The emerald shield

The low hum of the engines had become a physical weight, pressing me into the cramped seat of the row. I was drifting in that gray space between sleep and exhaustion when a heavy hand landed on my shoulder.

I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. The captain, Ivan, stood over me. His face was a map of deep lines and silver stubble, illuminated only by the dim amber glow of the cabin’s floor lights.

"Wake up," he said, his voice low. "We touch down in forty-five minutes."

I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear the fog of a shallow sleep. "Forty-five minutes? Thanks, Ivan."

He didn’t turn back to the cockpit immediately. He leaned in closer, his shadow stretching across the empty seats, lowering his voice. "Listen…..before we hit the tarmac, you and Bob need to bury those Russian Federation passports. Deep in your bags, or better yet, under the lining. Understood?"

I nodded slowly, the gravity of the transition settling in. "What’s the next leg of this great escape?"

"The next two flights—first to Chile, then to Cuba—you’re on the manifests," Ivan said.

"That’s a bit of a risk," I said. "A necessary risk, though."

"It’s a necessity," he said. "Naturally, you and Bob are flying as siblings. I know that Boris and Polina aren't siblings though they have been acting as if they are, but they are to continue to play the game that they are."

"I’ll tell them," I said.

Ivan gave a short, stiff nod and headed back to the cockpit without another word. I spent the next twenty minutes in the quiet, rhythmic shadows of the plane, methodically gathering my things and checking my gear. I felt for the hidden seam in my rucksack, sliding the dark red passport inside until it vanished.

In its place, I checked the weight of the emerald-green folder in my jacket. As distant relatives of Tsar Alexander II, Bob and I carried a status most would never see. Our passports weren't the standard red; they were green—diplomatic. It was the only reason we could even attempt to move through official gates without being hauled into an interrogation room.

When the internal clock in my head told me time was running out, I moved to the others. I shook my brother first, then Boris and Polina. They woke like soldiers—eyes open and alert in an instant, though the weariness followed a second later.

As they sat up, I explained the situation and the timeline. "We have twenty minutes before we land," I told them. "We’re going on the manifests for the flights to Chile and Cuba. The other thing is this… we’ll be flying as two sets of siblings. Naturally, Bob and I fit the bill, but you guys need to continue to play the game of siblings."

Boris’s jaw tightened. "The manifests? That leaves a footprint a mile wide. We might as well send a postcard to Moscow."

They weren’t happy to be on the manifests, and to be honest, neither was I. But there was no room for debate.

"It wasn't a suggestion, Boris," I said firmly. "Moscow doesn’t care where we are for the next fifteen years unless we’re in Russia during that time. Besides, Bob and I have the green passports. Our diplomatic status should be the shield for the four of us."

Polina looked out the dark porthole. "I don't like being on paper," she murmured. "Paper is how they find you later."

"I don't like it either," I admitted, "but we don't have a choice. Gather your things. We’re almost due to land. Bob, hide your Russian Federation passport."

Bob nodded, patting the pocket where he was going to put his passport. They spent the remaining time we had in the air gathering their belongings, the cabin filled with the metallic clicks of bags closing and the rustle of heavy jackets. Once they sat down, the head flight attendant told Ivan that we were all in our seats.

The landing was a jarring reminder of the world outside. Soon after landing and getting to the gate, Ivan came back from the cockpit, checking his watch.

"You have twenty-five minutes until the next flight," he said. "Disembark, shower, and get dressed in whatever clothes you have and then get on the next airplane."

"Where's the gate?" Bob asked, hoisting his pack.

"Fifteen yards from the lounge exit," Ivan replied. "There’s both a men’s and a women’s bathroom right there that contain showers."

The transition from the stale air of the plane to the terminal was a shock, but we didn't slow down. We knew we didn't have much time, but thankfully the facilities were exactly where he said they'd be.

"Ten minutes for the shower, five to dress," I said as we reached the doors. "Don't linger."

"See you on the other side," Bob muttered.

We split up at the entrance to the restrooms, Bob and Boris heading into the men’s side while Polina and I hurried into the women’s. Inside, the setup was surprisingly well-equipped. There were shower shoes provided for free at the counter, and stacks of brand-new towels still wrapped in their original clear packaging.

I claimed one of the shower stalls in the women's section. They were large and surprisingly clean, fully stocked with bottles of shampoo and conditioner. On a small ledge sat personal bars of soap—the small, rectangular ones you usually find in hotel rooms. I worked quickly, the hot water washing away the grime of the long flight. Once I was done, I didn't want to waste the soap; I slipped the bar I’d used into a plastic baggie and tucked it into my bag.

I dried off, dressed in fresh clothes, and moved to the mirrors to quickly brush my hair and teeth. I only had to wait for Polina for a minute or two before she emerged, looking just as refreshed and hurried as I felt.

"Ready?" I asked, checking my watch.

"Let's go," she replied, slinging her rucksack over her shoulder.

When we stepped back out into the terminal, the men were already waiting for us a few yards away, their bags slung over their shoulders and their faces set in determined lines.

"Everyone good?" I asked as we met them.

"Ready," Boris said with a short nod.

We immediately began the rush to the gate, but we had to stop at the counter first. We stood there, hearts racing as the desk agent looked up from her screen.

"Next in line, please," she said, her tone professional. The agent asked for our names in order to print the physical tickets, her eyes darting between her screen and our faces. "Names for the flight to Chile?"

"Deppgrl Smith," I said.

"Robert or Bob Smith,” my brother chuckled. “My sister booked the flight and I don’t know which one she put.”

She typed quickly, the rhythmic clicking of the keys sounding like a countdown. "And you two?"

“Polina Pretovna,” Polina said.

“Boris Petrov,” Boris said.

As soon as the paper was in our hands, we headed for the jet bridge.

"Let’s go," I said.

As we stepped onto the plane, I realized that not only were we the last ones to board, we were also in first class. A flight attendant greeted us with a polite smile, directing us toward the wide, plush seats.

"First class?" Bob muttered under his breath, a look of brief surprise crossing his face. "Ivan didn't mention this."

"Just find your seat, sit down and keep your head low," I told him.

I found my seat quickly. Polina and I were settled next to each other, with Bob and Boris a few rows in front of us. Almost as soon as we were airborne for the short flight to Chile, Bob, Boris, and Polina fell into a deep sleep, leaving me as the only one awake.

I stared out at the clouds, my mind already jumping ahead. I knew that when we eventually flew to Cuba, we would have to make a stop in Lima, Peru. For some asinine reason, flights leaving Chile that were heading to Cuba always made a stop elsewhere before officially landing in Cuba. I just hoped that I’d be able to find a moment to rest on either of the next two flights.