The co-pilot's body slumped to the side, a dent in his skull revealing brain tissue, and a large hole had been pierced through the glass next to him.
"Get him out of the way, sit down!"
Antonov saw Song Heping and shouted, "Quickly! I need someone to help me land!"
Land?!
Song Heping instinctively glanced out the window.
Darkness.
Not even the lights of ships were visible.
That's the sea.
Landing here?
But time didn't allow for more thought; he had to reach out and undo the co-pilot's safety belt, dragging him out and dumping him on the floor.
Antonov saw him easily drag away the nearly two hundred-pound co-pilot and was momentarily surprised.
Song Heping, having seen many bloody scenes, showed no emotion as he directly sat in the left seat soaked with the co-pilot's blood and brain matter, quickly fastening the safety belt.
The fierce wind poured in through the broken glass, numbing Song Heping's scalp with cold, prompting him to quickly cover his head with a sand scarf.
"Three minutes until Egyptian airspace, call for rescue immediately."
Song Heping glanced at the instruments in front of him, his heart suddenly panicked.
It was completely different from the layout of the helicopter instrument panel he had seen before.
"That knob! Adjust it to 121.5MHz!"
121.5MHz is the international emergency aviation frequency, widely recognized as the worldwide channel.
In cases of aircraft accidents, this channel is frequently used for emergency calls, letting the most people know that assistance is needed.
Luckily, the instruments of Soviet aircraft didn't differ much, and some indicators of the Mi-17 he had learned were very similar to those on this An-148.
He quickly found the tuning knob, switching the channel to the 121.5MHz frequency.
"Call out!"
Antonov shouted, "What are you waiting for?! Call for help!"
Before he finished speaking, the alarm suddenly emitted a piercing buzz.
"Suka!"
Antonov roared, his breath reeking of alcohol.
"They want to kill us! Watch out, missiles incoming!"
After speaking, he abruptly pulled the control stick, his arm muscles bulging.
The plane started tilting to the right.
Song Heping felt a tightness in his throat, the pain of the safety belt digging into his shoulder suddenly growing intense. He saw a MiG-29 dive down from the clouds, the R-73 missiles hanging from its belly gleaming with a deadly light in the sunlight.
"They've locked onto us!" Antonov's voice changed pitch.
Inside the cockpit, alarms rang incessantly, red lights flickering wildly on the instrument panel. Antonov forcefully pushed the control stick, the heavy fuselage of the transport plane groaning under the strain.
Suddenly, the MiG-29 turned without warning and left, but not before releasing a streak of fire from its belly, an R-73 air-to-air missile detaching from its mount and heading toward the An-148.
"Suka!"
Antonov cursed while saying to Song Heping, "Keep an eye on the oil pressure gauge!"
He then reached out and flicked several buttons on the instrument panel.
The plane went silent.
"What is he doing!?"
Song Heping seemed to understand something.
Antonov wasn't performing evasive maneuvers.
Because evasion was impossible.
Such close distance.
Such high speed.
Such a lousy passenger transport aircraft.
The only good part was its sturdiness.
He had turned off the engines!
"Damn!"
Song Heping instinctively reached for the safety belt.
"If we're going to die anyway, let's gamble!"
Antonov's face didn't show fear but an ecstatic thrill.