Heroes of the Sky - Yusuf Olia

It was 9 in the morning, and I was halfway through my flight from New York to Kuala Lumpur. My flight was going great, I slept like a baby. This was the 3rd time I was flying Malaysian Airlines. I always thought of why people had so much flight anxiety.  This was my third flight with Malaysia Airlines. I got up to use the restroom when the seatbelt sign switched off. I unbuckled my seatbelt and approached the bathroom door. Not surprisingly, there was a long line. There were at least 5 people in line ahead of me, and the queue kept growing. The flight attendants near the bathroom began muttering about “unchecked luggage on board”. The man in the restroom was taking an inordinate amount of time. The passengers became impatient and began hammering on the door. After much goading, they emerged from the restroom. When the next person entered, all we heard was a scream. They yelled in fear, but I couldn’t comprehend what they were saying. People tend to go insane on long flights, but their screams made me paranoid. A flight attendant went into the restroom to assess the issue. I turned around to see my doom.

I saw three men, all as tall as doors, including the one who had just left the bathroom last. They were clothed in black suits, and they were armed with military weaponry. They were aiming AKMs at the passengers and crew as two other men from their group rushed to the cabin. The flight attendant came out of the bathroom with tears running down her cheeks, a bomb clutched in her hand, and a rifle to her forehead. They were wearing masks that only revealed their eyes. If you looked up closely, you could see Soviet medals on their uniforms. They were in their forties and wore military uniforms. Their sleeves bore the Soviet Kazakhstan flag, and their names were printed in Russian on their chests. My soul left my body, froze, and my mouth opened wide. The plane began to shake as it became turbulent, and a racket could be heard from the cabin.

The pilot comes on the intercom, mumbles something, and then disconnects. We were being held hostage by men who wouldn’t let anyone move. Some people attempted to be heroes, but they all failed miserably. Who would be our hero?

The two men return from the cabin and begin speaking to the group. I couldn’t understand their language and what they were saying, but all I could was “missing”. They started racing back and forth through the aisles as they searched for someone or something. They had frowns on their faces and started breathing fast. The emergency lights were instantly illuminated. I was close enough to the cabin to watch the hijackers turn on the autopilot as they sped away. They crouched and gripped their rifles, waiting for someone to come at them. Suddenly, I heard a gun fired from the plane’s tail. They were taken aback when one man was shot in the back of the head.

The man fell to the ground, unconscious, blood gushing out of his head.

One of the men with him yelled, “Amir!”

Two individuals appeared from among the passengers, defying the crushing grip of panic. One moved with the silent grace of a desert wind, shrouded in a flowing white thobe. The other had the massive shoulders and steely eyes of a predator stalking its prey. Omar, the first, was a Saudi Special Forces member returning home from a long deployment. His muscles were tensed with years of intense training, and his mind was a steel trap for covert ops. Ethan, a grizzled ex-Navy SEAL, stood beside him, plagued by memories of former missions and bearing the unseen scars of numerous wars. Ethan found an unusual comrade in Omar’s posture, recognizing the prominent indications of military discipline. A fragile pact was formed by a nod, a glance, and a wordless understanding. They separated with trained speed, disappearing down the aisles like quiet spirits among the terrified passengers. Omar slithered towards the cockpit with the skill of a serpent, using the seats as cover. I watched from a distance, I wanted to get up, but I hesitated. I finally got out of deployment, and I have to fight again, ugh. They can do this by themselves, right? No, what am I thinking? I must help them. Every creak of the jet, every fearful whisper spurred his determination. He listened as he approached the door.

“Where is it!” the leader of the men yelled. “What do you mean you can’t find it!?”

         The hijackers’ frustrated and urgent shouts verified his suspicions: something was missing. I finally rose and glided around the main cabin like a ghost. I resolved to employ my military skills from Pakistan to save the lives of everyone. Years of close-quarters battle had sharpened my skills to a fine point. Their dynamic duo had become a terrific trio, ready to achieve victory. My gaze landed on the discarded magazine behind a seat, the Cyrillic letters screaming like sirens in the air. This wasn’t some petty hijacking; it was a carefully orchestrated operation with chilling implications. The threat was real, and the risk was impending. I thought to myself, this fight could kill us all. The weight of responsibility weighed on our shoulders, heavier than any pack I’ve ever carried. Then, Ethan, from the corner of my eye, I saw him rise, a weathered sentinel coming out from the shadows. His eyes, cold pools reflecting years of past wars, met mine in a wordless exchange. There was no need for speeches, our fates were woven together in the predicament of that shared glance. With another silent nod, a larger pact was sealed. Ethan melted into the darkness, a predator stalking its prey. Omar, swift and silent as a desert jinn, slipped towards the cockpit, his thobe whispering secrets about the fuselage.

My legs moved on autopilot, drawn towards the bathroom door. I reached the bathroom door, my hand hovering over the handle. Panic thrummed within, a trapped bird desperate for escape. Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself. This was my domain, my battleground. I barged through the door with a whirlwind of fury. When I entered the restroom, I heard frightened screams from within. Inside, the scene unfolded like a nightmare tableau. A flight attendant, eyes wide with terror, stood frozen beneath the cold gaze of a hijacker. A makeshift bomb, a tangle of wires, and flashing LEDs clung to her chest like a macabre necklace. Sweat could be smelt in the air. The hijacker sneered at my defiance, his eyes like ice crystals. A tense standoff occurred, with seconds elapsing into infinity.

 “Move,” he rasped, his thick Slavic accent displaying, “or she goes boom.”

 My gaze flickered to the bomb, then back to the petrified flight attendant. My mind raced, dissecting the situation, and calculating the odds. This was a dance on the edge of oblivion, a desperate gamble with lives hanging in the balance. Then, in an instant, Omar appeared from the adjacent stall, a gleam of steel in his palm. A glint of moonlight reflected in the blade he held poised at the hijacker’s throat. His voice, a low rumble from the desert sands, spoke a language of finality.

 “Move a muscle,” he warned, “and she meets God before you.”

         The hijacker froze, his bravado melting away under the resolute resolve of Omar’s eyes. In that frozen moment, the tide turned. The symphony of violence began, a deadly ballet played out in the bathroom's cramped confines. He disarmed the hijacker with a single, lightning-fast strike, a tactic he learned in the unforgiving sands of Yemen. The bomb clattered to the floor, its timer ticking like a metronome of fate. Ethan and I snatched the rifles from the fallen man’s chest, my finger twitching the trigger, a final guarding against the ticking oblivion. After the immediate threat had been eliminated, the adrenaline-fueled dance began. Omar, in a frenzy of effective kicks and takedowns, knocked out two more hijackers, his thobe billowing like a war banner. Ethan, a master of controlled violence, dispatched two with surgical precision, concluding with a bone-crunching neck break. I, strapped with an AK-74 and a lever-action pistol, shot two bullets through two bandits, knocking them both to the ground dead. Then, as if on cue, a deafening staccato from the tail of the plane shattered the eerie quiet. The three of us, a silent pact forged in the crucible of danger, exchanged a swift glance. The last enemy stood there as he watched his death unfold; his arms went up in the air as he said his last words. Together, we pivoted, the rifle clutched in Ethan’s hands spitting fire in unison with my AK-74 and Omar’s AKM.

         The last Kazakh crumpled at the plane’s rear; the deafening roar of gunfire choked his final scream. He landed like a broken doll, lifeless, eyes forever locked in a silent scream. His mouth was open wide with no words being able to come out of his mouth. Our trio stared as the last hijacker laid down flat, with no pulse in his body. Only the raspy breaths of the astonished passengers broke the silence. In the dim light of the emergency lights, Ethan, Omar, and I exchanged glances, a silver smile on our lips. There was no need for words. The common predicament of combat had produced a kinship stronger than words could express, a silent symphony of brotherhood performed in the blood-soaked aisles of the hijacked jet. One thing did start our conversation—the realization that the plane was not being controlled.

 We all yelled in sync, “The plane!”

We rushed to the cockpit to see that two co-pilots had already got up and taken over the plane. We, the three heroic men walked down the aisles to our seats as the passengers, cabin, and crew gave us an ovation and cheered. Omar, Ethan, and I smiled and sat in our seats as we remembered the times when we won battles for our countries many years ago.

The foiled hijacking spread like wildfire. Ethan, Omar, and I, whose identities were first unknown, were instant heroes. As the authorities boarded the jet, stunned and appreciative, passengers’ whispers revealed the truth: a soldier in white, a ghost from the sea, and a warrior from the gulf had saved them all. Back on firm ground, we were taken away, our actions quietly lauded by the highest levels of power. The Saudi hero, the Pakistani guardian, and the American warden’s identities remained unknown, silent evidence of the unseen fighters that walk among us, and that not all heroes wear capes. The raspy breaths were not just gasps of relief, but whispers of a legend whispered into existence, a tale of courage born in the face of impossible odds. The memories of that terrifying voyage would eternally bond the passengers of Flight MH193, and the three unexpected heroes who resisted the darkness, together, a shared hymn of courage sung in the face of terror. We may have come from different corners of the world, but in that ordeal of fear and steel, we were bound by a shared sacrifice, our names forever etched in the memories of those we saved. And as the sun rose on a new horizon, casting its golden light across the vast expanse of the sky, I knew, with a deep certainty that settled in my bones, the whispers of our story would travel on the wind.