Chapter 3 - The Poison in the Air
The air felt heavy, like breathing warm soup.
Malachi could feel a dull, throbbing pain starting just behind his eyes. He knew what it was. His father’s notebook had a whole section on hypoxia and cabin contamination, written in his dad’s neat, military-style print: “If the air goes bad, you have minutes before your brain stops processing logic. You’ll feel happy first. Then you’ll feel tired. Then you’re gone.”
He didn't feel happy. He felt terrified.
"Boston Center," Malachi said, his voice sounding distant in his own ears. "Grace is down. The portable oxygen is empty. I’m feeling... dizzy, sir."
In Boston, Marcus Vance stood up from his chair, slamming his fist onto the desk. "Get the airline on the speaker now! Where is that chief pilot?!"
A loud speaker over Marcus’s desk clicked. "This is Captain Dave Reynolds, American Skyline Operations. I’m on the line. Malachi, can you hear me?"
"Yes, captain," Malachi muttered, his eyelids fluttering.
"Listen to me, kiddo," Reynolds said, his voice urgent but fatherly. "Your dad was Isaiah Brooks, right? I flew with him out of Atlanta ten years ago. He was the toughest, smartest pilot I ever knew. You have his blood in you. Do you hear me? You are a Brooks. Don't you dare close your eyes."
The mention of his father was like a shock of electricity to Malachi's fading consciousness. He gripped the edge of the glare shield, his small fingers digging into the plastic. "I'm awake. I'm here."
"Good," Reynolds said. "We need to get clean air into that airplane. The toxic fumes are coming from the engines through the bleed air valves. I need you to look at the overhead panel. Right above your head, in the middle, there are two switches that say 'BLEED AIR'. They should have little lights that say 'ON'."
Malachi looked up. The overhead panel looked like a city of lights at night, thousands of tiny switches and digital readouts. His vision was tunneling, the edges turning black. He found the section labeled AIR CONDITIONING.
"I see them," Malachi whispered.
"Turn them both to OFF, Malachi. Right now."
Malachi reached up. His arm felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. He pushed the first switch. It clicked to OFF. He reached for the second one, but his coordination was failing. His hand slipped, accidentally hitting the adjacent switch for the RECIRCULATION FAN.
"Did you get them both?" Reynolds asked.
"I... I think so," Malachi murmured.
Immediately, the low roar of the air conditioning system died down. The flow of toxic air from the engines stopped, but because he had turned off the recirculation system, the air inside the cockpit became completely stagnant, trapped with the fumes already present.
Outside the cockpit door, the situation had deteriorated into absolute chaos.
Gerald Whitmore had found a heavy fire extinguisher from the first-class galley. Panicked and desperate, believing the crew was keeping them locked inside a flying coffin, he lifted the heavy red cylinder and began slamming it against the reinforced cockpit door.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The heavy metal door groaned, but held. The noise echoed through the cockpit, terrifying Malachi even more.
"Let us in!" Gerald screamed, his voice raw. "We know the pilots are dead! Open the damn door!"
The grandmother, Martha Brooks, crawled through the chaos in the aisle, tears streaming down her wrinkled face. She grabbed Gerald’s jacket, pulling with all her remaining strength. "Stop it! Leave him alone! He's trying to save us!"
"He’s twelve!" Gerald yelled, throwing her off. She fell against the first-class seats, crying out in pain.
Inside the cockpit, Malachi heard his grandmother’s cry through the thin gaps in the door frame. A surge of pure, protective anger cut through the fog in his brain.
"Boston Center," Malachi said, his voice suddenly clearer, firmer. "The passenger in first class is trying to break the door down. He’s hurting people."
Marcus Vance snapped. He patched his microphone directly into the aircraft’s main cabin public address system.
Suddenly, a voice like thunder boomed through the speakers of Flight 782, echoing over the screams and the slamming of the fire extinguisher.
"This is Air Traffic Control in Boston. To the passenger attempting to breach the cockpit door: Step away immediately. You are committing a federal offense at thirty-three thousand feet. The young man in that cockpit is currently the only reason your heart is still beating. If you interfere with him again, I will have the United States Air Force intercept this aircraft, and you will spend the rest of your life in a federal penitentiary. To all other passengers: Sit down, strap in, and let this boy do his job."
The cabin went dead silent. Gerald Whitmore dropped the fire extinguisher. It hit the carpeted floor with a dull thud. He looked around at the pale, furious faces of the other passengers. Slowly, with his hands shaking, he backed away into his seat.
Inside the cockpit, Malachi smiled faintly. "Thank you, sir."
"Anytime, kiddo," Marcus said. "Now, let’s talk about the weather. We have a problem. There’s a massive storm cell developing right on your flight path. If you stay on this heading, you're going to fly straight into severe turbulence and heavy icing. We need to turn the plane."
"Tell me the heading," Malachi said, adjusting his glasses, which had slid down his nose.
"Turn the heading knob on the MCP to two-seven-zero," Captain Reynolds instructed from the speaker. "We’re bringing you back toward the coast. We’re going to try to land you at Bangor, Maine."
Malachi reached for the small round knob labeled HDG. He turned it, watching the digital numbers on the screen change: 280... 275... 270. The massive Boeing 777 groaned slightly as it responded to the command, tilting its wings into a smooth, sweeping turn toward the west.
But as the plane turned, the sudden change in atmospheric pressure caused the stagnant, toxic air in the cockpit to shift. A fresh wave of the metallic scent hit Malachi directly in the face.
His vision went completely black. His hands lost their grip on the armrests, and his head slumped forward, hitting the soft padding of the control yoke shroud.
May you like
The radio in the cockpit crackled with Marcus’s voice. "Malachi? Malachi, respond. Did you complete the turn? Malachi!"
There was no answer. On the radar screen in Boston, the plane completed the turn, but then the green line began to waver, drifting slowly into an erratic, unguided path right toward the heart of the lightning-filled Atlantic storm.
