"Horrendous, he fucks like a light breeze," said a familiar female voice, one which Guntur could not place.

"That's too bad. I was hoping you two would click. He has been so sad. I think even suicidal," said the Captain.

Silence.

Worried they were whispering to each other, Guntur pressed harder against the door.

"Would you give him another chance?" the Captain asked.

"No," said the female.

"What if I told you that you could possibly save his life?" the Captain asked.

"I'm not a whore," said the female.

"I know that, obviously. But sometimes I feel like we don't really click and yet you keep fucking me," said the Captain.

"It's not a pity fuck. You are the best thing around right now," said the female.

"And you need to get laid?" the Captain asked.

Silence.

"And if something better came along?" the Captain asked.

"Why are you asking me that? You know the answer," said the female, the voice suddenly apparent: Mazlin!

So obviously they were talking about him!

"I fuck like a light breeze!" Guntur thought, replaying the conversation back in his mind, "What the fuck does that mean?" Had the sex with him really been that bad? He thought, "And she just fucked me!" So had she really found a new conquest so soon?

Or did the Captain and Mazlin already have an established relationship? And so had the Captain earlier acted as her pimp?

Guntur thought, "They probably did already fuck each other, which means the Captain was trying to butter me up before admitting that he was defiling Indah."

The Indah admission still made no sense to Guntur because the Captain had nothing to gain and everything to lose. But nevertheless Guntur imagined choking the Captain to death.

He thought, "Mazlin wouldn't think I was an effeminate breeze then!"

Adrenaline surged through Guntur's body, and gripping the door handle he readied himself for a smash through but then he paused as he remembered how skinny he was compared to the Captain.

"No, I could not win in a fight with the Captain," he surmised, and as he slunk back, the weight of his indecision becoming painful.

And once again it seemed the only solution to life was eternal sleep.

Rubbing his temples, he dreamed of the empty cockpit as longingly as a life-without-parole prisoner might dream of an exotic island, and yet the cockpit was not a faraway land: his eternal end could arrive as easily as walking five steps to his right, opening a door, grasping a controller, and making a decisive thrust.

Balling his fists, he sighed with frustration. He wanted it so bad!

"Damn you baby!" he exclaimed aloud, after which he heard rumbling in the sleeping quarters.

He pressed his ear against the door.

"It was nothing," he heard Mazlin say. "But we need to get back. Get your clothes on."

"Are you sure it was nothing?" asked the Captain.

Silence.

"I don't hear anything," said Mazlin.

"Neither do I, it could have been turbulence," said the Captain.

"Then shouldn't you check the situation in the cockpit?" said Mazlin.

"I'll fly this plane thank you very much," said the Captain.

"But you aren't flying it," said Mazlin.

Guntur thought, "I once thought he was a good Captain, but this man is a mess. If I really don't want that baby to die, I might have to actually save this plane by flying it myself!"

"Mazlin, you pose an almost philosophical question. But the question can be put another way: if a farmer is in a coma while dreaming of milking cows and running a farm would that make him, in the present moment, a farmer or a brain dead vegetable? So, as you can see it is not such a simple answer as to whether I am flying the airplane as we speak," the Captain concluded.

Guntur thought, "What pointless dribble! And yet it never seems to stop!"

"I have no fucking clue what you are talking about and I am getting really paranoid," said Mazlin.

"Said the girl who was fucking the Captain during the flight," replied the Captain, with a cheery laugh.

"Seriously, the flight conditions could be changing. We've been in here for too long and I'm getting a bad feeling. You should take your job more seriously," said Mazlin.

Guntur thought, "She feels just as annoyed as I do! Perhaps it isn't just because I am suicidal that he has been driving me crazy tonight."

"Said the girl who was snorting cocaine with the Captain, mid-flight," said the Captain, laughing again.

"Yeah, as we have a bunch of times. But you are way too fucked up this time. You have to get it together. You are the Captain!" Mazlin exclaimed.

"Well put: I am the Captain," said the Captain.

"So if there is turbulence don't you think you should check the controls?" asked Mazlin.

Guntur thought, "Is he suicidal too? It certainly seems like he might be -- why else would he be acting so recklessly? And so if he is, then that would mean that I would actually be doing him a favor by killing him!"

The Captain told her that he would only do what he thought appropriate as Captain, which at that moment was what he was doing, lying naked and doing nothing.

"This is getting annoying, I'm leaving," said Mazlin.

Silence.

"Why are you making that face?" Mazlin asked. "What the fuck are you laughing at?"

Silence.

"Are you crying?" Mazlin asked.

Silence, then sniffles.

"Why are you crying?" Mazlin asked.

"It's nothing," said the Captain.

"Pull yourself together, someone needs to fly this plane," said Mazlin.

"It's called fucking autopilot bitch!" the Captain shouted.

SLAP!

Guntur thought, "Did she just slap him?"

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that," said the Captain.

Guntur thought, "She did!"

SLAP!

"Jesus, I said I'm sorry," said the Captain.

SLAP!

"What the fuck, stop hitting me! I'm sorry already," said the Captain.

"Ha! Ha!" thought Guntur.

"I'm trying to get you out of your funk," said Mazlin. "The fuck was nice. The coke was nice. But I've never seen you this fucked up before and you have to start thinking about the plane... Seriously, why aren't you putting your clothes back on?" asked Mazlin.

"I love them so much!" the Captain shouted.

"Oh, what the fuck!" Mazlin exclaimed, "What do you love so much?"

"My children," said the Captain.

Guntur thought, "That's a laugh, I know what you really think about your children. Are you trying to manipulate this stewardess just as you manipulated my poor Indah?"

"That's great but your children aren't going to have a father unless you start flying this plane," said Mazlin.

"Ha!" thought Guntur.

"No, not them!" the Captain shouted.

"Why are you yelling at me!" Mazlin yelled back.

"I'm sorry," said the Captain.

"Don't be sorry, just put on your clothes and get back into the cockpit," said Mazlin.

Guntur thought, "I like how she gets straight to the point. If she had liked fucking me I could have lived for a while longer. But I don't think it would have delayed the inevitable..."

"I'm sorry about my children," said the Captain.

"Don't be sorry, just do what you need to do," said Mazlin.

"No, I mean I am sorry about what I have done to them," said the Captain, suddenly crying even louder.

"Jesus Christ, should I start searching the plane for another Captain?" Mazlin asked.

Guntur wondered if he would fly the plane if asked, he thought, "Perhaps, but only to save the baby..."

"There is only one real Captain on this plane!" the Captain shouted.

"The autopilot," thought Guntur.

"Okay, can we stop talking in circles? Let me help you put your pants on," said Mazlin.

Further crying.

"What the fuck is wrong?" Mazlin asked.

Guntur thought, "He's bullshitting you!"

"My children don't love me," said the Captain.

Mazlin told him that he was mistaken, that she had seen pictures of his children and they looked very happy.

"I'm not talking about those brats!" shouted the Captain, "I'm talking about my other children, my bastards. There are so many of them. They don't love me because they don't even know I exist. Guntur told me I was a scumbag. I didn't want to admit it to him but he was right. I am a scumbag. If Leonardo DiCaprio had 20 to 25 bastard children spread out over four continents do you think he would abandon them all?"

Guntur thought, "So he admits it! Good. But please, no more DiCaprio talk."

"How do I know?" said Mazlin.

"Leo is like you Mazlin. He has a great capacity for love. Have you ever seen the Titanic?" the Captain asked.

"The movie? Yes, so what?" said Mazlin.

"Everything you need to know about life is contained in that movie," said the Captain.

Guntur could not help but think, "He is so persistent about this movie that it does make me curious to watch it, though not curious enough to want to continue living to do so."

"Work with me, we almost have your pants on," said Mazlin.

"Did you like it?" the Captain asked.

"It was good. I think I even cried," said Mazlin.

"And that is the problem Mazlin -- I loved that movie. It broke my heart and yet as Leo sunk into the ocean as a cube of ice I did not cry!" the Captain shouted, his blubbering tears continuing.

"Okay, okay," said Mazlin, adding, "Everything is okay."

"No, everything is not fucking okay! Don't you see? If Leo was in my shoes, if he had just done copious amounts of cocaine, he would still make his way to the cockpit. He would still sit proudly in the Captain's chair, ready to make decisions as decisions needed to be made!" said the Captain. "And if Leo watched Leo die in the Titanic, Leo would cry."

Guntur thought, "Oh, here they come, the Leo comparisons again. What I wouldn't give for a .45 that I could place at my temple right now, a gentle squeeze and all Leo-talk would vanish forever."

"Well, maybe it isn't like you think: you are crying right now aren't you? And maybe Leo wouldn't have done so much cocaine in the first place," said Mazlin.

"Shut your mouth!" said the Captain.

SLAP!

"I'm not apologizing this time!" the Captain shouted.

SLAP!

"Ha! Ha!" thought Guntur.

"I'm still not fucking apologizing," said the Captain.

Mazlin shouted, "I don't want you to apologize. I want you to come to your senses."

The Captain exclaimed, "No, you come to your senses! Leo makes the rules. Leo doesn't become a worrywart and start counting every little line of cocaine that he snorts when he is flying a plane! Leo does what he needs to do, and while he is doing that thing, he is concocting a plan. He plans as he does and he does as he plans! Don't you see? He is a doer-thinker, a thinker-doer!"

"Are we talking about Leo or you?" Mazlin asked.

"You haven't been listening to anything I have been saying because obviously if I was Leo I would already be inside the cockpit, because Leo, as he was snorting cocaine and as he was fucking a stewardess, would have been feverishly planning how to get back into the cockpit. When Leo was in the Wolf of Wall Street and he was high on Quaaludes and he couldn't walk back to his car, did he let the fact that his legs would not obey him stop him in the least? No! He rolled his way down the stairs and across the street like a psychopath rolling a bag of bones into a hole -- that's how Leo does it! You or I may find ourselves in a situation with no apparent solution, but for Leo such a thing does not exist! For Leo there is always a way!" exclaimed the Captain.

Guntur sighed as he realized that a Captain Intan cocaine-fueled Leo-rant was just as dreadful with a door separating him from its immediacy as it was with the Captain's blaring lips only inches from his eardrums.

"Then you should take his example and find a way back to the cockpit," said Mazlin.

"Exactly!" thought Guntur.

"That's why I am crying Mazlin. Don't you think that if I could think of a way that I would already have done it? Obviously, I am nothing like Leo. If I was I would have thought of a way to care for my bastard children years ago!" shouted the Captain.

"You can be like Leo," said Mazlin softly.

Guntur thought, "No, you are falling into his trap! He just wants to talk about Leo all night."

"I can never be like Leo!" the Captain shouted.

"Yes, you can, just imagine him in your mind. Envision Leo with his perfect blond hair, his shiny eyes, his glowing white face," said Mazlin.

Guntur thought, "What the fuck is she doing? If she convinces him that he is Leo, there will be no end to this shit!"

"Yes, I see him," said the Captain.

"Your eyes are open," said Mazlin.

"I see him in my mind with open eyes," said the Captain.

"Really?" Mazlin asked.

Guntur thought, "he probably also sees him on the insides of his eyelids when he sleeps at night."

"Yes!" said the Captain.

"Well, you have become Leo. You have taken on his form. You are thinking his thoughts. And when I look at you I do not see Captain Intan, I see Captain Leonardo DiCaprio," said Mazlin. "So who are you?"

"I am Captain Leonardo DiCaprio of Malaysian International Airlines flight 370" said the Captain.

Guntur thought, "Really? Is this really happening right now? I really have to spend my last moments listening to the Captain role-play Leonardo DiCaprio. The fucking Leo-rants were bad enough...Why is death so elusive!"

"And what are you going to do?" Mazlin asked.

"I am going to fly this abandoned plane to safety," said the Captain.

"And what are you thinking about?" asked Mazlin.

"Plans! All sorts of plans are flowing through my brain, it is amazing. I feel like I could solve any problem that I put my mind to," said the Captain.

Guntur thought, "Interesting, she has realized that he has lost his shit as Captain Intan, so she is trying to control him as Captain Leo. She is trying to turn him into her Leo-puppet!"

"Good, so make a plan to dress yourself...good yes keep putting on your clothes as Leo," said Mazlin. "No, why are you stopping? No, don't stop."

"I've just realized something," said the Captain.

"What?" asked Mazlin. Guntur noted that she sounded exhausted.

"As Captain Leo that is, as Captain Intan I already knew this fact: Guntur is my bastard son," said the Captain.

"Oh, here comes more bullshit," thought Guntur, though his heart began beating so rapidly that it seemed to vibrate the door.

"What are you talking about?" asked Mazlin.

"I am the man who impregnated his mother," said the Captain.

"Bullshit!" thought Guntur. "I must have told him that I never met my father. He knows it and is concocting some crazy story for God knows what reason, but a reason that will probably have some tie in with Leonardo DiCaprio by the end I would guess."

"You are very high on cocaine," said Mazlin.

"I know and that has allowed me to admit this secret to you. Twenty-six years ago, I slept with Guntur's mother. She wanted me to marry her. I did not want to do it. For the first ten years of Guntur's life I watched him from a distance. It pained me as I watched him -- already being a pilot myself -- lift his little arms into the air like wings and pretend to be a human airplane as he ran around the playground. And staring into his eyes with binoculars I knew he had it: the capacity for great love. I wanted to approach him, to tell him that I was his father. I was selfless enough to waste countless hours watching him but I was too selfish to actually talk to him. It was a classic catch 22! So without an easy solution, I thought outside the box and created a new parenting style, one which I, years later, termed parenting from a spiritual distance, and so from the thoughts inside my mind I guided Guntur through life's challenges --."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Mazlin interrupted.

Guntur thought, "No way is he serious...and yet there were many times in my childhood when I felt that I was being watched...It couldn't be!"

Also, Guntur could picture himself running around the playground and pretending to be an airplane. But didn't most children?

The Captain continued, "Fathering from a spiritual distance -- it all started with Guntur. At the time I thought it was the right thing to do. But with Guntur's insight into my scumbagness and with the visions that my mind-swap as Captain Leonardo DiCaprio have allowed me to see, I fully understand that this was a mistake."

"Then get back to the cockpit," said Mazlin.

The Captain continued, "There's more...After a lull in my observations during Guntur's early teen years, I continued watching him again when he turned eighteen. And so I watched him grow into a man. After an unexpected, for me, suicide attempt by Guntur, I watched him in the hospital as he recovered. Then I watched him fall in love there in the hospital \--."

Guntur thought, "You keep your fucking crazy imaginings away from Indah you pervert! I'll wait until you are walking on the ground and I'll come from above and crash a whole plane right into your skull."

"You really aren't kidding are you?" Mazlin asked.

Guntur thought, "He better be!"

The Captain said, "And then something happened, and I fucked his girlfriend --."

At that moment it took all Guntur's resolve not to break through the door, but he knew that he could inflict more lasting punishment upon the Captain if, instead of becoming hot-headed, he remained patient.

"Wait, back up, you skipped ahead, what just happened?" asked Mazlin, who had apparently forgotten about the Captain-less cockpit.

"While I was watching him, I started watching her, his Indah: she has such grace, such delicate beauty. And so it was not surprising that I imagined fucking her. But then I thought, 'I could not steal a lover from my child.' But then I thought, 'But my child does not even know that I exist." And then I thought, 'But that would just be too low.' So I put the thought out of my mind," said the Captain.

Guntur thought, "Is this man really my father? And if so, is my life then the embodiment of a Greek tragedy?"

"So what happened?" Mazlin asked.

"I found out that Guntur was in flight school. Well, to be more precise, I would sometimes watch him as he walked into flight school. So I talked to my boss here at the airline and got Guntur a job. Once he was employed by Malaysian Airlines, I made sure he often flew with me. I did this solely to get closer to my son, not to get closer to Indah. Was getting closer to Indah in the back of my mind? I really don't know. In any case, when I finally met Indah -- for it was bound to happen eventually -- she was extremely flirty and it was too easy to get her number and it was way-way too easy to fuck her. So easy in fact that I felt like I was doing Guntur a favor by fucking her, which I know sounds anti-intuitive but I figured that now one day I would be able to tell him, with first-hand knowledge, exactly why Indah was not good for him," said the Captain.

"Because of you? That she was not good for him because of you?" Mazlin asked.

As Mazlin spoke, the Captain's previous words washed over Guntur and he envisioned a pool of blood, one containing the Captain's decapitated head and dismembered limbs.

Finally he thought, "I don't care if this man is my father. I'm going to fucking kill him even if I have to kill everyone on this plane, including that baby!"

Mazlin repeated, "That she was not good for him because of you?"

The Captain, who had been pausing, replied, "As Captain Leo, I see that was a mistake. Guntur's in so much pain right now. She broke his heart and I thought that telling him about my transgression might help him the healing process. But I don't think it has. Can't you just fuck him again? He needs love. He is dying. I can see it."

Guntur shook his head, while thinking, "He may not realize it, but he is trying to arrange a sexual encounter so that his executioner will stay his execution. As if!"

"I'm not fucking him because you fucked up as a father," said Mazlin.

Guntur thought, "Don't sweat it, I have considerably more important things to worry about than the need to redeem myself by fucking you with a little more vigor stewardess Mazlin."

"Please!" exclaimed the Captain.

Mazlin asked the Captain if Leo would be caught begging. The Captain replied that perhaps he would, if his plan demanded it.

"I'm not fucking him again -- it was awful. One of the worst of my life," said Mazlin, who added, "Why don't you just tell him you are his father? That might make him feel better."

Guntur laughed internally.

"I can't tell him that after I've told him about Indah," said the Captain.

"Yeah, you are probably right..."

A minute later, when the Captain finally agreed to return to the cockpit, Guntur hustled back to his copilot's seat, trying his best to assume an air of relaxation.

Even with Mazlin supporting him like a crutch, the Captain practically crawled through the cockpit door.

"He's really fucked up," whispered Mazlin to Guntur, having deposited the Captain in his seat.

Guntur nodded with a smile, still trying to look at ease.

"No, I mean really fucked up," whispered Mazlin.

Somehow the Captain managed to overhear and he shouted, "Nonsense, I feel peachy!"

Mazlin whispered, "I don't think he is going to be able to focus on flying. Should I ask the passengers if there happens to be another pilot on board?"

Guntur laughed, saying, "No, we don't want to cause a panic, and even if the Captain passes out I will be fine."

"Are you sure?" Mazlin asked, looking deep into his eyes.

"What are you two lovebirds talking about?" the Captain asked while searching through his pockets, probably for more cocaine.

Guntur said, "Listen, I was feeling really sad earlier, maybe even suicidal. But I think that is understandable: my girlfriend of seven years just dumped me. But thanks to you I feel better now. I know you don't want to pursue anything with me. But that thing we just did, I don't know, even though it didn't work out it made me feel like I am still wanted in the world as a human. So thank you."

Mazlin smiled, saying, "That's what fucking is good for."

Guntur said, "So you don't have to worry about me flying. I'll be fine."

Suddenly their conversation was interrupted by the sound of snorting, the Captain had just inhaled a line, and he exclaimed, "Ladies and Gentleman, Captain Leo has entered the building!" And then he added, "All the controls look so shiny and bright. Guntur the controls are sparkling!"

Mazlin rolled her eyes. "Should I stay?" she asked Guntur.

"I can handle it," said Guntur, inwardly laughing as he watched the Captain caress the shiny flight controls.

Mazlin nodded, first kissing Guntur on the cheek before she left.

"She likes you!" exclaimed the Captain.

"Is that what she said?" Guntur asked.

"Oh yeah, she thinks you are a real-deal loving machine," said the Captain, his pupils dilated so big that he resembled an insect.

They flew in silence for a moment. Then the Captain offered Guntur another line. Guntur snorted the line.

More silence.

The Captain's recent snort seemed to have snapped him back to the present moment, and he said clearly, "I want to apologize for what happened between me and Indah."

"No need," said Guntur.

"Why not?" asked the Captain.

"I starting looking at the situation from a different perspective," said Guntur.

"And what perspective would that be?" the Captain asked.

Guntur paused, trying to think of a likely-sounding-answer, then saying, "Forgiveness."

"But I haven't even told you what happened," said the Captain.

"You don't have to. You are a friend, and a good coworker, and we don't have to speak anymore about it because I forgive you," said Guntur.

"And that's it?" the Captain asked.

"And that's it," said Guntur.

The Captain looked at him slyly. Guntur could sense himself being analyzed and he tried to again project an air of relaxation.

The Captain said, "So you are no longer feeling suicidal?"

Guntur laughed, saying, "Not in the least."

"I would like to talk to you about it," said the Captain.

"There is nothing to say," said Guntur.

"I feel like I have some insights into things, and I want to share them with you," said the Captain.

Guntur thought, "That you fucked the love of my life for my sake, as you told Mazlin?"

But instead Guntur said, "I really don't want to talk about it, and I would appreciate it if you could respect that."

"Just one last thing: you really aren't feeling suicidal?" asked the Captain.

"No," said Guntur.

They flew in silence.

Then the Captain said, "Guntur, I know you are not being truthful."

How the fuck did he always know everything!

The Captain continued, "And that is okay. I made a mistake. I shouldn't have told you what happened with Indah. I should have kept silent about it, at least right now. It wasn't the time to tell you..."

Why had the Captain told him about Indah? What was the point? Was he really trying to atone for past follies or was something else going on?

The Captain continued, "And I do know that you are still quite suicidal. So I am going to repeat what I said earlier. You have too much to offer the world to leave it so soon!"

Guntur nodded, hoping the Captain could not also perceive his murderous fury, a fury that had previously been reserved for Brian Whitman alone, but now was harbored for the Captain too.

Suddenly an absurd thought flashed into Guntur's mind: that the Captain and Brian Whitman were one and the same! That perhaps the Captain and Indah had chosen this name so as to throw Guntur off their track. And that perhaps there was no foreigner baby-daddy.

Which was a scenario only possible if Indah had been lying about everything -- but why would she? She had probably known that Guntur was simply going to accept her decision regarding the end of the relationship. Guntur always accepted her decisions.

Yet perhaps it had been the Captain's idea! Knowing that he still needed to fly with Guntur, he had created a fake relationship for Guntur to harp upon: a foreigner who did not exist.

But if that was the case why admit the affair?

Well, perhaps the Captain had been feeling overly-guilty?

Or perhaps he was just too fucked up on blow to think straight?

And if the Captain was Brian Whitman, then Guntur had probably been the subject of discussion many times, which could explain why the Captain knew so much about him!

Suddenly it seemed a real possibility that the Captain was Brian Whitman! Which would mean that the Captain had impregnated Indah! Which would mean that Indah's child would have the worse father in the world! One who practiced a made-up type of parenting called, "Spiritual Distance." And who preferred to never utter a single word to his children, instead coldly observing them as if they were creatures in a zoo.

"And I should know, I might be one of the zoo creatures," thought Guntur.

So Guntur blurted, "Tell me straight: are you Brian Whitman?"

"What? No," said the Captain.

"You are not?" Guntur asked.

"No, I am not Brian Whitman. What gave you that idea?" the Captain asked.

"It just seemed like it might make sense," said Guntur, while scrutinizing the Captain's features for any insincerity.

"No, that is not the case. But I can tell you that all flight I have been trying to remember where I previously ran into that name. I will remember and I will help you find this guy. And if you want, when we do find him, I will help you confront him," said the Captain.

"Wouldn't that be a little hypocritical?" said Guntur.

"I was thinking the same thing, just as soon as the words left my mouth," said the Captain.

Malaysian International Flight 370: Row 32: 2:00 a.m.:

Fighting an urge to cover her eyes, Sasha watched as Tim approached the Rowdy Ukrainians. But before he even reached their row he was already walking back.

Had he even said a word?

Sasha thought, "Perhaps he thought better of it, or perhaps he took my advice. We have been of one mind lately."

Yet that did not seem likely. Sasha knew that Tim had never been one to back down.

"I don't think he said anything," said Tiffany.

Sasha nodded.

As Tim took his seat, Sasha inquisitively looked him over and noticed that his face was pale and that his hands were trembling.

"What happened?" Sasha asked.

"I need a minute, no a second to think about this," said Tim.

"Think about what?" Sasha asked.

"Quiet!" Tim exclaimed, snapping at her.

What was going on? Tim never snapped at her. Even when things had been going badly at home in D.C. he did not snap, instead always speaking in a calm clear voice.

(He almost had a few times during the marriage counseling when Mark had gotten the better of him and he'd practically morphed into the Incredible Hulk -- but even then he did not snap at her -- only Mark.)

So Sasha knew this was serious. She exchanged a nervous glance with Tiffany.

"I have to go speak with the Captain," said Tim.

"What is it?" Sasha asked. "You are frightening me."

Suddenly Tim seemed to return to the present -- perhaps having left the internal state of his analytical mind -- and he grabbed Sasha by the shoulders, looked deep into her eyes and said, "This could be bad. But no matter what happens I don't want you to panic. Can you do that baby?"

"You are scaring me," said Sasha, her voice wavering.

"Tiffany come closer," said Tim.

The trio were only inches apart, their foreheads nearly all touching. Sasha noticed that Tim's face still looked white.

"Sasha remember when you were talking about all that nutty 370 stuff?" Tim asked.

Sasha nodded.

"Well, if that turned out to be true, and something really bad was going to happen on this plane, would you use all your resources and try to survive or would you panic?" Tim asked.

"Jesus Christ, you are really scaring me Tim, just tell me what is going on here," said Sasha.

"You are scaring me too," said Tiffany.

"I want to tell you both. I need to in fact," said Tim. "But if you two are going to panic you will only make the situation worse. So I need you to swear that no matter what horrible situation that I am about to tell you about, that you will keep calm and that you won't panic. And so that means that you won't start screaming or doing anything crazy like that."

"Just fucking tell me what is going on or I am going to start screaming Tim," said Sasha, perhaps too loudly because Tim brought his finger to his mouth and said, "SHHHH!"

Sasha nodded.

"I need you to promise, for the sake of the kids, and for our sake's too," said Tim.

"Yes, okay, I promise that I won't panic," said Sasha, though thinking, "But I don't see how you can promise not to panic? Panicking is just something that happens." And then she felt bad for not telling Tim this last thought because lately they had been keeping no secrets.

"Oh my God, are we going to die?" said Tiffany.

"We have the best chance to stay alive if we stay calm," said Tim.

"Oh my God we are going to die," said Tiffany, sounding as if she were on the verge of tears.

"This is what I can't have. I can't have panicking. We will die if we panic. You two need to pull yourselves together. Pretend you are in a movie and you are world famous spies. Pretend you have superpowers. Pretend you are immortal. Do anything to keep yourself calm," said Tim, adding, "And it is because I know that you two are capable of staying calm and because I have faith in you two to be resourceful that I am planning on telling you the fucked up situation that we are in. So get it together like I know you can."

"What is the fucked up situation?" Sasha asked.

She had known there were too many coincidences with the number 370!

And so now her life was probably coming to an end!

Fuck, why hadn't they gotten off the plane when they had the chance?

"Are you two really ready?" Tim asked.

Sasha and Tiffany hugged each other and nodded.

"Good, because I don't know how much time we have. Here it goes: that guy who was giving you a hard time -- I took one glance at him and I recognized his face. He is one of the most wanted men in the world. His name is Nikolay Babikov. He is an international terrorist, Ukrainian by birth. I don't know if he is planning to hijack the plane, but we have to consider that this could be a possibility," said Tim. "Although he also might just be peacefully traveling from point A to point B, and we also should consider that if he does end up hijacking the plane it may turn out that no one is killed."

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" Sasha repeated in rapid succession, (though quietly).

Tiffany said nothing while hugging Sasha.

"I must tell the Captain," said Tim. "You two stay here. And if anything happens while I am gone, please just stay calm."

"That's it! That's your plan, stay calm?" Sasha asked, feeling like she was ready to pull out her hair.

"There is more to my plan: are you calm enough to hear it?" Tim asked.

"Probably not, but I want to fucking hear it," said Sasha, squeezing both Tim and Tiffany's hands at the same time.

Tim sighed, saying, "Like I said, perhaps they don't mean to harm anyone. But if things get bad, now is the time for a back-up plan. I am going to tell the Captain what I know. Then I am going to talk to Ronald. Remember he said he has those parachutes? I'll convince him to move back here where there are more empty seats. If things go bad, we will all jump out together."

"Why would he leave first class?" Sasha asked.

"His cushy first class seats will be the last thing on his mind if there are terrorists on the plane--."

Sasha interrupted, "That's not what I meant -- maybe it is safer in first class."

Tim continued, "Terrorists will try to ransom the rich before the poor -- so he will be making himself a target by sitting there."

"But they probably don't have enough parachutes for all of us anyway," said Sasha.

"We will jump tandem," said Tim.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Sasha asked.

Tim explained, "Ronald and Melissa will wear the chutes and we will hold onto them."

"Fuck, I don't want to do that!" said Sasha.

"And you probably won't have to -- but you wanted to know my plan, and there it is," said Tim.

"Fuck that plan sucks! Fuck don't go," said Sasha.

"I have to tell the Captain, and I have to talk to Ronald," said Tim.

"Maybe you shouldn't tell the Captain. Maybe he will flip out and panic, like you said they might just be peacefully traveling. If you tell the Captain it might be like poking a bee's nest with a stick, and we are on a plane, so we really don't need a bunch of bees flying around our head," said Sasha.

Tim whispered, "I find it unlikely that Nikolay is merely traveling for pleasure considering the size of his entourage. If he was simply going from point A to point B he would probably be traveling alone or perhaps with one other person and likely a female. Traveling with a large group of skin-heads is a risk and so it must have a purpose. No, he is planning something big."

"Don't go," said Sasha.

"I have to tell the Captain, and get our plan going in case we need it," Tim explained again.

"Yeah, but you didn't see the way those guys were looking at me -- they are planning to rape me or something. And probably Tiffany too! They whistled at her!" Sasha exclaimed.

"Don't let your mind get away from you. Think one step at a time. Let me go do this," said Tim gently, then glancing at his left arm, the one that Sasha was clinging onto. She released him.

"Maybe you were wrong, maybe that isn't the guy," said Sasha.

"That's the guy. I know I am right," said Tim.

"Do you spend your time studying FBI most wanted lists?" Sasha asked, because the whole thing sounded so preposterous, and yet deep down she knew it was not preposterous in the least. But that conclusion had nothing to do with her faith in her husband's sleuthing abilities and everything to do with a single number: 370. She had already told Tim what it signaled: that a horrible event would occur on this flight!

And now it was occurring!

"Only before taking international trips where we might run into international nightmares," Tim replied, with a wink.

Although Sasha knew there was a good chance that she might die in the very near future, the sight of her man acting so cavalier in the face of death made her feel really horny.

And yet, she couldn't help but think, "He can snub his nose at death -- so why can't he manage to bang me in a plane bathroom?"

Sasha wanted him to stay, so she kept talking, blurting, "So the two things you look up on your phone are how to bang in a plane bathroom, and the pictures of international terrorists? Sorry Tiffany."

"I don't mind hearing gossip," said Tiffany, though in a teary voice, her head still buried in Sasha's shoulder.

"That's about the long and the short of it," said Tim.

At that moment Sasha felt like Tim was more masculine than Clint Eastwood. She so wanted to fuck him in the bathroom and ASAP because if she was going to die in a plane she wanted to go out with a (pun intended) BANG.

"Let's do it now," said Sasha.

"Do what?" Tim asked, rolling his eyes because Sasha had begun clinging onto his left arm again.

"The Mile High," said Sasha.

"Are you fucking serious? I tell you that we are in mortal danger and that is what you start thinking about?" Tim asked.

"You were the one who was thinking about it all the time before," said Sasha in an accusatory tone.

"Yeah, before we identified that there were terrorists on the plane," said Tim, seeming like he was almost about to start laughing.

"So what are you saying: that with the added pressure of terrorists that you definitely won't be able to get it up?" Sasha asked straight-faced, noticing that for some reason the simple act of joking made it feel more likely that she would live to see another day and that she would live to see her children's faces.

Moreover, having made that association she started to imagine Brian and Jessica's angelic smiles but just as fast she forced herself to stop imagining them, knowing that this path of thinking would only end in homesick tears.

Tim laughed, saying, "You are going to be just fine with the no-panicking thing. I like it -- you are cold in the face of danger: maybe you are a spy. I'll be right back."

"No, I want you to stay," said Sasha, sensing that she was being bratty again, but not sure what else to do.

"Maybe you should let him go," said Tiffany.

Still holding Tim's arm, Sasha asked Tiffany, "Do you really think so?"

"Yes, he is doing his best to potentially save our lives. We should let him," said Tiffany, her face no longer buried in Sasha's shoulder, and Sasha could see the clearness Tiffany's gaze, a gaze which seemed strong also, and so Sasha wondered if there was a hidden depth to Tiffany that she had not suspected.

Sasha released Tim's arm, whispering, "Be safe."

He kissed Sasha on the cheek, squeezed Tiffany's hand, and then made his way down the aisle.

Silently, Sasha and Tiffany watched until he disappeared beyond the first class curtain.

But as soon as he vanished, Sasha turned to Tiffany and said, "What should we do?"

"Didn't he just tell us to wait?" Tiffany replied.

"Yes, he did. But he can't think of everything. Can you believe this? Is this really happening?" Sasha asked.

"I'm trying not to admit it to myself. I am just hoping that Tim was mistaken. People mix people up all the time -- I mean earlier that girl thought you were some dead girl," said Tiffany.

"That is true," said Sasha, adding, "But just in case, maybe we should find some weapons so we can protect ourselves."

"It is a plane -- they don't allow any sharp objects on here," said Tiffany.

"Fuck, what are we going to do?" Sasha asked.

"I think all we can do is to wait," said Tiffany.

Again, Sasha marveled at the calmness held in her friend's eyes. Sasha would have guessed that in a potential plane terrorist situation that her human Barbie traveling companion would be sobbing and breaking down, and earlier Tiffany's voice had sounded stressed and almost teary but there was certainly no evidence of that now.

Yes, Tiffany seemed completely clear-headed and poised. Was it because, like Tim, she knew that no good could come from panicking?

But then it occurred to Sasha that the opposite might also hold true, "Perhaps I am giving her too much credit. Perhaps her head is so empty that she does not realize the danger that we are in!"

Sasha tried to think of any action that they could take to better their chances of survival. But she kept coming up empty handed.

Suddenly, she felt guilty for having criticized Tim's plan: he'd hatched it instantly and it was better than anything that she had been able to whip up in the extended time since he had departed.

But then she thought, "But this is an absurd thing to feel guilty about. If he is right and we are in preposterously horrific danger, then my wifely nagging is probably the last thing on his mind!"

Finally a course of action popped into her head.

"Maybe we should lock ourselves in the bathroom," said Sasha to Tiffany, though wondering as she spoke if this plan had only occurred to her due to her recent obsession with the Mile High Club.

"Do you really want to?" Tiffany asked.

Sasha thought it over and imagined what might happen: she saw the rowdy Ukrainians busting through the bathroom door and dragging her out by her feet -- or worse, the Ukrainians ripping the bathroom door from its hinges and then raping her, an outcome which would make her an involuntary member of the Ukrainian Terrorist Mile High Club.

She couldn't help think, with admittedly black humor, "Well, at least then I would be a member."

"No," Sasha whispered to Tiffany, "I don't think we should lock ourselves in the bathroom. I guess you are right. We wait."

And so they waited. Sasha felt as if she were trapped in that suspenseful movie scene where the only sound to be heard is a ticking clock, though on the plane there was no actual clock around.

Yet feeling that she needed to make her point, Sasha said to Tiffany, "Tick-tock."

"I agree," said Tiffany.

A long minute later, Ronald and Melissa could be seen moving quickly down the aisle: their carry-on bags clasped tightly in their hands like bags of gold.

Sasha said, "Here they fucking come."

Ronald and Melissa both looked nervous, so Sasha whispered to them, "Why the long faces? The cattle class isn't that bad."

Neither Ronald nor Melissa laughed. Instead they were frantically searching for a place to store their bags overhead, but Tiffany said, "I think it would be better if you kept them by your feet."

Ronald nodded, whispering, "Of course!"

Sasha noted Tiffany's continued clear-headedness: keeping the parachutes by their feet and not stuffed in an over-head bin was obviously the right course of action.

Yet Sasha had failed to make this suggestion and she wondered if it was because she was still too nervous to be of use.

However, she had managed to make a joke. Would she have been able to do that if she was truly panicking, she wondered.

But the joke was merely an attempt to appear strong, the thunderous beating of her heart revealed her true feelings on the matter, the matter being the question of life or death.

So she tried to calm herself by thinking positive thoughts completely unrelated to their current predicament, like finding a pair of Red Bottoms at a flea market or eating her favorite meal in Kuala Lumpar: lemon grass chicken with white rice and basil.

Ronald sat next to Sasha, and Melissa sat next to Tiffany.

"Where is Tim?" Sasha asked.

"Still talking to the Captain," whispered Ronald, adding, "Wow!"

"I know, maybe this isn't really happening," said Sasha.

"Is he 100% certain?" Ronald asked.

"He seems to be," said Sasha.

"And what is his line of work again?" Ronald asked.

"He is a business consultant," said Sasha.

"Then why the hell does he even think that he knows this?" Ronald asked.

"He gets obsessed with random things," said Sasha, silently adding to herself, "like joining the Mile High Club."

"Well, I hope he is wrong," said Ronald.

"We all do," Sasha agreed.

A period of uncomfortable silence ensued, and though no question had been asked Sasha knew the question on Ronald's mind.

"They are about seven rows ahead in the middle row. There are six, I think. You can hear them now if you listen closely for the Ukrainian accent," said Sasha.

Ronald nodded.

Further suspenseful silence ensued and some minutes later Tim still had not returned.

"What do you think he is doing with the Captain?" Sasha asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine," said Ronald.

"Tick-tock," said Tiffany.

Sasha laughed, though meekly.

Sasha wondered if she should go look for him, but when she asked the others they failed to reach a consensus. Tiffany and Melissa agreed that was a bad idea, while Ronald told her she should do whatever she thought best.

A moment later Sasha whispered to Ronald, "Do you really think I should go look for him?"

Ronald replied, "I do if you think that is the best thing to do."

Sasha pondered this answer. He was simply reflecting her question back to her. Talking to Ronald -- right now anyway -- was like talking to a mirror!

However, thinking of what Tim would want, she decided to wait.

It seemed to Sasha that the Ukrainian voices were becoming louder.

Soon after, a stewardess could be seen approaching the group. Perhaps a passenger trying to get some Z's had complained. But the stewardess left quickly and she looked rather upset.

Sasha wondered if Nikolay had also propositioned her with tit suckling.

Jumpy, she felt herself twitch as Ronald said, "I have to ask: if everything goes bad and this plane is hijacked, and if things continue to go bad, and we make a break for it, and we jump: do you want to jump with me? I think I can hold you."

"Yeah okay," said Sasha, though trying her best not to picture this possibility.

"But I only want to do that if you feel like it is what you want to do. I don't want you to feel like I am pressuring you into anything. You make the choice," said Ronald.

"Okay thanks," said Sasha. "How many chutes do you have?"

"Two," said Ronald.

"I go with you, okay -- who goes with Melissa?" Sasha asked, though doubting she would ever have the guts to jump from a commercial plane, especially without a parachute strapped to her back!

"Tim," said Ronald.

"What about Tiffany?" Sasha asked.

"I don't know if we can take her too," said Ronald.

"We can't go without her," said Sasha.

"Okay then we all stay," said Ronald.

"Perhaps you could take both of us, one of us could hold onto your front and one to your back," said Sasha.

"Do you think it would work?" Ronald asked.

It was odd that he was asking her! He was the one who had experience with parachuting. Perhaps he was panicking and in his panic he had forgotten everything that he knew about parachuting.

But the outcome was the same as their earlier conversation: he was as useful as like a mirror.

"I don't know," said Sasha.

"Let me put that another way: Is that what you think you would want to do?" Ronald asked.

Why was he so caught up with what she wanted? Besides acting like a mirror, he also sounded like Tim.

She felt like saying, "You aren't my husband, stop worrying about what I want so much: what about your wife? What does she want?"

But of course she did not say any of these things.

Instead she replied, "I don't know. We'll see what happens I guess and take it from there."

Ronald nodded, saying, "That makes sense, but Jesus Christ, I hope he is wrong about all of this."

Sasha thought, "What does it matter if he is wrong or right? I've already told you about all the crazy coincidences with 370. So one way or another it is fated that something bad will happen and this flight is doomed!"

But then it occurred to Sasha that the number 370 had not always spelled doom. For Sasha the number 370 had signaled death every time it had appeared in her life except once: the fire. Yes, they almost certainly would have been killed in the fire had they been home and sleeping, but instead they had made a seemingly spontaneous late night trip for tacos, a trip which had probably saved them.

Sasha thought, "And so perhaps if things start to go bad here, there is still a way to avoid the worst!"

An answer seemed contained somewhere within the connection between the number 370 and the fire, perhaps a hidden key that could save them should trouble arise.

So as Ronald continued blabbing about his pointless fears, Sasha nodded politely while ignoring him and instead focused upon recalling everything possible about her time in Dallas Texas, at 370 Lion's Drive.

20 Minutes Earlier

Malaysian International Flight 370: Cockpit: 1:40 a.m.:

It became undeniably apparent that the atmosphere in the cockpit was strained when further snorts of cocaine failed to lighten the mood.

The Captain had stopped ranting and had even, somewhat remarkably, stopped claiming to be "Captain Leonardo DiCaprio."

Only the whoosh of the air-streams upon the plane could be heard, as both the Captain and the First Officer sat nearly motionless in their seats.

But the gears were rapidly grinding inside Guntur's mind as he questioned his impulsive decision to return to the cockpit.

He no longer felt like a copilot but rather a co-defiler, because as he sat beside the Great Defiler and failed to condemn him, his own silence seemed like complicity.

Multiple times the Captain had requested Guntur to, "Speak your mind," and, "To get everything off of your chest," and, "Into the open."

Guntur had repeatedly spurned these requests with a simple shake of the head. But in a perfect world he would have smashed these requests into smithereens with a sledgehammer. What repellent platitudes! Phrases that could no better direct the pain that weighed on his heart than a grain of sand could direct a violin solo -- and so why were they being suggested as solutions to his troubles?

It was maddening!

Guntur sensed that the Captain understood he was stewing. Fortunately, the Captain, who had guessed so many of his inner-thoughts, had so far failed to discern the true depth of his despair.

Guntur knew that if the Captain managed to glimpse the endless pit of his heartache that he probably would not be so accommodating, "Although, if indeed he is also suicidal, which it seems he may be based on his reckless actions, then he would probably have no objection to the thoughts running through my head and even might help me in seeing them to their completion."

But Guntur knew that he could never accept assistance from the Great Defiler. Such an action would completely sully his memory of Indah. And even if his memories of her were to vanish as soon as he passed to the Other Side, the point was still valid for as long as Indah lived, because such an action, were she ever to discover it, would also tarnish her memory of him.

And yet the Captain sat silently while twiddling his thumbs, as if sitting silently for a spell would eventually return everything to the way it had been.

"Little do you know, Captain Leo, that if it wasn't for that cute-faced gaga-eyed baby, your fate would already be sealed at the bottom of the sea," thought Guntur, but then he remembered that the Captain was possibly suicidal, and not wanting to inadvertently assist him at some point in the future, he decided to probe the matter.

So he said, "When I came back the cockpit was empty."

The Captain laughed, saying, "You know as well as I do that means tiddlywinks."

Guntur wondered, "Means tiddlywinks because the plane will be okay for a brief time with an empty cockpit? Or means tiddlywinks because we are both suicidal and it doesn't matter if the plane crashes?"

So he asked him.

The Captain laughed, saying, "Clearly the first option, and I'm assuming that the second option was a joke."

"No, you have been rather reckless this flight," said Guntur, who, a moment after speaking, sensed the Captain considering him closely.

"That wasn't what I meant," said the Captain, in an almost accusatory tone.

Guntur tried to hide the panic from his face as he realized that he had shown his cards. "Does the Captain now suspect that I would possibly commit suicide by crashing the plane?" thought Guntur, who quickly said, "Oh, I see what you mean: yeah, that would not be suicide that would be more of a serial killing. So yeah, the second option was merely a flippant remark."

The Captain sighed, saying, "I know you don't want my advice. But I am going to give it to you anyway."

Sensing an impending Leo-rant, Guntur, as if preparing to submerge into a shark filled pool, drew a long breath.

The Captain continued, "At your age, everything seems really important. By the time you reach my age, almost everything seems unimportant. Also, you've probably heard this before but it is true: the only certainty in life is that things change. And this goes for everything. So what you love this year you might not in five. But also, and more importantly, things you never conceived mattering can randomly appear and completely brighten your life. So we never know what will make us happy in the future, happiness just comes. So there is no point feeling gloomy about how things have turned out in the present because we really know only some of what will affect our happiness in the future, and even that is mostly a guess."

"Is that his attempt at bestowing some fatherly advice?" Guntur wondered, as he considered the message and concluded that it made sense, and also that it seemed like the appropriate type of statement for a father to say to a potentially suicidal son.

"Jesus, this fucking guy is looking more and more like he might be my dad," Guntur thought, once again just wanting everything to turn black.

Wearily, Guntur nodded.

"But you wouldn't crash the plane right?" the Captain asked, adding, "I know it seems like an absurd question, but in the recent past its actually happened about 10 times I think. I've pondered this issue before, concluding that perhaps for these suicidal pilots they are afflicted with unbearable anguish and really aren't thinking about killing other people, they are just in so much pain that they need to extinguish the raging fire that is consuming them by any means and as soon as possible."

"Another fatherly comment," thought Guntur, who then said, "Yeah, I see your point, but I think someone would have to feel unimaginably gloomy to do such a thing. How about you? Have you been feeling gloomy lately?" Guntur asked because he still was unsure if the Captain was feeling suicidal.

"I've been feeling chipper as a bag of cocaine," said the Captain.

"You never feel like life is too ugly a proposition to complete?" Guntur asked.

"Not in the least -- even when I come down from my cocaine highs I still feel good. In fact, I feel so good it makes me want to figure out how I can change the way you think, so that you won't ever have to feel bad again," said the Captain almost intimately, and therefore in a very un-spiritual-distance-like way, (unless of course this was the sort of spiritual-distance thinking that he had been mentally sending to his children over the years).

Suddenly Guntur wondered if the Captain had offered him the cocaine in the first place to try to relieve his suffering, much in the same way that a father would apply a band-aid to his son's scratched knee.

Guntur thought, "If so, that is fucked up! Cocaine is a powerful, potentially life-ruining drug. And yet perhaps he is changing his course from fathering from a spiritual distance to fathering with a plethora of cocaine, and next he'll be snorting with his shoeless Kenyan bastards and ranting that they will one day have shoes too if they just follow the lessons offered by Leo in The Titanic."

"Did you really think that we had partied before? Or was that a manufactured misunderstanding so that you would have a reason to offer me some Sneeze?" Guntur asked, surprised to note that the Captain's lingo had rubbed off on him.

The Captain laughed, saying, "Very perceptive \-- yeah, I saw that the Indah situation left you banged up. And obviously feeling guilty about it myself I was just trying to think of anything I could do to help. Has it?"

"Yes it has helped," said Guntur, but the statement lacked breath-support and as it reached his lips, died as unmistakably as an aborted fetus, and he thought, "Even just pretending to be alive is getting to be too much."

The Captain, who had seemed underwhelmed by Guntur's response, said a moment later, "Don't answer, because I will be forcing you to lie, but I can sense that you don't want to live. And we've been snorting a lot of cocaine. If this much has not made you feel upbeat, I don't think any amount is going to do the trick."

Guntur said nothing.

The Captain continued, "But it does concern me that you would crash this plane and kill everyone on it."

How the fuck did he know!

"I never could do that -- there is a wonderful baby out there, one I have sat beside, so I could never bring myself to harm that baby," blurted Guntur, adding in what he hoped did not sound like an after-thought, "Never mind all the other people."

The Captain was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I believe you. You love too deeply to bring harm to anyone you truly care about."

Guntur found himself involuntarily nodding in agreement, which surprised him, but then he thought, "What's the point of hiding my nodding? He seems to know everything about me anyway."

The Captain continued, "But you do want to harm me. You hate me right now -- and like a little child angry at some perceived slight, this moment of now seems to hold all the truth of eternity."

Guntur silently wondered if the Captain was a mind reader.

"Do you deny it?" the Captain asked.

Guntur shouted, "You slept with the fucking love of my life! How do you ever expect me not to hate you? I hate you more than anyone on this earth, except Brian Whitman, who I hate exactly as much as you, and so I wish you would both die equally horrible gruesome deaths!"

The truth had finally been laid on the table. The Captain nodded. He prepared a line and snorted it. He prepared another line and offered it to Guntur, who said, "I thought you said at this point it wouldn't do anything for me?" And Guntur shuddered as he realized that his question had had the tone of a teenager unhappy with a parent.

The Captain shrugged, as if to say, "You never know."

Guntur snorted the line. He sighed. What did it mean now that the Captain had sampled the chaos stirring inside his mind? Would he be admitted to a mental hospital immediately upon landing?

Besides which: would he be able to endure the slightest obstacle? Or would he just open a side-door and implode the plane?

Suddenly a falling star flittered across the skyline as light as a water-bug running over a pond, the star's tail a mesmerizing spectacle that seemed to twist in more than just an ordinary arch, like an author using a quill for a heightened curl of penmanship. And then, defying its path, the star, like a firefly in a field, changed direction.

Guntur pointed excitedly as the star traveled back in the direction that it had come, a solitary wanderer giving meaning to the night. Leaning as close to the windshield as possible, he tried to reach out and catch the star in his palm as if it were a silver coin tossed from the heavens.

Forgetting all wrath, hatred, pain, and disgust; forgetting all that pressed against his mind in a million jagged angles; forgetting his grudges and oaths, his opinions, his philosophies; forgetting everything except the moment of wonder immediately before him, Guntur became as a child swept into the majesty of the world, and he exclaimed, "Do you see it!"

Guntur heard the Captain say something but he paid scant attention to his reply as the star's flight slowed and seemed to grow in size ever so slowly like the slender morning sun rising with an ever larger belly to meet the noon.

And what at first had been a guess (this falling star is growing bigger!) suddenly seemed a fact. But even more surprising was that the star had stopped falling, instead hovering like a glowing hummingbird searching for something unknown in the empty night. Soon the expanding form was no longer the blob of a star but the outline of grace, then taking the further shape of Mary but with the mighty wings of Gabrielle.

"Do you see it!" Guntur exclaimed again, as he realized that he was witnessing the transition of an angel as she traveled from heaven to earth.

Guntur had identified the angel as a female because her braided hair dazzled like the seemingly infinite shimmers of sunlight dancing upon the ocean at any moment.

The angel was turned so that her back faced Guntur, and like a seagull riding storm winds to the shore, she soared backwards, her wings as delicate and intricate as a snowflake.

A stringed instrument that Guntur had never heard began playing quietly, nearly as quiet as his breathing, its melody as stirring as the silhouette of the serenely sleeping baby in row 25, and in fact Guntur caught a glimpse of a similar fat-faced baby as it plucked a strange stringed instrument and floated like a wispy cloud deep in the night, its image vanishing as quickly as it appeared, its gentle song continuing in resplendent waves, seeming to welcome not only the floating angel but also anyone fortunate enough to catch its tune.

"Do you hear it!" Guntur exclaimed.

Just at that moment the angel turned, her wings expanding wider than her height, a phantasmagoric aura surrounding her, and with outstretched hands she began descending towards the plane, gentle as a stretch of shade, humble as everything never known, and happy as an unexpected smile.

Her aura glowed in sudden flickering bursts, the flickering flashing her face into view, though as she came nearer Guntur assumed he must be mistaken.

This was an angel indeed! But no angel of heaven, rather an angel of earth, for it was Indah who was floating ever so grandly towards the plane!

She flowed through the windshield and into the cockpit as easily a ray of light. She was dressed in a low cut white dress with lace frills, her make-up heaped on in that colorful sexy manner of the 1960's, and she floated onto to his lap, her weight no more than a feather, her skin as soft as the slanting morning light, and her lace frills trailing her longer than the vibrations of the whispers of the words of true love.

"I want you to love me," she said, biting him on the nose.

"But you aren't real," said Guntur.

"Nothing is real," said Indah. "So love me."

"I just want to hold you and love you forever," said Guntur, squeezing her tight.

"I will love you forever," said Indah.

"I will love you forever too. Oh, Indah!" Guntur exclaimed, the tears now welling in his eyes.

"My baby has your face," said Indah, pressing his hands upon her belly, a belly as gently rolling as the crest of a small wave.

"That's impossible, Brian Whitman is the father," said Guntur, as the electric-energy of Indah's unborn child surged through his hands and into his mind, registering itself as the life-force of all that is gentle.

"I saw his face in my dream. He looks just like you, almost exactly, except he has my eyes," said Indah.

"Maybe there was some mistake! Maybe he really is my child!" Guntur exclaimed, and then realizing that Indah had revealed the gender, he shouted, "So he is a boy! That is good. You will be a good mother for a boy! You were like a mother to me..."

"Yes, he is a boy. But Brian Whitman is the father. He wants to name the boy Brian," said Indah, her glowing figure starting to fade.

"Brian will be a good name for him," said Guntur, the tears heavy again. "I would have given him a traditional Malaysian name though, perhaps after your grandfather."

"Yes, but it good for a child to have his father's name," said Indah, and as she began rising from Guntur's lap he tried to grasp her, but her form, which had a moment ago been solid, now seeped through his fingers like sand.

"Love him for me as I would have loved him were I the father!" Guntur exclaimed, though as Indah turned to smile her form became less perceptible, like a forgotten memory remembered again and then forgotten once more.

"Brian is the father, but you Indah are the soul -- for he has your face," said Indah.

"What does that mean? I don't understand!" Guntur shouted, while trying to grasp her foot which was the closest part of her now floating form. But like star dust caught in an earth breeze she unexpectedly changed direction and Guntur missed as he tried to grab her foot, the wake of air currents from his passing hand seeming to propel her forward like a sailboat finding a gale and she traveled freely back into the night sky, now only the hint of a shadow.

And then: all was dark.

"INDAH!" Guntur exclaimed, wanting nothing more than to rip his heart from his chest and hurl it after her into the empty night sky.

But then, just as the black sky seemed harshly silent, a distant rumbling, after which Indah's voice returned, saying, "Guntur, be kind to yourself."

"I will Indah, I will be kind to myself. Come back! I love you so much!" Guntur exclaimed, the ordeal feeling nearly as traumatic as the original breakup.

"And be kind to others, especially babies," said Indah's voice.

"Yes, my love! I will! I will always be kind to babies! But where are you? I can hear you but I cannot see you!" Guntur exclaimed.

Indah's voice again, "And be kind to the Captain. The Captain is your father and it is good to be kind to your father."

"No! Please don't say that Indah! Why would you say that Indah?" Guntur exclaimed.

Indah's voice returned, saying, "I speak with the truth of the spirits of the heavens in the skies. I speak with the truth of the sight of the suns in all places. I speak with the truth of the bookkeepers of the wisdoms of time. I speak with the truth of the love of the deepest place in my heart."

"Yes, Indah! And I will always listen to you! You are my only, my always only! Please come back! I am lost without you! I just want to die without you!" Guntur exclaimed.

Indah's voice returned once more, "And be kind and find the joy and happiness that surrounds you, even if you have to seek it out..."

And so Guntur swore to all the heavens in the skies, and the suns in the galaxies, and the wisdoms lingering in time, and the unmistakable heart of his love, that he would always be kind, joyful, and happy, and that he would seek joy and happiness in every nook and cranny in the world.

Guntur said, "I have sworn these things. I have done as you have asked my love. Please return to me now! The joy, happiness, and kindness are so much more plentiful when you are by my side. So please return my love! Please!"

And he waited.

Nothing.

And then: silence.

"INDAH!" Guntur shouted, again. He searched the night but there was only darkness, a darkness which had earlier seemed the answer to all his problems but which now only seemed cruel.

"INDAH!" Guntur shouted, once more. How could she leave? No, that was the wrong question, he realized as the tears streamed down his face and his mucus-goo began building in his throat (later erupting into his mouth and nose and dripping from these places like spilled syrup, though a new flow of mucus-muck seeming to appear with each heaving breath that he took) rather, the right question was this: what were the truths that had been contained in her words?

And yet it seemed that he was crying too hard to consider anything, as if all he could do was cry and nothing else.

"INDAH!" Guntur shouted the loudest he had yet, as if his life depended on it, which to him it seemed that it did.

Again her voice returned and she said, "Remember Guntur, be kind to yourself, be kind to babies, be kind to the Captain, and be kind to everyone else too."

Yet by this point Guntur could no longer see, the tears had completely covered his eyes -- and for some reason he was having trouble lifting his arms to wipe them -- and so try as he might, he could not discern whether it was Indah's voice only, or if angelic-form Indah had returned too.

So he shouted, "Indah, I can't see where are you? Are you here!"

Indah said, "Be kind Guntur, be kind..."

Again Guntur swore that he would.

He waited.

Silence.

"INDAH!" he shouted again.

There was no reply. At first the crying and the hyperventilating continued at a fever pitch. But eventually Guntur started to remember the things that Indah had told him, and he pondered the oaths that he had sworn.

These oaths returned Guntur to a time with Indah when nothing in their coupling had been written for certain and spectacular views of the horizon surrounded them in every direction, each view having its own weather formation, each path its own potential, and its decision a branching effect -- a time when walking side by side with Indah meant discovering the endless treasures contained in the ordinary: the blind beggar they had accidently discovered could see and the noodle cart that seemed to follow them wherever they went and the balmy heat of the morning and the scented soap that smelled exactly like the waterfall under which they had first made love and the neighborhood child who made them laugh because he only ever complained and her rich aunt who always wore the same yellow socks and the quiet they found in the buzzing city when they glanced in each other's eyes and on and on and on.

Suddenly Guntur felt like a new man, one ready to live as heartfelt as the shadows of every love story ever told. But best of all he would still be living for the love of Indah. He had taken her oaths to be happy, joyful, and kind, and by all the stars in all the heavens, he meant to see these oaths through to their completion -- if only, because one day, many decades in the future, Indah might catch some gossip from a friend, gossip something like, "I saw your old boyfriend Guntur. He is such a happy fellow. He seems to be doing really good," and that this little piece of gossip might bring the slightest of smiles to her face, and brighten her day, if only for a passing moment, like a ray of light slipping into a crack in a forgotten hideaway and illuminating, in an otherwise empty room, a stolen masterpiece.

Flight 370: Outside the Cockpit: 2:20 a.m.:

Tim paused directly in front of the cockpit door while wondering if he had gotten in over his head. The possibility of a multitude of Ukrainian terrorists had never been suggested during any of his briefings.

Still, Tim's handler had emphasized more than once that the proposed Malaysian mission, code named Golden Retriever, would be in all probability an unacceptably risky one -- especially with two civilians as traveling companions, and never mind that one of those companions was his wife.

"The fallout from a fuck-up would be off the charts," said a square-jawed heavyset man, (who Tim had only ever known as Chameleon), when Tim met with him approximately three months ago during the operation's planning stage. "And this is a low priority proposed operation so your efforts will probably be futile. In all likelihood, the package won't be there..."

Chameleon and Tim had been sitting back to back in consecutive booths in a nearly empty suburban Washington diner, each seeming to read a newspaper, and each turning only slightly towards the other when whispering their next statement.

"I need one date on each arm, as either might be holding a ticket to the movie," replied Tim, his lips moving as faintly as a ventriloquist, and yet he still managed to project his words to Chameleon's ear -- just in the manner that the CIA had taught him many years prior -- a nifty field technique that he had not used since his greenhorn days and had only recently needed again.

Ever since the Edward Snowden leaks, all communication networks had been considered compromised: Snowden may have been a boon for media ratings but he was a catastrophe for the Western intelligence community, rendering their high tech machinery useless and taking the American spy trade back to the Stone Age.

The leaked files that revealed the NSA as a systematic privacy invader, also hinted, and sometimes explicitly demonstrated, how the NSA employed its hacking techniques.

Wary that the doctor would be fed his own medicine, American intelligence agencies had changed their procedures for classified communications, the CIA adopting its own two pronged approach that (1) most communications were to be exchanged face to face (just like in the James Bond old days) and that (2) most communications were to be veiled in code -- which was another field technique that Tim had not used in ages and had not realized how much he had missed until he had dusted it off again.

"I don't like messes, a good mop is getting harder to find," Chameleon replied, which meant: lately it had been getting more difficult to send in damage control crews after botched operations.

It seemed to Tim that the waitress might have glanced at them. So turning in the opposite direction from her, he picked up his spoon and searched for her reflection, then reading the expression on her face: boredom.

Satisfied, he plopped his spoon into his oatmeal and replied, "I'm not going to worry about spilt milk, especially not when I am rounding the last corner and the finish line is only a hop, skip, and a jump away," which meant: although due diligence would be undertaken he could not tax his mental resources with needless worries, especially not when the hard intelligence pointed to a fortuitous opportunity.

Chameleon replied, "If you buy a puppy, especially a Golden Retriever, you have to bring him home safely, and with the bone in his mouth," which meant: if the operation is undertaken, and you find the package, then the package must be retrieved at all costs.

Tim swallowed a mouthful of bacon, then replied, "When the quarterback is in the huddle, you can be sure he will consider all outcomes, but in the end, he will bring the football home, even if muddied, and place it back on the mantel," which meant: collateral damage would occur only if necessary.

Chameleon replied, "The red star and the rusty sickle are said to be puppy-hunting too," which meant: China and Russia were also rumored to be undertaking a similar operation.

Tim replied, "I can't worry about the unknown unknowns," which meant: it is counterproductive to provide me with intelligence that is in no way verified.

Chameleon replied, "The traffic light is still yellow, but it may soon turn green," which meant, the CIA would probably soon activate Operation Golden Retriever.

Tim said nothing.

Chameleon said, "Did the happy bride honeymoon in Malaysia?" which meant: would your wife even agree to go to Malaysia on a vacation?

Tim replied, "Yes, in order for the butter to be churned to a creamy satisfaction, the two travelers must seek any empty bed," which meant: because of present conjugal difficulties his wife would agree to travel anywhere that offered the chance for respite and reunion.

Chameleon replied, "If the homestead is burning, can the business man complete his labor?" which meant: can you really manage to combine an attempt to solve conjugal problems with a dangerous CIA mission?

Tim replied, "The Italian stallion is screwing in the whorehouse while the accountant is busy crunching numbers," which meant: yes, I can complete the objectives, one personal and one private, simultaneously.

"But is that really true?" Tim wondered, as he paused before the cockpit door. He sighed, knowing it was a pointless question to ask.

"I was the one who offered to strap on the thigh high mud boots and muck around in the mud, so it really shouldn't surprise me that my footing has found an especially unsettled spot and I've sunk down to my waist, and so now there is mud caked all over my newly washed jeans," thought Tim, who since talking code again in the field, had noticed that he had begun sometimes thinking code too.

Before activating the cockpit intercom, Tim tried his best to remember airplane terrorist pre-take-over protocol. Those documents had been provided as part of his preparation packets but suddenly Tim was having difficulty recalling the details.

He thought, "Settle down soldier, it's just been a little while since you've been in a sticky situation -- that's all," but then he thought, "Or is it your wife, and Tiffany, sitting out there that worries you? You said you were prepared for collateral damage, and no mission ever goes smoothly without all options on the table. But are you really ready to sacrifice your wife or Tiffany for the sake of an operation, even an operation as vital to national security as this one?"

Fortunately Tim had never once hinted to his wife that he was an intelligence agent. If he had, she would now be in unspeakable danger. At all costs, he had to maintain his cover, not to protect himself but to protect those he loved.

He slapped himself in the face, hard. He thought, "Man the fuck up cowboy."

Holding his phony identification card up to the cockpit video camera while speaking into the cockpit intercom, he noted that his hands were slightly trembling.

As he waited for the door to open, his mind raced. Had a terrorist already entered the cockpit? Would he be walking into a trap?

Contingency planning had never been his strong suit, preferring instead to see an already established course of action to its completion, whatever the costs.

But because no one was answering the door, he wondered if his plan would need to change -- and fast.

Bringing a weapon onto the plane had been nixed by the operation planners: his cover was an in-flight inspection agent, and in-flight inspection agents do not carry concealed weapons.

"Why the fuck couldn't they get me better cover?" he thought, though he already knew the answer: Snowden. Since the snooping revelations, most foreign governments trusted the USA even less than before, Malaysia being no exception. So working with foreign intelligence had become increasingly difficult. In other words: Tim was on his own.

Feeling stubborn, he banged on the door.

"Fuck, what the fuck is going on in there?" he wondered.

Just as he was about to start looking for a door bell or a key hidden under a welcome mat, the door rattled open and swung into the cockpit.

Tim was greeted with the alarming sight of a disheveled Captain or First Officer, one who was bug-eyed, white-faced, and whose strained smile was almost a grimace.

Tim would have guessed that there was a terrorist already hiding in the cockpit and threatening the disheveled pilot from a distance, if the cockpit was not so small that there was nowhere to hide.

Tim thought, "So what the fuck is he so frightened of?"

"Howdy," said the man with a good English accent. But that was not surprising because -- as Tim had read in one of his preparation packets -- all Malaysian pilots were required to speak fluent English.

Tim nodded, saying, "I'm international inspection agent Tim Dickerson. You are the Captain?"

The Captain nodded -- and Tim noted that he also looked sickly, as if a good night's sleep had been a long time coming. Tim turned his attention to the copilot who seemed to be snoozing, but upon closer inspection was drooling significantly, his eyes wide-open and glazed-over. Tim snapped his fingers in front of the copilot's face: nothing.

"What's happened?" Tim asked, glancing around the cockpit as if still expecting a terrorist to materialize from thin air.

"He's been that way the last couple minutes. It's like he is somewhere else," said the Captain.

Tim took the copilots pulse: it was racing. "His pulse is very fast," said Tim. "Has anything like this ever happened before?"

"Not to my knowledge," said the Captain.

"What do you think is going on?" Tim asked, now assuming the incapacitated copilot was the reason that the Captain seemed so shaken.

The Captain explained that the copilot apparently had a mental breakdown: that he had been speaking as if his ex-girlfriend was inside the cockpit and even shouting loudly while swearing his everlasting devotion to her. The Captain added, "I know it sounds odd, but I think he might be trapped in some mental dream world with her now."

"So you have no copilot. Will that be a problem?" Tim asked.

"I've been doing this for a long time. I can handle both jobs," said the Captain.

"Have you contacted anyone on the ground?" Tim asked.

"Not yet, this just happened," said the Captain.

"So he had a bad break-up and a resulting mental break-down. Any other odd behavior on his part tonight?" Tim asked.

"There is, perhaps, a little more but I would appreciate it if it could be kept out of any official reports," said the Captain.

"I can probably do that. As an inspection agent I usually don't deal with personnel issues, my specialty is more drug oriented," said Tim, needing to squeeze as much information from the Captain as possible in case the copilots incapacitated state was somehow related to an act of terrorism.

"Drugs?" the Captain asked.

"Smuggling mostly... Why do you want some details left out?" asked Tim, because even just knowing why the Captain wanted to keep certain information off the record could be useful information.

"Two reasons, the first reason is that his earlier problems are guesses on my part and I don't want to carelessly ruin his career and the second reason is a selfish one: he is my son," said the Captain.

"The copilot is your son?" Tim said.

The Captain nodded.

"As a child was he admitted to any psychiatric hospitals, any past mental conditions, or things like that?" Tim asked.

The Captain sighed, saying, "I really don't know. I have only recently entered his life in a direct fatherly manner, actually it was during this flight."

"Just now?" Tim asked.

The Captain nodded, saying, "Yes, he did not know he was my son. But I told him just a few minutes ago. I do know that he did once try to hang himself."

Tim thought, "This is getting stranger and stranger," as he asked, "So what were his earlier odd behaviors?"

"He was possibly suicidal, and maybe, and I stress maybe, he was considering crashing the plane," said the Captain.

"We should tie him to his chair immediately," said Tim, the operations specialist in him springing to action.

"Look at him, he's drooling like a baby," said the Captain.

"Yeah, but there is no telling what he will be like later," said Tim. "We need rope."

So the Captain rushed from the cockpit as he stated, half-incoherently, "I know just where to find it!"

"Christ this plane has no pilot right now," thought Tim, as he waited for the Captain to return and watched the empty night speeding towards him.

At first the speeding black of the night unnerved him as if staring at the moment of his death. Tim mused that the Ukrainian situation could get ugly, deadly even. A month ago that prospect would not have bothered Tim. Although, he loved his wife, Sasha, and his children, Brian and Jessica, very much, and while he wanted to avoid needlessly leaving his wife without a husband and his children without a father, Tim had always been a man driven by principles, and for Tim there was no mightier principle on earth than America.

Tim's America was a flawed place but that did not bother him, his bible thumping father had long ago persuaded him that no man-made creation could ever be perfect.

So when things happened in America, or were conducted by Americans, that did not make Tim proud, he simply reminded himself of the iron backbone upon which the country had been build and which it would continue to be supported: the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence.

As a child he had read those two documents over and over, until they had burned their way into his heart, which was a fortunate occurrence, because sometimes he needed their strength during life's dark moments. Working for the CIA often meant toiling half-blind without a complete understanding of how the pieces formed the puzzle. No, the big picture was reserved for the big wigs.

When Tim put his life on the line -- something he had done many times -- he knew that he appeared on the surface to be a mere puppet of politicians, special interests, and all hidden forces wielding great power; but deep below at the heart of the matter where things really counted and the lifeblood of the country surged and pumped, he believed that he became something else, an unseen guardian of the greatest principles ever put into action in the history of man, the Constitutional Amendments.

Tim had long believed that it was everyman's mission to find something in the world so grand, so magnificent, and so spectacular, that he could not help but fight for it, and die for it too, if needed.

For Tim that something was America.

Tim was a man who believed that after you ate your meal you cleared your plate and you cleaned your mess, that when the sun rose, you did too, and that a day had been wasted if you did not give your best effort.

Tim believed that there was no job that could be done right -- white collar jobs included -- if you did not get your hands dirty and get at least a little spit in your eye.

Tim cared little for fads, for talk shows, or popular culture. He knew nothing of trends. He did not respect men who dawdled, who loafed, who gossiped, who snickered.

He attended Church when he could. He remembered the things his parents had taught, the examples they had set.

And as long as he could remember, he was prepared to die for America. He had always maintained the steady perspective that dying in the line of duty was a perfectly reasonable end for a man's life, especially if one wanted to leave the world a better place for their family.

So why now in the cockpit were his hands trembling so uncontrollably?

Why had he been stricken with such fear when he had laid eyes on Nikolay Babikov?

Normally, the sight of such pond scum would unsettle him no more than a mundane TV rerun.

It was obvious: Sasha. In Malaysia, they truly had been reunited. Tim had not expected this to happen, not in the least, which was one reason he had taken Tiffany along.

Tiffany and Tim had been prepared to admit something truly earth-shattering to Sasha, something that would have changed all their lives.

But almost as soon as they had arrived in Kuala Lumpar, Tim had informed Tiffany that their plan had been put on hold.

And Tiffany, as perceptive as she was, merely smiled -- as if she had known along this would happen.

But it occurred to Tim that perhaps he had not abandoned Sasha for the first time during their recent hard-times, and that perhaps he had abandoned Sasha long before he ever met her, when he was still a mere boy, and he intentionally sliced his thumb with a camping knife, dripping gobs of blood onto his copy of the constitution, and swearing a blood oath to always protect its ideals.

And if so, could it be true, that here in Malaysia, he was meeting Sasha for the first time?

Their relationship no longer felt like a bland, repeating, pointless union, but instead the greatest of romantic adventures.

And one morning, as he awoke with Sasha on a Malaysian beach, their faces golden and glowing, and he stared into her awakening eyes, he thought, "Is Sasha perhaps the principle that I should place first?"

Previously, he had avoided this question by assuming that by fighting for America he was fighting for the future and therefore fighting for Sasha by fighting for her future.

But in Malaysia, that argument could not so easily be made. Here he felt like they had become their own island, separate from all the nation-states of the world.

Standing in the cockpit, still waiting for the Captain to return, he steadied his trembling hand, thinking, "What have you done, bringing Sasha and Tiffany onto this plane?"

His private and professional lives had become woven together so tightly, and more than Sasha (or most other people for that matter) would ever have guessed, that he feared it might be impossible to one day separate the threads.

He certainly could not separate the threads on flight 370, because at that very moment his two worlds were traveling forward ever faster, blind as the pilotless plane in which he stood, like runaway locomotives fated to collide.

He sighed, as he mused that everything would have been simpler if Sasha had followed through with her impulsive decision to leave the plane before take-off. And he would have done it too! For perhaps the first time in his professional life, he was prepared to abandon the mission.

He thought, "And it would have been the right thing to do. America, its hidden spirit, would have understood! America, its hidden spirit, would have forgiven me!" And then he almost laughed as he thought, "But the CIA would have been another matter."

But as fate would have it -- though the fate he had mostly chosen -- he was on flight 370, and so Operation Golden Retriever continued onwards, though he continued in his role, at the present moment anyway, with little enthusiasm.

The only thing that mattered to him, as he watched the endless black hurling towards him, was the unconditional love that he saw burning in Sasha's eyes every time he glanced in her direction.

"Then why the fuck have you brought her on this plane!" he swore internally, though he knew that the answer to that question -- a quite complicated answer in fact -- was something that could possibly swallow him whole, and destroy his marriage, were he to consider it completely.

He remembered that it had been a tough call whether to tell her about the terrorists. But after all angles had been considered, he concluded the information would keep her safer.

At just that moment, the Captain returned with a ball of twine. Snapping from his girly boohooing, Tim grabbed the twine.

"That should do the trick," said Tim, as he examined the twine, then tying the First Officer to the chair with expert knot formations.

Tim noted that the Captain almost seemed to be swaying on his feet as he watched him tie the knots.

"What's his name?" Tim asked, having mummified the copilot with the twine in mere seconds.

"Guntur, and he is a good boy, troubled, but good," said the Captain.

Tim nodded. Then he said, "So the reason I came up here is because we have a situation. I am fairly certain that there are a group of terrorists on the plane."

The Captain immediately checked to make sure that the cockpit door was locked.

"Are you sure?" asked the Captain.

"Ninety-nine percent," said Tim.

"Wow, how many?" the Captain asked.

"Twelve -- all Ukrainian, tough looking fuckers too," said Tim.

"Fuck, do you think they intent to hijack or do you think they are just traveling?" the Captain asked.

"I would assume hijack, that many, all traveling together, it has to be," said Tim.

"This isn't good," said the Captain.

"Have you ever been in a situation like this before?" Tim asked.

"No, but I know I am supposed to lock the cockpit, not let anyone inside no matter what, and land at the closest airport," said the Captain.

"And normally I would say that is the right thing to do. But with so many terrorists this could get ugly. They could drag the passengers up to your window and start executing them through strangulation, or other more gruesome means, until you let them inside," said Tim, having already thoroughly thought through the situation and the optimal course of action to take.

"Then what do you suggest?" The Captain asked.

"Summon a competent stewardess to the cockpit. Don't tell her the situation, but explain that we need to recruit a group of the strongest males on the plane -- other than the Ukrainians obviously. I know who the Ukrainian leader is, and they will be headless without him. Trying to subdue the whole group would turn into a mess, and might be impossible. Instead, we will just subdue the leader and separate him from the group. After that the others should fall in line," said Tim.

"You know a lot about terrorism prevention for an inspection's agent," said the Captain hurriedly, as if needing to leave but wanting to make this statement first.

"Before this, I did police work, mainly as a detective," said Tim, using the provided back story that the Golden Retriever operation planners had developed. "But in this day and age, post 2001, everyone needs to be vigilant and ready to act when it comes to terrorism, isn't that true Captain?"

"I don't feel ready," said the Captain, as he frantically reworked the positions of the flight controls -- and though Tim could not be certain, it seemed that the Captain was now returning all the controls to the positions where they had been registered only moments before, like a child who had used a key to lock a door simply so he could unlock it again.

The First Officer began stirring.

"You'll be fine, besides you will be up here, behind your metal door," said Tim, feeling more at ease as the Captain stepped away from the flight controls, which he noted was an odd feeling to have concerning the man flying the plane.

"You don't want me to help? I'm stronger than I look," said the Captain.

"Who will fly the plane?" asked Tim, laughing.

"Autopilot," said the Captain.

Tim laughed. But then he realized the Captain was not joking and he simultaneously thought, "Between the two of them, the sleeping suicide case and this odd Captain, this is a frightening flight crew," as he said, "No, not a good idea, in the hubbub one of the Ukrainians could break from his group and take control of the plane."

"Good point, should I call for a stewardess now?" the Captain asked.

Tim nodded.

So the Captain requested, over the intercom, the stewardess Mazlin.

Tim said, "Good, you sounded relaxed."

The Captain smiled.

They waited.

"I didn't catch your name," said Tim, as they continued waiting.

"You can call me Captain Leonardo," said the Captain.

Tim nodded, though while thinking, "Strange name for a Malaysian guy."

They continued waiting.

"Did you see The Titanic?" the Captain asked.

Tim was unsure what the Captain meant by this question, but just at that moment the cockpit intercom sounded, a female voice speaking in Malaysian.

From the video feed in the corner of the cockpit, Tim could see that the female voice belonged to a smiling (and rather cute) stewardess.

The Captain opened the door, then speaking swiftly to the stewardess, who if she had any misgivings concerning her task did not show it on her face. A moment later she was gone.

"Her name is Mazlin, she'll be able to find big guys quickly. I know because she is always checking guys out," said the Captain, then smiling sleazily, so sleazily in fact that Tim judged the smile inappropriate for a man who was the woman's superior, though with another snap-judgment, Tim changed his mind and decided that what had seemed at first glance to be sleazy smiling was at second glance mere awkward smiling, awkward probably due to the stress of the situation.

"People act oddly when the possibility of death rears itself," Tim remembered.

The Captain then asked Tim a blitzkrieg of questions. Although the Captain's fast-spoken questions were mainly about the terrorists, other questions touched upon a vast array of subjects such as the actor Leonardo DiCaprio, the blockbuster movie The Titanic, a man's differing obligations to his children born in and out of wedlock, and other even odder questions, considering the circumstances -- questions, all of which Tim could have answered but few of which he judged would help the present terrorist situation by his actually answering them. So he brushed them off with one, and at the most, two word replies.

Half-way through the Captain's blitzkrieg assault, Tim caught himself thinking, "This guy seems like he just snorted a pound of cocaine."

But Tim immediately shelved the thought as too preposterous and again reminded himself that people, civilians especially, often act quite strange in high-stress near-death situations.

Although unpredictable behavior during high-stress near-death situations is a phenomenon unknown to the general public, it is a phenomenon that has become common knowledge to those within the American spy community.

The phenomenon had been first catalogued during the FBI's research into a still classified case that occurred during the late 1990's, a case in which a group of hostages had commenced, during a lull in their seven hour captivity, a seemingly irrational act, an orgy.

Unlikely as a hostage orgy in the midst of their hostage situation might seem, the case's facts had been painstakingly corroborated. The main facts were these: after ten bank robbers had been subdued and handcuffed by police SWAT in the front teller-area of a New Jersey bank, the police then burst into an unsupervised (by the bank robbers) ten foot by ten foot vault and discovered, to their wide-eyed shock, all eight hostages moaning and fucking in a clumpy mass of intertwined limbs.

At first the incident remained a department inside-joke. But eventually an analytically-minded FBI head-honcho decided that the freaky occurrence might yield intelligence of value and decided to investigate the spontaneous sexual romp (and somewhat controversially dedicated more resources to the romp's study than had been assigned to the initial task team charged with the apprehension of the bank robbers).

Egghead psychologists from ivy-league institutions were consulted, and when presented with the initial facts of the heist but not with the post-hostage interviews, the eggheads hypothesized, in unanimity, three conclusions, that (1) the couples had been previously intimate as boyfriend and girlfriend or husbands and wives and (2) these previously intimate couples had decided that there was a high probability that they would soon die and were consummating, as their final act, their love and (3) that while the four men and four women had been discovered in one lump of flesh that four distinct couplings were actually occurring in the lump, or as one researcher phrased the third conclusion in his report, "Just as the brush strokes in the works of Pollock paintings seem jumbled and disordered, there is in fact an underlying order to the chaos -- just as I would guess these, as described by the arriving officer, 'intertwined tangle of limbs' were part of an underlying order, that order being the respective couples."

But when the post-hostage interviews were revealed to the eggheads, they were shocked to discover that none of the eight horny hostages knew each other prior to the hold-up and all eight horny hostages stated that at no point during the ordeal did they expect to die.

Furthermore, as the one of the hostages described, "I don't know what happened. It was like I lost all ability to reason but I don't think it was just me. I think we all did because one moment we were balled up fetal-position-like, though sitting on our bums and trembling with fear and then suddenly it was like a switch turned and we abandoned our clothes and everyone was bunched together with breathy heaves and smacking humps, you know like the sound of flesh against flesh like strong clapping but not clapping really more like thudding -- yeah flesh thudding I think -- and all the while we were knotted together like a tangled ball of twine."

So the egg-heads, whiffing three times, had struck out.

Therefore, the FBI decided that the situation merited even further study and for the next few weeks the egg-heads poured over similar cases of unexpected behavior during high-stress near-death situations (and much of this unexpected behavior, incidentally, was sexual).

The eggheads finally reached the conclusion that counter to what is commonly assumed, that in the real world, high-stress near-death situations often cause people to act in ways not aligned with everyday-ordinary behavior, such as through spontaneous orgy manifestation.

And this is the type of intelligence that the FBI, CIA, and NSA keep under tight wraps. Anti-intuitive intelligence is the most valuable kind of intelligence because, seeming far-fetched to a reasonable person, it probably never will be suspected by an under-funded adversary and can yield a strategic and tactical advantage to those who know of its mere possibility, or put plainly: why would anyone in their right mind guess that nearly 34% of the time high-stress near-death situations lead to at least one act of completely, for the participants, aberrant group sexual promiscuity? So knowing of this possibility, the knower can better plan, better exploit, and better manage a high-stress near-death situation.

Knowledge is power, especially if the other side remains ignorant to that knowledge.

Tim thought, "Fucking Snowden, all the criminals of the world know everything now."

For a moment Tim's fists balled in fury as he pictured the weasel-like face of Edward Snowden. Many nights Tim had soothed himself to sleep by imagining Snowden being pummeled until he was a bloody-mess.

That said: Tim understood why Snowden had felt he needed to be a rat -- he wanted ordinary Americans to understand that the NSA was leafing through their mail.

But what Snowden had failed to calculate was how much damage his leaks had done to the safety of ordinary Americans, their safety decreased by detailing to our enemies exactly how our intelligence agencies conduct their operations.

Tim knew, as every intelligence officer did, that the most important intelligence operations are the ones that the public never learn about.

Tim thought, "If the public knew how many 911's have been prevented since 911, the public would never go to sleep at night."

But because of that fuzzy-mustache faint-waif spineless-wisp of a man, every intelligence agency worth its salt had been caught with their pants down.

Iran, Syria, North Korea -- and all the rogue states of the world -- were obviously studying the Snowden leaks down to the smallest decimal.

And that was why Operation Golden Retriever was so important. If the hard intelligence had been accurate, then flight 370 might present the opportunity to correct some of the mischief that Snowden had unleashed onto the free-world.

But first Tim had to deal with a surprising adversary, an adversary that neither he nor his handlers had predicted would be part of the ballgame, Ukrainian terrorists -- and terrorists, Tim reminded himself, who were now aware of the existence of previously classified phenomena such as spontaneous orgy manifestation.

"Intel that puts them, perhaps, on a similar perspective of thinking as me," Tim thought, as he tried to mentally prepare for the interrogation that he hoped to conduct on Nikolay.

And "Is flight 370 connected to Edward Snowden?" was the first question that Tim planned to ask him.

"But you are getting ahead of yourself," Tim thought, as he glanced at the Captain and noted that the man was a wired unkempt bundle of energy, one quite similar to the mostly we-swear-we-don't-snort-our-product snorting Miami coke dealers he had, sometime around 1990, gathered an undercover case against: although again Tim simultaneously acknowledged and dismissed the absurd notion that the Captain had snorted a pound, at least, of strong cocaine.

The cockpit intercom buzzed and the Captain and Tim checked the video feed. Standing outside the door was the same smiling stewardess, though now surrounded by a small group of male passengers.

"Should I unlock the door?" the Captain asked in such as rush of speech that Tim again found it necessary to block from his mind the thought that the Captain was a coke-head.

"Yes," said Tim, and the Captain, as if he were the gun signaling the start of a foot-race practically disintegrated into a puff of smoke as he hastily opened the cockpit door.

After the door swung open, the conversations between the passengers' began trailing off.

"Can you translate for me?" Tim asked the Captain, as he considered the beefy group of all Asian passengers.

With frantic enthusiasm, the Captain nodded, and as Tim explained the situation, the at-first nervous expressions of the called-upon men seemed to settle and especially relax after Tim told the Captain to translate, "But don't worry. I will take the lead and pull the target from his seat myself. You only need to jump in at the point when I am dragging him down the aisle. At that point two should grab his legs and two should grab his arms."

Then Tim instructed the Captain to translate, "This could be dangerous, so if anyone does not want to get involved please remain here."

After a quick discussion among themselves, two of the seven decided to remain behind with the stewardess and the Captain.

Because there would be no one left to translate for Tim once the mission had begun (none of the chosen men spoke English), Tim instructed the Captain to again explain the proposed steps of Nikolay's capture.

After the Captain repeated the steps, Tim answered various questions asked by the group. Then the stewardess, the Captain, and the two shirkers remained behind in the now cramped cockpit, while Tim and his five heavies began their mission, walking silently forward.

When Tim reached Sasha's row he intended to assure her that everything was under control and that she should try her best to think of something soothing and completely unrelated to the present situation -- like their third night in Malaysia when they had made passionate love on a rooftop under the flickering light of a giant neon sign, their orgasms exploding in unison at the exact moment that a nearby rooftop jam-band began jamming.

However, before Tim could say a word edgewise about staying relaxed or fucking on a rooftop or anything else, Sasha, to his chagrin, grabbed him by his collar and kissed him so passionately that it just as likely could have been the last time they would ever see each other as the first time they had ever kissed -- a kiss so passionate that Sasha's especially elongated tongue intensity brought to Tim's mind everything that he had learned concerning spontaneous orgy manifestation.

Although their mid-flight marital tongue swap was by no means an orgy, the furor of the tongue swap was so heated that it did occur to Tim that it might be the sort of potent spark that could ignite an actual high-stress near-death spontaneous orgy on the plane -- that is, if the other passengers had been aware of their possible near-death situation, which was the Ukrainian terrorists seated among them.

But because the only passengers who knew of the terrorists were the heavies trailing behind and because they had not struck Tim as a homosexual bunch, he was fairly certain that his insanely erotic tongue tangle with his significant other would not catalyze gay French kissing from the trailing heavies, gay French kissing then followed by an unlikely domino effect of spontaneous orgy manifestation from among the rows of snoozing passengers.

So after adjusting his pants in an attempt to reposition a suddenly raging boner, Tim returned to his original plan and assured Sasha that the Nikolay situation would be handled with particular care and that she had nothing to fear.

"I wasn't fearing anything," said Sasha, adding, "I just couldn't help myself."

At that moment, Ron seemed teetering on the verge of asking, for him, a particularly painful question, his bulging face an over-ripe banana with a rind ready to split. So Tim, mercifully, leaned down close and said, "Don't worry everything will be fine," then nodding in a comforting manner to Tiffany too, though Tiffany seemed to be totally at-ease and almost bored with everything like the same commercial was playing on television for a second consecutive time and she had already gotten the advertisers point the first time around.

Tim's gaze returned to Sasha and as he locked onto the lust burning in her eyes, an unprofessional, though pleasant, thought occurred to him, "If we were hostages held inside a vault, you would definitely want to get it on with me wouldn't you, Mrs. Sasha Dickerson?" and then a shudder ran over his spine as this first pleasant thought was followed by a second unpleasant one, "And if I wasn't there with you inside the vault, you would probably get it on with a stranger wouldn't you, Mrs. Sasha Dickerson?"

And because Tim knew, inside and out, the complete details of the FBI's (and CIA's) high-stress near-death classified research, he was quite aware that the thought of his wife cheating on him during a high-stress near-death situation was not an irrational thought at all. In fact, it was a thought, that were an actual high-stress near-death situation to occur to Sasha, that would have a 34% chance of happening -- or so the eggheads had determined to be the case.

Faulting his wife for an imaginary offense was admittedly petty but this imagining had singed itself upon his heart in an irrational manner, a manner that had not afflicted him since his passionate puppy love days with tender-eyed Morgan Hudson, his first love, Tim's thinking irrational at that time too because every action that Morgan took -- from flaring her nostrils as she breathed the crisp air of a new dusk to blinking innocently as Tim spoke to her of nothing in particular -- seemed to hold life and death significance.

However, as Sasha whispered into his ear, "That kiss was just the start of Mile-High attempt number two," the irrational throb of thinking was driven from his mind and replaced, quite suddenly, with crazed images of their frantic Malaysian fucking, a wild rush of all the Karma Sutra inspired positions that, like acrobats with a death wish, they had been assuming over the past month, images which ran through his mind as frenzied as a flip book of galloping Great Plains horses ridden by war-painted whooping Indians in the midst of a Buffalo slaughter.

And a moment later, Tim found himself using any manner of CIA emotion masking techniques ever drilled into his noggin to hide the wondrous pleasure that surged through his body as Sasha stroked, over his pants, his erect penis.

After pulling away, and readjusting again, Tim decided it best to exchange no further words with his wife, a wife who had become, in Malaysia, so sexually charged that Tim calculated her continuous sexual charms as more of a distraction to his professional CIA duties than the distraction faced by a virgin pubescent pimply male as he attempted to complete a difficult math problem while also peering at a dangling Playboy magazine centerfold.

And so Tim merely nodded a goodbye to Sasha as he began making his way to the back of the plane, and tried his best to ignore the compacted sexual messages contained in the luscious, slow-motion-seeming wink with which she replied to his nod.

Moreover, he needed to disengage his boner. It would be completely unprofessional, not to mention embarrassing, if, when he were attempting to restrain Nikolay, he also were to drive his hard cock against some random portion of the terrorist's body.

So he tried to think of something non-Sasha, which had become synonymous with non-sexual, and so he decided to focus his attention on something so chilly that it's mere pondering might shrink his swollen scrotum.

Therefore, he focused on a long ago memory, a memory in which he was sledding with his childhood best friend, Steve, during a lazy snow-day.

Preteens, Tim and Steve had been joined on the sledding hill by an uninvited older child with special needs; one who had been technically referred to at that time as Justin-the-retarded-boy.

Although "retard" was a term which society had since judged derogatory, the boy remained Justin-the-retard in Tim's memory because that is what he had called him at the time.

Tim and Steve were familiar with Justin because he lived in the neighborhood and would often try to join their reindeer games.

Usually, Tim and Steve could avoid Justin by simply changing their location. But there was only one good place for sledding and so on that particular lazy snow-day they were as stuck with Justin as the sledding hill was stuck in its own place.

The falling snow had vanished and the clouds had cleared. The sun was sharp. On the ground, at least a foot and a half of somewhat sticky snow, snow perfect for making snowmen and snowballs but not well-suited for plastic sleds and so Justin's throwback wooden contraption with metal runners worked better in the sticky stuff than the plastic sleds that Tim and Steve had brought.

At first they all had fun together. But eventually even something as perfect, and proven to be long-term memory worthy, as sledding on a pristine day in the magical throes of childhood gets boring when you are an American kid accustomed to a continual parade of stimulation, as if such continual stimulation is part of your birthright.

So Tim and Steve started throwing snowballs at Justin-the-retard, softly at first and then harder just because they could, a game which soon proved an enjoyable lark.

Justin was much bigger than them so he looked something like a snow monster, and dressed in his gray jacket and matching grey snow-pants, a yeti even.

And while Justin could throw snowballs surprisingly hard, he had no accuracy, which meant that Tim and Steve could get quite close and continually pelt him, their zinging shots soon reddening Justin's normally white face and also coating it with dripping blotches of snow-ice that culminated in tiny icicles that hung from his chin like a braided pirate beard.

The continual pelting at first elicited laughter from Justin but eventually enraged him and before long he was screaming incoherently with each snowball hurled in his direction.

The incoherent screaming of Justin-the-retard seemed fitting to Tim and Steve for two reasons, because (1) it was how they guessed an actual screaming yeti would sound and (2) because they were the normal children and he was the retard, the freak, the yeti, who deserved...no, whose very existence demanded that he be pelted and reddened into an enraged, howling, beast-like state.

And so on that pristine day, a day so clear that even from the high perch of their sledding spot not a single cloud lingered in sight, a day in which the only blemish, in fact, upon the crystallized, shimmering, winter perfection of Mother nature was the enraged yeti-retard monster himself, a circus freak who, by the end of the morning, chased Tim and Steve with such a particularly monstrous expression that it seemed to have been grotesquely frozen in place by the ice that now covered him, and so it seemed obvious that of course he needed to be pelted without mercy and driven away even, like a Frankenstein, from the perfectly coated white icing that covered the world, and driven back into whatever cursed dark den it was where he spent his lonely retard days.

But for Tim and Steve, even this cruel game of seemingly constant stimulation (the stimulation at the very least of Justin's continued howls) had grown repetitive and so had grown boring.

They needed more varied stimulation and they needed it fast!

If they could have dropped a human-sized snowball directly on Justin's head and watched him emerge from the snowball, like a hatchling from an egg, they would have done so in a heart-beat, but this being impossible they instead raised the stakes in a different manner: by stepping closer to Justin-the-retarded yeti's personal space, a change which allowed them to pelt the snow-beast with an added wallop and also, rather daringly, put them closer to the point of origin of his enraged limbs.

Next came an almost hypothermic part of the snow-day, which was exactly the part that Tim tried, as he stood with a stiffy in the back of the plane, to visualize: the part where Justin-the-retard grasped him by the flared and tragically hanging extra cloth of his left sleeve-cuff, a portion of clothing that he had not even been aware existed about his person but which Justin had grasped with robotic precision, a grasp that had always seemed in retrospect to Tim as the greatest of strokes of luck for the retard, almost as if he had plunged his freaky retard hand into a sewer and obtained, not a handful of black muck, but a glimmering diamond, though in any case, Tim had been grasped, and once grasped, he quickly learned that no un-grasping would be occurring anytime soon.

And as Tim's best friend Steve laughed with glee and shouted, "He has retard strength! He has retard strength!" Tim sensed his life flashing before his eyes because the pretend yeti became an actual yeti, and Tim endured an extended white-washing more intense that he ever imagined possible, his face pressed against the snow for what seemed a half-hour, the wet snow flowing into his nostrils, his ear holes, his sleeves, his pants, his boots and everywhere else in a manner so unimpeded that it seemed as if the snow had actually been melted water, though cruelly the snow did soon melt into water, but water readying itself, in some torturous transformation act, to freeze into ice -- perhaps with the aim of imprisoning him in the neighborhood landscape like a caveman frozen into a glacier.

And as the white-washing continued, the strong retard hands that had seemed so slow moving when they had earlier been throwing snowballs now seemed everywhere at once. His cozy winter hat was torn from his head by strong retard hands, the wet snow was massaged into his scalp like an icy shampoo by the strong retard hands, his breathing was soon stifled by mouthfuls of snow thrust into his mouth by the strong retard hands, his mitten-less frozen fingers were pinned into the snow depths by the strong retard hands, and his face pressed into the crevices of the dark snow depths by strong retard hands also, the combined effect of which made it seem that during any single moment these strong retard hands were stationed in many more than two places upon his body.

And so his heart sank, like an ice cube dropping to the bottom of a cup, as he heard the continued refrain from his best friend's gleeful lips, "He has retard strength! He has retard strength!" and Tim quickly concluded that no amount of twisting, squirming, wriggling, or screaming would help him escape, in the least, from his numbing predicament. No, the strong retard hands would not allow it.

It had been a formative experience, one that had taught him among other things that there were more reasons than good manners and common decency for treating, with respect, the less fortunate souls in the world.

So as Tim stood at the back of flight 370, he visualized that humbling white-washing of many years prior, even picturing Justin's strong hands packing a mound of snow directly onto his crotch. And after a minute of such picturing, his boner had retreated, though in Tim's experience his boner would sometimes raise the white flag only to emerge moments later with all the ferocity of Teddy Roosevelt during the climax of a crucial speech, and so just for good measure (or rather poor) Tim waited a moment longer (or rather shorter).

And so after a couple of probing crotch-area jiggles, and with the gathered jiggle data judged as satisfactorily limp-like, Tim nodded to the men behind, and began proceeding down the aisle.

From a distance, Nikolay appeared to be sleeping, though as Tim got closer he was not so sure. He thought, "No self-respecting terrorist would allow himself to fall asleep on a plane."

So Tim expected it to be more than likely that Nikolay would be sleeping with at least one eye open.

But as Tim stood just behind Nikolay it did appear that the man was actually sleeping.

He knew he had to act fast, because even if he had encountered a stroke of luck and Nikolay had dozed off, it was probable that another member of the gang was keeping a look-out.

And Tim and his crew, as they slowly crept up the aisle, weren't exactly an inconspicuous bunch. And it occurred to Tim that, if anything, they probably appeared to be a group of terrorists.

Tim wished he had someone around to translate, he would have told his heavies to wait farther back by the bathroom. But there was nothing he could do about it now.

Tim took a small step ahead, peering down Nikolay's aisle, and making unsettling, though thankfully brief, eye-contact with one of the gang-members, one who appeared to be listening to music: the rest of the gang had seemed to be sleeping, though Tim had not had a chance to view them all.

Drawing back a row, Tim noted that Nikolay's gang seemed a sleepy bunch, and it occurred to him that perhaps this plane was not their target.

Tim thought, "Well, then that's their bad luck. I have business on this flight, and I can't have terrorists lurking around while I conduct it."

Nikolay's right arm hung over the seat and into the aisle. Tim noted that Nikolay had had many, perhaps all of his tattoos removed, and it even seemed like they had been replaced with new tattoos -- though tattoos designed to look old.

"Clever," thought Tim, as he noted the tattoo technique that he had never before seen implemented, though he laughed internally as he thought, "A lot of good that is going to do you Nikolay with your face still the same."

But suddenly Tim wondered if Nikolay was traveling to China for cosmetic facial surgery. China was a frequent plastic surgery destination for the black-market types looking for a cash deal or who needed to stay off the grid.

Still, even if that were the case, it would not answer the question of why he would travel so conspicuously with his gang, rather than traveling alone or with a woman.

It also did not answer the question of why these skinheads had so carelessly not bothered to wear wigs -- especially when traveling with a worldwide wanted terrorist.

"Maybe they are just stupid," Tim thought.

But he knew that was not the case. Nikolay was a calculating terrorist, sometimes even referred to as an evil genius, one who had eluded capture for many years. So Tim did not think it likely that he, or anyone involved with his outfit, would be taking unnecessary risks.

"He is either trying to hide in plain sight or something drastic must be happening. I don't know how but it seems likely that Nikolay may have received the same intelligence that I did about flight 370. Does he also want the prize?" Tim thought, though again wondering why, if that were true, that Nikolay would be sleeping.

But seeing no reason to waste more time, Tim grabbed Nikolay by the shoulders and, using all his strength, ripped him from his seat and dropped him face-first onto the ground.

Nikolay had awoken the moment that Tim had grabbed him, and so was yelling in Ukrainian even before he landed on the aisle on his stomach.

Not wanting to give Nikolay a chance to recover, Tim continued with his plan, quickly dragging Nikolay by the insides of his kicking legs, a distance that he judged to be, a sufficient length down the aisle (fortunately Tim had spent many years working on his grip strength and had developed his own version of strong retard hands, and so was not easy to shake off).

Tim then attempted to restrain the perpetrator, falling on him with the full weight of his body and entangling him in a jujitsu move.

It surprised Tim that Nikolay's limbs were offering only token resistance to the implementation of his restraints.

When Nikolay tried to speak Tim shouted, "Try to speak again and I will break your neck!" a statement which fully silenced Nikolay.

But a fully silenced Nikolay confused Tim. He had expected his threat to perhaps, at the most, quiet Nikolay. Nikolay should have known that the threat to break his neck was a bluff. Why would he go through all this effort to restrain him if he was just going to kill him?

Was Nikolay planning something that Tim had not foreseen?

And why wasn't he fighting?

Nikolay had a reputation as a dirty fighter but for some reason Nikolay was not even offering Tim a simple clean fight.

Tim began getting nervous that Nikolay was trying to coax him into a false sense of security.

Confused, Tim did the only thing he could think to do, he squeezed harder and applied more pressure to the jujitsu restraint.

Nikolay Babikov was one of the most wanted men the on earth.

Yet he was offering less resistance than a boxer paid to take a fall. Something did not add up.

Yet Tim knew that everything could change in an instant so he really did not have much time to consider why things were going so splendidly, and so he tried instead to stay vigilant concerning what Nikolay might be planning.

By this point, Tim began gesturing by nodding towards Nikolay, in an attempt to alert his heavies that the time had arrived to secure Nikolay's limbs.

Fortunately the heavies understood the meaning behind Tim's nodding and they surrounded Nikolay, and moments later, Nikolay's writhing limbs were released from Tim's jujitsu moves and transitioned to the heavies, each heavy grabbing one of Nikolay's limbs, with one heavy left over.

Nikolay was now pressed on his stomach with Tim sitting on his spine and holding him by the top of his head while pressing his face into the floor.

Tim nodded to the odd man out, who then raced down the plane to alert the Captain.

Suddenly, Ukrainians appeared in the aisle and so Tim, while still holding Nikolay's head in his left hand, held up his badge with his right, and shouted, "International Inspections! Take one more step and I will break his neck!"

And just as Tim had expected, the Ukrainian gang took no further steps forward. And when the Ukrainians tried to speak Tim yelled, "International Inspections! Say one more word and I will break his neck!"

A moment later the Captain could be heard over the intercom alerting the passengers, in English, Chinese, and then Malaysian, that there had been a disturbance on the plane but that it had been handled by the authorities and that everything was now under control.

The next step would be to transition Nikolay's limbs from the heavies to the twine, thereby tangling Nikolay in a series of inescapable knots that even Houdini could not untie, so as to fully secure the criminal.

However, Tim saw that first he needed to engage in crowd control, because it seemed that among the excited talking Asian passengers, exactly none of them had taken the Captain's message about "having nothing to worry about" to heart.

Suddenly Tim realized what Nikolay had begun mumbling, "I am not Nikolay Babikov. I am not Nikolay Babikov..."

Tim wondered what trickery Nikolay Babikov had up his sleeve. He had not been planning to interrogate the terrorist while he lay on the ground but the whole situation had Tim so stumped that he lifted Nikolay's head, and demanded, "We know you are Nikolay Babikov, what are your intentions for this plane?"

At this point the man known as Nikolay Babikov began laughing.

Worried he had missed some part of the terrorist's plot, Tim exclaimed, "What's so funny!"

"That I get wrapped up in this. This big joke, I am not Nikolay Babikov," said the man, still laughing.

"What do you mean?" Tim asked, nervously scanning the plane, worried that perhaps other co-conspirators were planning a counter-attack.

"That I get mixed up. I am not him. I am Ukranian, yes. I mean son of a bitch, yes. But I, not terrorist. I paid. I win look alike-prize," said the man who claimed not to be Nikolay Babikov.

"What the fuck do you mean a look-alike prize?" Tim asked.

At this point the previously quiet and still standing Ukrainians all began shouting that the pinned man had indeed won a look-alike prize for Nikolay Babikov. Tim doubted them at first, but they all looked at-ease, and could be seen laughing freely among each other.

And it would explain why Nikolay Babikov had been such a wimp when Tim was restraining him.

But why the fuck would there be a look-alike contest for Nikolay Babikov?

So Tim said, "Okay, fine, suppose you are telling the truth. Then why was there a Nikolay Babikov look-alike contest?"

The man who claimed not to be Nikolay Babikov said, "No just contest just Nikolay Babikov look alike. Look-alike contest all terrorist. You look terrorist. You enter. They all enter. They win, as Nazi skin-head."

"Nice try Nikolay Babikov," said Tim. "But you have all your facial scars in the right places."

"Sticker -- all sticker, you peel, you see," said the man who claimed not to be Nikolay Babikov.

Tim picked at the man's chin scar: it was a sticker.

What the fuck was going on?

Tim got off the man's spine, instructing the heavies to release him.

The man stood up, while dusting himself off.

"I'm confused," said Tim.

"I Ivan," said the man who apparently was named Ivan and not Nikolay Babikov, adding, "They told us, we maybe big trouble. They pay big buck. I say I take trouble."

"So you were paid to come onto this plane and pretend to be Nikolay Babikov?" Tim asked.

The man nodded.

"Why?" Tim asked.

"I no ask. I take money," said Ivan, the Nikolay Babikov look-alike.

"When did you put on the scars?" Tim asked.

"Here, on plane, I get on. I put on," said Ivan.

"Those were your instructions?" Tim asked.

"Yes, be jerk to England or America," said Ivan.

"Like you did to my wife?" Tim asked.

"Yes, I sorry, I paid," said Ivan.

Tim briefly considered socking the man in the nose but this stooge was only a pawn. The phony-terrorist plot had been masterminded by some other person, a person perhaps on this plane -- and so that was the person that Tim decided he needed to sock in the nose.

Questions arose for Tim. Such as, who or whom was the mastermind? And what was the mastermind's intention?

"And your skin head gang? Did they come on the plane like skinheads?" Tim asked, though supposing that they probably had not.

"No, they wore wig to plane. Take wig off on plane," said Ivan.

What the fuck was going on?

"Do you have any idea what is going on?" Tim asked.

"I actor only. I paid. That it," said Ivan.

"Aren't you curious?" Tim asked.

The man shrugged.

"You know you could get into a lot of trouble for this, jail time," said Tim.

"I know. But money big. I broke, family broke, need money, no choice," said Ivan.

"Anything else you can tell me? Were you sent on this flight?" Tim asked.

"Yes, this flight -- paid to be on this flight as Nikolay Babikov," said Ivan.

"Why do you think this flight?" Tim asked, though ignored the man's shrug, because he already knew the disheartening answer: he had been flushed out!

Someone, or some group, must have wanted to know about the presence of American forces on flight 370!

And this person, or these people, had learned that there was, apparently, only one American official on the plane, and that it was Tim.

Why had they wanted to know? Tim could only assume that it was because they possessed the same intelligence that he did...

Which meant that this person or these people were probably also on the plane...

"Fuck, I could be fucked! And fuck, Sasha and Tiffany could be fucked!" Tim thought, trying his best not to scan the plane nervously, as he realized that he had fallen, like a clumsy oaf, smack-dab into an adversary's trap.

It might have been sour grapes but Tim had the suspicion that it was the sort of thing that never would have happened prior to the Snowden leaks -- and so again he imagined himself pummeling Snowden into a bloody heap -- an image which momentarily tranquilized his spirits and provided him with a brief escape from the increasingly stressful reality of flight 370.

Malaysian International Flight 370: Interior CPU: 2:20 a.m.:

He had been chewing for so long. But no matter how much he chewed, there was still more to chew.

It was a place of chewing.

It was a time of chewing.

He had been chewing so much that he had not been very still.

He had been chewing so much that he forgot about his hunger.

What he chewed upon was not food. Eating the wiry things did not make him feel good.

But for some reason it felt good to chew, and chew, and chew.

But he remembered how good it felt to be still. So he stopped chewing and was still. He felt so safe when he was still.

It felt so good to feel safe.

Then, raising his snout into the air, he sniffed. Deep in the distance he smelled food.

It would be nice to eat food, even just a crumb.

But it was also nice to chew, and chew, and chew.

Happy, he squeaked.

But then he became shaky. It was bad to make noise.

Why had he done that?

Why had he squeaked?

Chewing did not make noise.

Yes, he would keep chewing!

Yes, he would chew until he could chew no more. And he would not squeak. Squeaking was not good. Squeaking made noise. Squeaking made him feel shaky, and feeling shaky did not make him feel good.

But first he needed to be still. It felt so good to be still. It felt so safe to be still.

And then he chewed, and chewed, and chewed...

Suddenly there was a blast of light! It made him feel weak.

It made him feel much smaller than he already was, like a little crumb.

He did not like the light.

He had chewed a hole and the light had appeared in a flash.

The light had appeared in a flash and now it was gone.

Why was he crawling into the hole?

It did not make him feel safe to crawl through the hole.

And why was he scampering toward the light in the hole?

It made him feel very shaky to scamper towards the light.

He felt safer in the dark.

But for some reason he was scampering towards the light.

He realized why. It was because sometimes he needed to do things that did not make him feel good.

He did not know why he knew that, but he did.

He wished this was not true, but it was.

There were different things in the light.

He did not know what these things were, so he decided to chew them.

It made him feel good to chew things that he had never seen.

He hoped he would not forget how good it felt to chew.

But it seemed that he would.

It seemed that things kept slipping from his thoughts.

Still, he hoped again that he never would forget how good it felt to chew.

It was time to chew on the new things in light.

So he chewed, and chewed, and chewed.

It made him feel so safe to chew.

It made him feel so alive to chew.

It made him feel so good to chew.

Suddenly there was a great blast of light and a painful feeling shot through his body.

What had happened?

He had flown through the air like a bird.

That was strange because he had no wings.

Had the chewing caused this to happen?

It was time to be still.

It was time to be safe.

It was time to stop chewing.

So he was very still.

And he felt very safe.

But he knew that soon he would be chewing again, because chewing made him feel even better than being still.

But for now he was still.

It was time to be still.

It was time to be safe.

It felt so good to be safe.

It felt so good to be still and to the think about the chewing that he would do again.

He closed his eyes. The light was gone.

He could remember chewing.

He hoped he would never forget.

He decided to start chewing soon, if he did not, he might forget.

But for now he needed to be still.

It felt so good to be still.

It felt so good to be still and to be thinking about chewing.

Malaysian International Flight 370: Row 32: 2:20 a.m.:

After enduring what seemed a never-ending cascade of worries from Ron, Sasha finally said, "Would you mind changing places with Tiffany? I have to talk to her for a moment."

Ron nodded, saying, "Is that what you want?"

"Yes," said Sasha.

"You are sure? Because it is no problem, but you are sure?" Ron asked.

What was with this guy? Why was he so obsessed with what she wanted?

In reply, Sasha simply smiled.

Suddenly an old memory popped into her brain: she was standing beside her father at the local ice cream shop in a small Texas town.

"But your mother already said no to you," her father had said.

And for some reason she had not cried, or made a fit. Instead she had smiled, brightly.

"Why are you smiling?" her father asked.

"Please," she said, the gap in her front teeth seeming to become wider as her smile became wider.

"Your mother already said no," said her father.

She continued smiling.

"Pick something else, chocolate or..."

In the end, she had her banana split. She remembered sharing it with someone, another girl who looked just like her.

Was it a friend? She could not recall.

In any case, she hoped she would be able to remember all the details 370 Lion's Drive: those details might be their only hope to stay alive.

"He seems nervous," said Tiffany.

Sasha broke from her reverie, noticing that Tiffany was now sitting beside her.

"Aren't you?" Sasha asked.

"I think Tim can handle it," said Tiffany smiling.

"I think most people would be very nervous," said Sasha.

Tiffany smiled, and her smile brought Sasha back to that day with the banana split: that nameless girl had been smiling too.

But why remember this now?

Was it somehow important?

Did that memory have some connection to the number 370?

Had the ice cream cost $3.70? That would be an expensive ice cream at that time, so many years ago. But it had been a banana split. So perhaps it was possible.

"I feel like things will turn out okay when I am with you and Tim," said Tiffany, hugging Sasha.

Sasha hugged her back.

Then Tiffany did something unexpected. She kissed Sasha on the lips. Sasha winced and instinctually wiped her lips. The peck had been quick. But Sasha had kissed no one on the lips -- other than her children - since she had married Tim.

"What was that for?" Sasha asked, somewhat shocked.

"Sorry, I do that sometimes when I get nervous, really nervous," said Tiffany, though smiling brightly.

"I thought you weren't nervous?" said Sasha.

"I guess I am," said Tiffany.

"You kiss people when you get nervous?" Sasha asked.

Tiffany nodded.

"How does George feel about that?" Sasha asked, though immediately regretted asking because it sounded accusatory.

"I usually get nervous around George," said Tiffany with a giggle.

Sasha thought, "That's right I was nervous that night in Dallas!"

Tim and Sasha were newlyweds when they lived at 370 Lion's Drive. Before the house burned down, Sasha had been watching television, naked on the couch, her mind adrift. She had tried to clean the bedroom but it seemed a pointless endeavor because their bed was busted and leaning on its side.

The prior night had been especially humid and they made love for such long stretches of time that they had become like two wet sopping rags, each wringing onto the other, and had fucked so greedily that a bed-leg had snapped, though they ignored the snap even as it occurred, their intimacy as potent as if observing each other's thoughts with a microscope, and so even on a lopsided bed the fucking continued unabated.

And how similar that was to Malaysia!

And as Sasha sat on her airplane seat, she pressed her hand against her lips. It seemed like she could almost feel, mounted on her there in the airplane, the young, bright-eyed, Dallas Tim that she had fallen in love with all those years ago -- his dusty cowboy hat askew on his head.

The thought was absurd. She knew Tim was in the cockpit talking to the pilot, and yet, it almost seemed like...like...

"What are you thinking about?" Tiffany asked, snapping Sasha from her dream.

"Nothing," said Sasha, surprised at how vivid the image had been, surprised to note that she was wet.

"It must have been something good, you were moaning," said Tiffany.

"It was nothing," said Sasha, feeling confused.

Suddenly Sasha felt Tiffany kiss her again -- and this time the kiss was longer, and wetter.

Again, Sasha immediately wiped away the kiss.

"Why do you keep doing that?" Sasha asked, curtly. Besides the fact that she was married, the intrusions were slightly repulsive: women did not excite her sexually -- even when she was bisexual for a spell in college it had meant nothing. Consisting of little more than kissing, she gave it up with no regrets. The only thing she gained from the experience was the knowledge that she needed a man, not a woman.

"I can't help it. You are so pretty when you think about pleasant things," said Tiffany.

Sasha wished that she had not told Ron to change his seat. But Tiffany had been no trouble all trip. Why was she starting to be trouble now, right when Tim was about to confront international terrorists, and right when and she needed to do some serious thinking about 370 Lion's drive?

"Please stop. I'm not bisexual and you know I'm married," said Sasha.

"I don't think Tim would mind," said Tiffany, her eyes sparkling.

"I have to think about something serious," said Sasha.

"And pleasant," said Tiffany, giggling.

"And serious," said Sasha, adding, "So please let me think."

Tiffany raised her eyebrows, shooting Sasha a seductive glance.

Was this really happening right now? Was her supposed-friend really trying to turn her bisexual? Sasha had not even known that Tiffany was bisexual!

Tiffany laughed, saying, "I'm just joking around with you. I think in a situation like this it is good to joke."

Sasha sighed, thinking, "Maybe I am taking this way too serious. Those were just light pecks on the lips. And to be fair, Tiffany is a grown Barbie doll who wears a bikini everywhere she goes and seems to have a very high sex drive. She is probably super sexually frustrated right now...This isn't about me..."

Sasha said, "Okay, fine, but let me think for a moment okay?"

Tiffany smiled, hugging Sasha. And still hugging Sasha, her head now on Sasha's lap, she said, "Think about it while I hug you."

"Fine," said Sasha, ready to compromise a face plant on her pelvic area if it meant no more random kisses.

So again Sasha imagined Texas Tim.

And what a sight that was!

She had forgotten how manly Tim appeared in his cowboy boots, his faded jeans, and his stubbly smile.

When she met Tim in the lingerie shop where she worked, she never imagined that he was a rodeo clown.

"I can't picture you as a clown. Are you funny?" Sasha had asked after he told her about his rodeo gig during their first date.

Star-gazing and searching for comets, they were cuddling together on a soft blanket in his truck bed, parked in the middle of an empty field. The night was clear and the moonlight strong. He squeezed her hand and replied, "I'm the funniest rodeo clown around."

But if that was an attempt at a joke it was a bad one: there was nothing funny about being a rodeo clown -- just the prospect for lots of broken bones.

"So you try to get the bulls to chase you?" Sasha asked.

He laughed.

"You're crazy aren't you?" She asked.

"I'm not going to do this forever. I'm going to be a rider some day," he said.

"You want to ride the bulls?" she asked.

He nodded and pointed to a falling star.

She pointed to another.

As the falling stars dazzled like raindrops caught in sunbeams, they kissed and tore off each other's clothes, and soon Tim's feverish fucking caused her to orgasm multiple times and she thought, "Why do you need to ride a bull? You are a bull."

And now sitting on the plane, still wet, she remembered Texas Tim at the rodeo, dressed in that ridiculous clown outfit. But he danced around those bulls as if he were playing tag with a toddler. And what was more, while the other clowns were constantly getting busted up and sent to the emergency room, Tim always managed to escape with just a few bruises.

She hoped that agility remained in the older, Washington D.C. Tim. He would need it, perhaps, to keep them safe from the terrorists.

But Tim had been a business man for the last twenty years. He had given up the rodeo circuit when he had been offered the job at Elonta.

After pushing papers around for so long, could he really handle terrorists?

Would he remember how to avoid horns?

And although D.C. Tim was not as toned as Texas Tim, the thought of his still-chiseled body gave her comfort.

But then she thought, "These are pointless considerations. You need to remember the details of 370 Lion's Drive..."

So in her mind she traveled back to Texas, again picturing herself watching television as she lay naked on the couch: it was the morning after their crazed fucking had snapped a bed-leg and the morning before their house burned to ashes.

Earlier on the plane, Tiffany had accidently reminded Sasha that she felt nervous that day.

But what had she been feeling nervous about?

Suddenly it occurred to her, "That Tim would leave you!"

Yes, she had been aimlessly lying on the couch, convinced that Tim would never return; feeling so love-lost she was unable to dress herself, clean their bedroom, prepare dinner, or complete any of the tasks she had planned to accomplish that day. Instead, she had only been able to loaf around and gorge upon ice cream.

And when the quart of ice-cream had been scooped empty, she had napped, then dreaming a terrible dream: that she was a clay sculpture hollow on the inside and painted pretty on the surface, and that, thinking her lovely, Tim had bought her from an artist but that when he discovered she was hollow he smashed her on the ground -- though she had awoken just before the smashing.

And when she opened her eyes Dream Tim was gone and the real Texas Tim stood above her, smiling.

And she had immediately started crying.

He asked her what was wrong.

He licked the tears from her face.

He gave her a bouquet of roses that had been hidden behind his back.

"I had a nightmare. I dreamt you left me," said Sasha, cradling the roses.

"That was a nightmare," said Tim, kissing her. "Although you are anything but a nightmare, here naked on the couch \-- I like coming home and finding you here this way."

Sasha laughed mischievously.

"I could do nothing today. I was thinking only of you," said Sasha, tears again rising into her eyes.

"I'm not going anywhere," said Tim.

"I want you to make love to me right now," said Sasha, placing the bouquet between her legs.

"But I'm filthy," said Tim, having just returned from the rodeo. He had removed his muddy clothes but he still wore his rodeo undergarments and a cloud of dust had followed him from the entranceway to the living room.

"I don't care. I want you now," said Sasha.

"It will ruin the couch," said Tim.

"We'll be on a roll -- we already ruined the bed," said Sasha, laughing mischievously again.

Their thirst endless, they made love for hours. Tim, who had been running around the rodeo all day, was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open, but still he continued, their heated breathes keeping time as the sun gave way to a half-moon and meandering stars and the clockwork of the constellations, their love-making a low-heated sizzle that brought Sasha to a state of ecstasy in gentler waves of passion than the wild-eyed fucking of the night before.

When they finally finished the hour was late.

"I'll whip us up something for dinner," said Sasha, her long tangled hair all that covered her body.

Tim shook his head, telling her she needed a night on the town.

"You have to work so early," said Sasha.

"We need to go out. It has been too long and you deserve to be treated special," said Tim.

"Look at me, I'm a mess," said Sasha, lifting her tangled hair above her head.

"All I see is perfection," said Tim. "It's too bad you have to put on clothes."

But Sasha reminded Tim that the plan had been for him to catch up on sleep. The rodeo had been running him ragged and for the last couple of weeks he had hardly slept a wink.

"Your happiness is more important than a little shut-eye," said Tim, though his eyes were already almost shut, as if sleep-talking.

"But we don't need to go out. I am happy with you right here," said Sasha.

"My baby was sad and needs the special treatment. I'm treating you on the town," said Tim.

"We could just go to bed now and snuggle. You look tired and I feel tired. Let's just sleep," said Sasha, taking his hand and trying to lead him to the bed.

But Tim was not to be swayed. He showered, shaved, and changed into clean clothes. So not wanting to disappoint him, Sasha threw on a skimpy outfit and slipped into a pair of dangerously high, high heels.

Taking a taxi into town, they bar-hopped through Dallas. Sasha, on a quest for the perfect martini, heard Tim say, "The only thing perfect in this town is you," and then they kissed in the middle of the dance floor while the rest of the world vanished as if consumed by a black hole.

Sufficiently drunk and happy, they took a taxi to Dallas's edge, where the buildings ended and the flats began. Tim paid the driver to wait while he taught Sasha to fire a revolver. In the dead of the night, drunk and wobbly, Tim still managed to leave a graveyard of shattered bottles. And with Tim's assistance, Sasha shattered a bottle too and as it broke she squealed with delight.

Then the taxi driver took them to the late-night taco stand that he considered the city's best. Sasha and Tim laughed as they realized that it was their favorite too.

As they drove home, the night became blurry and Sasha fell asleep.

Then Tim's voice awoke her as he exclaimed, "Holy Shit, our fucking house is burning down!"

The cause had been electrical. If they had been sleeping soundly in their bedroom there was a good chance, the firemen later told them, that they would have died. But instead they had been safely boozing, dancing, and screwing the night away.

"So what lesson can I take from that?" Sasha wondered, staring through the tiny airplane window and into the black night.

As if a cat had settled onto her lap, Sasha absent-mindedly patted Tiffany's head, patting while thinking, "Well, the importance of love for one thing. All day I had been feeling rotten because I was worried that Tim did not love me enough. And yet Tim loved me so much that he took me out on the town, even though he was worn-out and dog-tired...But not just the importance of love, the importance of passion -- We were so passionate at that time, as newlyweds. But just like we are here really! So was it that combination of love and passion that saved us? Because if we had just gone through the motions, we would have died in that house...Does that mean we can't just go through the motions here? We have to be passionate?"

Sasha stared deep into the black night, feeling as if she had missed something. Suddenly her pulse quickened as she realized, "As preposterous as it sounds, could it be that our very survival depends upon our successful entry into The Mile High Club?"

She laughed...

Tim would be allowed no excuses now!

"Could it really be?" she wondered again, unable to reach any other conclusion for their survival of the fire except their deep love and passionate sex.

Just at that moment she spotted Tim walking down the aisle, a group of men following him.

Were they off to fight the terrorists?

Tim looked all business and incredibly sexy.

Sasha wished that they could abandon their worries and enter the Mile High Club without further adieu. She wondered if she should ask him. But she knew he would refuse and that she would be unable to explain, in terms he could understand, why fucking in the Flight 370 bathroom was so crucial to their survival.

So instead, she planned to kiss him passionately and remind him that they still had a bathroom date...

But as Tim neared her seat, his expression still all business, his demeanor totally hot, it took every ounce of Sasha's self-control to restrain herself from stripping naked and begging him to fuck her in the aisle...

In any case, she pulled Tiffany's head from her lap and left the window seat. And leaning into the aisle, she grabbed Tim and yanked him towards her, shoving her tongue down his throat...

As he returned the kiss, his slobbering tongue more pleasurable to Sasha than a perfumed sponge dripping, during a bubble bath, hot water onto her nipples, and she concluded, "We just might survive this flight 370 yet!"

Flight 370: Inside the Cockpit: 2:50 a.m.:

The Captain could not help but laugh when he learned that the terrorist had been an imposter.

Tim said, "This is no laughing matter. (A) Those guys jeopardized this plane's safety and broke, I don't know how many, international laws and (B) someone put them up to that for some reason, and I think it can only be a bad reason. So we aren't out of the woods yet."

The Captain stopped laughing. He thought, "It's true, perhaps things will only get worse from here. Fuck, I don't know if I should have snorted less or if I should snort more...What I do know is that I'm not feeling all that great with my presently snorted amount. I wonder what Leo would do? He probably snort more, he would be fearless..."

"Have you communicated with the ground yet about the copilot, or about these imposters?" Tim asked.

The Captain glanced at Guntur. The poor boy was comatose. From time to time he could be heard mumbling but that was it.

"I'll do it now," said the Captain, grabbing the ACARS controller. But as he tried to activate the system, he could see that it was not working.

"What's the matter?" Tim asked.

"Communications are down," said the Captain, trying to steady his heart. He did not want to die on this plane. It was not time to die, not yet: there were still many women in the world he planned to screw.

"Do you know why?" Tim asked.

"No idea, but it's probably that theory of yours -- that whoever put those imposters up to their act, also took out our communications," said the Captain, trying to ignore his almost panic inducing rapid heart-rate, a heart-rate which had already been super-charged before the arrival of pretend terrorists or otherwise, due to his copious cocaine consumption.

"When was the last time you used it?" Tim asked.

"A while ago -- I was telling Vietnam that we were about to fly through their airspace," said the Captain.

"Any suggestions?" Tim asked.

"Yeah, let's land this plane," said the Captain.

"I think you are right, standard protocol is the best bet at this point. Land us the nearest airport," said Tim.

But the Captain's heart now began racing faster than the plane itself because he realized that it was not only the ACARS system that was broken: none of his controls were working, none at all!

And he gasped, "We are stuck on autopilot!"

"What!" Tim exclaimed.

The Captain drew a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart, his racing thoughts, and his racing existence from racing over a cliff of doom.

"How the fuck did that happen?" Tim asked.

"No idea," said the Captain, almost involuntarily removing the cocaine from his pocket for a quick snort of courage.

"What will happen?" Tim asked.

"At this point, the plane would just keep flying until we ran out of fuel," said the Captain.

"What can we do?" Tim asked.

"Try out our cell phones to call for help. If they don't work, pray that there is someone on this plane with some serious technological skills so that we can fix whatever has gone wrong," said the Captain, feeling like Captain Leonardo had momentarily emerged because he was brainstorming possible solutions and, as he flipped open his cell-phone, following through with a planned course of action. He shook his head, saying, "Nothing, and at this height, no one will get service."

Tim nodded, asking, "Do the in-plane communications still work?"

The Captain tested the intercom. It worked.

"If we tell the passengers the whole story they will panic," said Tim.

"Yes they will. But I think we should tell them at some point. They deserve to know," said the Captain, "But we should first search for passengers with technological skills."

"I agree," said Tim. "How much time do we have until the crash?"

"Anywhere between three and six hours," said the Captain, swallowing hard as he realized that those would most likely be the last hours of his life. He added, "How do you think I should phrase the announcement asking for people with technological skills?"

Tim replied, "Tell them there has been a small unidentified issue, nothing to be too concerned about, but still a safety issue, and so we are asking that anyone with technological skills come to the cockpit."

The Captain nodded.

But just at that moment the intra-cockpit intercom activated, and a voice said, "I have bomb. I blow plane. You listen me."

Again wanting nothing more than a quick snort, the Captain reluctantly looked up at the cockpit video feed. Standing outside the cockpit was a man covered with blinking electrical wires.

"Did he say a bomb?" Tim asked.

The Captain nodded solemnly, his earlier connection with Captain Leonardo evaporating: he desired no further planning, no further actions, and just wanted to curl into a ball and pretend everything was a dream -- which was perhaps what Guntur was doing, the Captain realized, suddenly not feeling quite so sorry for the boy.

Tim cursed. His cursing having stopped, he said, "Ask him if he is a paid actor. It's worth a shot."

"Do you mind if I talk to him in Chinese?" the Captain asked.

"Not if it will make it easier for you. How do you know he is Chinese and not Malaysian?" Tim asked.

"Just the sort of thing a native Malaysian knows," said the Captain, and then activating the outer-cockpit intercom, he said in Chinese, "Are you an actor?"

And at the same moment that the Captain spoke, Tim exclaimed, "I recognize that guy...I talked to him a little while ago..."

**Row 5 Seat B** : Mr. Wu. **Nationality** : Chinese. **Age** : 39

**Purpose of Trip** : Business

**Flight 370: Outside the Cockpit: 2:55 a.m.** :

Mr. Wu pondered the Captain's question while thinking, "It was bad luck that those Ukrainian pranksters were on this plane."

But suddenly it occurred to him that the optimal path was to take credit for the Ukrainian actors. If he had organized the Ukrainian terrorist hoax then it would be reasonable to conclude that the hoax had been a preparation for his ultimate goal, his bomb -- and so perhaps people would not analyze, too closely, the fake bomb that he wore.

Therefore, Mr. Wu replied to the Captain in Chinese, "Ha! Ha! You fell right into my trap. I just needed to see what kind of security was on this plane. Now I know."

Again, Mr. Wu hoped the blinking Christmas lights covering his body would fool the American inspector and any other suspicious types that might be on the plane, for long enough, to complete his mission, which was: intercepting the Second Set of Snowden files.

The First Set of Snowden files -- those obtained and published by the Guardian newspaper -- had reportedly been child's play compared to the Second Set.

The First Set of Snowden files concerned domestic and international spying methods by the NSA. It was valuable counter-intelligence for the Chinese state, and the Chinese government was thankful that Snowden had delivered them this cherry-picked information.

The Second Snowden Set concerned a completely different subject, one which top Chinese officials might have known the nature of, but which neither Mr. Wu nor any of his government associates had any clue about at all.

There were, however, rumors galore concerning the subject of the Second Snowden Set, such as: the NSA designs for a time machine, the NSA designs for a new and profitable renewable energy, the NSA designs for computer super-intelligence, and so on...

What was known for certain was that the encryptions on the Second Snowden Set were more secure than the encryptions on the First.

Mr. Wu had lucked across the information that the Second Snowden Set would probably be traveling on flight 370.

Mr. Wu worked for the Chinese government, but he was not a government official. Mr. Wu was a professional assassin.

Recently, a high-ranking Chinese government official had hired Mr. Wu to kill another high-ranking Chinese government official.

And his target had been so high-ranking that were he ever uncovered as the assassin, he knew that certain government branches would pursue him relentlessly for the rest of his life.

So Mr. Wu was quite careful with the details of the job. And just at the moment when his target was bound against a chair and Mr. Wu was steadying his hand for a clean shot, the man exclaimed, "I have information about the Second Set of Snowden papers."

Mr. Wu had not been aware that there was such a thing. But the government official explained that these papers, whatever they were about, were worth billions of Yuan

"I'm already rich," Mr. Wu had replied.

Thinking fast, the government official said, "They will make you more powerful."

"I feel quite powerful right now," said Mr. Wu, nodding to the gun in his hand.

"It will be in no way boring," said the official, a sly smile on his lips.

Mr. Wu laughed. He appreciated that this man would produce such a ridiculous reason right at the brink of his own death, and that he would proceed to smile about it.

"Okay fine," said Mr. Wu, untying the official.

"So what about the price on my head?" the man asked.

"I'll kill the other guy, and you can pay me for killing him what he was going to pay me for killing you," said Mr. Wu.

"Doesn't that conflict with the assassin's code?" the official asked, seeming resigned, Mr. Wu guessed, that this was all a trick to effortlessly gain information before killing him.

"Yes, but I have my own rules. And I don't like the other guy. You make me laugh. You can live, he can die, and we can get these papers together," said Mr. Wu.

"Aren't you afraid that I will try to kill you, now that you have tried to kill me?" asked the official.

"You ask a lot of questions for someone just brought back from the edge of death. But no, I am not afraid of that," said Mr. Wu.

"Why not?" asked the man, apparently as curious as a little child.

"I'm just not, not in the least," said Mr. Wu, with an easy smile.

"What's your name?" asked the official.

"Mr. Wu," he said.

"Mr. Wu? Oh, so now I see why you do not fear me and why you can make your own rules," said the man, then proceeding to describe all he knew concerning the Second Snowden Papers.

Mr. Wu was a legendary assassin who had lived through so many near death experiences that it was sometimes said that he could not die.

Figuring the rumor could do more good than harm, Mr. Wu cultivated it. But he knew that the truth was something else entirely: that he had a sixth sense concerning death and could feel the impending whispers, breaths, breezes, gusts, winds, and gales of death's presence.

So when the death feeling became too strong, Mr. Wu simply side-stepped, sometimes less than an inch from where he had been standing. Time and time again, Mr. Wu observed that the difference between life and death could be measured in the tiniest of distances: stand on that brick and you live, stand on the brick immediately to the right and you are crushed by a falling piano.

More than once, Mr. Wu had taken his business dealings so close to the death feeling that he had been caught in the gunfire between rival gangs. And when this occurred, Mr. Wu always took the same action: he walked to safety by taking a path straight through the center of the gunfight.

One gang member who had witnessed this seeming feat of magic, described Mr. Wu as having walked through the haze of deafening bullets with good posture, a slight smile on his face, his steps deliberate, and his pace neither fast nor slow -- almost as if seeing a fairly good friend in the distance and somewhat eagerly making his way over to shake his hand.

And so obviously, with bullets whizzing around Mr. Wu's head, this god-like, almost walk-on-water spectacle caused nearly everyone who witnessed it and most others who later heard it described to assume that Mr. Wu could, like Neo in the Matrix, dodge bullets; when in reality he was merely walking upon an invisible tightrope, one which he sensed, and which avoided the pockets of death, like a man with x-ray vision on a Sunday stroll through a minefield.

The moment that Mr. Wu stepped onto flight 370, he realized that it would probably crash: the death feeling had greeted him even before the stewardess's handshake.

The sense had been faint, which meant that death lay far in the distance, and the sense had been intermittent, which meant that death might not strike at all.

Still, it would seem a reasonable assumption that any person on earth armed with that knowledge, save those with a death-wish, would have immediately stepped back off the plane.

Mr. Wu did not have a death-wish. He simply believed there was almost always a way to avoid death. And so the standard line that he told himself was, "And so if you can't avoid it, then I guess it is time for you to go."

Still the action had been so brazen -- even by Mr. Wu's standards -- that as the flight continued, he began to have misgivings.

He pictured the plane crashing because he knew it probably would. Even in the worst plane crashes there were usually a few survivors. Those lucky survivors did not know it when they chose their tickets, but they had avoided the death spots, just as Mr. Wu avoided the death spots in a gunfight. Mr. Wu thought, "But even if I survive, I might break every bone in my body. I should have walked off this plane..."

At first Mr. Wu held out hope that he was sensing a death event other than a crash, such as an Air Marshall trying to shoot him.

But throughout the flight he had repeatedly changed his seat and still the faint feeling appeared.

No, the feeling was too consistent across locations. Therefore it seemed that the plane, on its present flight course anyway, was fated to crash.

Mr. Wu hoped that after he hijacked the plane \-- as he planned to do -- and altered its flight course that the death feeling would vanish.

He laughed, as it occurred to him that by hijacking the plane, he might save everyone's life on it -- though most importantly, his own.

However, it was also possible that he would hijack the plane and the death feeling would continue: nothing was certain.

Sometimes to avoid death, no movement is needed, and at other times movement is the key. So after Mr. Wu witnessed the Ukrainian craziness, he decided that it was time to take matters into his own hands, time to determine what was what.

He had two objectives (1) land the plane safely and (2) retrieve the Snowden documents. So grabbing his carry-on, he entered the bathroom and wrapped himself in Christmas lights -- now standing outside the cockpit while twinkling like an ornament of death.

"What are your demands?" the Captain asked.

Mr. Wu said, "I need you to make an announcement, and translate it into Malaysian, Chinese, and English. Tell the plane that I want the Second Set of Snowden papers delivered to me. Someone on this plane has them. Tell them I am prepared to kill everyone on the plane if I do not receive them. And change the flight path -- we aren't going to Beijing."

For a moment there was no reply, apparently the Captain and Inspector were consulting.

Finally the Captain said, "I can give the plane your instructions about the Snowden papers, but you sabotaged the plane too well. We are stuck on autopilot."

Was it a bluff?

"Let me in," said Mr. Wu.

The door did not open.

"Let me in," Mr. Wu repeated.

"Negative," said the Captain, adding, "Protocol won't allow it."

"That is a bold statement to say to a terrorist with a bomb strapped to his chest," said Mr. Wu.

"We don't think that is a bomb," said the Captain. "We think you are wearing Christmas lights."

Foiled! But he needed to continue with the ruse to buy time, and so he said, "I'm giving you one minute to talk it over. Then I blow up the plane."

Mr. Wu rushed down the aisle, knowing that the inspector and others would soon be in pursuit. He needed a hostage \-- and fast. He had no weapon with which to look threatening. And although he knew that his hands were death weapons, weapons that could easily snap a neck, other people would not realize that fact. Therefore, if he took an adult hostage people would not assume the hostage to be in imminent danger, and the passengers would probably organize and pounce on him as a group.

The only answer: a baby hostage. Simply dropping a baby on its head might be enough to kill it. People would understand that a baby, held in his hijacker hands, was in imminent danger. Thus, they would be more reluctant to attack him.

Suddenly Mr. Wu stopped running. He had reached his destination, a sleeping baby. Without another thought, he snatched the baby from its mother's arms. Instantly the mother awoke and the baby started crying.

"My baby!" the woman screamed in Chinese.

Mr. Wu held the baby by one leg, dangling it above the mother's head, as if teasing a dog with a slab of meat, and he said, "If anyone moves from their seat this baby gets dropped and squished like a bug under my foot!"

"Lin Lee!" the woman screamed, passengers starting to stir awake.

"Your baby will be fine if this plane does as I say. So tell people to do as I say," said Mr. Wu with a devilish smile, then turning quickly and sprinting back up the aisle, the baby still held upside down by one leg.

As soon as Mr. Wu reached the cockpit door, he buzzed the cockpit intercom, and holding the baby up to the video feed, he exclaimed, "That bomb may have been fake but this baby isn't! Let me into the cockpit or the baby dies!"

Malaysian International Flight 370: Row 25: 3:05 a.m.:

Quickly, rumors of a terrorist takeover spread through the plane.

At first, Kean ignored the rumors, thinking them absurd. Besides, his stomach hurt too much to think about such things. But soon the terrorist himself stated, in Chinese, his demands over the intercom, the Captain then translating.

"What are the Second Snowden papers?" Kean wondered.

And a baby hostage? Kean had never heard of such a thing. The thought of it made him nauseas. More than ever he wished he was back in Dublin, where the surroundings were familiar, the heroin was easy to score, and people did not take babies as hostages.

"Who the feck would take a baby hostage?" Kean asked Darcy.

"A feckin mongoloid," she replied, the murky sweat of withdrawals still pouring down her face.

And then a horrible fear flashed into Kean's mind, "We are getting hijacked! And so we might not be landing in Beijing!"

He shared this with Darcy.

"I don't care," she replied.

"Yeah, but what if we get taken somewhere with no smack. We'll be fecked," said Kean.

Darcy replied, "We are already fecked... And think about the wee one you arse."

Kean sighed. Darcy was right of course. But sometimes it was not that simple. The heroin cravings were often so strong that they trumped every other thought.

Kean and Darcy sat in silence.

Finally Darcy said, "I'm going to the bathroom."

Kean replied, "You can't. He might kill the baby."

Darcy said, "I think we might feckin die too."

Kean remembered his earlier death feelings and he shuttered.

Kean tried his best to smile. But Darcy only looked at him like she wanted to spit in his face.

Then she said, "I've got a stash still."

At first Kean could not believe what he had heard but once her statement fully registered, a flashing memory of heroin's warm embrace surged through his body, his nausea momentarily subsiding.

"Jaysus!" Kean exclaimed, and suddenly it seemed that Preaching Danny had been right: there was a kindly God in the heavens.

"I was holding, in case China was a drought," Darcy explained. "But this flight is a feckin mancky joke. I can't take no more. If I'm dying, I'm dying with a high."

Kean conjured the brightest puppy dog eyes he could manage, periodically blinking for full effect. But if the puppy eyes failed, he was ready to rip the heroin from her very person.

"Yes, there is enough," said Darcy, in reply to his look. "I'll go first."

"But the baby?" Kean asked, though already knowing that he was ready to risk the death of a baby for a high.

"Like I said, we could all die," said Darcy, slowly making her way to the aisle, then crawling in the direction of the plane's rear.

Kean heard mumbling protests in response to Darcy's movement.

And then he heard Darcy exclaim, "I'm takin a shite you arse!"

Kean hoped she would be quick, though knowing the hope futile. Darcy took so long to complete her heroin business that it seemed to occur in geological time, as if not recording the time for a needle prick to her arm but rather a boulder's transition into a glacier.

Although it made him nauseas, he pondered the terrorist's demands. The terrorist had stated that someone on the plane had the Second Set of Snowden papers. Was he referring to Edward Snowden? Kean vaguely remembered hearing that name on news reports. But Kean usually ignored the news -- he had enough of his own problems to be bothered worrying about the world's problems too.

Again, Kean wondered what they were smuggling. He still believed it might be heroin. Yet wasn't it possible that their suitcase contained the Snowden Papers? After all, they really did not know, with certainty, what their suitcase contained.

Kean did not want a baby to die. But Kean also did not want to die himself, and he thought it dangerous to become directly involved in the situation.

So for now he decided to keep quiet. Besides, it would be foolhardy to do anything which risked his opportunity to get high. And suddenly, as if spoken to by the very soul of Heroin, a fleeting memory of the drug's euphoric bliss shot through his nausea.

Flight 370: Inside the Cockpit: 3:10 a.m.:

Mr. Wu pondered his next move. It had been at least five minutes since he had demanded the Snowden papers, and still no one had approached the cockpit with information concerning the papers' whereabouts.

At first he was sure that the Captain had bluffed about the plane's mechanical problems. But now it seemed that he was telling the truth.

And if so, how had it happened? Was there another hijacker on the plane? A hijacker for which these plane failures was part of the plan? A hijacker patiently waiting for his opportunity to take Mr. Wu's place?

Mr. Wu was outside his comfort zone. Having spent his working life as an assassin, he had little opportunity for other ventures -- such as plane hijackings.

Little Lin Lee was the first baby that he had ever held. And the Captain had to instruct him on the mechanics of baby cradling. As Mr. Wu first cradled the baby in his arms, he breathed a sigh of relief: holding the baby upside down by a leg had been a method too precarious.

No matter what happened, Mr. Wu would never kill the baby. In fact, one of his personal rules as an assassin was that he did not kill women or children. Would the baby subterfuge be more successful than his fake bomb attempt? He hoped so. But all in all, he just wanted to return to his simple life of killing people.

Why was he going after these Snowden papers anyway?

Was it a whim?

Or perhaps a mid-life crisis?

Mr. Wu could not remember. But Mr. Wu frequently took spontaneous actions that had not been fully considered, because the way he looked at it, even if the worst came to the worst, he could probably avoid death.

The baby made a cooing sound and Mr. Wu made a funny face in response. The baby laughed. So Mr. Wu laughed too. Although the death feeling on the plane was becoming stronger by the minute, holding the baby put Mr. Wu at ease, as if holding a chunk of the future, a warm chunk that smiled and made silly noises.

"I don't think you will kill that baby," said the American Inspector.

Mr. Wu laughed, saying in Chinese, "Why? Just because the baby gives me pleasure? I often kill things that give me pleasure. I just like them to give me pleasure first."

The Captain translated the comment to the American.

"I still don't think you will kill that baby," said the American.

Mr. Wu did not like this American. He was too perceptive for his own good.

"I don't think you will kill the baby either," said the Captain.

"Well maybe we should set odds and gamble some cash on the outcome," said Mr. Wu, laughing.

And then as if to spite them, Mr. Wu tickled the baby's nose while speaking baby-talk.

A few minutes earlier, The Captain and the American had been trying to convince Mr. Wu that he needed to repair whatever damage he had done to the plane.

"If the plane crashes and we all die, what good would your Snowden papers be then?" the Captain had asked.

Mr. Wu felt almost guilty about telling them that he was not the saboteur. But when he did tell them, they did not believe him.

However, Mr. Wu agreed with the Captain and the American's analysis: that if the plane was not repaired almost everyone on the plane would die.

And for Mr. Wu this was not idle speculation, the death feeling had been surging ever stronger.

Normally such an outcome would cause him little concern, but the baby had changed things.

His death feeling only spoke to his own survival, not the survival of others; and Mr. Wu wanted this baby to survive.

Therefore he said to the Captain, "Okay, I will put my Snowden Paper search on hold and you can try to repair the plane. But make one move against me, and this baby dies."

The Captain and the American spoke together quickly, so quickly that Mr. Wu was unable to discern any of the English words.

Finally the Captain said, "So you really weren't the one to disable the control board or the outside communications?"

Mr. Wu shook his head in the negative.

The Captain and the American spoke together again.

"Do you have any associates on the plane that might have done this?" asked the Captain.

Mr. Wu again shook his head in the negative.

"That isn't good," said the Captain. "There could be some other terrorist or hijacker out there."

"Could be," said Mr. Wu with a whimsical smile. Although he knew that the plane situation was extremely chancy, it was no exaggeration to say that Mr. Wu lived for near-death experiences. So while his misgivings had earlier boiled to the surface, he also meant to enjoy himself, and did so at the moment by teasing the Captain and American with his playful expression.

The cockpit intercom buzzed, and a voice said, "I might have some information about The Snowden Papers."

"Let him in," said Mr. Wu, smiling in unison with baby Lin Lee.

Flight 370: Outside the Cockpit: 3:20 a.m.:

Kean was of a divided mind: one side focused on helping the baby and the other side focused on heroin's siren song.

Darcy would have been back any minute. Why hadn't he waited?

He felt weak. And he knew the heroin would make him feel strong.

It was all a mistake!

"I should sprint to the back of the plane," he thought.

But just then the cockpit door opened. He had no choice now. He entered.

There were four people inside the cramped cockpit, Kean made five. As he glanced at the co-pilot slumped over and restrained to his seat, he swallowed hard: it looked like the hijacker had killed him execution style.

"Will I be next?" he wondered.

"Just sleeping," said the Captain, apparently reading his thoughts.

A large Asian man dressed in a snazzy suit held the baby. The man had a happy face, and even smiled at Kean as he entered. But in Kean's experience, happy seeming crooks were usually the most sadistic.

"I'm the Captain. I can translate," said the Captain.

"My name is Tim Dickerson, International Inspections," said Tim. Kean sensed the American analyzing him closely.

"Mr. Wu," said the hijacker, while lifting the baby, as if she too offered a greeting.

Kean nodded.

"Well?" the Captain asked.

"I'm Kean. I might know something," said Kean.

Everyone waited.

Kean continued, "But if any of this turns bad, I don't want trouble with the law."

Tim quickly said, "I have the authority to guarantee that, and I do. So what do you know?"

Kean gave Tim a puzzled look, wondering if he was being played. He had not fully explained the situation and already this authority figure was promising the moon. Also, it did not help that Kean had a low overall opinion of authority figures.

But he saw no other way: it seemed he would have to trust this one. Still, he decided to be more specific, saying, "Someone paid me to smuggle a suitcase to Beijing. They did not tell me what was inside. It seems it might be this Snowden thing."

Tim said, "I understand and I'll make sure you aren't prosecuted for whatever happens to be inside. We are in crisis mode, so deals can be made."

Kean nodded.

Mr. Wu laughed, saying in Chinese, "Captain, I think it is time to dig out this man's luggage from the storage section.

"And the other matter?" the Captain asked.

"Do what you need to do. But also get some crew who can dig out the luggage," said Mr. Wu, the baby seeming happier as Mr. Wu seemed happier.

Guntur stirred again, mumbling incoherently, though for a moment his speech clear, as he said, "Indah!"

The Captain shook his head, still unsure if he should be envious or piteous of the boy's state.

As Kean provided Mr. Wu with a description of the suitcase, the Captain used the intercom to request that passengers with technical skills report to the cockpit.

After the announcement had concluded, Kean asked the Captain what had prompted it.

"We've had malfunctions," said the Captain.

"Serious ones?" Kean asked, growing nervous as he again remembered his earlier death feelings.

"Pretty serious, but don't, you know, pass that on: we don't want to start a panic," said the Captain.

Twenty Minutes Later

Flight 370: Inside the Cockpit: 3:50 a.m.:

Guntur blinked awake, feeling dizzy as he realized he was inside a plane. It seemed that he had just taken an endless journey through time with Indah. As if on their own private spaceship, they had journeyed to undiscovered worlds far within the cosmos, traveling as representatives of Earth, and always spreading the same message, "Be kind to others and be happy with yourself."

Although Guntur was sad to awaken from such a blissful time, he was grateful that the spirit of Indah had infused him with such an important mission, a mission of kindness and happiness.

He yawned contentedly. But when he tried to stretch, he realized that he was tied to his seat. The world still blurry, he turned and saw the Captain to his side.

Trying to immediately do Indah justice, he smiled as he said, "Hello Captain."

"Guntur," the Captain exclaimed, jumping from his seat, and throwing his arms around Guntur in hug. "I thought you lost your mind!"

Guntur smiled wide, looking deep into the Captain's eyes as he replied, "On the contrary my Captain, I found it!"

Instantly the tears flowed into the Captain's eyes. He hugged Guntur tighter, saying, "That makes me so happy. I was worried. And you mean a lot to me Guntur!"

"So I can't help but notice that I am tied to my seat," Guntur said, while laughing merrily.

"We've been worried about your safety. You spoke about suicide, and you even spoke about crashing the plane. So we just thought this best," said the Captain.

"I understand," said Guntur. "It's uncomfortable and I'm fairly certain that my arms have lost most of their circulation, but if you feel I need to stay like this, I understand. Life is not about getting everything that you want. Life is about being happy in the circumstance that you find yourself!"

The Captain laughed, saying, "And to think, I thought you'd gone crazy, and yet you awoke with more sanity than before."

Guntur replied, "Indah taught me many things during our fantastic voyage through the cosmos. I am ready to be a new man, a thankful man. I am even ready to call you father, father."

"Son!" the Captain exclaimed, as the tears flowed down his cheeks. "I didn't know you knew! I haven't been there for you -- I thought fathering from a spiritual distance was the right thing to do, but it was wrong! I will be there for you now!"

Suddenly Guntur noticed a man standing in the corner of the cockpit, a man holding a baby. But then Guntur saw that he held no ordinary baby in his arms. It was Lin Lee! The very baby who had first turned Guntur towards the path of righteousness!

"That's Mr. Wu," said the Captain, as Mr. Wu nodded, an amused expression on his face.

"And Lin Lee!" Guntur exclaimed, the baby seeming to coo as he spoke her name.

The Captain said, "There are some things that I have to tell you Guntur -- bad things."

Guntur smiled. During his fantastic voyage with Indah, she had taught him that there was good to be appreciated in all situations.

The Captain continued, "The plane has malfunctioned. We requested that any passengers with technical skills attempt to help. And they are trying to help right now, but it doesn't look good. Barring a miracle, there is a good chance Guntur, my loving son, that this plane will crash and we will all die."

The bad part of the news was more than Guntur had been expecting, yet he still strained to find the hidden good.

But eventually he laughed, saying, "That is very bad. I wish I could see some good in this situation, but I do not. But I'm not going to let it ruin our reunion father. I am still determined to be happy!"

"Guntur, I'm going to untie you. You do seem better, and even if you wanted to crash the plane you couldn't now," said the Captain, as he untied Guntur's knots.

Freed, Guntur stood from his seat and stretched his limbs. Although he knew he would probably soon die, he still felt hopeful as he looked into sweet Lin Lee's face.

For a moment he made silly baby noises, and both Lin Lee and Mr. Wu laughed.

He thought, "Even if I die, sweet Lin Lee will live. She has to live!"

But tears surged to his eyes as he admitted to himself the possibility that sweet Lin Lee might die.

Guntur retreated to his seat, trying his best not to envision sweet Lin Lee's death. There would be no good in such a death! Perhaps there was some way to prevent it? But he knew not how, and soon he was choking upon his tears.

"Yes, the situation is difficult," said the Captain. "The passengers don't yet know. If the repairs fail, we will soon tell them. There may be panicking throughout the plane. I don't know..."

Guntur said, "I see that life is sweet now father, and I don't want to die. But if I am fated to die then I accept that fate. But it doesn't seem right for sweet Lin Lee to die. She has had no chance to live!"

The Captain and Guntur turned and stared at the baby.

"I don't want her to die either," said Mr. Wu.

"Are you her father?" Guntur asked.

"No, hijacker," said Mr. Wu, bluntly.

Guntur gave the Captain a confused look. The Captain nodded, saying, "Yes, that's the other bad news. Flight 370 has been hijacked. But it really makes no difference, not with the plane stuck in autopilot."

"Then sweet Lin Lee, is she your...your?" Guntur asked, unable to finish the question, tears flooding into his eyes.

"Hostage? Yes," said Mr. Wu, finishing Guntur's question for him.

"You have taken sweet baby Lin Lee as your hostage?" Guntur asked again, his voice breaking. The world which had seemed so wonderful when he first opened his eyes now seemed bleak.

"No harm will come to little Lin Lee, so long as my demands are met," said Mr. Wu, as he rubbed noses with Lin Lee, the baby giggling.

"Demands! This plane is crashing and you are making demands! Well, I have a demand for you! I demand that you bring Lin Lee back to her mother!" Guntur exclaimed, as the heavenly peace gifted to him by the fantastic voyage vanished and instead fury pulsed through his soul.

Just at that moment, a ruckus, as two people rushed into the cockpit, one of them carrying a suitcase.

Malaysian International Flight 370: Row 32: 3:50 a.m.:

Due to the hijacking, the passengers had been ordered to remain in their seats -- though Sasha noticed people sneaking to the bathroom from time to time. And sneaking to the bathroom was exactly what Sasha wanted to do, but not just sneak there alone of course!

Periodically, Tim had been providing updates on the hijacking and plane malfunction situations. Yet every time Sasha mentioned Mile High Attempt number two, Tim patronized and belittled her statements.

Apparently, the Captain had vested Tim with special duties, such as: talking to passengers to determine if they had technical qualifications and crawling into the plane's underbelly to retrieve a suitcase.

Sasha understood that Tim had important objectives to accomplish, and that he was trying to save everyone's life on the plane, and that yes it was horrible that a baby had been taken hostage, and that yes it was horrible that mechanical failures had riddled the plane. But it still bothered her that just because he was suddenly preoccupied with becoming superman, he was completely ignoring the possibility that she might have her own insights on the situation.

A few minutes ago, Tim had explained that he needed to venture into the plane's underbelly.

Sasha replied, "Marriage is a partnership! I should be making some decisions here too!"

At that point Tiffany butted in, saying, "Sasha he is trying his best to save all our lives." Ron and Melissa, who were embraced in a hug, did not look up.

Sasha snapped, "Tiffany, we already have a marriage counselor at home. So thank you but no thank you."

Tiffany just laughed.

"Is that really necessary?" Tim asked.

"Is it really necessary for you to abandon me, moments before we might die, just so you can look for some luggage at the bottom of a plane?" Sasha asked.

"Not so loud," said Tim, who had provided Sasha, Tiffany, and the two Brits, with more information than was known by the general population of the plane, specifically the information regarding the mechanical failures: information which had resulted in a continual hug between Ron and Melissa, and continued indifference from Tiffany.

"I feel like everything I do right now is a problem for you," said Sasha, regretting the need to argue with her husband during their possibly final hours on earth. But she could see no way around it. As the saying goes, marriage is hard work. And besides, she had her own reasons for trying to force Tim back onto her wavelength: namely, her theory that joining the Mile High Club just might save their lives.

"It's complicated, but I have to do what I have to do right now, for all of our sakes," said Tim.

"Tim you can climb to the top of the plane for all I care. I've never gotten in the way of what it is that you want to do. But when I want to do something, all I ask, is that you support me," said Sasha, forcing tears into her eyes. Reasoning with Tim about the Mile High Club would be impossible, and so she had decided her best option was to guilt him into joining.

"You are talking about the Mile High Club again aren't you?" Tim whispered.

"Yes, I am! And I don't care who hears. It is something that is important to me, and so I think it should be important to you too!" said Sasha.

Tim leaned close, whispering, "That whole thing was my idea anyway."

"It may have started as your idea but that doesn't mean you own it forever. And for a variety of reasons, it is something that has become very important to me. And I wish you could just trust me on that and not need me to spell out every little detail," said Sasha.

"Are we having our first big argument in Malaysia?" Tim asked.

"Yes, but the solution is simple. Take me into a bathroom, right now, and fuck me like a horny slut," said Sasha, with a seductive wink.

Tiffany giggled.

Tim sighed, saying, "I can see I'm not going to be able to reason with you. But I am really trying to save our lives. We can have all the awesome sex we want once we are back on the ground. But I've got time-sensitive things I have to complete right now."

"So what you are saying is that during this flight, you have no time for a quickie in the bathroom?" Sasha asked, trying to look stern.

Tim wavered, "No, I'm not saying that. It's just right now I can't."

Sasha sighed, saying, "Fine, go, but this isn't finished."

Tim said, "Sasha, I think you have become delirious. It is the stress of the situation. And that is okay. But sometimes people do strange things when they are in stressful near-death situations -- and they do them so they can avoid all thoughts of the situation. You do understand there is a very good chance we are not going to survive this flight?"

Sasha said, "And you do understand that what I am asking for is a very simple thing?"

"We can talk more about this, but I have to go now," said Tim, rushing off.

Sasha felt somewhat guilty for being so manipulative, especially considering that Tim was clearly facing almost unbearable pressure.

But for both of their sakes -- and maybe for the sakes of other passengers too -- she needed to use all means at her disposal to get him into the bathroom. And once there, she planned to turn the freak-show full-blast because joining the Mile High Club was no longer just an exciting possibility but rather a dire necessity.

So this time she needed to ensure that membership was not denied. Trawling the depths of her animal instincts, her mind was aflame as she prepared for all sexual contingencies, even unchartered ones.

And as she imagined herself stripping for Tim inside the tiny passenger bathroom, she thought, "Bring it on Mile High Club, I'm gonna make you my bitch!"

Flight 370: Inside the Cockpit: 4:00 a.m.:

As Tim and a stewardess entered the cockpit, Guntur continued yelling at Mr. Wu.

The stewardess had found Kean's luggage. It was secured with four locks and had been dropped by Mr. Wu's feet.

Mr. Wu tried his best to ignore Guntur. But Guntur continued yelling about the baby.

Mr. Wu instructed the Captain to start working on the locks.

"Why?" asked the Captain.

Mr. Wu understood what he meant, which was: why does it matter what is in the bag when the plane is crashing.

"Killing people is so much simpler," thought Mr. Wu.

As Guntur continued screaming, Mr. Wu realized he had three obvious options, which were (A) kill Guntur (B) remove Guntur from the cockpit or (C) remove himself from the cockpit. Choosing option (C), he grabbed the luggage and left the cockpit.

Guntur attempted to follow, but Tim held him back.

Although Mr. Wu could not admit it to Guntur, he agreed with Guntur's rage. He would have reacted in the same way if he thought someone was mistreating a baby.

A few minutes later, the luggage was opened: the Snowden papers were not found inside. Instead, the suitcase was filled with Christian Pamphlets. Able to read English better than he could speak it, Mr. Wu grabbed a pamphlet, some of which read:

Genesis 2

And the LORD God commanded the man, saying, "You may surely eat of every tree of the garden, but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.

Annoyed, Mr. Wu took a handful of the pamphlets and chucked them against the wall: nothing was going right.

Instead of the Snowden papers, all he had was religious mumbo-jumbo and a cute baby. He could have attempted to continue searching for the Snowden papers, perhaps tearing through more suitcases, but as the plane neared disaster, he doubted anyone would follow his orders -- even if he was holding a baby hostage.

So he decided it was time to make a deal.

"Go get the American and the Captain," he said to the stewardess. (He would have returned to the cockpit, but he did not want to listen to anymore of Guntur's screaming.)

The Captain and Tim arrived a moment later. Mr. Wu told the Captain that it seemed they might all die. Therefore, the way he saw it, they were all part of the same sinking ship. He stated that he was willing to return the baby. But he wanted to return to his seat with no repercussions. And if they plane landed safely, he wanted a guarantee that he could walk off the plane a free man.

The Captain translated.

"Fine, this never happened...what was in the suitcase?" Tim asked.

"The Word of the Lord," said Mr. Wu in Chinese, as he handed baby Lin Lee to the Captain.

Malaysian International Flight 370: Row 32: 4:30 a.m.:

The hijacking situation over, some of the passengers had fallen back asleep. But Sasha, Tiffany, Ron, and Melissa, knew the true extent of the mechanical problems. Therefore, sleeping was not an option.

Sasha could not understand why Tim was still helping the Captain. Tim had no mechanical knowledge. And just as she was wondering if she should go look for him, she spotted him walking down the aisle, looking sullen.

He plopped into his seat.

"Well?" Ron asked.

Tim shook his head, saying, "No one has any idea what caused the problems, or how to fix them. It doesn't look good. The Captain said that he thinks there is only about two hours of fuel left. When it runs out we will crash. The rest of plane will be notified in a few minutes."

"I see," said Ron, and turning to Sasha he surprised her by asking, "So what do you think we should do?"

Sasha almost laughed. Why was he always asking her? She shrugged. Ron and Melissa resumed hugging.

"I know you tried your best baby," said Sasha, snuggling her head against his shoulder.

"This is bad. I suppose we should write Brian and Jessica letters. They could be discovered in the rubble. Tiffany you could write George a letter," said Tim, morbidly.

Tiffany was silent, her face white. It seemed that perhaps the reality of the situation was finally striking her.

Sasha thought, "Great, another reason not to join the Mile High Club!"

Sasha said, "That's a great idea baby, but why don't we do that thing we've been talking about first?"

"You really want to do that now?" Tim asked, looking grave.

"More than anything baby; please make it happen..."

Malaysian International Flight 370: Row 32: 4:35 a.m.:

Although Tim had studied the sexually charged phenomena that often occurred in high-stress near-death situations, he never thought it would become part of his own life. Still, he knew that if he did not satisfy Sasha's sexual desires during their present high-stress near death situation then she might seek out someone else on the plane that would.

"What do I care? I'll be dead soon anyway," he thought. But apparently he did care, because without even thinking about it, he had grabbed her arm, tugging her towards the bathroom.

The bathroom was occupied. Sasha kissed Tim's neck as they waited. He felt nothing. He doubted he would be capable of sex, drained as his whole spirit felt. Yet for the sake of the final hours of his marriage, he knew he had to try. He thought, "I might not have been able to do my duty in saving this plane, but bye-golly I will do my duty by my wife!"

"What's talking so long?" Sasha asked. "If we have to wait much longer I just might fuck you right here."

Sighing, Tim knew that was a legitimate possibility -- the confidential CIA and FBI reports on high-stress near-death sexual phenomena had mentioned that the subjects often copulated with no regard for their location.

Trying to relax, Tim used their marriage counselor's deep breathing technique. But it did nothing.

All his life Tim had been prepared to die for America. But now, as his death for America neared, he found he was not ready at all. His children flashed into his mind: he wished he could hold them.

And yet he knew their predicament was his fault. He could have refused the mission. He could have taken a desk job. He could have quit the CIA.

Annoyed, he banged on the bathroom door. There was no answer. He banged again...still no answer.

"Probably taking a number two, maybe we should move on down the line," said Sasha.

But Tim sensed that something was wrong. He continued knocking... nothing. So he slammed his shoulder into the door and snapped it open: inside, on the floor, an unconscious girl.

"Is there a doctor on the plane!" Tim exclaimed.

Malaysian International Flight 370: Row 25: 4:40 a.m.:

Kean had been frantically searching everywhere for Darcy. So hearing someone screaming for a doctor, he rushed down the aisle, his fears realized, as he saw Darcy lying motionless on the ground, a needle protruding from her arm: she had over-dosed.

Tim grabbed Kean, holding him back.

"She's my mate!" Kean exclaimed.

"I know son, she's dead now," said Tim. "I'm sorry."

Kean fell to the ground, wailing, "I told her she would die! I felt it! As soon as we got on this plane I felt it!"

But then he felt silly for screaming such a thing, knowing that soon probably everyone else on the plane would die too.

Kean felt like there was so much he still needed to tell Darcy. He had never told her that he loved her or that he often dreamed of her at night or that her smile, though rare, brought such joy to heart that he would sometimes pray for its appearance, or even just the peculiar fact that Danny's suitcase was filled with contraband Christian materials, a serious offense in China.

He remembered sitting outside with her on the sidewalk in Dublin. She had been laughing about something, behind her the sun setting between two buildings, though the image was broken as the Captain's voice came over the intercom, saying, "Flight 370, I have some difficult news. The plane's mechanical failures seem to be unfixable. What does this mean? It means that in about two hours we will run out of fuel. We will crash, probably into the ocean. I suggest everyone read the crash landing materials. If you have questions concerning crash landing procedure, please ask a stewardess."

Crying, screaming, yelling, and thrashing suddenly erupted...

Flight 370: Outside Bathroom Four, 4:44 a.m.:

A riotous atmosphere having invaded the plane, Sasha assumed that their chances for joining the Mile High Club had diminished. But she was also curious about the dead girl's boyfriend. He had screamed quite convincingly that he knew she was going to die, and Sasha wondered, "Does he, like me, have some kind of insight into the supernatural?"

Therefore, she told Tim that she wanted to delay, briefly, their Mile High Club foray, saying, "Until things calm down on the plane -- too many people are screaming."

Tim replied, "I agree."

Having noticed that Tim already knew Kean, she asked him to introduce them.

"Baby I'm going to take you to the Mile High," said Tim.

Sasha nodded, confused.

Tim blurted, "So you don't have to try to take this kid here or anything."

Was he joking?

"Why would I do that?" she asked.

Tim looked crestfallen, he said, "Just promise me that you will give me a chance to take you to the Mile High Club first."

She wondered if the situation was affecting his sanity. He wasn't making any sense.

Sasha said, "Baby, I just want to talk to the boy."

Tim shook his head while roughly lifting Kean him from the aisle, then shoving him against a seat.

Grief-stricken as Kean was, he seemed oblivious to his change in locations.

"Hello, again," Tim said, gruffly, "This is my wife."

Kean nodded to Sasha. She could see that his eyes were filled with tears.

"Can I ask you a couple of questions?" Sasha asked.

Kean nodded.

Sasha asked him if he had been serious about knowing she would die. He told her that he had and she asked him to elaborate.

At first he looked unwilling, but a moment later he explained further, describing how he had accurate death feelings about old folk in Ireland and also about Darcy. And stating that a death feeling was like a chilling crescendo of loss, adding, "So once I have that feeling about someone the eerie music is always there, but usually faint and I can tune it out if I want. But when I really feel it, it sucks at me like a vacuum...I'm a heroin addict Mam, and this whole plane ride I've been going through withdrawals. I mistakenly thought the death feeling that I had for Darcy had just been the withdrawals. Maybe I could have saved her if I had known, maybe I could have just told her to be more careful..."

"Have you had any other death feelings since you have been on flight 370?" Sasha asked.

Kean nodded, saying, "Yeah, one that I've been trying to put out of my mind: the feeling that almost everyone on this plane is going to die..."

Sasha thanked him, and told him that she might want to speak to him later.

"Okay," he said, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "But you better hurry. Who knows how long we have."

Suddenly, to their left, a man started kicking the empty seat in front of him, and his rage subsiding, he began sobbing, and then curled into a ball.

Thinking it right to give the boy some hope, she described to him her insights into the number 370. She noticed that Tim had stopped listening once she began describing her 370 theories. So stepping even closer to Kean, she explained why she thought she and her husband had avoided disaster at 370 Lion's drive.

Kean replied that anything was worth a try and then taking another glance at Darcy, he returned to his seat.

Sasha was disappointed. It seemed like he had not believed her, which was strange, considering he himself had these odd death feelings.

In any case, there was business to complete, and she grabbed Tim and tugged him in the direction of the nearest bathroom not occupied by a dead person.

Flight 370: Row 5, 4:44 a.m.:

Mr. Wu felt exhausted. He had sat in nearly every seat in the plane, and still the death feeling remained. He had planned on finding a safe area and then advising the mother and her baby to hunker-down there as well. But at this point he would not even be able to save his own hide.

It seemed that a mere change in location would not be sufficient to avoid death. Therefore, he would have to change an event. At one point he had already tried this, the point when he attempted to alter the flight route.

The death feeling surging, he smiled as he thought, "Flight 370, you make me feel alive."

Sensing a stare, he looked up, and a stewardess immediately looked away. Mr. Wu recognized her as the stewardess who had located Kean's suitcase.

And feeling, with death so close, that he had nothing to lose, he smiled at her.

It seemed she might have blushed, which surprised Mr. Wu because she was very pretty. A moment later she sat in the empty seat next to him.

"I'm Mazlin," she said, smiling.

"Mr. Wu," said Mr. Wu.

"I thought it was really nice when you gave that baby back," said Mazlin.

"But I took her hostage first," said Mr. Wu.

"That wasn't nice. But it was nice when you gave her back," said Mazlin.

Mr. Wu decided to change the subject, saying, "Most people are writing letters -- why aren't you?"

"I like talking to people in person," said Mazlin.

"So in the moments before you possibly die, you would rather make small talk with a stranger than write intimate letters to those most important to you?" Mr. Wu asked.

"You aren't a stranger. You are the hijacker," said Mazlin.

"A failed hijacker -- though I'm the one getting hijacked now...because you have stolen my heart." said Mr. Wu.

Mazlin laughed, saying, "It's not the absolute worst line that I have ever heard anyway. So why aren't you writing to anyone?"

"There is no one to write to," said Mr. Wu, as he remembered the emptiness that awaited him in China -- though the awaiting part seemed dicey at this point.

"Oh, you poor lonely hijacker," said Mazlin with a silly sad face.

Mr. Wu laughed, saying, "I'm never lonely. My own company is always more than enough."

They stared in each other's eyes. Mr. Wu blinked first.

"Do you think there is life after death?" Mazlin asked.

Mr. Wu had often wondered this after he shot people in the head. But the problem with people you have shot in the head is that they can give you no answers.

"I don't know," said Mr. Wu. "I'd say it is 50/50."

The sobbing from the row behind had suddenly become much louder.

"Well, I have to go. I have to keep showing people how to use their oxygen masks and things like that," said Mazlin.

Mr. Wu nodded.

"Why were you smiling before?" Mazlin asked.

"Because I felt alive," said Mr. Wu.

"You're funny. I like you," said Mazlin.

"You fall for the bad boys, don't you?" asked Mr. Wu.

"No," said Mazlin, with a wide smile. "I fall for the guys who give back babies."

Flight 370: Outside Bathroom One, 4:47 a.m.:

Sasha opened the bathroom door and shoved Tim inside. He smashed against the wall looking shaken. Sasha finally had her fish on the hook and didn't mean to let it get away. Moving quickly she slapped Tim in the face as hard as she could.

"What the fuck!" he exclaimed.

She saw that he was confused and took advantage of his confusion to slap him again, the second time just as hard.

Grabbing both her wrists, he said, "What are you doing? That fucking hurt."

"You look like you are ready to die. I'm bringing you back to life," said Sasha.

"That was pretty much domestic violence," said Tim, still holding her wrists tight.

"Well, then I guess I'm in luck, because it looks like we won't have time for a divorce," said Sasha, then back-kicking in an attempt to strike him in the balls, and from the way he immediately released her arms and fell to ground it had obviously been a direct hit.

After a moment of moaning, he started swearing, his face a knot of pain as he struggled to stand, then taking a seat on the toilet.

Before he had a chance to look up at her, she slapped him in the face again.

"Seriously enough!" Tim shouted. "I thought we were coming in here to have sex, not beat the shit out of me."

"Yeah, but you didn't want to come in here. I had to drag you," said Sasha.

"So you figured it would be a good idea to repeatedly slap me in the face?" Tim asked.

"No," said Sasha, pouting as she quickly removed her shirt and her bra. "I thought it would be a good idea to be a naughty girl."

"What are you talking about?" Tim asked.

"I've been a very naughty girl. I need someone to spank me and hard," said Sasha, pulling her pants down to her knees, and shoving her ass in his direction.

"I'm not going to spank you," said Tim, somewhat haughtily.

"But I've been a bad girl and I need a good long spanking on my horny ass," said Sasha, rubbing her hands over her bum.

"We have never done anything like that before \-- why would we start now, moments before we die, in an airplane bathroom?" Tim asked.

"Because I've been naughty...naughty...naughty...naughty..." said Sasha, slapping her ass herself with each word that she spoke, her butt soon bright red.

"Okay, okay," said Tim, lightly spanking Sasha.

"Harder, I've been really naughty. I hit you in the face and I deserve to be punished for it. Spank me hard. Make me pay," said Sasha.

Tim spanked her harder.

"That's what I need, give me more," said Sasha.

Suddenly it seemed that Tim had gotten into the game, the slaps faster and louder.

"Please fuck me now big boy, please fuck me," said Sasha.

"Let's do it standing up," said Tim.

"I'll do anything you want. I'm your bathroom sex toy," said Sasha, kicking off her pants.

Tim quickly ripped off his clothes.

They were both naked and Tim was raging hard.

"It's on!" said Sasha, dropping to her knees and giving him an especially sloppy blowjob.

Sasha lost track of time as they transitioned through a series of creative positions in the tiny bathroom. Sasha stopped the action every so often in order to say, "Spank my ass again big boy," and Tim always obliged the request.

As Sasha climaxed she in no way tried to hide the pleasure, her orgasm-cry sounding something like an opera singer at the high-point of a poignant solo.

And then they fell into each other, embracing tightly as Sasha sat on Tim's lap on the toilet. They were each covered in sweat. Sasha wiped the cum from her face and body, then licking her fingers and swallowing.

"My nasty wife," said Tim, squeezing her tits.

"My sexy husband," said Sasha, reaching back and grabbing his balls. "Should we go again?"

"Now?" Tim asked.

"Yeah," said Sasha.

"Are you going to slap me in the face if I say no?" Tim asked.

Sasha laughed. She turned to kiss him. But something had changed. The moment was over and he looked downcast.

"What is it?" Sasha asked. "Wasn't it good?"

"Of course baby...I just feel like I have so much to tell you, and there isn't much time," said Tim.

"You can tell me right now. From one Mile High Club to another, tell me what is on your mind," said Sasha.

Tim's arms were wrapped around her and he squeezed her hard.

He said, "Ever since we have started this trip we have been trying to be honest with each other. But I wonder if some things I shouldn't just take to the grave with me -- or if I should tell you, so you know everything in the little time we have left."

"You know you have to tell me now," said Sasha, reaching back and twisting one of his nipples. And as she did so, he did not laugh or even wince instead remaining motionless as if lost in a thought more powerful than any nipple-twist pain. Sasha, thinking his non-reaction odd, and having grown somewhat worried, placed her hands back on his face and looked into his eyes, trying to read his thoughts.

But suddenly Tim had the bleak look of a pallbearer, and he said, "I work in the CIA and Tiffany and I have been sleeping together."

Sasha stood up and slapped him, saying, "And I mean that one! That isn't even funny to joke about."

"I'm not joking," said Tim, his face blank.

As the truth sunk in, Sasha stood, stunned: the affair admission was as painful and unexpected as walking in the woods with friends only to suddenly look up and get mauled by a bear. The CIA admission was painful too -- but like someone simultaneously punched in the face and stung by a bee, it's only the more painful event that registers in the brain: and for Sasha that was the affair admission.

"Really?" Sasha asked, feeling way more naked than her actual nakedness.

Tim nodded.

"For how long?" Sasha asked, realizing that her body had begun trembling. She felt like an inactive volcano, one perched above a vibrant town, and on the brink of becoming active, erupting and swallowing the town in an unforeseen avalanche of lava, raining fire from the sky, and killing thousands of innocents.

"The CIA or Tiffany?" Tim asked.

"I don't give a shit about the fucking CIA. I take that back. I give way less of shit that you have been lying to me for God-knows-how-long about what you do for work, than I do about Tiffany!" Sasha exclaimed.

There was a knock on the bathroom door.

"Occupied!" Sasha exclaimed.

Sasha stared at the door, as if she was about to slap it too.

Then she turned her attention back to Tim.

Tim looked like he was about to speak but there was another knock.

"Occupied and will be occupied for the foreseeable future!" Sasha practically screamed, and again began staring intensely at the door, as if it were an animate, not inanimate object.

Silence.

The knocker seemed to have retreated, and Tim said, "We've been having an affair for about 2 years."

"Two fucking years! That isn't exactly a bachelor party mistake! Two fucking years!" Sasha exclaimed.

Tim kept his head down, saying nothing.

Sasha had an urge to simply remain naked, walk out of the bathroom, proposition the first man she saw, and fuck him.

"I don't even know where to start. First off: then what the fuck is she doing here?" said Sasha, slapping him in the face again.

"Fuck, what was that for?" Tim asked.

"You take your pick -- and answer the question!" Sasha exclaimed.

"We were going to come clean, and explain the affair to you in person, here, in Malaysia. But then when we got here and everything between us it just started going great," said Tim.

"Bullshit -- you just wanted your Barbie doll Mistress for sloppy seconds, or maybe I was sloppy seconds. When was the last time you fucked her?" Sasha asked, adding, "Don't lie to me!"

Tim was silent. So Sasha knew it had to be bad and she stretched her hand open, getting ready to slap him again.

"When?" she said. "Tell me!"

Tim sighed, saying, "The whole time we were in Malaysia, Tiffany and I did nothing."

Sasha sensed that he had left something unsaid, and it hit her like a lightning bolt, and she exclaimed, "No!"

Tim raised his head, looking her straight in the eyes for the first time since his admissions had begun.

"You didn't?" Sasha asked.

"Yeah I did. The last time it was right here," said Tim, with a long sigh.

"This fucking bathroom!" Sasha exclaimed.

"No, not this one, I don't think, but one of them," said Tim.

"So you joined the Mile High Club with Tramp Barbie out there before you just joined it with me?" Sasha asked.

"Yes...but it was only a blow job," said Tim.

Sasha slapped him, then exclaiming, "Only a blow job! So that isn't enough to join the Club, is that what you are saying?"

Tim replied, "I mean it isn't like what we just did -- we are totally complete members, I don't think anyone can argue with that fact --."

Sasha interrupted him, saying, "Just stop now \-- a blow job is sex in my book. You aren't wiggling out of this in some Bill Clinton fashion, not to mention all the other times that you did fuck her over the last two years. A fucking blow job, here on the plane, while we travel thousands of miles to try to get our marriage back together! What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking," said Tim.

"Obviously! Oh! The clear fucking goo on her face! When she returned from the bathroom earlier! That was your fucking cum!" Sasha exclaimed.

Tim nodded.

"And that's why you couldn't fucking get it up on the first Mile High attempt -- you hadn't recharged, you two timing fucker," said Sasha, slapping him again. Tim did not even bother moving, simply taking the slap with a stone-cold face.

"I didn't have to come clean baby, but this plane is crashing and we all are probably going to die. I wanted you to know the truth. I thought you deserved it," said Tim.

"Well, now I fucking know it. What now?" Sasha asked.

"We try to make up before we reach our graves?" said Tim.

But Sasha knew that she had already forgiven him. She loved him too much to let him go now. The question was for how much longer she should punish him, a difficult question to answer without knowing her odds of surviving flight 370.

Hopefully their entrance into the Mile High Club would miraculously save their lives, just as Sasha instincts told her that it would. But even Sasha had to admit that her plan seemed utterly harebrained. So although they were now card-carrying Mile-High Club members, she did not consider their flight 370 survival guaranteed, just the odds of their surviving having improved.

If they were to survive flight 370, Sasha would punish him for at least six months (and also increase the frequency of their marriage counseling sessions with Mark). But because they very well might die within hours, did that mean her verbal assaults should only continue for another, say, five to ten minutes?

That seemed a good bit too soon to forgive his infidelity, a two year affair with a super-sexually charged family-friend. And the CIA thing she had not even had time to think about...

"No wonder our marriage has been shitty lately! You have been busy screwing I'm-A-Big-Slut Barbie!" Sasha exclaimed.

"It was only sex. There was really no emotional part to it," said Tim.

"Of course it was only sex. Have you ever talked to her? She has a brain the size of a pea! I still don't think she has realized this fucking plane is crashing. Do you know she was trying to make-out with me earlier? While you were out playing CIA superman -- and I still want to talk about that one by the way -- she was trying to shove her tongue down my throat!" Sasha exclaimed.

Tim shook his head, saying, "I'm sorry baby. I told her about how you experimented in college --."

"You what! How could you tell her that? I clearly told you that was a secret. You can keep the secret from me, your wife, that you are a CIA man, but you can't keep the secret from Bimbo Barbie that I had a bisexual stage in college!" Sasha exclaimed.

"It just came up at some point, and I blurted it out. I immediately regretted it," said Tim.

"You better hope that you don't survive this plane crash Mister because if you do I am going to kill you myself \-- are we clear?" Sasha said.

Tim nodded.

A knock on the door.

"This is a fucking occupied stall!" Sasha screamed, as if whoever had just knocked on the door had done something worse than cheating on her for two years.

Sasha's eyes squinted in anticipation as she waited for another knock.

Silence.

Sasha waited.

Further silence.

Satisfied, Sasha transitioned her wrath for the knocker back to Tim, saying, "So you told her that I had this stage in college and so she thinks that that gives her the right to make out with me -- after fucking my husband?"

"None of what happened is right," said Tim.

Sasha continued, "And no wonder she has been so fucking accommodating to me in Malaysia, she has been trying to ruin my marriage in America! So I suppose the least she could do is help me try to repair it here! No, I take that back, she fucked you here too -- or does the blow job not count because it happened over International Waters!"

"She's just a kid Sasha --."

Sasha interrupted, "Don't you defend her! You are in enough trouble as it is Timothy Albert Dickerson!"

Tim continued, "Really though, she is immature \--."

Sasha interrupted, "And so I am supposed to feel better about you because you are painting yourself as a dirty old fucking man! And you still haven't explained why she would be trying to stick her tongue down my throat!"

"This is why: she never intended to come between us, like I said it was just physical. And when she found out that you'd had that bisexual stage, she this crazy idea in her head that if we all fucked each other it would solve everything," said Tim.

"It would solve everything," said Sasha, with feigned sincerity, the act dissolving as she screamed, "If we lived in a fucking porno movie!"

"I told her it was a bad idea," said Tim.

"But that didn't stop you from fantasizing about it," said Sasha.

"What? No! Never!" said Tim.

"Don't give me that -- who me? -- bullshit! You were hoping it would happen down here in Malaysia, a little threesome action -- you could have your cake and eat it too!" Sasha exclaimed.

"Baby you are putting words into my mouth," said Tim.

Sasha did not care if she was putting words in his mouth. But then suddenly she did, because as she stared at the man she had loved for so many years -- the father of her children, the rodeo cowboy of her dreams, the passionate lover of her soul -- and again remembered that this man might soon be dead as a door nail, she suddenly started caring about everything, even how he was feeling at the present moment.

But wasn't it too soon to start caring?

Yes, it was, and she knew it too.

Yet she couldn't help it. She sensed the accelerating passage of time on flight 370 -- and that there might only be so much time left to say all the things that still needed to be said.

Sasha sat back on his lap. Placing her hands on his face and she said softly, "What are we doing?"

"What do you mean?" Tim asked.

"Why are we fighting when we might die so soon?" said Sasha.

"Cause I really fucked up," said Tim.

"Yes, you did. And if we had more time to talk about it I would really give it to you like a super-fucking-bitch. But we might not have much time left baby. And we had all those good years, years when we were happy and you didn't cheat on me -- right?"

"Yeah," said Tim, gently, though suddenly catching the double meaning in her tone because he added, "Yes, Tiffany was the first -- wait that sounds like there will be a second one...I mean she was the first and she will remain the only, whether we live or not."

Sasha looked deep into his eyes. She kissed him.

"I believe you," said Sasha.

"Thank you," said Tim, crying.

In all their time together it was the first time that Sasha had seen her husband cry.

"I forgive you," she said.

The tears started coming faster, "I'm so sorry."

"I know you are baby," said Sasha.

They hugged. Sasha's body felt feverish, as if one part of her had forgiven him but another part had not. She tried to ignore the part of her that had not forgiven him.

"Are you going to tell Tiffany you know?" Tim asked.

"Yes," said Sasha.

Although Tim said nothing, Sasha sensed unspoken words.

"Don't worry: I'll try my best to forgive her too," said Sasha, though difficult for her to envision.

Tim nodded.

"We've been in the bathroom a long time," said Sasha, smiling. "People are going to think we had Mile High Club marathon sex..."

Flight 370: Row 5, 5:25 a.m.:

Mr. Wu had been doing nothing in particular, merely sitting in his seat and thinking about Mazlin, but suddenly his death feelings started to diminish. It occurred to him that perhaps another person on the plane may have done something to alter the plane's fate.

But who? Although there were over two hundred people on the plane, all awake, and all doing something in their possibly last moments, those actions did not amount to much, just some letter writing, hand wringing, teeth-chattering and final-word-on-the-matter type things. Certainly no one had, for example, discovered the long sought after unifying law of physics.

Then, with a minor degree of shock, Mr. Wu watched as the American who had offered him a deal and a pretty woman emerged together from a bathroom, their clothes somewhat ruffled, the woman's hair somewhat messy. It did not take a detective to know what they had been doing.

"Well, sex is movement at least, which is more action than the frozen in fear state of most other people on the plane," thought Mr. Wu.

The woman saw him staring and gave him an annoyed look. The American appeared as if he had just emerged from being buried alive. "Maybe the sex was very bad," thought Mr. Wu. "But even bad sex is something more than what other people are doing. Could their bad sex have given me a better chance of surviving this crash?"

The idea did not make much sense. But Mr. Wu had found that sometimes the actions that diminished his death feelings did not have a simple cause and effect relationship and that every once in a while the so-called butterfly effect seemed to play a role -- the butterfly effect being the unintuitive theory that the flapping of a single pair of butterfly's wings in Africa could cause a hurricane to occur someplace else on the globe. Of course there is no cause and effect relationship between the flapping of a butterfly's wings and the formation of a hurricane -- except that every once in a while there is (and sums up why weathermen are a cursed profession with an impossible job).

Again the woman caught him staring and as she reached his row she shouted, "Do you have a fucking problem!"

She had spoken fast, so Mr. Wu had not caught all the words, though the emotion behind them -- rage -- was quite clear.

However, with the death feeling still surging strong, and a recent diminishing of its strength his only lead, Mr. Wu decided to try to engage this angry woman in conversation, saying, "You have good time bathroom?"

"What did you just say to me?" The woman shouted, now leaning into his row, and looking as if she, and not Mr. Wu, was the assassin.

As Mr. Wu repeated his statement, he realized that something was probably lost in the translation.

Now the American Inspector started shouting. Mr. Wu had no idea what he was saying.

"I no speak good English," said Mr. Wu, noticing that the woman had broken into tears, the husband now holding her.

Although Mr. Wu had murdered countless people and sometimes in horrific ways, he still had not become desensitized to all matters of humankind, and in fact it bothered him immensely to watch another person cry -- which was one of the reasons that he had earlier removed himself from the shouting while crying copilot's presence, and was also the reason that whenever someone started crying while begging him for their life, he always, to stop the crying, killed them on the spot.

(Fortunately, Mr. Wu had observed, most of the crying on the plane had so far been total-anguish-given-up-hope-crying, which tends to be a muted and lifeless crying type, as opposed, to say, attention-grabbing-crying of a child, which tends to be a crying type as loud as the lungs allow -- and sometimes caused Mr. Wu to question his personal oath not kill children.)

Because he was not going to kill this woman (though he did not kill women anyway), and because he did not feel like moving to another row just then, he tried to think of something to say to dry the woman's tears.

Somewhat spontaneously, he blurted, "When you two have good time in bathroom. I feel good too. I feel like no die."

Having spoken these words he supposed that again something would be lost in translation, and the woman's tearful rage would increase. But surprisingly she stopped crying at once. And after cleaning her face by using her husband's shirt as a rag, she turned to Mr. Wu and said slowly, "Did...you...really mean...that?"

Mr. Wu nodded.

As the woman sat by his side, the American Inspector tried to pull her back out of the seat. A quick argument ensued, one which the American Inspector lost, and he stood in the aisle, arms crossed, glaring at Mr. Wu.

The woman wanted more details. Mr. Wu was reluctant to expand on his statement, which would be difficult to do in English anyway. So he kept repeating what he already said. But it seemed this woman suspected something because she started probing with further questions.

Mr. Wu mostly mum, she stopped probing and instead told him about the number 370, detailing all the deadly connections it had to her own life. And she clearly and slowly explained her theory for avoiding death in a plane crash, a theory which explained why she and her husband had just exited an airplane bathroom.

Mr. Wu could sense that she was still on the verge of tears. He also guessed that partnering with this woman might increase his chances for survival. So for both these reasons he decided to tell her his secret, which was something he had never told anyone else -- save a few right before he killed them.

And after he told her his story, he blinked in surprise as she exclaimed, "I just met someone else who told me the something almost exactly the same!"

Flight 370: Inside the Cockpit, 5:25 a.m.:

"Why are we still sitting here?" Guntur asked.

"What do you mean?" said the Captain.

"We aren't doing anything. The plane is stuck on autopilot. The communications are down. And yet we still sit here in our seats like a working Captain and a First Officer," said Guntur.

"Well, I suppose you are right," said the Captain, as he laid out the final two lines of his stash onto the control board. "And I suppose that we could mosey on through the aisles. But I think that might freak people out even more if they saw the Captain and the First Officer aimlessly wandering about the plane...One last snort?"

"No thanks, Indah wouldn't want me to," said Guntur.

The Captain considered telling him that Indah was gone forever but then thought better of it because, insane as it sounded, Guntur's Fantastic Voyage with Indah seemed to be the only thing holding his sanity intact.

"Well, we don't have to aimlessly wander the aisles," said Guntur. "We could spread a message of kindness to others and happiness for the self."

"There is already someone doing that. When I just left to take a piss, Mazlin told me that someone was passing out all the religious pamphlets found in that guy's suitcase," said the Captain.

"It's probably better if we stay in here anyway. If I see that baby-thief out there I'll just explode again. And Indah does not like that," said Guntur, then reaching into the empty space in front of him, as if grasping Indah's hand.

"Has the reality of all this hit you, because I know it hasn't hit me. The only reason I'm not freaking out is because I am still hoping for a miracle," said the Captain.

"I believe that we will survive," said Guntur.

"You do?" asked the Captain.

"Yes, I believe that Indah will save us," said Guntur.

The Captain sighed as he thought, "Leo wouldn't wait for someone else to save him. He would take matters into his own hands."

But what else was there to do? No one knew how to fix the plane and there were no communication systems. And because they were stuck at cruising altitude -- thirty three thousand feet -- it would be pointless to try to jump out of the plane. Opening a door would cause the plane to implode (something that he had already informed the passengers).

He supposed he could try his cell phone again. But predictably there was still no service.

"Have you tried your phone yet son?" The Captain asked, the last word slipping out.

He noticed Guntur looking at him with kind eyes, eyes so different than before his Fantastic Voyage with Indah. And then Guntur grabbed his phone, saying, "I haven't tried...Nope, no service...but I have a message..."

Flight 370: Row 7: 5:25 a.m.:

Lanfen held Manchu tight. She felt so close to death that she feared to do anything, even breath. She stared at Manchu, wishing he could save her from the plane as he had saved her from her poverty.

She noticed that he seemed totally at peace, as if welcoming death. Remembering his fear during take-off, she wondered about the reversal. During the take-off there was only a slim chance they would die, perhaps in a freak-accident. But now, if what the Captain was saying was true, they would almost certainly crash, and so probably die. And yet he seemed calm.

So she said, "Are you afraid?"

Manchu, as was his way, took a long time before answering, saying, "Do you remember when we were taking off and you were afraid?"

"Yes," said Lanfen, noticing that he had not answered her question.

"And do you remember I told you the story, meant to calm you, the story about the girl who considered reporting her parents to the party, so she could satisfy her hunger?" Manchu asked.

Lanfen nodded.

Manchu continued, "That little girl was me, though of course I was a boy."

"So you stayed hungry, but loyal to your parents: that must have been difficult. No wonder you have grown into such a strong man, a man capable of giving so much to others \-- such as the house you bought my parents," said Lanfen, thinking that these would probably be the last words on the subject: Manchu spoke so seldom than his replies were never expected.

She wondered if she loved Manchu. She hoped that she did. Her life as a mistress had been hollow. But with Manchu she felt alive, somewhat. She thought it would be good to die with a man she loved. Many times she had tricked men into loving her and so she tried, at that moment, to trick herself into loving Manchu. It did not work. She sighed.

Manchu suddenly started speaking, "No, what happened is this: I reported my parents. I was given bread. My parents died in the work prison. It was the most important lesson of my life: that to get ahead you must trample others -- no matter how close they are to you. It is what has made me successful time and time again."

Lanfen remained silent, wishing she were holding someone else. But no one came to mind.

"I was going to break off our relations when we returned to Beijing. It was a decision I had made even before we had started this trip," said Manchu.

"Why?" Lanfen asked.

"Because you mean nothing to me and you never have. I'm not telling you these things to be shocking or cruel, it just seems right to speak them before the end," said Manchu.

Lanfen considered replying but instead paused, surprised to note that his words did not trouble her. She had always suspected that she did not matter him, and now she knew that he did not matter to her either. She wondered if she should continue hugging him. With death approaching his money was useless and they shared no love, so why continue the act?

Then, her mind wandering, it occurred to her that she could not remember ever having truly loved another.

Suddenly an absurd thought struck her: that perhaps she could find true-love in the fleeting time that remained!

She stood up and adjusted her dress. Manchu said nothing as she walked down the aisle.

Flight 370: Inside the Cockpit, 5:30 a.m.:

In the blink of an eye, and due to a seemingly inconsequential request on the part of the Captain, Guntur's path-in-life had been completed rerouted. And as if holding a winning lottery ticket that had struck him dumb, he simply continued staring at his phone, saying nothing.

"Well, what does it say?" the Captain asked, concerned that Guntur, his eyes again glazed over and unblinking, had once more become lost in the depths of mind.

"It's from...Indah," said Guntur, hardly able to get her name out of his mouth.

"Really? When did you get it?" the Captain asked.

"It arrived before we took off," said Guntur, realizing that he had almost killed himself, and everyone else on the plane, because his one and only true love, his Goddess, his Indah, had left him -- only she had not left him at all!

The text read: Guntur, I made a mistake. I should never have left you. I do not love Brian. I love you. Please take me back. I want to raise his baby with you. And if the baby is a boy, I want to name him...Guntur. Breathlessly awaiting your reply. Your love, Indah.

"She wants me back!" Guntur exclaimed, standing from the chair and pumping his fist into the air.

"Congratulations!" said the Captain.

"So I am going to be a father! I am going to raise the baby with her!" Guntur exclaimed, this time pumping both his fists in the air. And in a celebratory burst of emotion Guntur screamed, "INDAH, I LOVE YOU!" as if the words would travel far enough to arrive within her earshot.

"I always said that you would make a good father Guntur," said the Captain, now crying.

"INDAH, I LOVE YOU!" Guntur screamed again, and then hugging the Captain.

The Captain took a long breath.

"What is it?" Guntur asked, sensing the Captain's tension.

"The elephant in the room," said the Captain.

Guntur immediately realized what the Captain was implying: that none of these things would ever happen because they were fucked! Fucked on a malfunctioning plane soon to crash!

He really had not given it much thought before. He merely planned to stay happy and kind until the end. But now that would not be enough. Now he needed to live! And yet this plane wanted him to die!

It all seemed so cruel. And now wailing in pain, he screamed, "INDAH, I WILL RETURN!"

He shadow-boxed the air, as if the air was the enemy.

"I am a father now Captain. I can't die," he said, his voice hoarse from his intense screaming.

"Life is not always fair my boy. As you were adrift on your Fantastic Voyage, I was sitting here and pondering all the women I would never have a chance to screw, and all the bastards I would never have a chance to do right by," said the Captain, getting choked up in tears again.

"I won't accept it! There must be a way. I will find it! I will!" Guntur exclaimed.

"A chill is still running down my spine, my boy, my son, because you are becoming more like Leonardo DiCaprio by the moment," said the Captain.

Just then the cockpit intercom buzzed. Guntur looked at the video feed. There was a small group of people outside: The American Inspector, the boy whose luggage had contained the religious pamphlets, a woman he had never seen, and lastly, the baby snatcher.

"The baby thief is out there," said Guntur.

"Well, we should see what they want," said the Captain.

"For Indah's sake I am going to sit in my chair and not look back at them," said Guntur, then taking a seat and again gazing at his text.

The Captain opened the door and the group entered.

Flight 370: Outside the Cockpit, 5:35 a.m.:

As Tim stood outside the cockpit, he realized that he regretted admitting the affair to Sasha. For one thing, he no longer had any leverage with her. A minute ago, after he disagreed with a seemingly insignificant comment she made, she had told him, "Tim, as far as I am concerned, right now your opinions mean squat. And given your recent decisions I don't think it is a stretch to say that your ability to make good choices is not exactly air-tight. So instead of quibbling with me, remember how short your leash is, nod your head, and say Yes Mam," which was the sort of thing, it seemed to him, that she never would have said before he had admitted the affair.

So here he stood, with a bunch of wannabe psychics, whose plan to save the plane consisted of gathering everyone of age and with hearts healthy enough for sex, to fuck each other.

A few minutes ago in the back of the plane, Tim had rolled his eyes as it was all explained to him: that Mr. Wu could sense his own death, that Kean could sense the death of others, and that Sasha had determined that death on the plane could be avoided through passionate copulation and deep-seeded love. Oh, and she had determined that because many years ago, right before their house burned down, Tim had sacrificed a few hours of sleep to take her out dancing and boozing thus proving his true-love, and also because they had, prior to going out, copulated in an especially passionate manner. The whole thing was absurd.

Tim had replied jokingly, "We ate a taco that night too. If we eat some tacos will that save us?"

But Sasha did not think the joke funny, screaming, "You can't admit a two year affair to me and then five minutes later talk to me like that!"

"Sasha, please, I'm sorry but we don't have much time and you said yourself that we shouldn't be arguing in our final moments," said Tim, his voice become softer.

"That's before I really had a chance to think about it -- and to think about the fact that the only reason you admitted anything to me at all is because this plane is crashing. If it wasn't you'd probably be fucking Bathroom-Stall Barbie right now!" Sasha screamed.

"So you don't forgive me?" Tim asked.

"I do forgive you, truly I do. But I also get to yell at you about it because I am still pissed off as hell! Do you understand?" Sasha asked.

Tim nodded, noting that Sasha probably would have made a good CIA interrogator.

But now, "to show his support," as she had put it, he had to stand with her inside the cockpit as she explained the whole thing to the Captain too.

And so he walked into the cockpit, as if in a daze, while thinking that he should be busy composing his last will and testament and heartfelt letters to his children but instead was stuck on a rollercoaster ride of ridiculousness.

He had expected the Captain to think her crazy. But instead, the Captain was nodding his head -- as if he agreed with her! And apparently crazies come in sets of five because after Sasha finished telling the Captain the same nutty things that she had told him, the Captain said, "You know that actually make sense to me." And then from out of nowhere, the copilot, who had seemed like he was in lala-land again, suddenly perked up and said, "Let's give it a shot!"

And then incredibly the Captain started describing how he had super-human powers too. Apparently he could discern those humans able to love the deepest and with the most passion. And he said, "So I think this might be fate that we were all brought together. We each have something to add. Every stewardess on my plane I hand pick -- they all have a deep capacity for love. So if we need to start an orgy to save flight 370, then we have just the crew to do it!"

Affair or no affair, Tim could take no more, and he shouted, "The fact that I am in the CIA is so confidential that I am trained to never admit that fact even in the certain moments before my own death. But because my wife has been blabbing it and because I really want to make a point right now, I'm telling you all that I am a trained CIA specialist, gentleman, in the handling of crisis situations. My wife on the other hand is not \--."

Sasha tried to start speaking but Tim held up his hand, saying, "No let me finish this time. Gentleman, I love my wife to death, I would do anything for her. I would gladly die for her. But all that said, I really fucked up. I cheated on her -- I broke our marriage oaths. And I feel really horrible about it \--."

Sasha tried to interrupt again, but Tim once more held up his hand, though now with tears in his eyes, and he continued, "And I know that in the little time we have left there is nothing that I can do to make it up to her. And the angel that she is, she has forgiven me anyway."

And here Tim stopped after quickly wiping the tears from his eyes, he continued, "But it is important to separate my fuck up from the current situation. As I was saying, of the two of us, she and I, I am the CIA crisis trained specialist, an expert in the field in fact. People travel thousands of miles just to hear me burp on the subject gentleman. And I am telling you -- this plan to screw our way to safety makes no sense!"

Sasha said, "Kean and Mr. Wu and I talked about it. And after you and I joined the Mile High Club, they both sensed that the fate of this plane had been altered. And we believe that we can further alter the plane's fate -- with an orgy. Imagine -- it would perhaps be hundreds of people joining the Mile High Club at once!"

Tim replied, "Baby, this is confidential CIA information, and even though we are all probably soon going to die, I really still should not be telling you this, and I've been biting my tongue, but I just can't anymore. There is a phenomenon known within the highest echelons of the intelligence community -- this goes to the very top of the food chain ladies and gentleman, and I am lucky to know this at all. The phenomenon is called spontaneous orgy manifestation..."

And Tim proceeded to tell them everything that he knew about the phenomenon, repeatedly making the point that the participants took part in the orgy in an attempt to deny the reality of their situations. When he had finished, Sasha said, "All you have done is strengthen our case baby."

Tim mentally reviewed the data that he had provided them with, wondering what she had gleaned that he had not.

"I don't see it," said Tim.

"What was the crucial commonality in all those cases that you just described to us, where the people in high-stress near-death situations participated in spontaneous orgies?" Sasha asked.

Tim thought for a moment and then said, "That they were all screwing each other?"

"No baby -- that all the people who were screwing each other were survivors!" said Sasha, a big smile on her face.

As Tim mentally reviewed the data, he had to admit that her analysis was right on the money.

But suddenly Tim's train of thought was broken because the night, which had been so moonless and black, was assailed with an incomprehensible torrent of colors, a kaleidoscope of all imaginable hues, twisting and turning, undulating and spinning, swirling and pulsing, as if flying through an infinite cascade of sunsets at the moment of the big bang.

A wormhole!

And then a blinding flash, and Tim was back sitting in his seat, Sasha by his side, and Tiffany in the middle aisle.

"We landed!" Sasha exclaimed.

"No, we haven't taken off. This is where we were before the flight -- that wormhole must have taken to us a parallel universe, or perhaps back it time," said Tim.

"Who cares let's get the fuck off this plane!" Sasha exclaimed.

