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Flight 001 is a short novel that centers on a man who unexpectedly realizes, for the first time, that not all airliners are made equally--or at least were thought to be. Nolan Fletcher is a 41 year old retiree of ONSO, a covert organization run by a group of elite to protect the law from bandits. Nolan ventures on a fast-paced, nerve-racking adventure as he begins to understand why a single airliner could bring a catastrophic event that is bigger than the world wars and atomic bomb combined. View table of contents...


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Submitted:Jan 10, 2011    Reads: 61    Comments: 2    Likes: 1   


Of all the airports in the United States, Fiery Airport is the smallest and cleanest airport in Florida. The on-board service is first-class, passengers are given the privilege to many things other airliners can't permit, and the food is simply amazing. The Fiery Airliners are long but slim, holding a maximum capacity of 200 passengers-smaller than the turbo engines themselves. This was my fiftieth time to go on a trip with Fiery Airline.

I entered the airport, both hands occupied by a luggage and knapsack. It was hot outside, but the cool air from within wafted past me, compensating the suffering I have endured quite a while. Miami is always a hot region, however this time it was hotter than usual-the sun is getting bigger, I thought.

Passengers-most of them wore beach shirts-lingered on the line as they waited for their turn. I bought my reservation in advance the past week and only had to pick it up. I made my way to an agent behind the desk to reclaim my ticket. A woman-an Indian with a broad smile on her face-rested her gaze upon me as I approached her.

"Welcome to Fiery Airport. How may I help you, sir?" she said.

"I'm here to claim my ticket to New York City," I said, reaching for my I.D.

She looked at my identification card and searched my name on a wide-screen computer. It took a minute before she could confirm my name as it appeared on the screen.

"Mr. Clint Duvalle, are you going on a business trip?" she asked.

"No, I'm just visiting a dear friend of mine," I lied. As a former agent of the ONSO organization I am required to attend a clandestine meeting that's taking place in New York City during the months of July.

"I see that you have not bought you a ticket for your return. Are you returning to Miami, Mr. Duvalle?" she said.

"Maybe."

"Would you like me to have it purchased with our limited discount?"

"No, I'll buy it when I'm in the city."

The woman printed out my ticket and handed it to me.

"Flight 341 will be ready in an hour. Have a safe trip, Mr. Duvalle." I thanked her and headed to a lounge near the door leading to Flight 341.

I laid myself in a puffy chair while contemplating two teenagers making out; the girl seemed a little older than the guy, but eluded the thought. According to my wristwatch it was 2:35 in the afternoon. Until 3:35pm I better rest, I said to myself. I set up the alarm clock on my watch ten minutes before the flight departs and dozed off.

***

Operation Nylonn Sec Organization was ranked as the most powerful secret service in the world, with half of the population on this planet still remaining oblivious of our existence. The purpose of the organization is to reinforce justice and law by detaining culprits, deter them from executing horrible doings by being incarcerated, and leave a mark to show the world that order is to be follow, and persons bearing the intent of changing such order would be justified. The organization would often remind its personnel, "ONSO is to capture the virus that's already expanding at a faster rate within the system, and extract the bad components from the virus so it can turn into a law-abiding entity. If the virus continues to resist, then need there be annihilation."

The agents of ONSO are well trained, skillful in firearms and hand-to-hand combat, and adept at field operation and espionage. I was one of the best-perhaps the most talented agent.

***

I suddenly woke up when a male steward called out on me.

"Excuse me, sir," he said. I looked at my watch. It was 3:20pm, five minutes before the alarm could ring.

"Are you waiting for your flight?" he said. I nodded. "May I see your ticket, please?"

I handed him my ticket as the steward looked to confirm something. But a different expression appeared on his face as if in disappointment.

"Flight 001 is ready, Mr. Duvalle." I rose from the chair with my heart pounding fast.

"Flight 001? There must be an error. It's Flight 341." The steward narrowed his eyes.

"Where are you going to, Mr. Duvalle?"

"New York City."

"Then Flight 001 must be the right one, Mr. Duvalle."I read my ticket and realized the Flight 001 rather than Flight 341. The destination says New York City. I was baffled and didn't want to speculate that my mind was going crazy.

"But the agent behind the desk said-"

"Flight 001 will depart soon, Mr. Duvalle," the man interrupted. "Another steward will usher you to the gate. Have a nice trip, sir." The man called out a female steward and told her something I could not eavesdrop. Then, after parting his way, the woman approached me with a smile.

"Right this way, sir."

I followed her with steady pace-though it was hard to catch up with her. The airport was getting more crowded, changing the atmosphere from quietness to a state of pandemonium. We walked toward an elevator and descended to some lower level I knew nothing of. The woman remained silent the entire time. We got out of the elevator and I stood before a long, passageway-like air bridge leading to the aircraft. There was no one around, only the two of us. I instantly became ambivalent about following the stewardess to Flight 001 or question the agent at the desk about my ticket.

"This way, sir," the woman said. A suspicious look formed on her face, more like the look of a bandit. Agents of ONSO are trained to read people's faces, deciding who is the culprit. I should've brought my automatic revolver in case of something bad happens, I said to myself. What surprised me most is that I wasn't scrutinized or didn't have my knapsack checked through screening.

I followed the woman until a man standing in the doorway of the aircraft turned around. The sight of him suddenly brought an evil aura to the atmosphere. The uniform he had on didn't suit him and neither did it fit the woman. Worst yet, he didn't look like an employee-my judgment wasn't based on a hunch, but my experience as a field agent for twenty-one years.

The man moved aside. A smile-not an innocent one-came about.

"Welcome to Flight 001."





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