ONE

         Inside the cockpit of a Boeing 717, the copilot turns to look at the pilot.

         Copilot Norm Ortiz is in his forties, swarthy and heavy set, with straight ebony hair. He's laughing as he teases the pilot.                            

         “Tom, you know damn well she's waiting for you to wake up.”

         Square-jawed Captain Tom Belton is a big man in his late forties. A former fighter pilot in the first Gulf War, he has a military, no nonsense bearing.  His speech is terse and rapid.  Belton brushes aside his pepper and salt hair from his forehead as he turns to his copilot.

         “Dammit, Norm, it's almost an hour now with this line you've been dumping on me. First, it's the same old, same old back and forth over Marino and Montana and then you're right back on the Emily campaign again. Let it be. It's not even a year since Cheryl...”

         “Captain Belton, what did Cheryl tell you when she found out she was  at Stage four?”

         “I know I promised, but it's just not in me. I'm not ready for that dating game crap. End it, man.”

         “After 5 years, it's not like you just met Emily. It's not dating. Just take her to the game or out to dinner. She's full of life, with a great set. You could balance a cup of coffee on that tail of hers.”

         Belton laughed, “Can't argue with you on the geography, but forget about it. I'd rather bicker with you over Montana's record.”

         A voice comes on over the communication system.

         “Airways 6352, why the course deviation from Washington Center?”

         Ortiz stares at the panel. His eyes narrow as he does a double take. “Tom, we've been asleep. The automatic pilot indicator's not supposed to be on.”

         “What?  Of course not.  There's no emergency so why would Washington Center want to activate it so soon? I didn't authorize it.”

         “Neither did I.”

          Ortiz's face is firm, his lips tight, his eyes looking for answers. “Look at the panel. Dios mio, we're way off course.”

         Belton looks at him, his look almost showing disdain.

         “No way. Give me the damn controls.”

          Belton scans the whole control panel. He tries different inputs to get control of the plane. He grits his teeth. “Sh...shit, you're right.  Didn't you check the Flight Management System?”        

         “Of course I did. You watched me do it.”

         Belton repeatedly tries to shut off the automatic pilot. He struggles to stand. The seat belt holds him. He falls back, his face contorted.

         Ortiz tries the autopilot circuit breakers. Nothing happens.

         “What the hell?  I can't control it,” Belton shouts.

         Belton activates his communication.

           “Washington Center, this is Airways flight 6352. Over”

         “We have you.  Again, why are you off course?”

         “Something's wrong. Our autopilot is on. I can't disable it. I can't control the plane.”

         “Please confirm you are unable to disconnect your autopilot.”

         “I repeat. Over.”

           “We didn't activate it.  Are you declaring a security emergency?”

         “Negative. We tried pulling the autopilot circuit breakers. No go. The autopilot will not disconnect and will not respond to our inputs. Right now, we’re passengers along for the ride.”

         “How many passengers on board?”   

         “The whole damn Kansas City Warriors football team.”

         “Holy...stand by, Airways 6352”

         “Please get Airways Maintenance autopilot people on line, while my copilot checks the manual.”