Chapter 6 - The Final Descent
"Two minutes of fuel," Malachi whispered to himself.
He didn't look at the warning light anymore. He looked at the primary flight display. The green line of the instrument landing system (ILS) was drifting to the right. The fierce thirty-knot crosswind was pushing the heavy plane off its path, trying to blow it into the snow-covered forests surrounding the airport.
"Gerald," Malachi called out, his voice sharp. "The wind is pushing us left. I need you to bank right with the yoke, but keep the left rudder pressed down. We have to crab the plane into the wind."
"Crabbing..." Gerald muttered, his brain working in slow motion. "Right... like a crab. Got it."
Together, the twelve-year-old boy and the wealthy businessman fought the controls. The small hands and the large, trembling hands moved in perfect, synchronized harmony, guided by the voice of a ghost through the notebook that sat in the cabin behind them.
"One thousand feet," the automated system announced. “ONE THOUSAND.”
Outside, the darkness changed from pitch black to a thick, milky white as they entered the low-lying freezing fog. They were flying blind, relying completely on the digital lines on the screen.
Suddenly, the left engine coughed.
A terrible, grinding sound echoed through the floorboards as the remaining turbine began to sputter, starved of fuel. The digital RPM display began to wind down: 80%... 60%... 40%.
"The engine is dying!" Gerald yelled, panic finally breaking through his toxic lethargy.
"We are a glider now," Malachi said, his voice incredibly calm. He remembered the last page of his father's notebook, written in bold red ink: “If you lose all power on final approach, do not panic. Gravity is your engine now. Keep the nose down, maintain your airspeed, and fly the plane all the way to the scene of the accident.”
"Push the nose down, Gerald," Malachi commanded. "Keep our speed at one hundred and forty knots. Don't let it stall."
The plane dropped out of the fog at four hundred feet.
And there, right through the swirling snow and the howling wind, were the runway lights of Bangor International Airport—two long rows of beautiful, bright white and green lights piercing the dark winter night.
But they were too low. The plane was falling short of the asphalt, heading straight for the bright orange landing light stanchions positioned in the snow before the runway threshold.
"We’re not going to make it," Gerald gasped, closing his eyes.
"Yes, we are," Malachi said. He reached down and grabbed the landing gear lever. "Gear down!"
He slammed the lever down. The heavy triple-axle main gear dropped into the airstream with a massive, roaring thud, creating a huge amount of drag, but also providing a giant mechanical cushion.
"Pull up!" Malachi screamed. "Gerald, pull back with everything you have! Now!"
Both of them threw their weight against their respective yokes, pulling the controls completely back against their chests. The nose of the massive, dead aircraft rose defiantly into the snowy air, catching the last bit of aerodynamic lift.
The main tires slammed into the very edge of the concrete threshold with a deafening, bone-shattering BOOM.
The plane bounced violently into the air, cleared the emergency perimeter fence by less than three feet, and then came down again with a crushing weight, the heavy brakes locking up instantly as Malachi slammed his small feet against the upper parts of the pedals with all his might.
SCREECH!
The sound of burning rubber and tearing metal filled the night as the two-hundred-ton jet skidded down the snow-covered runway, spinning sideways as the nose gear collapsed in a shower of brilliant orange sparks.
The plane slid for two thousand yards, turning a full one hundred and eighty degrees before it finally came to a grinding, silent halt in a deep bank of soft snow at the very end of Runway 33.
The left engine was dead. The cockpit lights were gone. The only sound was the hiss of falling snow against the hot windshield and the distant, wailing sirens of emergency vehicles rushing across the airfield.
Malachi slowly let go of the control yoke. His hands were completely numb. He turned his head to the right. Gerald Whitmore was unconscious, slumped against the side window, but his chest was rising and falling. He was alive.
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Malachi reached up, pulled the heavy headset off his ears, and dropped it onto the pedestal. He leaned back in the captain’s seat, closed his eyes, and let out a long, shaky breath.
"We're home, Dad," he whispered into the quiet cockpit.
