Chapter 3 - Panic in the CabinStepping back into the main cabin of Flight 782 was like walking through the circles of Dante’s Inferno.
Yellow oxygen masks dangled like clusters of sickly fruit from the overhead panels, swinging gently with the rhythmic turbulence of the jet. The emergency lighting cast a dim, eerie amber glow across the rows of seats. Passengers were sobbing, praying, or shouting in blind terror.
As Grace moved down the aisle, pushing past weeping tourists and panicked families, she spotted Gerald Whitmore standing in the middle of the first-class aisle. His expensive silk tie was yanked loose, his face red with fury and sweaty panic, waving his arms to command attention.
“This is completely unacceptable!” Gerald bellowed, his voice carrying over the general din of crying children and muttered prayers. “Where are the pilots?! Why is no one telling us what’s going on? I demand to speak to the airline president immediately! We’re going to crash into the ocean because of incompetent management!”
“Shut up, Gerald,” Grace snapped as she pushed past him, checking overhead bins and reassuring an elderly woman whose oxygen mask was tangled.
Gerald grabbed Grace roughly by the sleeve of her uniform tunic, spinning her around. His eyes were wide with unhinged desperation.
“Don’t you dare tell me to shut up!” Gerald snarled, spittle flying from his lips. “I’m a platinum-tier executive member! I paid twenty thousand dollars for this ticket! I have a meeting with the British Prime Minister’s economic advisory board tomorrow morning! Where is the pilot? Who is flying this damn plane right now? Is it an autopilot? Are we going down?!”
Around them, several other passengers gasped, their panic amplifying at Gerald’s aggressive outburst.
Grace looked down at Gerald’s hand clutching her uniform. With a cold, calculated fury that had been building inside her all night, she reached up and gripped his wrist, twisting his fingers away with surprising strength.
“Listen to me very carefully, Mr. Whitmore,” Grace said, her voice dropping into a low, venomous hiss that cut through the cabin noise. “Both pilots are incapacitated. The cockpit is locked. The flight is currently being flown by a twelve-year-old boy who happens to be the son of one of the greatest aviators in modern history. And right now, the only reason you are breathing air instead of freezing seawater is because that boy is sitting up there keeping this bird in the sky while you stand here whining like a spoiled toddler.”
A stunned silence fell over the first-class section.
Gerald blinked once. Twice. His mouth opened and closed like a landed fish.
“A... a child?” Gerald stammered, his face turning an even deeper shade of crimson. “You let a child fly a commercial airliner?! Are you insane?! That’s a federal crime! That’s mass murder! I’m going to sue this airline into bankruptcy! I’m going to—!”
“If you raise your voice one more time, Mr. Whitmore, I will personally zip-tie you to your seat, lock you in the lavatory for the rest of the flight, and let you explain your economic advisory board meeting to the coast guard when we land,” Grace interrupted, her eyes blazing with absolute authority. “Now sit down, pull your mask over your face, and pray to whatever God you believe in that Malachi Brooks knows what he’s doing. Because he is our only shot at seeing tomorrow.”
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Gerald shrank backward, cowed by the sheer intensity in her voice. He slumped down into his leather seat, his hands shaking as he pulled the yellow rubber cup over his mouth, glaring darkly at the floor.
Further down the aisle, huddled in a cramped middle seat in row thirty-eight, Malachi’s grandmother, Mrs. Brooks, sat clutching a worn rosary between her arthritic fingers, her lips moving in silent, desperate prayer for the grandson who had inherited both her son’s gift and his heavy, unforgiving burden.
