"Both pilots collapsed unconscious at 35,000 feet. The only person who could save the plane was the 12-year-old boy everyone ignored in the worst seat."

Flight 782 sliced through the cloud layer at ten thousand feet, shaking violently as it hit a pocket of turbulent maritime air. Inside the cockpit, the wind shrieked against the reinforced windshield like a pack of starving wolves.

Malachi gripped the yoke with both hands, his knuckles white beneath his skin. The plane wanted to roll left; the hydraulic imbalance in system B was fighting his control inputs, pulling the nose toward the stormy sea.

“You’re drifting left, Malachi,” Arthur Vance’s voice warned through the headset. “Apply right aileron trim. Two clicks. Keep your nose down on the glideslope.”

Malachi’s fingers found the trim switch on the control yoke, clicking it twice. The heavy shuddering subsided slightly, and the aircraft realigned with the invisible electronic highway leading down to the runway at Shannon.

Behind him, the cockpit door clicked open.

Grace Holloway slipped back inside, her face pale, holding a portable fire extinguisher just in case the electrical smell turned into actual flames. She looked at Malachi, strapped into the oversized captain’s seat, wearing the massive oxygen mask that covered half his face, looking like a tiny astronaut piloting a dying spaceship.

“How are we doing?” Grace shouted over the deafening roar of wind rushing past the fuselage.

“Five thousand feet!” Malachi shouted back through his mask, his eyes locked on the glowing digital runway indicator. “We’re intercepting the localizer now! Gear down!”

Grace didn’t hesitate. She reached across the center console, grabbing the heavy, wheel-shaped landing gear lever and pulling it down with all her weight.

Clunk-thud.

The massive mechanical legs of the Boeing 777 locked into place beneath them, creating a sudden, heavy deceleration that threw a wave of vibration through the entire airframe.

“Gear is down and locked! Three green lights!” Grace reported, pointing at the indicator panel.

“Good,” Malachi said. He reached for the autopilot disconnect button on the yoke. His thumb hovered over the red switch. This was the moment of truth. Up until now, the computer had been doing ninety percent of the heavy lifting. From this second onward, every twitch of the wind, every crosswind gust off the Shannon estuary, would have to be fought by human muscle and instinct.

“Malachi,” Shannon tower called out, the voice cracking slightly with tension. “You are three miles from threshold. Runway 24 is directly in front of you. Wind is two-six-zero at twenty-two knots, gusting to thirty. Bring her down, son.”

Malachi closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. He pictured his father—the man he barely remembered, whose bronze captain’s wings now rested safely in the breast pocket of his secondhand blazer.

“Keep your hands light on the controls, Malachi,” a phantom voice seemed to whisper in his ear. “The plane is just a bird. You’ve got to fly with it, not against it.”

Malachi opened his eyes. He thumbed the autopilot disconnect button.

Bong-bong-bong.