Chương 2
I did not answer immediately.
The Wraith aircraft came back to me.
The warning lights.
The engineers telling me everything was fine.
The report that later said I had made poor decisions.
The two names that stayed with me forever.
The two people who died because powerful men had wanted a contract more than the truth.
“Once,” I said.
“Now is not the time for the rest of the story.”
Reed looked at the mountains.
Then at the throttles.
Then at me.
He was not trusting me.
Not completely.
He was choosing between impossible options.
That was different.
“Tell me what to do.”
I placed my hand beside his.
“Bring the left engine down.”
Parker reached for the throttle.
“No,” I said.
“You watch him.”
She stopped.
“You are the first officer.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I know my position.”
“Then use it.”
The plane shook violently.
Parker grabbed the throttle.
Captain Reed reduced power on the left engine.
The aircraft resisted.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
The ground outside seemed to rise.
Then the artificial horizon began moving.
Forty degrees.
Thirty-five.
Thirty.
Nobody spoke.
The airplane slowly fought its way back.
Parker released a breath she had been holding.
Reed stared at the instruments.
“It is responding.”
“Because it was never dead,” I said.
“It was just waiting for someone to stop asking it the wrong question.”
The cockpit went quiet again.
But this time it was not the silence of surrender.
It was the silence of three people trying to keep a damaged aircraft alive.
I looked through the windshield at the endless landscape below.
Thirty-two years earlier, I had watched an aircraft fall and lost everything afterward.
This time, I had no idea what would happen if we survived.
I only knew one thing.
I was finally back where I had always belonged.
Parker was the first to break the silence.
“Phoenix,” she said.
I turned toward her.
“What?”
She had one hand pressed against the side console and the other hovering over the radio.
“Your call sign.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“I never told you that.”
“No.”
She glanced at me, then back at the instruments.
“My father did.”
For half a second, the cockpit disappeared around me.
The engines still vibrated under our feet, alarms still flashed, and the airplane still descended toward central Washington, but another room opened somewhere behind my eyes.
A concrete briefing room at Edwards.
Bad coffee.
Dust on the windows.
Men smoking where they were not supposed to smoke.
A young Navy exchange pilot with a grin too wide for his face asking whether the stories about Phoenix Mitchell were true.
“What was his name?” I asked.
“David Parker.”
The memory landed harder than the turbulence.
I stared at her.
“Commander Parker?”
Her mouth tightened.
“He retired as a captain.”
“He was your father?”
“He died four years ago.”
I looked away.
This was not the moment.
That sentence alone could have held an entire afternoon.
Instead, a warning tone sounded and Reed pointed at the navigation display.
“We’re drifting east.”
The aircraft had begun another shallow right turn.
I leaned forward.
“Bring the right engine back two percent.”
Reed moved the throttle.
Nothing happened immediately.
That delay was the danger.
Humans expected machines to answer at once.
A damaged airplane answered when it felt like it.
“Wait,” I said.
Reed’s fingers twitched.
“I am waiting.”
“No, you are preparing to correct the correction.”
He looked at me.
“That’s how people start chasing the airplane.”
The nose shifted slowly left.
Parker exhaled.
“Heading three-zero-two.”
“Hold it there.”
Reed adjusted both engines toward equal power.
The jet steadied.
Nobody celebrated.
That was a good sign.
We were becoming too busy to be afraid in the ordinary way.
Parker keyed the radio.
“Seattle Center, Southwest 2891.”
Static answered first.
Then a controller’s voice came through, clipped and controlled.
“Southwest 2891, Seattle Center, we have you.”
“Center, we have limited directional control using differential thrust only.”
There was a pause.
Not long.
Just long enough to reveal the person behind the microphone.
“Southwest 2891, confirm flight controls remain unavailable.”
“Affirmative.”
Another voice broke in behind the controller, too distant to make out.
Parker continued.
“We need diversion options with maximum runway length and minimal maneuvering.”
The controller returned.
“Southwest 2891, understand.”
His voice was steadier now.
“Grant County International is approximately seventy nautical miles ahead and slightly east of your present track.”
I leaned toward Parker.
“Moses Lake.”
She nodded.
The controller continued.
“Runway three-two right is thirteen thousand five hundred feet.”
Reed glanced at me.
“That’s our runway.”
“It’s a runway,” I said.
He frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we still have to reach it.”
Parker gave me a look that was almost annoyed.
Good.
Annoyance was healthier than terror.
“Center, Southwest 2891 will attempt Grant County.”
“Southwest 2891, cleared direct as able.”
As able.
I almost smiled.
Aviation had a phrase for everything, including situations where nobody could promise anything.
The cabin interphone chimed.
Parker reached for it, but Reed shook his head.
“Not yet.”
“They need information.”
“They need to brace.”
“They also need to know we’re not dropping out of the sky anymore.”
Reed stared ahead.
His voice lowered.
“I already told them they were going to die.”
Nobody answered.
His shoulders had become rigid.
I could see what was happening.
He had not recovered from the announcement because recovery would require admitting he had surrendered too soon.
“Thomas,” I said.
He looked sharply at me.
“You don’t get to be embarrassed right now.”
His face hardened.
“I am not embarrassed.”
“You are.”
“You don’t know me.”
“No.”
I nodded toward the cockpit door.
“But I know there are nearly two hundred people behind it who heard their captain give up.”
His jaw moved once.
Parker watched both of us.
I had crossed a line.
Maybe deliberately.
May you like
Maybe because thirty-two years of anger had made me crueler than I liked admitting.
Reed stared at me for another second.
