Chapter 2: Into the Storm
Chapter 2: Into the Storm
The descent was brutal. Because Malachi had to initiate a rapid descent to escape the toxic air, the sudden change in pitch sent a violent shudder through the entire fuselage. Outside the cockpit windows, the pitch-black night was illuminated only by violent sheets of lightning.
"Gander Center, we are passing through twenty-four thousand feet," Malachi reported, his small hands gripping the yoke just in case the autopilot failed. "Fume smell is decreasing, but the turbulence is worsening."
"Roger, Flight 782," Marcus replied from Gander. "You're entering a severe convective thunderstorm cell. The bad news is, the toxic air should clear as you reach lower altitudes. The worse news is, you're going to have to fly through hell to get to the nearest runway in Newfoundland."
As if on cue, a massive bolt of lightning struck the right wingtip. A deafening CRACK echoed through the cabin, and the primary flight displays flickered wildly.
"Loss of primary telemetry!" Malachi shouted, his calm facade cracking for a fraction of a second. "The left-side screens just went dark! Autopilot disconnected!"
The aircraft violently rolled to the left. The nose dropped.
"Malachi!" I screamed, holding onto the captain's headrest for dear life.
"I have the aircraft!" the boy yelled. He didn't have the physical weight of an adult man, so he threw his entire upper body weight forward, pushing against the yoke to level the wings, his sneakers straining against the rudder pedals.
In the cabin behind us, the sound of items breaking and people screaming was deafening. But in the cockpit, Malachi was in his father's world. He stared at the backup standby instruments—the tiny, mechanical artificial horizon.
"Trust the instruments, not your body," Malachi whispered to himself, repeating a mantra his father had written in the notebook now tucked into his blazer. "Fly the airplane. Just fly the airplane."
Using pure muscle memory cultivated from thousands of hours on high-fidelity simulators and his father's teachings, he stabilized the heavy jet. He leveled the wings at twelve thousand feet. The air was bumpy, tossing the plane like a toy, but they were no longer diving.
"Marcus, I have manual control," Malachi panted into the radio, sweat pouring down his forehead. "But I can't hold this manually all the way to land. It's too heavy. I need to re-engage the secondary autopilot."
"You have to reset the flight management computer, Malachi," Marcus said, his voice laced with immense respect. "Look at the center console. There is a keypad..."
For the next twenty minutes, amid the roaring storm and flashing warnings, the twelve-year-old boy and the veteran controller worked in perfect, agonizing synchronicity. Malachi’s fingers flew across the computer keys, isolating the fried electrical circuits, until a satisfying green light chimed on the dashboard.
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The secondary autopilot engaged. The plane stabilized.
Malachi let out a long, shuddering breath. He looked back at me. "The air is safe now. Check on the passengers, Grace. Tell them... tell them we're going to make it."
