EXCERPT

SILENT SKIES

an investigative thriller · Sam Thorne

A plane falls from the sky. A woman does not believe in coincidence.

PART I – THE CRASH

CHAPTER 1: FLIGHT LEVEL 380

Tuesday, 24 March, 09:38 a.m. — GERMANAIR Altair B220, en route BCN – RSD

The sky was strikingly clear, devoid of any clouds or haze. The sun hung low over the mountain peaks, as if deliberately withdrawing from the events that were unfolding.

Marianne Becker sat in the window seat of row 18A, on the left side of the aircraft. She had skipped breakfast in her hotel room in Barcelona and wanted to eat a sandwich she had packed for her flight back to Rheinstadt. But now it lay untouched on the folding tray in front of her. Her gaze was fixed outside, on the jagged peaks of the French Alps. So beautiful, so white, so eternal, she thought.

Then she felt it. A slight but definite jolt. It was hardly worth mentioning, a fleeting movement in her stomach, like mild turbulence. Then a second one, stronger this time. And a faint metallic sound that no one could identify.

Marianne turned towards the cabin. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The passengers around her were silent. Tired. Preoccupied. A young man in row 17 diagonally in front of her scrolled boredly on his smartphone. An elderly lady was reading El País. A child giggled somewhere further back, and the two stewardesses clad in their wine-red uniforms pushed their trolleys with miniature snacks and an equally modest selection of drinks further down the aisle towards the rear of the plane.

And then came the change. Slowly, gently, but noticeable. The nose of the plane began to drop. Not abruptly – but steadily. A gentle descent, too soft for an emergency, yet too steep for routine, Marianne thought.

She pressed her forehead against the window. The mountains below were coming closer, slowly but steadily.

Still no word from the cockpit. No signal tone, no announcement to “please fasten your seat belts.” Only the deep, steady hum of the engines – and a feeling in her stomach that settled like a cold stone.

She grabbed her mobile phone to check the network. One bar. Quickly she typed:

“Something’s wrong. We’re going down. I love you.”

Send. But there was no reception. No sending tone.

Then she heard the first knock. Muffled. Coming from the front. Somewhere near the cockpit. Someone was knocking – energetically. Twice.

Pause.

Then louder. Faster. More panicked.

Marianne shivered. She felt her fingers trembling. She couldn’t remember anything from the safety video she had half-heartedly watched in Barcelona as the plane taxied to the runway. Not how to open the door. Not where the life jacket was. All she knew was that the Alps were approaching too quickly. Instinctively, she tightened the strap of her seatbelt.

Still no word from the cockpit. Only the mountains. Closer. Bigger. More threatening. The peaks were now clearly at the same height as the plane. Now, other passengers around her were also becoming restless. Some seemed to want to take advantage of this unique view and were filming out of the windows with their smartphones.

Then – the light shifted. A glint on metal. A sudden jerk to the side. No sound. Just white. Rocks. And one last thought: Why isn’t anyone saying anything?

10:46 a.m., Berlin – Sophie’s flat in Neukölln

The aroma of freshly ground coffee hung in the air, mixed with a hint of jasmine oil and the superb clarity of a Berlin Spring morning. In the modern kitchen of an old building – with matt white lacquered drawers, a solid oak worktop, and open shelves featuring ceramic dishes in muted colours – Sophie Thalberg stood in front of her portafilter machine, one of the high-end models made of stainless steel, equipped with a temperature display and an integrated grinder.

She filled the portafilter with precise movements, compacted the espresso grounds with the tamper, locked the holder and activated the pump. The machine hummed quietly as a golden-brown ristretto was poured into the thick-walled cup. Shortly afterwards, she made the second shot – a double espresso. Sophie enjoyed the routine. The control. The calm before the day began.

She was barefoot, wearing wide grey wool trousers and a simple white T-shirt that had slipped slightly over her left shoulder. There was something dance-like, almost Zen-like about her movements – until she picked up her mobile phone.

Sophie was strikingly beautiful, not in an artificial or contrived way, but in a way that only fully unfolded when she moved. Her face was clearly defined, with high cheekbones and an elegant forehead. Her skin was light, almost translucent, with a hint of freckles. Her eyes – a deep blue-grey – always seemed to see more than she said. Dark blonde hair fell in soft waves to her shoulders, framing her face naturally. Slim, athletic, but with a quiet strength in her posture – that was Sophie. And when she smiled, you believed everything she said.

But now she wasn’t smiling.

She balanced her espresso in one hand and her mobile phone in the other when she saw the display light up in the kitchen.

“Breaking news: Germanair flight over southern France presumed crashed. 150 people on board.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She stared at the push notification as if it had been programmed incorrectly.

“Flight number 2G8414,” she whispered.

Alexander was travelling from Rheinstadt to Barcelona this morning. That was the flight. His flight.

A rapidly spreading feeling of anxiety gripped her chest. Her fingers clenched around her smartphone. While she was still trying to comprehend what she had read, she switched to phone mode. She dialled his number.

No ring. The voicemail kicked in immediately.

„Hotel, Echo, Lima, Lima, Oscar, you have reached Alexander Krämer. I am currently unavailable – I am probably in or above the clouds, about 11,000 metres above something beautiful. If this is not an emergency and your name is not Sophie, please leave a message after the tone. If your name is Sophie, I will call you back. I promise. Until then. Beep.“

Sophie placed her mobile phone roughly on the kitchen table. The espresso cup in her other hand began to tremble. With jerky movements, she reached for her iPad. It felt like an eternity before it booted up. The home screen appeared. The touch sensor failed on the first attempt. Only on the third try did the device recognise her fingers. Her hands were cold. Her movements were jerky.

She opened the browser and accessed Germanair’s internal platform – access she should no longer have. Old contacts, old tricks. The password still worked.

She navigated to the active flights. Scrolled. Searched. Flight number 2G8414.

There it was. Black on grey:

“B220-200, D-AIPZ, BCN–DUS.”

Aircraft type, official registration and the abbreviation for the flight route. From Barcelona to Rheinstadt.

She clicked on the line. Another window opened:

“Crew list:

Heimbach, Peter – Captain

Krämer, Alexander – Co-pilot…”

The coffee cup slipped out of her hand and fell to the floor. It didn’t break. But the sound echoed like a gunshot in a cathedral.

What Sophie doesn’t yet know this morning: the crash of Flight 8414 is only the beginning.

SILENT SKIES – by Sam Thorne

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