Mara moved into the right seat as the attendants pulled the unconscious first officer clear.
She fastened the harness.
The cockpit wrapped around her.
Different aircraft. Different systems. Different philosophy.
But the language underneath was familiar.
Energy.
Attitude.
Airflow.
Gravity.
Survival.
“What happened?”
Mercer pointed at the primary flight display.
“We lost autopilot twenty-six minutes ago. Flight-control computer began throwing intermittent disagreement messages. Number two hydraulic system pressure is fluctuating. Then Hayes said his left arm was numb. Thirty seconds later, he went down.”
Mara scanned the instruments.
“Weather?”
“Convective line ahead. Shannon is trying to route us south.”
“Fuel?”
“Enough for Shannon. Maybe Dublin with margins depending on what else fails.”
Another vibration passed through the pedals.
Mara felt it through her feet.
There.
Again.
She leaned forward.
“That’s not hydraulic.”
Mercer looked at her.
“What?”
“Frequency’s wrong.”
“You can diagnose an airliner by the seat of your pants?”
“No.”
She listened.
“But I know what control-surface flutter feels like.”
Mercer’s expression changed.
The radio crackled.
“Atlantic 271, Shannon Control. Confirm nature of emergency.”
Mercer keyed the microphone.
“Shannon, Atlantic 271 declaring Mayday. Flight-control degradation and incapacitated first officer. Request immediate vectors to nearest suitable.”
Static.
Then:
“Atlantic 271, roger Mayday. Turn right heading zero-eight-five. Descend flight level two-eight-zero when able.”
Mercer reached for the controls.
The aircraft rolled left.
Not much.
Three degrees.
Then five.
Mercer corrected right.
The plane resisted.
Mara’s stomach tightened.
“Don’t chase it.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re increasing the oscillation.”
Mercer turned toward her sharply.
Mara kept her eyes on the display.
“Ease it.”
Another roll.
Left.
Right.
Left.
The movements were small, but they were accelerating.
Mara put one hand lightly on the control column.
Mercer didn’t stop her.
“Feel that?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Yes.”
“The aircraft isn’t just disobeying you. Something’s feeding back.”
A warning illuminated.
Mercer muttered something under his breath.
Mara’s gaze moved across the instruments.
A memory flashed—not of this cockpit, but another one.
Sand below.
Black sky above.
Tracer fire rising like inverted rain.
A voice in her headset.
Dalton, I’m hit.
Her fingers went cold.
For one instant she wasn’t over the Atlantic.
She was back there.
Captain Elias Ward’s aircraft burning three miles off her left wing.
His breathing breaking through the radio.
Mara.
Don’t—
She blinked.
The cockpit returned.
Mercer was watching her.
“You with me?”
Mara inhaled through her nose.
“Yes.”
It was a lie.
But it became true by the time she exhaled.
“Captain, disconnect the secondary augmentation channel.”
Mercer stared at her.
“On what basis?”
“The oscillation began after your flight-control disagreement.”
“That system is keeping us stable.”
“Or fighting a bad sensor.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
Mara looked at him.
“Then you reconnect it.”
The vibration sharpened.
A plastic cup behind them rattled in its holder.
Mercer looked at the instruments.
Then at Mara.
The hardest decisions in aviation were rarely between good and bad.
They were between two kinds of danger.
He reached toward the panel.
“Stand by.”
Mara braced.
Mercer disconnected the channel.
The aircraft lurched.
Someone in the cabin screamed.
The left wing dropped twelve degrees.
Mara caught the movement.
“Easy.”
Mercer corrected.
The plane rolled back.
Then stopped.
The vibration diminished.
Not gone.
But softer.
Mercer stared at the display.
“Son of a—”
“Bad input,” Mara whispered.
A new caution appeared.
Hydraulic pressure dropped again.
Mercer’s relief vanished.
“We traded one problem for another.”
“No,” Mara said. “We found one problem before the other killed us.”
Behind them, the first officer coughed.
The attendant bent over him.
“He’s breathing.”
“Keep oxygen on him,” Mara said. “And get a medical professional up here.”
The attendant hesitated.
“Go.”
The cockpit door closed behind her.
Mercer looked sideways.
“You give orders like you never stopped.”
Mara’s hands tightened around the controls.
“I stopped.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“You don’t know what it looks like.”
Something in her tone ended the conversation.
For several minutes, they descended through darkness.
The ocean was invisible beneath them.
Clouds swallowed the stars.
Rain began striking the windshield.
Shannon Control guided them toward Ireland.
Then the radio erupted with static.
At the same moment, three warnings appeared.
Mara’s eyes moved across them.
Hydraulic quantity.
Spoiler fault.
Flight-control degradation.
Mercer whispered, “We’re losing the right-side system.”
The control column suddenly became heavier.
Mara felt the change immediately.
“How much manual authority?”
“Enough if the remaining system holds.”
“If.”
Mercer didn’t answer.
Lightning flashed ahead.
For a fraction of a second the clouds became a white wall.
Mara looked at the weather radar.
The route Shannon had given them skirted the worst of the storm, but not all of it.
“We need below this.”
“We descend too fast, we burn our options.”
“We stay in it, turbulence loads the damaged controls.”
Mercer studied the instruments.
“Agreed.”
He keyed the radio.
“Shannon, Atlantic 271 requesting immediate descent.”
The answer came quickly.
