Retribution

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The pilot gripped the yoke of the aircraft until her tiny, dark hands turned nearly white, choking off all circulation. The Cessna single-engine seaplane fought the wind as she kept it on its heading, south by southwest, just above the whitecaps churning below on Lake Michigan.

“Allah Akbar,” she kept repeating to herself in a whisper. “Allah Akbar.”

The floatplane was old, its white paint chipped particularly on the leading edges of the wings. She continued to fight the drag of the old Cessna Skylane and the wind, which flowed just off the nose of the aircraft.

The pilot was small; so small, in fact, that she sat in the pilot’s seat on a cushion to raise her up. The seat belt hung on the floor, unused, as she had pulled the seat up as far as it would go so that her tiny feet could reach the aircraft’s pedals.

“Allah, please be kind.”

The other seats had been removed. White bricks of explosives were stacked behind and around her. The Semtex had affected the weight of the aircraft, causing it to be even more sluggish in its movements. Her instrument panels featured empty holes where the transponder and other dials were once housed before being removed. All she had that remained was a compass.

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