23:40 MYT
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
7 March 2014
I boarded the plane 15 minutes earlier than most of my coworkers. I saw Embong, a veteran flight attendant, pour a miniature bottle of Malaysian Jaz Beer into a clear, almost conically shaped cup of Tropicana orange juice. He smiled at me as he mixed the cocktail with a bamboo coffee stirrer.
“It’s early,” Embong began, yawning in between thoughts as he raised the cup towards me. “This is for me,” he chuckled as he dropped a green cocktail umbrella into the sunrise concoction and took a sip. “Do you want me to make you one? It looks like you could use it. “Just look at yourself!” He pointed to the stainless steel cabinet, urging me to analyze the tired figure that forgot to apply mascara back at my hotel room.
I stared at her, unsurprised by what I saw: lilac rings that flirted with the crimson roots of my hazel eyes, chapped, yellowing lips, and eyebrows that could stand a good tweezing; too bad I left my favorite pair of Tweezermans back in Minneapolis the last time I visited my parents for Valentine’s Day a few weeks prior. I always felt the need to check in with them and prove that, although at 24 I only held a high school diploma, I felt content and successful traveling the world as a stewardess.
“I’ll tell you something, though, Adrianne,” he began mid-gulp as he aimed the cup towards me, spilling some of the on-the-rocks drink onto the black carpet of the Boeing 777, “for a zombie, your uniform sure is pristine.”
I bashfully smoothed my turquoise and fuchsia, psychedelic-floral sarong with my dry, crackling fingertips. Some of the rough patches from my hands began to pick at the fabric of the fragile, paper dress. I stared at Embong—a short but muscular man, dressed fully in a flamboyant suit, complete with a turquoise bow tie and a new, gold-lettered name tag.
“You know what? Make me one of those,” I spontaneously exclaimed as I tilted my head and pointed at Embong’s beverage. “Midnight’s a perfect time for a drink,” I snickered as I rolled my eyes at him.
“Great! I have an idea for one that looks like a Vietnamese sunrise,” he declared as he jollily nodded his head and retrieved a can of unopened cranberry juice from the miniature refrigerator.
00:05 MYT
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
8 March 2014
I just finished counting—more than half of all expected passengers had already boarded the plane, so it was too late to evacuate them all into the cooler, 85° temperature of the jet bridge. Neither Embong nor I understood why the air conditioning wouldn’t work, but as he attempted to calm a few frantic newlyweds in Vietnamese, I absentmindedly stared out the plane’s door, watching our pilot, Captain Zaharie Ahmad Shah, explain why the passengers on the jet bridge could not yet board the plane.
“It should only be 10 more minutes before the rest of you can board. The air conditioning in the aircraft isn’t working. I’ll explain everything over the intercom once everyone is in the cabin.” Standing passengers stared at each other—maybe due to his obvious — borderline incomprehensible—Malaysian accent.
Immediate chatter in a plethora of European and Asian languages polluted the humid, gray jet bridge. A man near the front of the line, dressed in a black, pinstriped suit waved his brown, leather briefcase so Zaharie could see.
“Excuse me,” he began in a refined, Russian accent, “but how long will this take? I don’t mean to be impatient, but I have a meeting in Beijing this morning that I can’t be late for.”
“Sir, you can go back to the gate and request a different flight to China,” Zaharie declared as he shrugged his shoulders in conversational forfeiture. The man picked up the expensive-looking blazer that rested on his black, leather shoesand purposefully trudged back to the gate. To me, he seemed ungrateful, considering he just escaped a death sentence.
The noise from the alarms punctured my slightly intoxicated composure. A Nordic-looking mother with three young children stood near the front of the line. The oldest one, probably around eight years old, attempted to coddle the toddler as the mother caressed the newborn’s sobbing face. “Excuse me, but is there any way these alarms could be shut off? I think it’s beginning to irritate everyone on and off board.” Her Dutch cadence could lull me to sleep like a special on the History Channel.
“Madam, we’re in the process,” Zaharie nearly whispered in attempts not to agitate the crying baby any further. “It’ll be no longer than 10 more minutes, I promise.” He smiled sympathetically at her and offered her a gray, plastic, fold-up chair to sit in.
She nodded her towhead and half-smiled. “Johannes,” she directed at the eight-year-old boy,“Go take Piers and sit on the chair the nice man set out for us.” The boy took his brother and nestled in the seat next to the woman.
“Madam, I can request a different flight for you and your children if you wish.”
“No, it’s alright, my husband is waiting for us in Beijing… he knows the flight number and planned accordingly. I tried texting him, but it seems the cell reception is insufficient on the tarmac.”
Zaharie nodded respectfully and stepped back from her, “As you wish.”
00:15 MYT
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
8 March 2014
They supplied air conditioning to the cabin via some white, industrial-looking truck on the tarmac. Everyone eventually boarded the plane, and Zaharie explained the issue, “Overheating of the aircraft due to unknown technicalities.” He explained over the intercom that it would only delay the flight by 20 minutes, and the aircraft could still fly without mechanical issues. The stewardesses’ chairs folded out at the backs of the aisles. Embong insisted he sit next to a Vietnamese transvestite he apparently recognized from somewhere, so I sat next to the woman whose husband awaited in Beijing.
“Don’t worry, technical difficulties occur occasionally on these types of planes. I was flight attending on a trip to Kathmandu, and all of the lights went out,” I whispered, trying not to wake her now sleeping children. “But, it actually wasn’t a horrible situation, because everyone could actually fall asleep more easily. Not every passenger is as well behaved as your children,” I murmured as I pointed to the plump baby, wrapped in a pink blanket, in her lap. The creases on her body reminded me of a doll’s seams.
“Thank you, Miliamiss is usually like this, very peaceful… but back in that hallway, she began to cry hysterically.”
“I mean, sometimes flying is scary. You’re basically leaving your life with the pilot… I think air travel is one of the easiest ways to reveal how trusting someone is. But, Flight 370 is totally safe… there’s nothing to fear.”
“Adrianne, can you assist me with the blankets?” Embong sarcastically remarked from halfway down the aisle as he tossed the Saran-wrapped cloths at me.
00:50 MYT
Malaysian Airspace
8 March 2014
Air Traffic Control cleared us to climb to 35,000 feet. Once we dispersed coffees and pretzels to the first-class passengers, I walked back to my aisle seat, excited to converse with the woman.
“So, Mrs…”
“Vandenhende,” she interjected politely as she burped a disoriented Miliamiss in her lap. Through the dimmed lights, I could see her eyes close for 15 seconds at a time, only to open them without warning, causing her to jolt in her seat.
“So, what’s in Beijing?” I knew she hadn’t noticed my listening to her conversation on the air bridge, and I figured talking might relax her.
“My husband, and our new house. He just got a job with Lenovo there, and he’s been living away from us in the Netherlands since January. We finally closed on our house in Rotterdam in mid-February, so we’re moving there. I actually have an appointment at two to enroll Johannes, here,” she pointed to the blond, freckled child who cuddled Piers in the wide seat next to her as he napped, “in an elementary school near our new house, so I hope the captain can make up for the time we lose.” She stared at me whenever she ended her melodious sentences— I wondered if she could smell the Jaz Beer on my breath.
“You’re really pretty, you know.” She suddenly reached out her hand in a friendly way.
“I’m Margaux. You don’t have to call me Mrs. Vandenhende. Sometimes I don’t even feel like that’s my last name, considering I haven’t seen my husband in so long.”
“Thank you,” I chirped quietly as I smiled. “It’s nice to meet you.” I reached my rough hand out. “My name’s Adrianne.”
01:37 MYT
South China Sea?
8 March 2014
I just assumed we were too high—I figured passengers complained of lightheadedness because of the altitude… not because Fariq intentionally depressurized the cabin. I kept telling Zaharie to ease up on the throttle once he opened the cockpit to flight attendants… which, by the way, was against protocol. By the time Embong and I passed out the pieces of assorted Malaysian gummy candy to raise their blood sugars, two elderly women and Margaux had already passed out. Thankfully, the night’s gloom had masked the earth below, so no experienced flyers could visualize our abnormally high altitude… but even if it was bright outside, I’d bet we were already trekking across the South China Sea—even though the GPS had given out. Zaharie calmly updated ATC over the radio: “Saigon Center, Malaysia Flight 370, Captain Zaharie Ahmad Shah, we’re a B 777 and our GPS systems are no longer functioning. We have reason to believe that this is a result of or related to the technical difficulties we experienced while still on ground at Kuala Lumpur International, Kilo Uniform Lima. It’s believe that we are either over the Gulf of Thailand or South China Sea, and we’re not sure if we’re on track for Beijing. Over.” No response, except for the flickering of the controls and a muffled static on the other line. Zaharie couldn’t tell whether Saigon International in Vietnam could even hear us, but he knew they’d be no help. He maintained composure and attempted to contact the tower again, this time only reporting facts and numbers:
“There are 270 passengers on board, 12 crew members. My co-pilot is Fariq Abdul Hamid. We have a combined over 20,000 hours of flight experience. We are a Boeing 777/ Alpha en route to Beijing Capital International, Papa Echo Kilo. Over.”
The overhead alarms suddenly began to siren, and the lights in the cabin intermittently turned a horrible shade of crimson. The conscious passengers screamed and retrieved their cell phones from their leather purses and briefcases, as if to call for help. I regret not trying to calm the passengers—I just stood in the corner of the kitchenette near the cockpit, staring at myself in the stainless steel cabinet. Through my reflection, I saw Embong dry heaving in an unconscious woman’s fabric purse. Fariq, the copilot, suddenly slammed the cockpit door closed—I assumed it was so they could concentrate.
“Flight 370, mayday ATC Boeing 777/Alpha. Report engine failure, 282 souls onboard. Mayday,” Zaharie proclaimed with a more pronounced nonchalance this time. He knew no one could hear him. That’s why he cut the lines back in Kuala Lumpur. “Won’t be long now.” He glanced at Fariq with a devious smile that makes even me, a soul in the afterlife, cringe with disgust. He and Fariq smirked about the suicide mission to themselves as Zaharie pressed on the throttle of the 777, causing it to tilt towards the marine wasteland.
Suddenly, Embong’s cocktail tipped over and spilled onto the floor. Small children and pre-prepared pancake breakfasts jolted towards the cockpit. Zaharie’s smile gleamed as he focused on the waves, glistened by the moon.
“Come on, just a little faster,” he proclaimed in ecstasy as he checked the airspeed indicator one last time. “Come on, let’s get to 600 knots!”
At this point, my dark circles were pressed so tightly against the steel cabinet that I could see every premature wrinkle on my tired face. I weakly crawled back among the sirens and screaming passengers, urging them to buckle their seat belts and attempting to calm them down with the gummy candies. I assumed Zaharie had lost control of the plane… maybe he had passed outtoo.
But my efforts proved no use. Within 15 seconds, the plane smacked the middle of the Indian Ocean, going 586 miles per hour. The aircraft blew apart upon impact, killing every passenger on board instantly: Zaharie, Margaux, Embong, everyone.
They never found any of us. I’m surprised it took marine biologists so long to figure out that a few vicious Dusky Sharks devoured our mangled corpses within hours of the crash. Not that it would’ve mattered anyways, considering everyone conducted the rescue expeditions in all the wrong parts of the ocean. They searched way too far east—they spent too much time around the Andaman Sea, and they should’ve focused on the Bay of Bengal. I mean, the heavier remains were visible from the bottom of the ocean, so if someone actually searched near the Nicobar Islands, off the coast of Myanmar, they might’ve found the plane, retrieved the black box that recorded the messages to ATC and logged reports, and figured out that Zaharie killed us for some twisted revenge for God knows what.
I still feel bad for many of the passengers’ families—some assumed that we survived the crash and were just sun-tanning on a beach of an unknown location. I wish I could’ve told my parents that no one survived—they were one of those families for almost a year after the crash. Both of my parents boycott air travel now, but only because they believe that the mechanics are still unsafe. News reporters never should’ve doubted the possibility of a rogue pilot. But when the black box gave out in May 2014, most people stopped looking for us anyways. Zaharie died an accomplished pilot, and us the victims of unknown mechanical failures.
Réunion, French West Indies
29 July 2015
They found the first clearly identifiable components of the aircraft today—part of a wing with a serial number that matched our plane. A few locals found it on the shore. What an eerie reunion. Scientists are going to test it to make sure that it’s a match, but I put it there to put my family’s hopes of my survival to death. Maybe that’s selfish, but I’m tired of my mom’s ‘Welcome Home’ banner sitting in the empty garage, waiting for my arrival.
They’ll also discover a barnacled, fold out chair, surfing the ocean’s waves in its lonesome. It’s the same chair Johannes held his brother on, just minutes before their deaths.
Calla Boyer is a senior majoring in chemical engineering with minors in biomedical engineering and English. She believes in harmony between the sciences and arts, and she wants to show how collaboration between the two can lead to solutions for global problems. Her works have been published in Klio and Penn Statements, and she runs a leadership blog on her website, callaboyer.com. In her free time, she enjoys studying foreign languages, re-watching Interstellar and learning how to not overwater plants.