Static. Long roaring static. Come on, Ethan murmured. Somebody's up there. Somebody's always up there.
447. This is Thu approach. A voice faint, crackling, then firming. We copy your mayday. We have you on radar.
Say, "Souls on board and fuel remaining. " Theridian 447. We have 217 souls on board. Fuel is Kalin checked. Fuel is not our problem. We've got plenty.
Our problem is hydraulics and we are losing flight controls over. 47 thou understood. Be advised we are scrambling all emergency services. Our runway is open and waiting for you. What is the condition of your flight crew?
Ethan keyed his own mic. Thu, this is the pilot flying. My name is Ethan Carter, former Air Force F-16s. I've got the airplane. My first officer is assisting.
Our captain is deceased. I'm going to need you to talk me down onto that runway because I have never flown an aircraft this size in my life and I'm about to lose half my controls. Can you do that for me? A pause. Then the thu controller, a man who'd clearly heard everything in 20 years and never quite this said.
Carter Thu, Air Force, huh? Yes, sir. A while ago. Well, welcome home, Fly Boy. Warmth sudden and fierce through the static.
We've got you. Everybody down here's got you. You bring them on in and we'll do the rest. What squadron? And and Ethan Carter, the biker, the outcast, the man a whole cabin had feared, felt his throat close because 13 years is a long time to go without hearing that particular kind of we've got you.
The kind that only comes from your own. Fighting 4001st, sir. He managed. Out of Avano. 4001st.
I'll be damned. My brother flew Vipers out of Avano. Small world, brother. Small sky. The controller's voice steadied into pure competence.
All right, Carter. Let's get you and your 217 home. First thing, the hydraulic gauge hit zero. The green system died with a shutter that ran through the entire airframe, and the yolk went heavy in Ethan's hands, suddenly sickeningly heavy, like the airplane had turned to stone. "There it goes," Ethan grunted, hauling back.