Chapter 9 - THERE WOULD BE NO GO-AROUND
The regional airport came alive because an air traffic controller woke the manager at home.
Emergency vehicles raced toward the runway.
Airport workers who had expected an ordinary night were suddenly preparing for a damaged wide-body aircraft carrying 247 souls.
We descended.
Ten thousand feet.
Aaron flew.
I handled checklists and abnormal procedures.
That was still the safest arrangement.
Then his hands started shaking.
Not dramatically.
Enough.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Wrong answer.”
He exhaled.
“My wife is six months pregnant.”
There it was.
Not weakness.
A reason fear had teeth.
“What’s her name?”
“Claire.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Girl.”
“Name?”
“Emma.”
“Then get Emma’s father onto the ground.”
His hands steadied.
“Copy.”
Keane sat behind us monitoring communications.
Norah was strapped into a crew seat with Jillian outside the cockpit.
I could hear her asking whether Bear could get stitches.
Good.
Let her think about Bear.
Five thousand feet.
Weather worse.
Rain across the windshield.
Crosswind twenty-seven knots, gusting higher.
Aaron stared.
“That’s near limit.”
“Near isn’t over.”
“Brakes?”
“Manual.”
“Reverse?”
Available.
Maybe.
Three thousand feet.
Then left flight-control behavior worsened.
The sabotage to sensor systems had created asymmetric response.
Aaron fought it.
“Your aircraft,” he said.
I looked at him.
“You’re current.”
“You have combat abnormal-control experience.”
“This is not a Hornet.”
“No.”
He met my eyes.
“But you’re calmer.”
That was not ego anymore.
That was crew resource management.
I took control.
“My aircraft.”
“Your aircraft.”
Nine years disappeared.
Not completely.
My hands remembered things my mind had buried.
Small corrections.
Energy.
Patience.
Never chase the airplane.
The 787 was enormous compared with anything I had flown tactically.
But every aircraft wanted the same thing.
Respect.
Two thousand feet.
Runway lights appeared through rain.
Too far left.
Correct.
Not too much.
One thousand.
Crosswind shoved us.
Aaron called deviations.
Five hundred.
Stable enough.
Three hundred.
Wind gust.
Aircraft rolled.
Correct.
One hundred.
I heard Norah somewhere behind the door.
Maybe imagination.
Fifty.
Forty.
Thirty.
Twenty.
Touchdown.
Hard.
But straight.
Reverse thrust.
Manual braking.
The aircraft pulled left.
I corrected.
Speed high.
Runway disappearing.
“Brakes!”
“Maximum manual!”
Two hundred meters.
One hundred.
Emergency vehicles beyond.
We left the paved centerline at low speed.
Mud.
Violent shaking.
Then silence.
The aircraft stopped.
For three seconds nobody moved.
Then the cabin erupted.
Crying.
Applause.
Screaming.
Aaron covered his face.
Keane whispered:
“Jesus Christ.”
I released the controls.
My hands shook only then.
The cockpit door opened.
Norah ran inside.
“Dad!”
I unstrapped.
She hit me hard enough to hurt.
“You did it!”
“No.”
I looked at Aaron.
“We did.”
Then at Jillian.
“And them.”
Norah hugged me again anyway.
Outside, Irish emergency vehicles surrounded us.
Everyone had lived.
I thought the nightmare was over.
Then police boarded.
They arrested Voss.
Michael Sloan.
They secured Keane’s evidence.
An officer approached me.
“Mr. Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“There’s an urgent call for you from Chicago.”
My stomach tightened.
Caleb.
I answered.
My brother was breathing hard.
“Warren.”
“What happened?”
“Patrick knows the flight landed.”
“And?”
“He took the house.”
My Chicago estate.
“Let him have it.”
“You don’t understand.”
Caleb’s voice broke.
“He has Emily’s files.”
“No. I have the card.”
“Not those files.”
I went still.
“What files?”
“The ones she left in the nursery.”
I had no idea what he meant.
Caleb continued:
“She documented every murder Patrick ordered without you.”
My blood ran cold.
“How many?”
Silence.
Then:
“Seventeen.”
May you like
Patrick Sloan had apparently spent years using my name to build an empire inside my empire.
And now he had Norah’s home.
