Sarah still looked uncertain.
Then an older man in row twelve leaned into the aisle.
“Ask him something specific.”
Sarah turned.
The man stood carefully. He was perhaps sixty-five, with silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and shoulders that still carried traces of military posture. “Colonel Andrew Whitmore, retired Air Force maintenance command,” he said. “If he spent eleven years in an Eagle, we can figure that out pretty quickly.”
Marcus almost smiled.
Whitmore looked directly at him. “Complete electrical failure during instrument conditions. First priorities?”
Marcus answered without hesitation.
“Maintain aircraft control, establish backup instruments, preserve battery power, verify generators and emergency power, then determine whether recovery is possible before the situation deteriorates.”
Whitmore nodded slightly.
“Hydraulic degradation?”
“Reduce unnecessary control movement, identify which system is failing, preserve remaining pressure, configure early if possible, and avoid aggressive maneuvering.”
Whitmore asked three more questions.
Marcus answered all three.
Finally the retired colonel looked toward Sarah.
“He’s real.”
That was enough.
“Come with me.”
As Marcus followed her forward, people stared openly. He heard someone whisper that the man in the sweatshirt was apparently a fighter pilot. Another passenger began filming with his phone before Sarah sharply told him to put it away.
At the cockpit door, she stopped Marcus.
“I need one thing from you.”
“What?”
“If the first officer tells you to back away, you back away.”
Marcus nodded.
“Understood.”
The door opened.
Marcus knew something was terribly wrong before he had taken two steps inside.
The captain was reclined awkwardly in the left seat while a middle-aged woman wearing medical gloves checked his pupils. Sweat soaked through the captain’s white shirt, and one side of his face appeared noticeably slack. In the right seat, First Officer Liam Foster held the controls with both hands.
Foster could not have been older than twenty-nine.
His breathing was too fast.
The doctor looked at Marcus. “Dr. Rebecca Shaw. Captain had what appears to be an acute stroke about fifteen minutes ago. He’s conscious intermittently but unable to speak clearly or control his right side.”
Marcus nodded and looked at the instrument panel.
Several warnings were illuminated.
“What happened to the airplane?”
Foster glanced back. “Who are you?”
“Former Air Force.”
“He flew Strike Eagles,” Sarah added. “The retired colonel in twelve confirmed enough of his background for me.”
Foster stared at Marcus for one uncomfortable second.
Then another warning tone sounded.
Whatever skepticism remained had to wait.
“We lost primary hydraulic pressure shortly after the captain collapsed,” Foster said. “Secondary system started dropping four minutes later. Autopilot disconnected during the first failure, and I’ve been hand-flying since.”
Marcus leaned closer to the displays.
The jet was banking several degrees right.
Foster corrected it.
The response came late.
Marcus felt the aircraft’s slight wandering motion beneath his feet. “Controls getting heavy?”
“Worse every minute.”
“How long until London?”
“Almost three hours.”
Marcus looked at him.
“We’re not going to London.”
Foster exhaled. “I know.”
“What’s closest?”
“Shannon.”
“How far?”
“About two hundred twenty nautical miles.”
Marcus looked at the hydraulic indications again.
Even Shannon suddenly felt far away.
“What type rating do you have?” Foster asked.
“None on this aircraft.”
Foster’s expression tightened.