Loss of Separation
“Move as fast as you can. Into the terminal and across the polished floor. Up to the ticket desk and there's a flight to Heathrow in an hour-and-a-half. A Qantas connection. A 747-400, for fuck's sake. It's pretty full, but there are seats available. So, 500 passengers, or thereabouts. Nothing else. You have to take it. More trouble at passport control. An interview in a small room; a call to the British Embassy. A quick coffee and a volcanic melted cheese sandwich you take one bite from. You're... too full of fear to eat. And as much as you try to read the newspaper, as much as you try to distract yourself in the cloying mists of the duty-free perfume displays, as much as you try to unburden yourself of nerves in a toilet cubicle, there's no getting away from the fact: there are monsters out there on the concrete apron.
The palms of my hands were sweating. This used to be me. This was my life. Airports and uniforms and pre-flight checks and thousands of hours' flying time. I knew my way around a cockpit display blindfolded.MoreLess
The palms of my hands were sweating. This used to be me. This was my life. Airports and uniforms and pre-flight checks and thousands of hours' flying time. I knew my way around a cockpit display blindfolded.MoreLess
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