Rogers knuckled his own head. "I believe you can fly this plane back to America, so no tricks, Findley. Now the autopilot is off and that switch keeping the heading on hold is off, so make the turn."

"I see we are heading eighty-three," said Findley, keeping as calm as a pilot could be with his family held hostage.

Rogers said, "That's eighty-three east so we need eighty-three west."

"Stupid," Julia said. "It's...seventeen west, no, it's..."

"You are thinking of two-six-three if you want to head in the exact opposite direction of where we are going now. But not necessarily if you want to head for LaGuardia."

"I get it, wind direction differences?" said Rogers. "It doesn't matter which airport as long as it's American."

"Well that's no help, dummy," Julia said. "The plane can't just head west for America, it needs to know exactly which airport."

"She's right," added Findley, glancing up at both. "Boston's Logan Airport is probably the closest US airport that can handle this plane."

"Go there then. How do we find out the direction?" Rogers hated having to rely on others.

"This button activates the enATIS HUD."

"Whoa, what the hell is all that about? I don't trust"

"It is the enhanced Automatic Terminal Information Service, and we'll see it on the head-up display, see? Now, if I punch in BOS, which is Logan Airport's international call sign, the Dreamliner will not only head for it but will make all the necessary adjustments and even land the plane for us."

"Well, do it," Rogers said.

"Hang on." Julia said. Rogers noticed her forehead freckles disappearing into creases. "He's done this all too easy. I bet although the plane could land us there, we would be shot out the sky before we reached the coastline. They've already done it twice to planes they weren't sure of."

"May I make another suggestion?" Findley said.

Rogers gritted his teeth. "What now?"

"How about I ask permission to turn. That way it raises no suspicion."

"Surely they'd need a damn good reason."

Julia joined in, "How about mechanical failure?"

Findley stayed quiet but Rogers noticed.

"Why wouldn't that work, Findley?"

"Well...we are nearer airfields in front than behind us. We could declare a medical emergency for a passenger for whom his only hope is a US specialist."

"Oh yes." Rogers was relieved to hear the perfect solution.

Julia cuffed Findley over the back of the head. "They'd never fall for that. Too far-fetched, and you know they'd interpret it as evidence of something else wrong up here."

"Yeah," said Rogers, "let's forget about telling them anything. Make the fucking turn."

"All right, here we go."

Findley punched in BOS on the enATIS. The plane made a gentle clockwise turn, compensating with extra throttle and semi-assist flap control to maintain altitude. Even Rogers was impressed.

980 MILES AWAY, Johnson, a bored USAF administrative clerk, peeved at having to do compulsory overtime, sat bolt upright. All Atlantic air-traffic had their transponders and other transmitting devices intercepted at Lajes Communications Centre in the Azores air base run together by the US and Portugal. Closer to Europe than America but as central to mid-Atlantic as you can find dry land. Time to scramble interceptors, if something nasty travelled in any direction over sea. Most aircraft had their several "black boxes" transmit data in real time; computers in Lajes picked it up, analysed it, and then either archived, acted, or slipped into watch-this-space. A few engineers and a select pilot-group were privy to the installation of covert cams with microphones dotted through new international planes. One such cam hid in the console panel above the windshield. The image of the Dreamliner's captain being battered and the mutinous melee zipped to Lajes and brought Johnson to his feet.

Three events occurred simultaneously: the circus on the Dreamliner; a message from a European Immune Protection Group relaying information from the UK Government disallowing landing rights to any aircraft or shipping from North America unless they've passed their point of no return; and a radio message he could see being received on the plane.

"Heathrow to Dreamliner, flight VGE 223, your transponder is faulty. Over."

Johnson called his commander.

"What is it?" The burly man finished off a croissant.

"This Dreamliner from the States, sir. Originally a sensor alerted me to the cockpit door being open for over twenty minutes. As you know, they have to keep it locked between every movement in and out, so it meant a problem. Then the cam showed fighting and a change of control. The passengers have taken over the cockpit and are turning the plane round. Heathrow are asking for details. Oh, and we've had a communique banning in-bound to the UK. sir."

"Succinctly put, Johnson. I'll buzz security at Heathrow."

Johnson continued looking at the screen where Rogers, Julia, and Findley were locked in argument. Rogers in particular had the reddest complexion Johnson had seen on a monitor.

"SEE? NOW CAN THEY STOP US, FINDLEY? What can they do?" said Rogers to his conscripted pilot.

"There's a lot of clever stuff on aircraft like this, Rogers. Even decades ago, planes didn't really need anyone in the cockpit: it could all happen by computer, even remotely. I suppose, in extreme situations, they could take control of this plane and fly it wherever they want."

"Even with us in the cockpit, trying to stop them?"

"Oh, I expect so. They can probably isolate the entire console in here. We'd just be passengers with a front-window view."

Julia spoke up. "They haven't though, have they? Look, we are still heading for Boston."

"Yeah," said Rogers. "With the transponder turned off, can they still locate us? Surely radar is too far away."

"From the UK and North America, we are out of normal radar range. But they can find us with other methods if they've a mind to. Black boxes transmit data up to satellite relays; they don't wait for a crash. Come to think about it, there was little point in turning off the transponder, they probably know we've turned. What do you want me to do?"

"Shut up for a fucking minute while I think," Rogers said.

"I think, in the light of what Findley has at last decided to tell us, we should ask permission to return. Pretend we have some emergency-play it by ear," Julia said while she rubbed her temple as if trying to make a hole to let a demon out.

"Okay, do it."

JOHNSON SUCKED A PENCIL while watching the screens in front of him, knowing the outcome of the forthcoming radio call. The Dreamliner passengers and crew were under strain, but what was the precise problem? The original captain had a struggle remembering details of the flight, and the flight attendant reported passengers having similar problems. Okay, he was no medic, but he'd never heard of a group of people losing memory like that. Maybe it was one of those mass-hysteria events. And what was London talking about? They've had refusals for landing permissions before but always on terrorist alerts not medical. Maybe they knew what was happening on the plane. Maybe it was more than the plane.

With that thought, he punched a single button to call his parents in Idaho.

"Hi, Pop, how ya doing?"

"That you, Billy? Can't see so well these days. Bren, get my glasses, I can't see this view screen proper."

"Pop, it's me, Billy. You folks okay?"

"Talk to your mother. I can't understand these contraptions. Bren, it might be Billy, Lord knows."

"That you, Billy-boy?"

"Yes, Mom. Turn your head so yous can see the view screen, unless you've grown eyes through your ears. Heh heh."

"What's that? You our Billy-boy?"

"Yes, Mom. I rang to check on yous two?"

"Where are you, Billy-boy? Your supper from last night's still on the table. You've been out all night again with Bernie?"

"Christ, Mom, Bernie left for New Mexico last year and I'm in the Air Force, remember?"

"What's that, Billy-boy, the Air Force? Hey, Pop, our Billy-boy's a pilot. Did you know that?"

"No, Mom, I'm a clerk. Say, has Aunt Chrissie's problem gotten to you folks?"

"I dunno, son. Your mom and pop aren't feeling too good. When you come home, bring some fresh milk from the store."

"Jeez, Mom, I'm not due home for another month."

"A month? Stop fooling, Billy-boy. You're not too old to get walloped."

"I am, Mom, I really am. I'll get home as soon as. Promise. Bye, Pop, bye, Mom."

He waited, but they didn't return his farewells, just wandered off out of camera sight. He sought his commander.

"Sir, I need compassionate leave. My folks aren't well."

"Johnson, much that I have the utmost respect for your folks, you are the fifth one in the last two days to make such a request. That's why you, and me, are on double shift. There's a bug sweeping the States, but consider this: it isn't here, is it?"

"That might be a good point, sir, but I think my folks have got Alzheimer's or something like it and need urgent help."

"Yup, that's what the others said, but Alzheimer's ain't infectious, so rule it out. Anyway, Johnson, I can't let you go until next week when replacements arrive. Assuming they do."

"Haven't you got any folks stateside, sir?" Johnson fidgeted, on edge with the double whammy of having his parents ill and not being able to leave the base. Even if he ran off, where was he? On a small island in the Azores, miles from anywhere. The only airplanes were under USAF and Portuguese control. He had no choice but to go along with his commander and hope for the best.

"Sure I have, Johnson. A mother and sister in Vermont. They chatted normally yesterday. What's happening to that Dreamliner?"

"Given the clearance to go to Boston, but..."

"I know. If Europe is worried they're bringing an infectious disease, then why does the US want them, and what about the other twenty-odd flights on their way?"

"I guess the flights already closer to their European destinations will have to land and be quarantined, but are there facilities at Boston?"

"I doubt they'll be allowed to land. Isolation airfields dot the East coast for quarantine purposes. Keep monitoring them and any other alerts from the US."

ROGERS AND JULIA JIGGED A RIDICULOUS DANCE in the too-tiny cockpit as Findley looked glum. His conviction that air traffic would never have allowed them to turn without good cause had given him false hope. Yesterday-he thought-he'd been scared stiff for his family after seeing colleagues in the airline he worked for at Kennedy lose their memory. Local radio ran jokes about it, but his father died last year with complications including Alzheimer's. A cold worm slithered down his back as he recalled the day his father died in utter confusion. Findley hadn't lost his memory. No more than everyone else forgets the odd bunch of keys.

"Can I go back to my family now?"

"I suppose so," Rogers said, but Julia disagreed.

"There might be trouble, yet. Let one of his brats come up for a few seconds so he can see they're still kicking."

"Yeah. Anyway, Findley, you're driving, aren't you?"

"Not really. Like I said, air traffic could fly this plane from the other side of the world."

Julia frowned. "Any changes you can tell?"

Findley gave her a wry laugh, glanced at the console and then joined her in frowning, "It isn't going to Boston anymore."

Rogers went apoplectic. "The frigging liars. They said we could return to the States."

"We are," said Findley. "But not Boston. The enATIS indicates CYAW, but I've no idea what or where that is."

"You've thirty seconds to find out," shouted Rogers, baring yellow teeth. Findley reeled back at the stench of his beery breath.

"Will five seconds do?" he said as he tapped CYAW into the console. It returned HALIFAX SHEARWATER.

"But that's not even America," shouted Rogers.

"Canada is counted as being in North America," said Findley, whose sarcasm was rewarded by Rogers hitting him on the head.

"I know about Shearwater," said another passenger looking aghast at Findley picking himself off the floor. "It's not used, except by coastguards, because it's always fogged in. The main Halifax International Airport is fifteen miles up the road."

"Did you know this, Findley?" Rogers said.

"No. Look, Rogers, I didn't know we were being diverted until you did. Do you think I've done it? God, man, I want to go to London."

"I don't trust you, Findley. Why would they want us to go to the back of beyond instead of Boston?"

"It's obvious," said Findley, hoping his frankness wasn't going to get him into more trouble. "They want to quarantine the plane and all of us."

"But if it is foggy there..."

"Doesn't matter anymore," Findley said. "They can land this plane in fog in the middle of the night with no lights. The only weather problem would be high wind."

"You're a smart ass, Findley. I want you to stay there in the hot seat, and when we're twenty miles out, turn us back to Boston."

"What! You're kidding. They've certainly taken over all the controls. Look, Rogers, let me lower the landing gear. If I press that button we should hear the nose wheel go down and a green light on the panel there. It has nothing to do with the autopilot unless they've taken everything over. Shall I?"

Everyone who could squeeze in tried to watch. Findley pressed the gear-down button. Nothing happened. He tried turning off the autopilot first, but still nothing.

Rogers pushed past and brought his fist down on the inactive panel.

Findley couldn't help himself. "If you'd let us carry on to London, we would have landed and you could've caught the next flight back." He had another smack in the face for his audacity. As he shook his head, he realized he talked nonsense if other flights were being turned back to other isolated airfields. Would there be enough medical personnel for all the returning flights, considering some would forget to turn up for work? No. So, it would be remnants of confused National Guards looking after them, if anyone. So there would be a chance to slip over to the other airport and get another flight. Maybe he should write it down in case he forgot in the next four hours.