"Captain Vance," Kowalski said, his tone flattening into the guarded, formal cadence ground staff reserved for the regional directorate. "Dispatch didn't log an operations rider on the load sheet."
"Dispatch had the rider flagged at five-forty, Frank," Vance said evenly, his voice carrying clearly over the distant whine of a taxiing regional jet. "The notification went to station control, to gate operations, and to your terminal printer at the base of the bridge stairs. Did your desk clerk pull the sheet?"
Kowalski's eyes flicked toward the small corrugated metal supervisor's shack fifty feet away beneath the terminal overhang. A yellow light flashed steadily above the door, signaling a pending operational printout that nobody had collected.
"We had two late transfers on the belt from the inbound flight from Phoenix," Kowalski said, planting his feet firmly on the stained tarmac. He adjusted his clipboard, angling it so the papers beneath the clamp stayed out of Vance's direct line of sight. "The sorting system jammed at Terminal Two. We had six minutes to throw sixty-four bags into hold four and seal the latches, or the whole bank blew past the connection window. I signed off on the cargo balance based on the digital tally."
"You signed off on the digital tally," Vance repeated. He took two measured steps across the concrete until he stood directly in front of the ramp chief. He did not raise his voice, but the weight of his posture drove an absolute silence into the space beneath the wing root. "Where is the courier pouch from the Department of Transportation?"
"In the forward hold," Kowalski said immediately. "Secured under the cargo netting against bulkhead seven, exactly according to standard hazardous and priority protocol."
"Show us," Vance said.
"Captain, the hatch is dogged and safety-pinned," Kowalski protested, a flush of dark red creeping up his neck above the collar of his safety vest. "The belt loader is already moved. If we drop that door, we break the pressure-seal test cycle, and flight ops will have to run a twenty-minute cargo compartment depressurization loop before the cockpit can arm the fire bottles. You'll scrap the crew's duty day right here on the ramp."
"Pull the latch, Frank," Vance said.
The three words left no room for appeal. Kowalski stared at Vance for five long seconds, his jaw working as if chewing on an argument he knew would end his career if he voiced it aloud. Finally, he turned on his heel, signaled sharply to a baggage handler lingering near the tug, and marched toward the forward fuselage.
"Bring the mechanical step over to hold three," Kowalski shouted. "Pop the manual exterior release."
The young handler hurried to push a wheeled aluminum stepladder against the curve of the lower fuselage. I followed Hannah as she moved closer, the cold wind whipping loose strands of hair across my mouth. The underside of the plane felt monstrous from down here—a fortress of aluminum skin, warning stencils, and hydraulic lines that I had spent three years serving inside without ever truly understanding the rigid, unforgiving machinery that kept it in the sky.
The handler climbed two steps, unhooked the exterior release handle on cargo hatch number three, and pulled down with both hands.
The heavy door unseated with a sharp hiss of pneumatic seals, swinging upward and outward on its counterbalanced hinges until it locked against the upper stops. The handler reached into the dark opening, flicked the master interior cargo switch, and two strips of recessed amber LED lamps flickered to life along the curved ceiling of the hold.
The belly compartment was cavernous, its floor fitted with rows of recessed rollers and spring-loaded restraint tracks. Near the center, several stacks of standard commercial luggage were lashed down beneath heavy black nylon netting, their plastic tags fluttering slightly in the draft.
Vance stepped onto the bottom rung of the ladder. He looked into the hold, his gaze traveling deliberately along the floor tracks until it stopped at the forward bulkhead.
"Purser Miller," Vance said without turning around. "Step up here."
Hannah climbed the metal steps, her uniform skirt tight around her knees. She held onto the ladder rails, leaning forward to look inside the illuminated compartment. Her breath hitched, a small, sharp sound swallowed by the wind.
"Read me the security tag on the bulkhead netting, Hannah," Vance instructed.
The cargo hold against bulkhead seven was completely bare.