Chapter 1 - The Weight of the Wings
The cockpit was a symphony of chaos,
the red lights flashing like a heartbeat in a panic,
and the high-pitched whine of the altitude alert boring into my brain.
I watched as Malachi,
a boy who should have been playing video games or doing homework,
adjusted the oversized headset with a grim focus.
His fingers,
small and slender,
danced across the console,
flicking switches I didn't recognize,
his eyes scanning the primary flight display as if he were reading a familiar story.
Behind me,
the cabin was a wall of sound,
a mixture of sobbing,
praying,
and the angry,
fearful shouting of Gerald Whitmore.
"Grace,"
Malachi said,
his voice remarkably clear despite the tremors in his hands,
"I need you to check the oxygen levels in the cabin."
"That smell,"
he continued,
pointing toward the floor vents,
"it’s not just a short circuit."
"It’s tricresyl phosphate."
"Engine oil is leaking into the air supply."
I felt a cold chill run down my spine,
not from the altitude,
but from the realization that this child knew exactly what was killing our pilots.
I grabbed the handheld sensor from the emergency kit,
the needle jumping into the red zone immediately.
"He's right,"
I whispered to myself,
the metallic taste in my mouth growing stronger with every breath.
I turned back to the boy,
who was now speaking into the radio,
his voice cutting through the static of ground control.
"Gander Center,
this is Flight 782,"
"we have a double pilot incapacitation,"
"likely due to cabin air contamination."
"I have control of the aircraft,"
"but I am a minor."
There was a long,
stony silence from the radio,
the kind of silence that happens when the world stops spinning for a second.
Then,
a voice crackled back,
deeper and more professional,
yet laced with an unmistakable edge of disbelief.
"Flight 782,"
"did you say you are a minor?"
"State your name and qualifications immediately."
Malachi took a deep breath,
the bronze pin on his blazer catching the strobe light of the alarm.
"My name is Malachi Brooks,"
"son of Captain Isaiah Brooks."
"I have three hundred hours in a Cessna 172,"
"and fifty hours on a Boeing 777 simulator at the Atlanta Academy."
"I am the only person on this plane who can talk to you."
"Now,"
"clear the frequency,"
"and give me the vectors for an emergency descent."
The authority in his voice was chilling,
a ghost of the man who had died saving nearly two hundred people years ago.
The tower responded,
the controller’s voice now trembling slightly.
"Copy that,
Malachi."
"We are clearing the North Atlantic tracks for you."
"You are cleared to descend to ten thousand feet."
"Do you have the autopilot engaged?"
Malachi looked at the primary display,
his brow furrowing.
"Negative,"
"the autopilot is disengaged."
"The Captain’s body is slumped over the yoke,"
"forcing a nose-down attitude."
"I need help moving him,"
"or we are going to exceed our structural speed limits."
I looked at the slumped figure of Captain Pierce,
a man I had worked with for a decade,
now a dead weight threatening to pull us into the ocean.
I realized then that this was not a game,
not a movie,
and certainly not a dream.
May you like
We were falling,
and the only thing between us and the cold Atlantic was a boy who still had his baby teeth.
