Page 152 of What Remains

I drop into the right seat and scan the instruments. I don’t normally fly this kind of jet, but thanks to my pops teaching me how to fly pretty much anything with wings before I went to flight school, I’m solid.

I slide fully into position, but as I wrap my hands around the controls, the helicopter crash flashes through my mind—fire, spin, impact—the scream of tearing metal . . .

Not today, Satan. Not again.

“Autopilot’s fighting the wind,” the captain says. “You’ve landed hotter than this, right?”

“I have, yeah.”

“They’re your controls, then,” he offers as I take over.

The cockpit light is harsher than the cabin. All glare and warnings that don’t care how bad the timing is.

“Now would be a shit time for another air traffic cyberattack.” His words have me going still for a heartbeat. “I feel like if I say the worst possible thing, the opposite will happen. Always works for me.”

“How about you keep that shit to yourself?” In the back of my mind, a quiet voice piggybacks off his negativity. A list of possible failures like a checklist from hell. “Tell me the tower’s clean.”

The captain keys comms. “Confirm we’re on a secure line.”

Ground control comes back crisp and immediate.

We’re good. Thank God.

Lightning flickers inside the clouds ahead. Not forks, just sheet glow. That’s worse. Means we’re flying blind through soup. The jet bucks as we push through the layer, and rain detonates across the windshield.

“Autopilot out,” the captain announces.

“I’ve got it.” I hand-fly the descent, and a gust hits like a body check. The nose jerks right, and I correct.

We have one shot to land clean. We don’t have enough fuel for any more go-arounds.

I ease the throttles, feeling the weight of the aircraft instead of chasing numbers. Jets like these lie. You have to fly them by pressure and patience.

Runway lights bloom through the rain like a constellation dragged onto earth.

“There,” the captain breathes. “You’ve got the centerline.”

“For now.”

Another gust slams us. The wing dips. I catch it before it grows teeth.

The next few moments are a blur of training, instinct, and a hella ton of flight time under my belt over the last several decades.

Touchdown hits hard enough to rattle bone but not metal.

The brakes and reversers slam in, engines howling.

We decelerate faster than I’m comfortable with, but we stay straight.

We make it.

Alive.

“Welcome to London,” the tower says, his voice rattled.

“Yeah, well, thanks for rolling out the wet carpet.” Even after I let go, my hands are still humming like I’m gripping the controls.

I exhale for the first time in minutes. Once we’re no longer moving, I wrap my hand around the saint medal and send a prayer up—not a request, since we’re safe, but a thank-you.