Chapter 6 - The TouchdownThe runway lights of Shannon International pierced through the sheet-metal wall of Irish rain like a double row of incandescent diamonds, stretching out into the dark horizon.
From the control tower, Liam Orained forward, his hands gripping the edges of his console so hard his knuckles turned purple. Beside him, three other controllers stood in dead silence, watching the green radar blip descend down the vertical profile.
“He’s high on the glidepath,” a junior controller whispered.
“Let him adjust,” Arthur Vance murmured, his eyes locked on binoculars pointed at the distant tarmac. “He’s got his father’s touch. Look at that correction.”
Inside the cockpit, Malachi pulled back gently on the yoke, bleeding off airspeed as the runway threshold rushed up to meet them with terrifying speed.
One hundred feet.
Fifty feet.
Thirty feet.
“Sink rate looks good,” Grace yelled over the roar of the engines, bracing herself against the bulkhead with one hand. “Hold her off, Malachi! Don’t let her slam!”
Malachi pulled the throttles back to idle, floating the massive aircraft just inches above the wet concrete. The crosswind hit them again, kicking the tail sideways, but with lightning-fast reflexes he tapped the rudder pedals, kicking the nose straight down the centerline.
Screeech.
The main landing gear slammed onto the wet tarmac with a massive plume of white smoke and spray, followed instantly by the nose gear settling down hard.
“We’re down!” Grace screamed, her voice cracking with hysterical relief.
“Reverse thrust!” Malachi shouted, his small hands slamming the twin thrust levers upward and backward.
The deafening roar of the jet engines rose to a thunderous, howling pitch as the aerodynamic spoilers deployed on top of the wings, slamming the aircraft down onto the runway and screaming against forward momentum. The deceleration pressed both Malachi and Grace hard against their shoulder harnesses.
Six thousand feet of runway remaining.
Four thousand feet.
Two thousand feet.
Slowly, inexorably, the giant Boeing 777 shed its velocity, turning off the high-speed exit taxiway and coming to a complete, shuddering halt on the intersecting taxiway.
Malachi exhaled a long, shaky breath that fogged the inside of his oxygen mask. His hands were trembling so violently now he could barely let go of the yoke.
The radio crackled.
“Flight 782, Shannon Ground,” Liam O’Connor’s voice came across, thick with emotion and undisguised awe. “Welcome to Ireland, Captain Brooks. Engines off, brake set. Emergency vehicles are rolling toward your position right now. You did it, son. You brought them all home.”
May you like
Malachi clicked his mic one last time.
“Ground... this is Flight 782,” he said, his voice quiet, small, and finally sounding like a twelve-year-old boy again. “Permission to unbuckle?”
