Now I was saying them again aboard a passenger jet full of people who didn’t even know my name.
Jennifer stared at the hydraulic indications.
“Nothing’s recovering.”
“Then stop expecting recovery.”
“We need a checklist.”
“You need an airplane first.”
She looked at me.
I softened my voice.
“Keep running the checklist. I’m not replacing procedure. I’m giving Reed another control input.”
That mattered.
Whatever movies teach people, nobody walks into a cockpit and magically becomes captain.
Reed was still in command.
Jennifer was still his first officer.
I was simply the only person on board who had spent part of her life asking one particular question:
How do you fly something after the airplane stops behaving like an airplane?
“Thirty-eight degrees,” Jennifer called.
Then thirty-five.
Thirty-two.
Passengers were still screaming, but the violent sideways pull was easing.
Reed looked at me.
“What’s our goal?”
“Wings close to level first. Then we find out what she still gives us.”
“Airport?”
“Later.”
“We don’t have later.”
“We don’t have an airport if you can’t point at one.”
He nodded.
No argument.
That was when I knew why Thomas Reed had survived thirty-eight years in aviation.
Pride vanished when it needed to.
Good pilots don’t need to be the smartest person in the cockpit.
They need to recognize when survival has entered the room.
Jennifer called:
“Twenty-seven degrees.”
The left engine was working harder than the right.
I watched the aircraft respond sluggishly.
Too sluggishly.
But it was responding.
That was life.
“Easy.”
Twenty-two.
Eighteen.
Twelve.
Then Reed overcorrected.
The aircraft started rolling left.
“Don’t chase it!” I snapped.
He froze his hand.
“Right engine up. Small.”
He moved it.
The roll slowed.
Six degrees left.
Four.
Two.
Then roughly level.
For the first time in several minutes, the horizon looked like a horizon again.
No one spoke.
Reed exhaled.
Jennifer closed her eyes for half a second.
Then the radio exploded with ATC.
“Southwest 2891, Portland Center, confirm status.”
Reed reached for the transmitter.
“Portland Center, Southwest 2891. We have partial directional response using differential thrust.”
There was silence on the frequency.
Then:
“Southwest 2891, say again.”
Reed looked at me.
I almost smiled.
“I know that reaction.”
He transmitted again.
“We are controlling bank with asymmetric engine thrust.”
ATC came back immediately.
“Southwest 2891, roger. Nearest suitable airports available. State intentions.”
Jennifer pulled up navigation data.
