Chapter 1 - THE MAN IN SEAT 8A
Jillian stopped so abruptly that the flight attendant behind her nearly collided with her.
“You?”
It was not disrespect.
It was disbelief.
I understood.
I was wearing a faded Northwestern hoodie, jeans, and sneakers. My daughter was asleep against my shoulder with a teddy bear pressed beneath her chin.
Nothing about me suggested military aviation.
“I have flight experience.”
“What kind?”
“Military.”
Her eyes changed.
“How recent?”
“Nine years.”
That worried her.
It worried me too.
“What aircraft?”
I hesitated.
There are questions a man can answer casually.
That was not one of them.
“F/A-18s. T-45s before that. Some multi-engine transition training.”
The passenger across the aisle stopped pretending not to listen.
Jillian stared at me.
“You flew Hornets?”
“Yes.”
Norah shifted against my shoulder.
“Dad?”
Her eyes opened.
Everything inside me changed immediately.
“Hey, peanut.”
“Why are people looking at you?”
I brushed hair away from her forehead.
“The pilots need some help.”
“With what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Fear appeared in her eyes.
“You said you’d stay right here.”
The promise from O’Hare came back to me.
I crouched beside her seat.
“I remember.”
“Then don’t go.”
God.
I had faced gunfire with less fear than I felt looking into my daughter’s eyes.
Jillian lowered her voice.
“Sir, we wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.”
Norah heard.
Children always hear the sentence adults wish they would miss.
“What happened to the pilot?”
Jillian did not answer.
I did.
“I’m going to find out.”
Norah grabbed my hand.
I leaned closer.
“There are hundreds of people here, sweetheart.”
Her lower lip trembled.
“I know.”
“And somebody needs to help.”
“Why you?”
I smiled faintly.
“Because sometimes you know how to do something when other people don’t.”
She thought about that.
Then held out her teddy bear.
“Take Bear.”
I almost broke right there.
Instead, I took it.
“Guard my seat.”
She nodded solemnly.
Jillian led me forward.
As we passed business class, Douglas Martinez—the CEO who had brushed past me at O’Hare—stared openly.
“What’s happening?” he demanded.
Jillian ignored him.
The cockpit door opened.
A first officer stood inside.
Pale.
Sweating.
Too young to look that old.
“My name is Aaron Pike.”
“Warren.”
His eyes dropped to the teddy bear in my hand.
“My daughter.”
He nodded once.
Then stepped aside.
The captain was strapped into the left seat.
Unconscious.
An oxygen mask covered his face.
“What happened?”
“Sudden neurological event. Seizure, maybe stroke.”
“You?”
“I can fly the aircraft.”
“Then why ask for military pilots?”
His eyes shifted toward the instrument panel.
That was when I noticed it.
A warning I had not expected.
Not engine failure.
Not decompression.
Hydraulics.
Multiple systems.
And the aircraft was slowly banking left even though the autopilot commanded level flight.
Aaron swallowed.
“That isn’t the biggest problem.”
He pointed toward the center console.
“The flight controls aren’t responding normally.”
I put my hands near the controls without touching them.
“What aircraft is this?”
“787-9.”
Different world from my Hornet.
Same physics.
Same sky.
Different consequences.
“What did maintenance say?”
“We haven’t reached them.”
“Why?”
He looked toward the communications panel.
“Our primary satellite communications failed three minutes before the captain collapsed.”
My instincts sharpened.
Coincidence was becoming expensive.
Then another warning appeared.
ACCESS PANEL OPEN — AVIONICS BAY.
Aaron stared at it.
“That panel can’t open in flight.”
“From outside?”
“No.”
I looked back toward the locked cockpit door.
“Where is the avionics access?”
“Forward cabin.”
My voice lowered.
May you like
“Then someone on this plane opened it.”
And suddenly our emergency no longer looked like an accident.
