Something in the Water(39)

“Right.” I nod slowly.

“Listen, Erin. You said no one will claim the bag. Does that mean you’re suggesting we don’t report this? We don’t report a plane crash?” He’s scowling at me.

Shit. Yes. I thought that’s what we both were suggesting. Weren’t we? To keep the shiny pretty diamonds and the free money. To pay off our mortgage and have a family, right? Or am I crazy? Maybe I am crazy.

My mind flits to the people below us. The dead people, rotting in the water. The bad people. Should we keep the bad people’s money?

“Yes. Yes, that is what I’m suggesting,” I say to Mark.

He nods slowly, processing what that means.

I continue, carefully. “I am suggesting that we get back to the hotel, find out if they’ve been reported missing, and if anyone is missing them at all, then we forget it all. Drop it back here. But if not, if they’ve just evaporated into thin air, then yes, I say we keep the bag. We found it floating in the sea, Mark. We keep it and use it for a better purpose than I’m sure it was meant for.”

He looks at me. I can’t quite tell through the blaze of sun what his expression means.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s find out who they are.”





It turns out there’s a live online feed of every registered airborne flight in the world. I’m watching it now as different-sized purple triangles flicker across a lo-fi black and yellow map of the world. A real-life version of the video game Asteroids.

A brief touch of the cursor arrow over each of the larger triangles displays its flight number, its origin, and its destination. The smaller triangles—private planes, jets—simply display their craft type: Gulfstream G550, Falcon 5X, Global 6000.

Our plane was, and still is I suppose, a Gulfstream G650. I look up its specifications online. The G650 can fly eight thousand miles without refueling. That’s pretty much the distance from London to Australia. That’s a really long way for a small business jet. Its top speed is Mach 0.925, transonic. That means traveling at nearly the speed of sound. The speed of sound. It would have been a short flight if they’d made it, wherever they were going. I guess they thought they could outrun the storm.

I look up the most common causes of small-craft accidents. Wikipedia tells me:

    Severe instability can occur at transonic speeds. Shock waves move through the air at the speed of sound. When an object such as an aircraft also moves near to the speed of sound, these shock waves build up in front of the plane’s nose to form a single, very large shock wave. During transonic flight, the plane must pass through this large shock wave, as well as contend with the instability caused by air moving faster than sound over parts of the wing and slower in other parts.



That might have been it. Mightn’t it? They just hit the storm and at that speed it knocked them out of the sky. I guess we’ll never know.



* * *



—

I need to look up the tail number next. R-RWOA. I’m hoping it’s a similar system to the car registration system; hopefully, there’s some kind of database online.

After a couple of searches it becomes evident that the “R-R” element of the registration is the country prefix. Registered in Russia. Mark was right. People do get quite nationalistic about their choice of snacks, it’s true.

I check the national aviation database for Russia and somehow, somehow it works. It just works. The details come up. There’s nothing solid, of course. It was registered in 2015 to a company called Aegys-Mutual Consultants. Possibly the least glamorous company name that I’ve ever heard. Sounds a bit like a recruitment company in Basildon. Except small businesses in Basildon can’t usually afford $60 million planes. Yeah. Yeah, that’s how much that plane was worth. Over $60 million. Our house is the most expensive thing we own and it’s only worth $1.5 million. And we haven’t even paid off the mortgage yet. I’m starting to wonder if, whoever these people are, they’d even miss the contents of the bag. It’s obviously not their main business, if it’s even a sideline? But it does make me wonder if they have been missed. There must be someone out there looking. Sixty-million-dollar planes, their crews, and their owners don’t just vanish. They leave a hole, don’t they?

Aegys-Mutual Consultants is a corporation registered in Luxemburg. Which makes sense, I suppose. I don’t know much about Luxemburg, but I do know it’s a tax haven. I’m pretty sure Aegys-Mutual is a shell company. Mark explained them to me once; shell companies are ghost companies set up to make transactions, but the companies have no assets or services in and of themselves; they’re empty shells.

I reopen the flight path feed and scroll over our airspace, the empty black section of screen over French Polynesia: it’s completely blank at the moment, no planes overhead. There won’t be scout planes this far from the mainland, and as the helicopter pilot told us, helicopters can only island-hop out this far. Helicopter fuel tanks aren’t large enough to fly all the way back to the mainland unless they refuel on a plane ship. If someone is looking for this plane, then somewhere between America and Asia is a pretty big search area to cover. But if we had some idea where they were headed or where they departed from, we might be able to work out who they were.

The triangle nearest our island, on the flight map, is currently hovering equidistant between Hawaii and us. A tap reveals it to be a passenger jet from LAX to Australia. Looking at the live feed, it’s clear that planes do fly over the vast expanse of the North and South Pacific Ocean. I always thought airlines tried to avoid it because there’s nowhere to land during emergencies—isn’t it always better to be over land if something goes wrong? At least then there’s the chance of landing—better to fly round the endless water than over it. But it turns out there are still a few transpacific flight paths in the skies above us. People being ferried to and fro, although clearly there’s less air traffic here than over the bustling Atlantic, which is alive right now with color, planes like swarming purple ants crawling across the screen. Not much directly over us, though. Over us it’s mostly commercial airliners from LAX or San Francisco heading to Sydney, Japan, and New Zealand. Then I catch sight of another triangle, higher up on the map than the others. It looks like it’s come across from Russia. I scroll over it. Yes. A Gulfstream G550, private jet. Another one. It’s heading the opposite way from most of the flights over the Pacific—it’s heading left to right, over to Central or North America, I can’t tell which just yet.