Chapter Text
Arthur has had, at most, one mouthful of vodka. Carolyn reminds herself of this for the tenth time as she switches off the intercom. He cannot possibly be as drunk as his behavior seems to indicate. At present, however, he is engaging in deadly warfare with the zipper of his flight bag.
“Mum, there’sh shtill half a Toblerone in here and the zipper’sh shtuck!”
“Arthur,” Carolyn says tiredly, “may I suggest that I liberate the Toblerone and you sit down and be quiet?”
“Yesth,” Arthur slurs. He hands over the flight bag, plops down into the nearest window seat, and happily presses his nose to the glass. Carolyn has to tap him on the shoulder to hand him his chocolate. “Oh! Thanksh, Mum!” He rips the foil and, with intense concentration, breaks off a ridge. “Want shome?”
She is taking the proffered triangle when the plane jolts horribly. Her first impulse is to switch the intercom back on and give Martin a piece of her mind, but then she hears the explosion outside the window. The ridge of chocolate flies from her hand and rattles to the floor three rows away. Arthur nearly slides into the seat in front of him, but miraculously maintains his grasp on the remainder of his Toblerone.
She regains her footing at about the same time Arthur manages to look out the window again. “Mum! Mum! The engine’s on fire!” Carolyn curses, stumbling to the window. She presses her face beside his.
Flames lick out from under the wing.
Arthur shoves the Toblerone in his pocket and starts to stand up. Carolyn grabs his shoulder. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going to help Shkip and Douglash!”
“No, Arthur!” She pushes him back into his seat. “Listen closely. Martin and Douglas know exactly what has just happened and will handle it in… whatever way they handle it.” Which had best involve Douglas taking control of the aeroplane. “The last thing either of our pilots needs right now is a distraction, which means neither you nor I will be entering the flight deck or so much as touching the intercom until we are safely back on the ground. Do you understand?”
Arthur takes a deep breath. “Don’t go in the flight deck, don’t touch the intercom, don’t talk to Skip and Douglas. Right. Can’t we do anything at all, Mum?”
Carolyn looks away from Arthur’s plaintive expression and gazes out the window again. To her relief, the flames have subsided and it feels as if GERTI is turning around, back toward the runway. Her pilots have managed to recall some semblance of emergency procedure, then. “I’m afraid at the moment all we can do is fasten our seat belts and perhaps say a few prayers.”
“Oh.” They click their seat belts. Arthur looks thoughtful for a moment. “Now I lay me down to sleep —”
“Not that sort of prayer!”
“Sorry.” Silence. Then: “Mum? Are we going to die?”
The plane shakes in a sudden gust of wind. Carolyn swallows hard. “I… don’t know, Arthur. I sincerely hope not. Douglas is likely bringing us in for an emergency landing at this very moment, so it’s all down to that.”
“So if he lands us okay, we won’t die.”
“No.”
“But… if he doesn’t…”
Carolyn notes, with something approaching amusement, that Arthur has ceased to act drunk now that he’s distracted by the imminent crisis. Funny, how this is what she notices. “Possibly, Arthur, yes.”
Arthur looks out the window, then back at her, and he smiles. “Well, then.” He reaches over and takes her hand, just as he did when he was five and didn’t quite understand how to cross the street. “I love you, Mum.”
“And I you,” she replies quietly, squeezing his hand. Her boy may lack brains, but she sometimes forgets how often he makes up the deficiency with heart.
Not another word passes between them as GERTI continues to jostle through the air, though they lean toward the window simultaneously as it nears the ground. The longest moment of a landing is always the moment just before the plane touches the ground, and today that moment stretches for eternity.
Finally, with a thump only moderately harder than usual, GERTI touches down. Carolyn and Arthur breathe sighs of relief and relax their vigil on the window. Arthur is smiling. “We didn’t die, Mum!”
“No, we didn’t.” She returns the smile.
Bing-bong! Douglas’s voice crackles slightly over the cabin address, but his pride and relief are audible. “Carolyn and Arthur, this is your Douglas speaking, letting you know that we have safely returned to St. Petersburg courtesy of Captain Martin Crieff and his textbook emergency landing.”
“Martin?!” Carolyn squeaks. “Martin landed the plane?”
“Wow!” Arthur says. “He was brilliant!”
For once, she can hardly disagree. She makes her way to the intercom as quickly as she dares in the still-moving plane (now blissfully on the ground instead of in the air). “Douglas! Are you two all right? What on earth happened?”
“Ohhhhhh godddddd…” Martin says faintly in the background, but it is Douglas who answers her.
“Bird strike, we think, but we’ll need a mechanic to be sure. We’re fine, aside from the fact that Martin is gripping the control column so tightly his knuckles are white.”
“He really landed the plane?” Carolyn asks.
“Indeed he did. And radioed in our mayday call, too. We’ll have to put an extra row of braid on his hat.” Oh, thank God. Douglas is making sarcastic quips. Everything must be all right.
“D-D-Douglas,” Martin interrupts. “C-c-could you help w-with the…?”
“Arthur and I will stay put,” Carolyn informs her pilots. “We can talk when we’re stopped and off the plane.”
“Roger.” Douglas shuts the intercom off.