Catch 22

 First Officer Jamy believed the system was broken. Captain Fady believed the system had always been broken, which meant it was functioning exactly as designed. They were somewhere above central India at thirty-seven thousand feet, flying a machine capable of landing itself in zero visibility while debating whether Crew Scheduling was a department or a psychological experiment.

“It’s intentional,” Jamy said. “They know exactly what they’re doing.”
Fady nodded with the steady gravity of a man who had long ago stopped expecting justice from rostering software. Autopilot engaged. Autothrust active. LNAV and VNAV glowing like obedient deities. The airplane was doing everything correctly, which left the humans dangerously free to think.
The interphone chimed.
Cabin crew.
“Captain, just to inform you… passenger in 19B is upset about the departure delay. He says there was no announcement from the flight deck.”
Fady blinked once. Slowly. There had indeed been no announcement. There had not been an announcement for years.

“Noted,” Fady replied.
He had once made announcements.
Once, long ago, he had delivered what he considered an eloquent, articulate explanation about weather deviations, ATC flow control, and the delicate ballet of sequencing arrivals. His tone had been calm. His vocabulary impressive. His pauses intentional. It had been a masterpiece.
Unfortunately, he had not pressed the PA switch. He had transmitted it on 121.9. To Ground.

And, inadvertently, to three other aircraft waiting for pushback.

There had been a pause on frequency long enough to measure existential collapse.
Then someone had keyed up:
“Uh… Captain, beautiful speech. We’re all inspired.”
Another voice:
“Copy your motivational seminar.”
Since that day, nothing left Fady’s lips except procedural necessities and atmospheric adjustments.
Altitude distension, he called it.
The cabin could read it as they liked.
“Passenger wants to know why the captain didn’t address the delay,” the crew member added gently. Fady considered several possible explanations:, Philosophical restraint, Selective communication policy, Trauma.
He settled for: “We’re airborne now.”“Copy, Captain.” The interphone clicked off. Jamy stared ahead, shoulders trembling slightly.“You could’ve just made one short announcement,” he offered carefully. Fady looked at him with the serene calm of a monk who had renounced amplification. “No.” And that was that.

The First Officers, collectively over the years, had adapted. They didn’t mind the silence. As long as Fady gave them enough warning. Because Fady had developed a system. At approximately ten thousand feet after takeoff, once the sterile cockpit period ended, he would remove one earcup from his headset and say, with solemn professionalism: “Your controls for two minutes.” This was Jamy’s cue.

He would “step out” only mentally meaning he would take radios and monitoring , while Fady accessed what he referred to as “situational awareness enhancement.” From his flight bag emerged a carefully curated 1990s mix. Stuff he used to listen to in NDA, Synth. Bass. Questionable percussion. Nothing loud. Just enough. Fady believed rhythm improved cruise fuel management. Jamy believed rhythm improved Fady. They never discussed it.

At cruise, the earlier grievance about 19B dissolved into broader injustice.

“Gupta’s moving to Training,” Jamy said.
Fady nodded. “Promotion by disappearance.” They reviewed fuel figures. Everything precise. Which felt suspicious.
“Vietnam is hiring,” Jamy tried again.
“Everyone is hiring somewhere,” Fady replied. “Until they aren’t.”
A small chime interrupted them.
Seat belt sign for light turbulence.
Professional mode re-engaged instantly. Announcements were technically required.

Jamy looked at Fady expectantly.
Fady looked at the seat belt switch.
He pressed it. The ding echoed through the cabin. He did not speak.

Somewhere in 19B, disappointment intensified. Later, as they approached top of descent, Jamy ventured:

“You know… passengers like hearing from the captain.” Fady adjusted the heading bug by one unnecessary degree. “They hear the engines. That’s enough.”
“You were very articulate that day.”
Fady stared forward. Silence on 121.9 still echoed in his memory. “I peaked,” he said softly.

Descent briefing commenced.
“Minimums 23.”
“Checked.”
“Autobrake three.”
“Set.” The satire evaporated. Precision remained. They intercepted the localizer. The autopilot performed elegantly, as if slightly smug.
At minimums, Fady disconnected it. Hand-flew the rest. The landing was smooth , almost suspiciously so.
Reverse thrust deployed with confidence bordering on poetry.
As they vacated the runway:
“Nice one, Captain,” Jamy said.
“Aircraft did most of it.”
There was no irony in his voice.

At the gate, engines wound down. Screens dimmed. Systems powered off like obedient soldiers dismissed from parade. Passengers disembarked. 19B left with unresolved emotional closure. The cabin crew would later report, “Flight was good. Just no announcements.”
Fady accepted this as a performance review. As they gathered their bags, Jamy checked the roster.
“Same sector tomorrow?”
“Until they change it,” Fady said.
“They’ll change it.”
“They always do.”
They walked into the terminal , one man who believed the system was broken, and another who had stopped addressing it publicly.
Above them, another aircraft leveled at thirty-seven thousand feet.
Somewhere in that cockpit, a captain was pressing the PA switch.
And somewhere else, a frequency fell silent.

Just another day in the life of a line pilot who couldn’t refuse the duty. In some ways Uber drivers were on a different level. They had the power to say No. Fady envied them.

Be Safe. Fly Safe.