The Illusion of Smoke: The Prequel Read online

  ***

  After the tedious business of clearing immigration, waiting and boarding, it's a relief to find the plane ready for departure. Finally, the passengers take their seats. The crew shut and secure the airplane doors, cutting out the noise of the Boeing 747's engines and the kerosene stink of jet fuel.

  The second problem I usually have with travelling is the actual plane ride. After take-off, I try to relax. I can feel the jet's ventilation system kick in, relieving the cabin of stuffy air. I am glad for the spacious seats and leg room in the business class pods. And I am even more grateful that my laptop, shoulder bag and mac are the occupants of the adjacent pod. I glance with satisfaction at my empty side and at the vacant pods across the aisle. Who knows, my flight might turn out to be just about bearable.

  Lily, jasmine, rose ... Cocoa butter? ...

  A blonde, smartly-dressed stewardess with a bright-red-lipstick smile hands me a hot towel. The Captain greets us over the public announcement system and urges us to pay attention to the safety demonstration. It's a video using avatars which I watch although it bores me to tears.

  Soon, the stewardess returns with my meal, flashing once more that seemingly permanent smile. I have chosen my food earlier from a menu card she handed to me before take-off. Warm grilled chicken breast nestles on a bed of roasted vegetables and fresh bread. I must say that I am partial to bread. And despite being airplane food, the baguette I'm offered isn't half bad. Mind you, this is business class. I ask the stewardess for another piece of bread and more butter.

  The stewardess comes back with my request. 'Would you like some wine?' She asks me on a singsong note and offers me a wine list.

  I take the list and scan it. It is an impressive selection. 'You know,' I say, handing it back to her, 'what I really want is a cup of tea.'

  'We have several varieties of tea for you to choose from—'

  'English Breakfast. Plain English Breakfast, if you have it.'

  She smiles again. Her eyes rest briefly on my nose, though she doesn't stare. Women don't normally. They are more polite and self-restrained. Or maybe they are merely not as interested.

  Patchouli, amber, cedar ... Gastric acids ... Vomit? ...

  Another stewardess approaches. This one is dark-haired, but equally immaculate in appearance.

  'Mary,' the second stewardess leans over the one serving me and whispers. They excuse themselves and step out of earshot. Granting I can't make out what they are saying, I still sense urgency in their conversation. They glance at me and note my curiosity. The dark-haired stewardess leaves.

  'Is everything all right?' I ask Mary, the blonde stewardess.

  'Nothing to worry about,' she says. Her bright smile wavers a bit, and a crease crosses her powdered forehead. 'Enjoy your flight.'

  Yet I discern something is wrong because it is clear she has forgotten my tea. While I am desperate for a cup, I can't be bothered to ask again. Instead, I drink the water from the glass on my tray and hope to remind her about my tea when she comes back to take the whole thing away.

  When I finish my meal, I check out the in-flight entertainment programs on the screen in front of me. I spot the new Sherlock Holmes film and another one on vampires. A difficult choice, I judge wryly. Suddenly though, exhaustion sweeps over me. I wonder if I will be able to get some sleep. I ditch the remote control, pull off the earphones, lean back and close my eyes. However, despite my fatigue, I am unable to relax. The pod stretches out into a fully flat sleeper but is wasted on me. I resign myself to full wakefulness. In the seven-and-a-bit-hour flight to New York's John F Kennedy International Airport, I will probably not sleep a wink.

  I am still awake when I hear a shout coming from the rear of the plane. As I snap to attention, I hear the muffled sound of a body collapsing on the aircraft's carpeted floor, followed by more cries.

  THREE

  Although I rarely fly, I know a bit about jetliners. For instance, the Boeing 747 is a wide bodied, four-engine commercial airliner. The addition of a hump-like upper deck has earned it the nickname, Jumbo Jet. A lesser known moniker is Queen of the Skies. It seats roughly 400 passengers. First class in front together with business class in the middle occupy slightly less than half the plane and seat about a quarter of the passengers. The rest of the 300 plus passengers are crammed in coach class at the rear.

  With that many passengers, I guess anything could happen in economy.

  The captain's voice comes over the PA. 'Is there a doctor or medical professional on board our flight?'

  Once again, I close my eyes.

  A couple of minutes later, the curtains separating coach from business class are dragged open. Mary, the blonde stewardess strides towards me.

  'Dr Sonnclere.' She hunches over, speaking urgently. Despite the frown on her forehead, her mouth continues to display the slick, red plastered smile. 'A passenger, an elderly gentleman, has been taken ill. Would you be able to help?' Apparently, no medical professionals have responded to the captain's request. I find it hard to believe given that the plane is more than half full. Mary assumes I merely wasn't paying attention. She waits expectantly for me to get out of my seat.

  'Well.' I stop her. 'I'm not a medical doctor.'

  Her face drops in disappointment. 'But the manifest lists you as a doctor.'

  'I am. I'm a scientist with a doctorate degree. That makes me a kind of doctor, too, you know.'

  With a deeper frown, Mary straightens up, surveying the cabin helplessly. She searches desperately for anyone who might be able to help.

  Still, I can't stand not being able to do anything. I get out of my seat anyway and tell Mary, 'Take me to him.'

  Sweat, roasted peanuts, Merlot, beef cooked with mushrooms ... Chocolate, orange juice, gin ...

  Mary leads me through the narrow aisle. Economy class is packed with passengers, and I feel the full weight of their curiosity. They remind me of animals in a zoo, standing, kneeling, and leaning over their seats. A few are munching peanuts, a number drinking. All are eager to catch a glimpse of the drama. Thankfully, ignorance is bliss. They don't seem unduly alarmed. They are completely unaware of the impending danger that I have been alerted to.

  Only because I can smell it.

  Oil, hydraulic fluid ... It is imperceptible, but ...

  Air circulation systems on large commercial airliners perform a crucial yet delicate balancing act. Half of the cabin air is recirculated air, filtered to remove bacteria, viruses and so forth. The other half comes from the engines and is called "bleed air." Bleed air is sucked in from the atmosphere through the engines. It is subsequently compressed, cooled then pumped into the cabin where it is mixed with the re-circulated air. Because bleed air isn't involved in the engine's combustion process, it is essentially clean, sterile and free of dust. By using bleed air, cabin air is replenished continuously.

  On occasion, cabin air problems crop up when a mechanical malfunction occurs, such as leaky seals or overfull tanks. Special synthetic oils that contain additives and other toxic by-products can seep into the bleed air causing fumes and smoke to enter the cabin. This is what is called a "fume event." For example, an engine oil leak can fill a cabin with poisonous fumes in a matter of seconds. Regrettably, the system has no filters in the bleed air supply to stop this happening.

  And it is happening now.

  Thank goodness it is a big plane.

  Toxic chemicals can often be odourless. Ideally, chemical sensors should be installed on planes to detect them. However, as I move down the length of the plane all the way to the rear of the coach section, the acrid stench gets stronger, at least to me. The smell only confirms my suspicions.

  'He looked like he was merely coming down with the flu ...' the stewardess murmurs. 'Except he fainted. Now he's turning blue.'

  The elderly gentleman must have an existing respiratory condition, which would have been aggravated by the compromised cabin air. The passengers beside him remain unaffected. Perhaps it is because they are yo
unger and appear fit.

  As required, flight attendants are trained in first aid, cardiopulmonary resuscitation and the use of defibrillator machines. They have loosened the man's collar, examined and cleared his airway. The gentleman's breathing is laboured. I check his pulse. It is weak.

  'Do you have oxygen?' I ask Mary.

  'I'll get it,' a tall steward answers instead. He comes back with a portable oxygen bottle.

  'Two stewardesses aren't also feeling so well,' he says, crouching down beside me. 'They have been vomiting, feeling dizzy and going to the loo. You know,' he says, embarrassed. 'We assumed it was food poisoning. We've isolated them in the back in case they were contagious.'

  'Give them oxygen immediately. They need fresh air.'

  Although I use air and oxygen interchangeably, the two are different. Oxygen is a pure gaseous element, while air is a mix. Aside from oxygen, the air we breathe also contains nitrogen, argon, carbon dioxide and other gases. Prolonged inhalation of pure oxygen can actually be harmful. It is only useful in short-term emergency situations such as this.

  By now inquisitive passengers have crowded behind me. Their sweat and bodily odours make me claustrophobic—another reason why I dislike planes. 'Please advise the passengers to take their seats,' I ask the steward. I whisper a message for him to take to the captain.

  'How do you know?' the steward asks. Bewilderment and disbelief cross his face one after the other.

  'Go now. We're wasting time.' In truth, I could have taken the time to enlighten him. Then again explaining can be such a pain.

  In a minute, the captain's voice comes over the PA system and makes the announcement. Stressing an isolated medical emergency rather than a potentially hazardous situation, he has no problem enlisting the passengers' cooperation and maintaining relative calm in the confined space.

  Oxygen masks are useless in these situations. They are designed to drop down when the plane loses cabin pressure. They deliver in part recycled cabin air which, if contaminated, would be pointless. Only pilots and flight attendants have access to pure oxygen. Since the plane doesn't carry enough portable oxygen bottles for each passenger and the destination is still a long way off, the only option is for an emergency landing.

  Calmly, the majority of the passengers return to their seats. While the crew move the passengers from the rear to occupy the empty seats up front, I take a sample of the air from the vents.

  Lacking air sampling equipment or even gas detectors, I improvise a crude, makeshift air sampler. I use plastic cups, tissue as filter and a hand-held vacuum cleaner to suck in air and trap airborne particles and possible contaminants in the tissue. When finished, I seal the sample in a plastic bag. Feeling a little lightheaded myself, I lean back and sit on the arm of the nearest aisle seat. I take a deep breath from a portable oxygen bottle the steward left for me.

  When I gaze up, I notice the man with the leather jacket standing in the aisle across the middle seating area. It appears he has been watching me all this time, a thoughtful expression in his light grey eyes. Noticing my attention, he makes a move to come over and speak with me. I straighten up from my perch. I realise once more that I am holding my breath. But alas, I am disappointed. A stewardess catches him first. I hear her asking him for his help. I also notice the wide-eyed look of hope in her face, which irritates me. He nods at her. Without another glance my way, he turns to a lady struggling with a cane. He lifts her up in his arms and carries her. The lady lets out a squeal of delight, which I must say, to my shame, increases my unpleasant feelings. They disappear through the curtains down the opposite end of the aisle.

  Deflated, I sink back in the chair that is too narrow and awkward for a person of my height and big frame. Even a whiff of pure oxygen fails to revive my spirits.

  The steward comes back. 'If you would come with me,' he gestures reservedly. 'The captain would like to have a word.'

  I shrug. Later after much elucidation, the plane manoeuvres a slow turn around and heads back to Heathrow.