“Falcon One. Confirm identity.”
“Confirmed,” I said. “Former combat instructor. Request airspace clearance and emergency support.”
The co-pilot stared at me like I’d just turned into someone else.
On the radio, the voice didn’t argue. It didn’t question. It just moved.
“Falcon One, standby.”
A second later, the cabin leveled just a touch, like the aircraft had decided to listen.
I flipped switches with muscle memory I hated how much I missed.
“Hydraulics are fluctuating,” I told the co-pilot. “We’ll bypass the secondary feed. Follow my hands.”
He nodded fast. Too fast.
He was young. Talented, maybe. But he’d never been in that tight space between disaster and impact.
I had.
“Trim the rudders,” I said. “Small movements. Keep her balanced.”
His fingers shook, but he did it.
The beeping softened.
The plane stopped hunting the air like a wounded animal.
Behind us, the cabin didn’t know why the screaming in the engines sounded different now.
