Page 22 of Fly Boy
Rain lashes against the windshield, the drops banging so loud that I can hear them through the noise canceling. The clouds roil and roll together as the thunder cell gains momentum, and with each mile covered, visibility reduces until I can practically see nothing. My heart races as quickly as my eyes scan the distance, looking for anything to signal ground. Finally, I catch a small dot, barely visible below, in the vicinity of the Colorado runway.
After getting clearance, I prepare for landing. My attention ping-pongs between the landscape outside and the onboard computers, my pulse hammering as the runway approaches. We drop altitude, and the plane shakes less the closer we reach the ground. My breaths are slow and steady, contrasting my wildly beating heart as the clouds break.
“Almost there,” I mutter, my fingers aching with my grip on the yolk. “C’mon, you son of a bitch.”
We shudder violently, almost like we’ve just slammed into an invisible brick wall, as a gust of wind smacks into us. Phillipa’s scream is petrified, loud enough to break through my headphones as the plane drops, worse than before, the energy we had mere seconds ago now gone. The autopilot disengages as the onboard computer calls out, “WIND SHEAR. WIND SHEAR. WIND SHEAR.”
Alarms blare around me, adrenaline floods my veins, and my hands tense as I push the throttle. The engines roar as we swoop upward, my arms taut as I fight to keep control to climb out of the erratic winds. My gaze flies to the mirror again, finding Pippa folded in two, her head buried in her knees. I want to shout out to her, to reassure her that we’re going to be okay, but the weather outside batters against the metal frame of the plane, rendering anything I could say pointless.
“November-Three-Niner-Juliet-Lima,” I yell into my microphone. “Missed approach. Need to go around.”
“Roger, November-Three-Niner-Juliet-Lima,” Air Traffic Control says, calm and steady. “We need you to take up the hold, though. The plane behind you has also had to go-around.”
“Fuck. Okay, how long before I can try again?”
There’s a pause. “Delay unknown.”
My jaw ticks, and I glance at the fuel gauge, which is already close to my alternative supply. If I get a slot and try again, only to experience the same thing, I won’t make it to the alternative airport. The fuel I’ve already burned on my first failed approach has already cost too much. The last thing I want to do is declare a Mayday.
“I need information on the closest airfield. I need to divert.”
“Not granted, November-Three-Niner-Juliet-Lima,” the voice replies. “All airports in the closest area have closed their runways.”
Dread fills my stomach as the only two options I have become apparent. Fly somewhere else and hope I have enough fuel or try a second landing… and if that fails…
“Get me the coordinates for an alternative I can get to,” I snarl as lightning crackles across the sky.
Chapter Nine
I’m going to die.
My stomach plummets to the floor as the plane vaults upward, the engines rumbling as Wyatt flies us back into the sky. Rain pummels the windows, the water streaks across the glass in rivulets, and the clouds are so dark it’s like nighttime, not the morning.
I need to get off this plane. I need to be anywhere else but here. Saliva floods my mouth as a sick and twisted part of my brain creates images of lightning piercing the shell of the jet. The engines failing. A fiery crash to the ground. Debris and flames littering the surrounding area. A mourning father racked with sorrow, standing over an empty casket.
“Please, please, please,” I beg, becoming lightheaded the more I struggle to suck in air.
Don’t let anything happen. Please. I’m begging. Just let us land safely.
My hands ache as I grip the leather armrests like a vice, unwilling and unable to let go. My eyes sting with tears I won’t shed, won’t let fall. Not when the man at the front is fighting with the plane to keep us airborne. To keep us safe.
He’s yelling from the cockpit, words I can’t understand as the entire jet jerks again. My heart lurches and the flight deck door violently bounces against a panel as it strains against the safety latch, stopping it from swinging back and forth.
I want to be up there with him, even just to see what’s out in front of me. I hate this. The lack of control, the unknown, the fear that has its sharp talons piercing into every fiber of my body, feeding off my terror, growing stronger with each new mental image of my imminent death inside my mind.
Suddenly, we pivot, a sharp turn in a direction I can’t determine, sending my phone, tablet, and book sliding across the table before tumbling off. My upper lip tingles, my stomach roils, my breathing becomes irregular. White and black spots dance behind my eyelids as I close them tighter.
I’m panicking, close to hyperventilating, unable to stop.
Time stalls, dragging torturously slow, and my heart lodges firmly in my throat. Logically, I know this is normal… well, as normal as any storm can be. Wyatt’s a trained professional. This is no different from someone going to work in an office.Only his office is thousands of miles in the sky.He does mandatory simulators twice a year to check his training, for crying out loud.
He can do this.
He’s got this.
But it doesn’t stop the terrified little voice inside my head from screaming I’m going to die.
“Miss Cartwright?”
