Page 2 of Final Approach

“Captain West?” Nikki’s strained British croon came through the intercom, the din of panicked screams from our passengers echoing into the microphone even over the bastions of sound. “Awaiting your instructions.”

Jamie pressed the controls to manually release the oxygen masks into the passenger cabin. Cabin pressure was dropping rapidly—too rapidly. People would pass out.

“Mask up, help anyone who needs it, Nik. We’re dropping fast.”

“Copy that.” Nicolas Seymour, our sole flight attendant’s tone was resolute—the perfect response in a catastrophe. The kind and playful friend I’d worked with on and off for two years faced our impending doom with a professional poise I envied.

Jamie strapped into his seat beside mine, his gaze alight with a paradoxical cocktail of defiance and defeat. We were going down, but we’d go down swinging. As if we’d rehearsed this moment for a part in a play, we donned our own oxygen masks in perfect synchronicity.

My shirt soaked up the evidence of my fear while the plane sluggishly fought against the laws of physics. If the fire suppression had actually engaged, we would have some semblance of control right now. I should be able to level it out somewhat, and manually adjust our speed. A thousand fail-safes were built in for this kind of thing. Why weren’t they working?

Could a fire burn so hot it melted the metal components? If the components were gone, so were our controls.

“Trim is unresponsive,” Jamie grimly confirmed, as the plane pitched forward like an errant seesaw. Corrosive bile ate away at my stomach lining. I swallowed hard to keep it from spewing all over the dashboard. We were about to careen toward the most uninhabited region of the planet in an aluminum tinder box with about as much control as a paper airplane.

I scanned the land below, searching for a suitable landing pad—something, anything, to give us hope. We were too far away from the ocean. The dense jungle tree canopy posed more harm than good. A small riverbed in the distance, where the jungle opened to the sky, looked like the only option. We had no choice. Riverbed or bust.

Switching on the intercom to the entire plane, I spoke what could be my last words.

“Folks, our right wing is out and we have to make an emergency landing. We will control the plane as much as possible. Please assume crash positions. This is going to be rough.”

Terror, vicious and raw, cramped my muscles as I fought like hell to keep a modicum of control over my machine. We were slowing down enough not to crash into a million pieces, but it likely wouldn’t be enough to save our lives. The yoke shook violently in my hands until it sputtered out completely.

Hydraulics were failing. How the fuck is this happening?

Jamie’s rough hand reached over, its warmth a temporary reprieve from the hellscape we were caught in.

The somber frown of my mentor said all the words we couldn’t admit out loud. Our plane had failed. Our training had failed. We’d failed.

I’d failed. Again.

An overwhelming hopelessness leached into every bone of my being, absorbing every spark of joy I’d ever felt. Marley West’s legacy was the Midas touch of death. No one was safe in my care.

“It’s been a pleasure working with you, Marl.” He choked the words out between gentle squeezes before letting go, then closed his eyes against the landscape of green.

My eyes burned with his admission, salty tears mixing with the sweat pouring off my brow. The boulder in my throat wouldn’t let me say the words back. Jamie was a good man, a skilled pilot, and the best colleague I ever had. His death wasn’t fair when he had people to live for. A husband and three children. He had so much more to give to the world than I did.

I didn’t even have a cat.

The shrill alarms and blinking lights spun around me like a technological tilt-a-whirl as the plane’s acceleration guaranteed a quick and painful death.

“Brace for impact,” I gritted out as the air burst from my lungs in a bitter gasp.

This was it—what I yearned for. The universe was handing me my darkest wishes on a platter, but had tainted their flavor. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. With no ability to save the rest of my passengers despite years of training, and supposed unbeatable fail-safes that had failed entirely, what was left to do but lean into the inevitable?

Still, my body struggled to accept it. Time slowed and my pulse sped up, the staccato rhythm pin-pricking every nerve along my skin.

Was I really ready to die? Did I have a choice?

An idea, its insanity clearly a last-ditch effort of survival instinct, catapulted me into action.

The fuselage—the cabin. There might still be a way to save them.

As if in a trance, I unbuckled my seatbelt and stood, fighting all the forces of gravity to push toward the cockpit door. There was an open seat available—next to the convict and his handler at the front of the plane. If I could just get to it, I might have a chance of survival, too. Better than a sitting duck in a cockpit aimed directly at the ground below.

If I survived, I could keep them safe until we were rescued. I might be the only one who could.

G forces pressed against me like I weighed a thousand pounds, but I used the last of my energy to put one foot in front of the other – one hand with a death grip on each handle along the cockpit – until I got to the door. The latch released with a whoosh at the difference in cabin pressure. Emergency lighting pulsed along the floorboards, and every passenger was leaning over their knees heads bowed, their oxygen masks covering their mouths and noses as they whispered their final prayers.