Flight 702 had taken off at 6:14 p.m., bound for Lisbon. Just fifty minutes later, the captain sent a short message to air traffic control.
They were the last words the world ever heard from him:
“There is something beneath us.”
Then the transmission went dead.
No wreckage was ever found.
No bodies.
No black box.
Not even a single patch of fuel.
The plane had vanished as if the ocean had swallowed it without leaving a trace.
But now, thirty-nine years later, it was here.
It had returned from the depths.
Layan stood aboard the rescue vessel, staring at the nose of the aircraft as it slowly emerged from the water.
One of the divers approached her, his voice low.
“There’s something strange.”
She turned to him.
“What?”
He removed his mask.
“The plane didn’t crash.”
Layan stared at him.
“What do you mean?”
He pointed toward the fuselage.
“There’s almost no major damage. It’s as if it landed on the water… and then slowly sank.”
---
It took three days to raise the aircraft completely.
When the doors were finally opened, everyone expected the worst.
But the cabin was empty.
Forty-seven seats.
