Chapter 4 - Specter Takes Control
The control column kicked violently in my hands.
The aircraft rolled right.
I applied full left input, but the response was sluggish. The remaining hydraulic pressure fell in seconds, leaving only limited control through the surviving electrical and mechanical systems.
Captain Mercer’s voice sharpened.
“Specter, what changed?”
“Secondary device activated. Multiple hydraulic failures.”
“Can you hold attitude?”
“Barely.”
The upload continued.
Thirty-one percent.
Captain Reynolds struggled to sit upright. “Use differential thrust.”
“I am.”
“More on the left.”
“If I add more, we overspeed.”
“If you don’t, we roll.”
He was right.
I advanced the left throttle carefully and reduced the right. The uneven thrust pushed the nose left while countering the damaged aircraft’s rightward pull.
Outside the cockpit, silence followed the gunshot.
“Hannah?” I called.
No answer.
“Leah?”
Static.
Then the baby cried.
The sound was fragile, terrified—and alive.
Hannah’s voice returned, breathless. “I’m here.”
“What happened?”
“Hale fired into the ceiling. He still has the transmitter.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“No.”
Preston grabbed the interphone. His controlled businessman’s voice was gone.
“End the transmission, or I release the switch completely.”
“You already activated the device.”
“That was the first stage.”
Julian’s tablet confirmed it. The hydraulic charge had detonated, but a second signal remained linked to something labeled STRUCTURAL SEPARATION UNIT.
He had planted another explosive near a critical section of the airframe.
The upload reached thirty-eight percent.
“Clara,” Hannah whispered, “he’s watching the case indicator on his own device. He knows the upload is active.”
“Can you see the transmitter?”
“Black cylinder in his right hand. Thumb pressure switch.”
If she shot him, his hand might release.
If someone grabbed him, the same thing could happen.
There was one other possibility.
“Preston,” I said, “your transmitter uses the aircraft’s internal network as a relay.”
He hesitated.
That told me I was right.
“If I isolate the avionics network, you lose the signal.”
“You would also lose navigation, communication, and most of the flight-control computers.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t land without them.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re bluffing.”
I looked at the runway data on the screen.
Twenty-two miles.
Cloud ceiling nine hundred feet.
Crosswind.
Damaged control surfaces.
No normal flaps.
Landing without the main flight computers would be almost impossible.
But impossible was not the same as certain death.
“Captain Mercer,” I said over the radio, “if I isolate the central network, will I retain standby instruments and direct control mode?”
A long pause followed.
“Possibly. But you may lose this frequency.”
“Can the aircraft remain controllable?”
“Clara, that is not an option I can recommend.”
“I didn’t ask whether you recommend it.”
Another pause.
“You should retain limited pitch and roll authority, engine control, standby attitude, airspeed, and altitude. But the transition could produce unpredictable control movement.”
“How long until I reach the final approach point?”
“Five minutes.”
The upload reached forty-seven percent.
Preston shouted, “Stop talking to them!”
I ignored him.
“Captain Mercer, give me headings, descent profile, and field elevation now. Everything I need from memory.”
He understood.
“Runway 03. Field elevation four hundred ninety-six feet. Maintain heading two-eight-seven for nine miles, then turn right heading three-two-five. Intercept final at three thousand feet. Minimum safe altitude two thousand until established. Winds three-four-zero at eighteen, gusting twenty-seven.”
I repeated each number.
“Runway length?”
“Ten thousand two hundred feet.”
“Emergency barrier?”
“Not suitable for this aircraft.”
“Terrain?”
“Relatively clear, but do not descend below two thousand until final.”
I repeated that too.
“Clara,” Mercer said, “once you disconnect, I may not get you back.”
“Then tell the airport we’re coming.”
“They know.”
“And Captain?”
“Yes?”
“If I don’t answer after touchdown, send every rescue unit onto the runway.”
His voice softened. “They’re already waiting.”
The upload reached fifty-five percent.
I opened the network isolation panel.
Captain Reynolds stared at me. “You’re really going to do it.”
“I’m going to wait until the upload completes.”
“We may not have that long.”
“We have to.”
“Julian would choose the passengers.”
“I know.”
“Then choose them.”
Anger flashed through me.
“He let me believe he was dead.”
“He was protecting you.”
“He was deciding for me.”
“Yes,” Reynolds said. “And he was wrong.”
The honesty silenced me.
“He wanted to expose Halcyon,” Reynolds continued. “But after his investigator was murdered, he panicked. He staged his death so they would stop watching you.”
“They didn’t stop.”
“No.”
“He should have trusted me.”
“Yes.”
My eyes stung, but I would not let the tears fall.
The upload reached sixty-three percent.
Preston’s voice came through the door. “You think this evidence matters? Halcyon employs forty thousand people. Governments rely on us. Airlines rely on us. No prosecutor will destroy that over a few defective components.”
“A few?”
“Every machine has acceptable failure rates.”
“Not when you hide them.”
“You military people are all alike. You pretend sacrifice makes you righteous.”
“No. Sacrifice makes us responsible.”
He laughed bitterly. “Your husband sacrificed twelve technicians to protect his investigation.”
“What?”
Captain Reynolds looked away.
Preston continued, “Ask him about the hangar fire in Goose Bay.”
I turned toward Reynolds.
“What is he talking about?”
“An evidence facility burned.”
“Were people killed?”
“Twelve contractors were listed as missing.”
“Listed?”
“We believed the building was empty.”
“Were they Halcyon employees?”
Reynolds said nothing.
Preston’s accusation could be another manipulation, but the uncertainty pierced me.
The upload reached seventy-one percent.
The aircraft suddenly pitched down.
I pulled back and increased thrust.
The altitude unwound through four thousand feet.
“Clara,” Captain Mercer warned, “you are descending below profile.”
“I know.”
“Terrain clearance remains adequate for three miles, but you need to stabilize.”
The clouds thinned briefly. Dark forest appeared below us, much closer than I wanted.
I lifted the nose.
The right engine coughed.
Hydraulic fluid pressure reached zero.
We were flying on damaged backups, thrust, and stubbornness.
Seventy-eight percent.
Hannah whispered through the interphone. “Preston is moving toward the galley. He wants the cockpit door opened in sixty seconds.”
“Keep everyone away from him.”
“I may have a way to stop the transmitter.”
“How?”
“The cabin medical kit has a portable defibrillator.”
I understood immediately. A sufficiently strong electrical discharge near the transmitter might destroy its circuitry without forcing Preston’s hand open.
It might also trigger the bomb.
“That’s unpredictable.”
“So is landing with him holding the switch.”
Eighty-four percent.
“Hannah, can you get close enough?”
“Leah is distracting him.”
“No. Keep Leah out of it.”
“She volunteered.”
Across the static, I heard Leah’s voice.
“My baby is behind three seat rows. He can’t see Hannah from this angle.”
She was terrified, yet her words remained clear.
Most people don’t feel brave when they are being brave.
I had said that to her before the explosion.
Now she was proving it.
“Do not take unnecessary risks,” I told her.
Leah gave a shaky laugh. “You climbed into a broken cockpit.”
“That was necessary.”
“So is this.”
Ninety percent.
Preston pounded on the door again.
“Ten seconds, Clara!”
He began counting.
“Ten.”
I switched the aircraft to standby navigation and memorized the final heading.
“Nine.”
Captain Reynolds reached over and rested his hand near the isolation switch.
“Together?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“Eight.”
Ninety-three percent.
“Seven.”
Lightning flashed through the cockpit.
“Six.”
Ninety-six percent.
“Five.”
The right engine surged.
“Four.”
Ninety-eight percent.
“Three.”
UPLOAD COMPLETE.
I pulled the isolation switch.
Every major display went black.
The cockpit fell into darkness except for the dim standby instruments.
At the same instant, Hannah shouted, “Now!”
A violent electrical crack sounded beyond the door.
Preston screamed.
The tablet’s bomb signal vanished.
But so did our radio, navigation display, flight computers, and primary controls.
The Boeing rolled sharply toward the dark forest.
I seized the yoke, advanced the left engine, and stared at the tiny standby horizon.
Somewhere ahead of us, hidden behind clouds, was Runway 03.
May you like
We had no guidance to reach it.
And fewer than four minutes before the aircraft struck the ground.
