Retribution Loomed.

In Eurasia, the shields were almost finished, following the given blueprints. Sadly, those plans turned out to be false. The radiation shields provided no protection and were fake. Those underneath them would all be killed by the first significant spike in sun radiation.

Andrew Chekov was aware of the reality. The whole charade had been planned by him. He was now escaping to the Canadia area, the only real shield. It would be too late if he didn't get there in the week. Sustaining appearances required abandoning the shield manufacturing to another risky exposure.

Soon, word would get out about the increased activity of solar flares. Any possibility of survival would be destroyed when people flocked to the closest radiation barriers, their desperation turning violent. That was why so many would die, why the pretense was required. It was the only option to guarantee the wider existence of humanity, and it was a sad necessity. No one could produce enough electricity to save the majority of the population, therefore it was impossible to provide the protection needed for everyone.

Andrew took the last aircraft out of Ruskia, his last chance for safety and freedom. His lips curled into a slight smile as he took his seat, content with the thought that he would live while his fellow citizens would not. He lay back, completely relaxed and unburdened.

When Jonathan Aston first arrived at the building site, he could sense problems. They couldn't make their deadline because of the slow pace. In the hopes that Lauren would report a little, controllable hiccup, he went over to the command tent. Rather, he entered a situation that was much more serious than he had anticipated.

Lauren remarked, "The electron coupler wires are defective, Jonathan." These cables served as the shield's pivot, connecting its equipment to form the barrier of defense. Replacements might take months, and they were infamously hard to produce.

"What is the matter with them?"

It's possible that they were pinched during transportation. When used, they short out, whatever it was.

"Are there any backups?"

"Everyone has the same flaw."

"All fine, submit a request for more immediately. They are necessary to us. We'll move forward without them for the time being. Just obtain replacements as soon as you can, and I'll take care of it.

"Yes, sir. I'll start working on it immediately.

Jonathan hurried out the tent to check on the shield's development. It appeared to be proceeding as planned, except for the coupler wires. He called the employees.

"Let's get started," he declared. "There are no working electron coupler cables here. We're placing more orders as soon as we can. We have to construct the shield generator as much as feasible without them in the interim. We'll get by with a few parts being left out. I need you to put in more effort than before. Our hands hold thousands of lives. Use that authority sensibly.

The group sank into a thick hush. They were aware that failure without those lines would mean death and the end of humanity. The only person who could pull it off was Jonathan Aston, so they trusted him. They scattered to their jobs and worked hard, determined to make the most of what was left.

Jonathan was in a different situation. He was aware that the cables would not reach him in time. There was just a week left, and then there would be no second chances. They would either survive or perish; it would either succeed or fail. He required a workaround that minimized shorts by selecting the cables with the fewest defects. Although the process was painstaking and intimidating, it gave them a glimmer of optimism.

When mayhem broke out, Andrew was asleep on the plane. Fearless, he had faith that his plan was working perfectly. But the airplane was not. The aged metal was ultimately harmed by the atmosphere, which started with a dust storm.

In their heyday, when everything was brand-new and sturdy, the plane's engines had fared worst. They faltered now, frail and weary. The dust storm, which was thicker and larger than the pilot had expected, claimed number three first. It began with a clogged engine.

When Andrew woke up, the plane was being battered by an oppressive noise of dust. For the first time since making the shields, panic took hold of him as he bolted upright. As the light disappeared, the windows revealed nothing but a stifling, black emptiness as the unrelenting attack continued. After missing the first engine, he then heard the second one fail.

The plane became wobbly with two of its engines down. In an attempt to restart the engines, the pilot angled the nose downward and relied on gravity's pull to increase speed and push air through them.

Andrew anticipated catastrophe after sensing the drop. The plane is descending directly. There is a problem—it is unable to fly. It took me too long to get out. It's my doom now. Why me?

Through the relentless storm, the pilot continued to dive. Below, the dust extended too far. He merely needed a breath of fresher air. Then he discovered it.

At a dangerously low altitude—too low—the air cleared. The pilot had to try to restart the engines and level off in time, even though he wasn't sure he could.

As the roar of the dust subsided, Andrew let out a breath. He noticed a slight brightness outside when he peered out. Maybe they could survive. A encouraging indicator was the plane's slight stabilization. Perhaps the plunge wasn't fatal. They might be able to weather the storm.

Controls were a struggle for the pilot. Engine number one resisted, but engine number three flickered back to life. If they weren't ambushed by another storm, three engines would be more than plenty.

Five hundred feet was the dangerously low altitude at which he leveled the plane, but increasing would mean reentering the dust. But he had to go even lower as the storm moved at them.

As the plane stabilized, Andrew's anxiety subsided. Then it dipped once more. He could see the filthy ocean dangerously close through the window. The pilot is furious! We will perish when he crashes us into the water! I must take action.

The pilot heard someone beating on the door of the cockpit. Although he had handled challenging passengers, this was ridiculous. What were the chances of the most annoying being on board, with only five? He ignored it and concentrated on rescuing everyone.

Andrew flung his weight on the closed door after testing it out in frustration. The thin wall parted, allowing him to pass through.

Despite the breach, the pilot continued. As the dust cloud drew closer, a slower pace was necessary for any hope of life. He would risk his life by flying at dangerous depths.

Andrew started to say something, but was stopped by what he saw through the cockpit window: a massive wall of dust encroaching, individual particles visible, the turbulent ocean below glaringly evident. The pilot was totally focused.

The plane struck the worsening storm because it was too high. The craft was thrown in all directions by the swirling dust. The brittle metal gave way to the whims of the gusts, passengers at the whim of nature—a vindictive beast taking revenge. They realized that resistance was pointless after they heard, saw, and felt the tempest. Death was imminent, they knew.

Their only hope was slow flight, which the pilot struggled to maintain. In the most dangerous mission of his career, he battled to maintain altitude safety. This experience would permanently ground him, so even if he lived, he would never fly again.

The passengers sat in silent expectation. Some people wept, some prayed, and some just looked straight ahead. Andrew stared at the window of the cockpit, trying to see through the dense, black dust. Nothing showed up.

As the plane sank, engines clogged, the pilot prayed for deliverance while navigating the storm. Then it happened. Passengers were forcefully jolted as metal peeled from the underbelly as it skimmed the murky water.

Andrew was slung around in the cockpit, his body beaten by the violent crash. When it stopped, he lay on the floor, injured and bleeding, trying to get up and get out of the sinking craft. For the final time, the captain's voice crackled over the intercom.

"This plane has touched down, ladies and gentlemen. We are rapidly sinking in the ocean. Get out now if you want to—you might not get another chance. The decision is yours, but I would sooner drown than hold onto the notion that I might be saved. Thank you, and good-bye.