“I spent thirty-two years around military aviation. The man they took forward knows exactly what he’s talking about.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know enough.”
The passenger gestured angrily toward the cockpit. “He’s not even an airline pilot.”
A woman across the aisle began crying again.
That was when Dr. Shaw emerged from the cockpit.
“The captain suffered a medical emergency,” she said loudly enough for several rows to hear. “The first officer remains in command of this aircraft. The former military pilot is assisting him because the aircraft has a technical problem.”
People became quiet.
Then someone asked the question everyone was thinking.
“Are we going to crash?”
Dr. Shaw paused.
She could have lied.
Instead, she said, “The best thing every one of us can do right now is give the people flying this airplane the calmest cabin possible.”
It wasn’t reassuring.
But it was honest.
Passengers sat down.
Back inside the cockpit, the hydraulic pressure had dropped below twenty percent.
Shannon was still seventy miles away.
Marcus did the calculation twice.
Both times gave him an answer he hated.
“We need to increase the descent rate.”
Foster looked over.
“That’ll require more control input.”
“I know.”
“And if the pressure collapses?”
“Then I’d rather be five thousand feet above Ireland than twenty thousand feet above the Atlantic.”
Foster looked toward the dark windscreen.
Then he nodded.
They began descending faster.
Marcus monitored airspeed while Foster handled the controls. The massive passenger jet was nothing like the Strike Eagle Marcus had once thrown through combat turns, but the language of damaged flight was familiar. Every vibration meant something.
Every hesitation meant something.
Every second they remained airborne was another second the hydraulic system could fail.
At forty miles, the pressure fell to twelve percent.
At thirty miles, nine.
Sarah returned.
“We’re preparing the cabin.”
“Good.”
She looked at Marcus.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Make it quick.”
“Can you actually land this?”
Marcus looked toward the runway information displayed ahead.
“Yes.”
Sarah waited.
Marcus finally glanced at her.
“That doesn’t mean it’ll be pretty.”
A faint smile appeared on her face.
“I don’t think anybody back there cares about pretty anymore.”
Then she left.
At twenty-five miles, Foster began lowering the landing gear.
Nothing happened.
He tried again.
A warning illuminated.
“Gear isn’t coming down.”
Marcus leaned toward the indicators.
“Emergency extension?”
Foster reached for the alternate control.
They waited.
A few seconds later came a heavy mechanical thump beneath the floor.
Three green lights appeared.
Foster almost laughed.
“That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all night.”
Marcus did not celebrate.
“Flaps?”
Foster tried.
Partial movement.
Then they stopped.
“We’ve got limited flaps.”
“Then we land fast.”
Foster looked at him.
“How fast?”
“Fast enough that we’re going to need every inch of runway.”
Shannon Tower cleared all traffic and positioned emergency vehicles along Runway 24. Fire crews lined the edges in the darkness. Ambulances waited beyond them.
At fifteen miles, the hydraulic pressure reached five percent.
Marcus felt something inside him becoming strangely calm.
He had experienced this before.
Not the passenger aircraft.
Not the Atlantic.
The narrowing.