“Portland is about sixty miles northwest.”
I looked at the weather.
Not ideal.
“Anything longer?”
“Portland’s good.”
“Terrain?”
“Manageable from here.”
Reed looked at me.
“Portland?”
I stared at the instruments.
The airplane was still descending.
Not catastrophically.
But steadily.
And controlling heading was one thing.
Landing was another.
To land, we would eventually have to control speed, descent rate, alignment, and flare.
With an airplane that had already shown us it could turn into a falling piece of metal if we asked too much of it.
“Portland,” I said.
Reed keyed the radio.
“Portland Center, 2891 requests vectors Portland. Emergency equipment standing by.”
The controller answered almost instantly.
“Southwest 2891, understood. Portland is preparing all runways and emergency response.”
Then came the part I hated.
Turning.
We were not pointed directly at Portland.
To get there, we had to change heading.
Reed looked at me.
“How much left thrust?”
“Barely enough to start the turn.”
Jennifer read our altitude.
“Thirty thousand eight hundred.”
Plenty of sky.
Very little margin.
“Let’s see if she’ll listen.”
Reed reduced thrust slightly on the left.
Increased slightly on the right.
The jet began a slow left bank.
Three degrees.
Five.
Eight.
I watched the trend.
“Hold there.”
The heading crawled.
One degree.
Then another.
Then another.
It was agonizing.
Like steering a ship with two hair dryers.
But we were turning.
Behind us, the cockpit phone chimed.
Jennifer answered.
“Flight deck.”
Her expression changed while she listened.
“What?”
Reed glanced over.
She covered the receiver.
“Passenger medical emergency. Row twenty-seven. Possible heart attack.”
For one second, nobody spoke.
Of course.
Because apparently falling out of the sky wasn’t enough.
“Tell them to use any medical personnel onboard,” Reed said.
Jennifer relayed it.
Then she listened again.
Her face changed.
“There are injuries too. People hit by service carts during the bank.”
I looked toward the cockpit door.
One hundred eighty-seven people.
Every one of them had a story.
Someone was going home to a child.
Someone had just gotten engaged.
Someone was flying to a funeral.
Someone had probably spent the entire morning complaining about a middle seat.
And now every person behind that door had heard their captain apologize because he believed he was about to die.
I thought about Emily.
Seattle.
Her wedding invitation folded inside my handbag.
I had read it maybe fifty times.
Mom, if you’re willing to come, I’d like you there.
