Murmansk-13

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The violent shaking of the cabin jolted Jamal from his catatonia. The fuzz of the reverse thrusters was dimly audible beneath the rattle of steel shackles on steel treadplate. Jamal could feel his body being slowly pressed into the thin rubber padding of the bench, numb buttocks and tense back muscles contacting with near body temperature metal.

The thrusters were firing oddly, unsynchronized, almost spastic jolts like flame outs. Jamal looked around as sixty five impervious Slavs gritted their teeth. Beside him, Igor sweated; beads formed little rivulets across a weathered forehead. He never lowered his eyes though, even when the guards hurriedly lashed themselves to their jump seats at the front of the cabin – knowing something was badly amiss.

We’re about to crash. We’re about to crash and all I have to brace me is shackles and handcuffs.

Jamal wished he could greet the thought with the stoic veneer his fellow prisoners were mustering, but knew he would not. All of them shouldn’t be here, or at least so they protested, but he really shouldn’t be here.

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