When I reach the hanger I find that the ground crew and technicians are busy working on Albatross. The access panels are open and leads are snaking away to various power supply or diagnostic trolleys. Bryan can be seen through the window of a portacabin in a huddle of conversation with a group of overalled technicians. Haradursson leads me through the partially open door without knocking and begins asking questions of the ground crew in icelandic.

I move next to Bryan. "How's it going?" I ask.

"Well, the consensus of opinion is that apart from the virch core which is still down and won't restart, the rest of the ship is OK. They've scanned the airframe and wing as comprehensively as they can given the basic equipment they have here, and not spotted any damage, and they've looked at the flight data."

"So what do they think caused our problems?"

"They think it was the sudden loss of connectivity which has shocked the core into crashing. They'd never seen anything like it until this happened."

"So it appears to us." Interjects one of the technicians in a heavily accented english now that his conversation with the Assistant Director has ended. "It is our considered opinion that your craft is flyable under emergency conditions in manual control. We do not recommend reengaging the core until such time as it has been given a thorough diagnostic check or replacement. On this basis it is our opinion you should be cleared to fly directly to a specialist repair facility if you choose to do so." I note Haradursson's face twisting into a snarl at seeing a decision being made beyond his competence. He looks as if he's about to say something, but then thinks better of it.

"Will you make a statement affirming all of what you've just told me and attach it to your report?" I ask the bearded chief engineer.

"Of course!" he replies, prompting another withering look from his superior "Were these ordinary times I would issue a Grounding Order until such time as an EASA inspection team is able to examine your craft, but these are not ordinary times." A look of pain - or is it grief? - crosses his face.

"I see."

"We are nearly finished. We need only to replace everything we have removed and conduct our final safety checks, then you are free to go if you choose."

"Not without an H refuelling and replacement water ballast!" says Bryan. "We used up nearly all of what we had getting here!"

"We have some stocks of liquid hydrogen, but the Assistant Director will need to approve it's release." Behind him Haradursson looks triumphantly smug.

"Well, as your Director is so eager for us to leave, that shouldn't be a problem!" I reply fixing the assistant's toady eyes with my gaze.

"The Director will have to approve it." says Haradursson. "Now that the airport is operating under a State of Emergency." His statement catches the technicians off guard; obviously they haven't been kept fully up to date. "I will have to seek his approval." At that moment the antique walkie-talkie clipped to his belt blurts an anxious message in Icelandic. He answers with a curt reply then says. "Captain Drake; we must discuss this later. Right now I am needed urgently elsewhere!" He turns on his heel and walks quickly out.

"What was all that about?" asks Bryan to no one in particular.

The chief engineer replies: "The message said a riot has broken out in the terminal!"

"Are any of our passengers involved?" I ask with concern.

"Nothing was mentioned." Replies the engineer, whose surname - Bóasson - is displayed prominently above a chest pocket of his overalls. "We had several flights divert here when the emergency occurred. There must be many hundreds of people stranded at the terminal by now."

"So they could be my people! Have you a bicycle I may borrow to ride back there and find out what is going on? Now that Haradursson has driven off in the car he brought me here, and who knows what might have happened by the time I get there if I run the two kilometres back!"

"I will drive you myself; follow me!" Quickly he walks out of the cabin towards the closed hanger doors. He aims for a man-sized door set into one of them. I catch up with him as he reaches and opens it. "Over there! The four-wheel drive truck on your right!" He tells me. I run to the passenger side door only to find the manual steering wheel and controls there. Of course! They drive on the right here! Quickly I run round to the other side. Bóasson gets in, but instead of using the thumbprint scanner to start the car he flicks a jury-rigged switch; the vehicle starts at once.

Seeing my incredulous expression he explains. "Yes, even the local grid shut down! All the autonomous vehicle control, the tracking and security failed at once. Technically this -" He gestures to the switch. "- should not be possible or permitted, but we are engineers!" He says with a rebellious pride as he drives forward.

"Thanks for taking me!"

"Ah, don't mention it! I want to find out what is happening as well; I don't like that little asni Haradursson trying to keep everyone in the dark about what is going on. Our shift was supposed to have been relieved four hours ago, but no-one has arrived from Reykjavik. We do not know why, but we see the smoke rising from fifty kilometres away, and you arrive here rather than at the skyport. We can draw our own conclusions. You flew past the city on the way here?"

"Yes, but it was difficult to tell how bad it was." I see no point in breaking the awful truth to him.

"I live there." He says matter of factly. "And so do many of Hansa's side of the family."

"I wish I could tell you some good news." I tell him. "But we kept our distance for obvious reasons. We couldn't see much through the smoke."

"Of course." he sighs.

Ignoring the speed limit and with our strobes blinking we soon draw into a secluded service vehicle park. Using a mechanical pass key Bóasson opens a nondescript door and ushers me inside. We pass along a short corridor and exit through one of those almost invisible doors; the ones you see set into walls and absently wonder - if you actually notice them at all - where they might lead to. We step through into the departure hall. There the atmosphere is palpably tense.

The first thing I notice is how the passengers have remained grouped by flight, the fact of their having flown together a temporary affinity binding them. Our contingent remain where they were, but instead of sitting or sprawling there, they are now standing together in a dense huddle of fear. Gloria and Raul stand protectively at the front of the group. The reasons for their concern stand directly in front of them; all four of the sky cops glaring at them in full riot gear have their stunners drawn. Elsewhere around the terminal the scene is repeated, but one group of passengers appears to warrant greater attention; the number of guards penning them appears to be treble the amount assigned to the others.

One of the guards watching our group turns as he hears us approach, but seeing our uniforms doesn't attempt to intervene as we walk up to Gloria and take her aside and out of earshot.

"What happend?" I ask.

"Someone over there became impatient about not being fed so they tried prising up the roller shutters on one of the little shops. Suddenly this lot" - she gestures at the sky cops - "burst in. They went charging in and stunned a couple of people."

"Were any of our people involved? Has anyone here been hurt?"

"No, thank God, but I should think a few have been shaken-up a bit. I thought they were going to start on us as well!"

"So apart from that, what else has happened? I take it no one has organised a meal for you yet?"

"Not a sign of one! I tried asking people but no one seemed any the wiser. Apparently the airport is under a state of emergency and all the food stocks are being rationed."

"Right! I'll get on to Haradursson about it, and if-" Suddenly I hear voices raised in anger at the far end of the departure lounge. Turning around to look at the source of the commotion I see the Assistant Director and a man who appears to be the captain of a Heavy engaged in an argument. I can't make out what they are saying but their tone of voice indicates their conflict is escalating. Suddenly the captain's temper snaps. Almost simultaneously he and his crew - I believe they are Georgians - draw stunners and level them at the startled Haradursson. In response his sky cop entourage aim their weapons at the crew. The captain repeats what sounds like an ultimatum, and this time the Assistant Director has no choice but to agree. The captain barks out his orders and his passengers surge towards the boarding gates, the crew on tenterhooks - with weapons still drawn - covering their retreat.

"They're going to take off! Says Gloria, incredulously.

"So are we." I decide. "We're going to get out of here before order completely breaks down: There's no reason for us to stay. Mr Bóasson, can you organise our refuelling and water ballast without asking Haradursson?"

"I think he's rather occupied at the moment. It's probably best if I don't distract him with such a request." He replies conspiratorially.

Thank you! And can you bus our people to the hanger?"

"I'll arrange it. When did you want to go?"

"How about now?"

He nods sagely while looking over to the last few crew members warily backing through the gate. "Yes, I think that would be a very good idea. I'll have a quiet word to the guards, just to be sure there are no further unfortunate incidents as we go. I'll tell them it's been arranged for your people to be fed elsewhere."

"Thanks!"

I fell as if I'm a mutineer, but something has to be done and someone has to do it, and the someone is me.