She was right. The right wing tip was crumpled where it had caught the runway, and fuel stained the tarmac in a spreading pool, but the firefighters had already foamed it. No fire. No explosion. The tail section sat lower than it should, the whole aircraft tilted at an unnatural angle, but the cabin appeared intact.
The pilot and flight nurse stood near the ground ambulance, both looking shell-shocked but vertical. Always a good sign. The pilot—male, mid-forties, Mountain Angel uniform torn at the shoulder—accepted a blanket from a paramedic with shaking hands. The flight nurse looked younger, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead, one hand repeatedly touching the back of his head.
Izzy reached them first, immediately switching into caretaker mode. "Jim, Tyler, you're okay." She gently guided the nurse to sit on the ambulance bumper. "Let the medics check that head wound."
Cory watched her gentle efficiency with surprise. He'd seen her angry, defensive, proud. This softer side caught him off-guard.
"Chief Fraser," he introduced himself to the pilot. "Can you tell me what happened?"
Jim wrapped the blanket tighter, his voice hoarse. "Everything was textbook on preflight. I've been flying for twenty years—I know when something's off. She was perfect."
"Took off normal," he continued, "climbed out fine. Then about five minutes up..." He paused, searching for words.
"Take your time," Cory said, pulling out his notebook.
"First the controls got sluggish—like flying through molasses. I'd make an input, and there'd be this delay before anything happened." Jim's hands moved, mimicking control movements. "Then they started fighting me. I'd input left rudder, get a delayed response, then suddenly too much. Nearly put us into an uncommanded bank."
Cory wrote quickly, noting the progressive nature of the failure. Beside him, Izzy had gone very still.
"The elevator started binding next," Jim continued. "Had to muscle it just to maintain altitude. By the time we hit pattern altitude, I was wrestling the yoke on every input. Controls would stick, then suddenly release. I barely avoided a spin twice."
"Felt like the aircraft was possessed," the pilot finished. "Forty years of flying, and I've never felt anything like it. Nothing responded right. It was like..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"Like someone else was flying the plane," Izzy said quietly.
Jim's eyes widened. "Yes. Exactly like that."
Cory caught Izzy's expression—recognition dawning, quickly masked. She knew something but wasn't saying. He filed that away for later discussion.
The lead paramedic interrupted. "We need to transport both of them for observation."
"I'm fine," Jim protested.
"You've got lacerations on both palms from gripping the yoke," the medic said firmly. "And Tyler definitely has a concussion—pupils are uneven. This isn't a request."
"Go," Izzy said. "Martha will want a full medical clearance anyway."
Jim managed a weak smile. "Tell her I didn't scratch her plane on purpose."
"You got it down in one piece," Izzy replied. "She'll probably bake you cookies."
A mud-splattered truck rumbled into the parking area, and Reed Osgood climbed out, the FAA investigator looking thoroughly irritated at being dragged from bed. His flannel shirt was buttoned wrong, and his steel-gray hair stuck up at odd angles.
"What've we got?" Reed called out, already pulling on an official windbreaker. "Another mechanical failure?"
Cory noted the man's arrival time—quick, but not suspiciously so. About twenty minutes after the initial call. "Landing gear failure. Pilot managed to bring it down safe."
Reed grunted, eyeing the damaged Cessna. "Same fleet as the helicopter?"
"Same company," Izzy confirmed, her tone carefully neutral.
Tom Morrison's Subaru pulled up next, the insurance investigator looking harried as he climbed out alone. "Sorry, sorry," he called, jogging over while trying to zip his jacket. "Janet's sound asleep—didn't want to wake her. These middle-of-the-night calls are killing us both."
The sound of an approaching engine—something expensive by the purr—made them all turn. A white Audi rental pulled up, and Izzy's expression immediately hardened.
"Perfect," she muttered. "The vulture arrives."
Sloane Barnes-Nakamura stepped out, somehow looking polished despite the hour.
