“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.
Marcus understood why.
Flying a fighter did not magically make someone qualified to command a wide-body passenger jet. The systems were different, the control characteristics were different, the approach speeds were different, and Marcus had no intention of pretending otherwise. What he did understand better than almost anyone aboard was how aircraft behaved after systems stopped behaving the way designers intended.
“I’m not here to replace you,” Marcus said. “You know this airplane. I know damaged airplanes. We work together.”
Foster looked at him for several seconds.
Then he nodded.
“Okay.”
That single word changed everything.
Foster contacted Shannon while Marcus examined the information available. The hydraulic pressure was deteriorating steadily, but not yet catastrophically. They still had flight controls, although each movement required more effort and delivered less response.
“What are they giving us?” Marcus asked.
“Runway two-four. Winds twelve knots, mostly down the runway. Weather’s clear.”
“Emergency equipment?”
“Already rolling.”
Marcus nodded.
“Then that’s where we’re going.”