Aung Aye (Yangon University) - one

( 1 )

We were flying a large plane from the north. We were spiraling into the mountains.

"How far have you come, my dear?"

I asked, frowning.

“Thirty-two miles north,” Leslie replied. “It’s been 15 minutes since we left. Can you contact the tower?”

"I'll continue, thank you."

I smiled as I spoke. Compared to when we first met, we have changed a lot. She, once a girl who was afraid of flying. Now she is flying herself. I, once a guy who was afraid of getting married. Now I have been her husband for eleven years.

"Hi, Los Angeles Tower?"

I spoke and contacted.

"Martin, a brave seabird, is speaking. He is flying from you, between seven and five hundred feet. He is heading south to Santa Monica."

The two of us named our plane “Moe Hein.” At the air traffic control station, we were given our official name.

"Martin, brave boy," the Los Angeles Tower called.

"Take four, six, and five squashes."

How strangely, this fascinating woman and I met and fell in love. Isn't it amazing how we went from being strangers to becoming soulmates, connecting souls?

"Aren't those the directions?" Leslie asked.

"Yes. You said..." I answered and then asked again. "What number did he say..."

"Don't you remember?"

"Isn't that four six four five?"

"That's it..." she moaned. "What if I don't come?"

These were the last words I heard before the world changed.

(2)

The radar navigation device is a black box. It is mounted on the dashboard of a large aircraft, a semi-aquatic creature that can land on both land and water. It has four rectangular windows that display four-digit symbols. The pairs of numbers in these windows and the distance in miles from the dark room tell us our situation. It shows the aircraft number, direction, altitude, speed, etc. All of this information is sent to air traffic control officials.

That evening I was adjusting the numbers on the various windows to the desired number. It was a routine task. This adjustment was probably the thousandth adjustment in my flying career. As I was adjusting, a long, buzzing sound emerged.

Then, as if struck by a powerful blow, we rose gently. The amber light in the cockpit flickered like an electric flash.

Leslie screamed in fear.

"Richard..."

"I'm a little shaken up, sweetie," I encouraged. "Some of them hit me pretty hard..."

My words stopped in mid-sentence. Because I saw my own situation for myself. Los Angeles had disappeared. I couldn't see it anymore.

“Where is Los Angeles?” I asked. “Can you see it? Tell me what you see.”

"Water... water. We're on the ocean." She was so surprised that she couldn't breathe. "Richie... what happened?"

“I don’t know,” I told her, without any confusion, clearly.

I checked the engine gauges. The pointers on the gauges did not move from their original positions.

Leslie pressed the circuit breakers and tested them.

“The air traffic control radios are down,” her voice was hoarse with panic. “The power is on. But there’s no sound coming out.”

Yes, that's right. Where the aeronautical communication signal was not coming out, there were blank lines, and it said "closed." The display screen was flashing letters we had never seen before. "No location."

Our minds also became empty and without a place to be. We were stunned by surprise.

“What did you see before you changed like this?” I asked her.

“I don’t see it,” she replied. “Well, there was a humming sound. Didn’t you hear that? And then there was a flash of light. It was like a wave of light all around us… and then it disappeared. Where are we?”

I pressed the microphone button. "Hello, Los Angeles Tower... Martin Brave is calling."

"Yes"

I didn't hear a word.

“I’m out of ideas,” I told her.

I suddenly had an idea and flew the plane up high. When we reached a certain height, I hoped to see a glimpse of the world we had lost.

After a few minutes, we noticed something unusual. No matter how high we climbed, the altimeter didn't change. The higher we climbed, the thinner the air seemed to become. By my estimate, the plane was flying at about five thousand feet, but the altimeter was still showing horizontal altitude.

"It's like we can fly without using gas. Is that possible?" Leslie said.

The engine revved up and down depending on how I moved the throttle. But our fuel gauge was frozen and motionless.

“That’s what’s happening,” I told her. “The fuel gauge is broken. I think we still have about two hours of fuel left. But I want to be sure right away.”

She was staring intently at the empty horizon. "Where will we land?"

"Are you saying this out of concern?" I snapped back.

I pushed back the throttle and prepared the plane for a long, fast climb. We looked out over the awe-inspiring ocean below, and then we saw two bright trails running side by side across the ocean. At first they were separate and winding. Then they became parallel and finally connected.

I think there must be a reason. Something must be causing those lines to appear. Is it lava flows? Or are they underwater highways?

Leslie took my hand. “Richie…” Her voice was soft and sad. “Don’t you think we’re dead? I think we hit something in the air. Or maybe something hit us. It was so fast that we didn’t know anything.”

I am a person who has read and studied death extensively. Even then, I did not think about it. Could what she said be true? But Moe Hein said, "What are you doing?" In all the books I have read about death, it is not said that the fuel gauge on an airplane is broken due to death.

"That's impossible," I said.