Chapter 2 - The Ground Control Paradox
"I'll help,"
a voice grunted from the cockpit door.
I turned to see Gerald Whitmore,
the man who had mocked Malachi only minutes before.
He was pale,
his expensive silk tie loosened,
but the arrogance had been replaced by a raw,
animalistic survival instinct.
"I’m a former college linebacker,"
"I can move him."
Malachi didn't look back,
his eyes locked on the horizon line of the flight director.
"Do it quickly,"
"and don't touch the red lever on the side of the seat."
"If you trigger the manual recline at the wrong angle,"
"you’ll jam the controls permanently."
Gerald stepped into the cramped space,
his large frame making the cockpit feel like a coffin.
He grunted as he gripped Captain Pierce under the arms,
heaving the heavy man back into the seat.
The plane groaned,
the nose lifting slightly as the pressure on the yoke was released.
"Good,"
Malachi whispered,
his hand reaching for the trim wheel,
spinning it with practiced ease.
"Grace,"
"get the portable oxygen masks for the pilots."
"If we can get them breathing fresh air,"
"maybe they’ll wake up."
I scrambled to obey,
fitting the masks over the faces of the unconscious men,
the hiss of pure oxygen a small comfort against the toxic air.
The radio crackled again.
"Malachi,"
"this is Gander."
"We have a surprise for you."
"We’ve patched in a specialist from London Heathrow."
"Someone who knew your father."
"Hello,
Malachi,"
a new voice said,
warm and steady as a rock.
"This is Captain Arthur Vance."
"I was your father’s wingman for fifteen years."
"Listen to me,
son,"
"you’re doing great."
"But we’ve got a problem with the weather over the UK."
"There’s a storm cell moving in,"
"the same kind of system your father faced over the Azores."
Malachi’s hands tightened on the yoke,
his knuckles turning white.
"I know,"
"I can see the radar."
"The yellow and red clusters are building."
"Vance,"
"the plane is heavy."
"We haven't burned enough fuel to land safely at this weight."
"I need to dump fuel,"
"but the switches are unresponsive."
"The contamination must have started as an electrical fire in the lower galley."
"I’m losing systems,
Vance."
"One by one,"
"the lights are going dark."
I looked at the overhead panel,
seeing the small amber lights flickering out like dying stars.
The chemical smell was getting stronger,
seeping through the cockpit door and into the main cabin.
"Malachi,"
Vance said,
his voice urgent,
"if you can't dump fuel,"
"you’re going to have to land fast."
"You’re going to be coming in hot,"
"on a wet runway,"
"with crosswinds."
"Can you handle the manual braking?"
Malachi looked at his feet,
reaching for the pedals that were almost too far away.
"I have to,"
he said.
"There are two hundred people behind me,"
"and my grandmother is in 24B."
"I am not letting this plane end up like Flight 411."
Gerald stood behind the boy,
placing a steadying hand on the back of the captain's chair.
"Tell me what to do,
kid,"
Gerald said,
his voice low.
"I’m your co-pilot now."
"I don’t know anything about planes,"
"but I can follow orders."
Malachi nodded,
a small,
brave gesture.
"Watch the airspeed,"
May you like
"if it drops below two hundred knots,"
"scream."
