He was pale, shaking, one hand pressed against his chest. His eyes were open but unfocused.
“Breathe,” I told him.
“I can’t,” he whispered.
“Yes, you can. Look at me.”
He did.
Barely.
“What’s your name?”
“D-David Keller.”
“David, I need you to listen. I am flying the aircraft. You are going to monitor altitude and call out any major deviation. Nothing else. One job.”
He nodded, but terror still had its claws in him.
“One job,” I repeated.
“Altitude,” he whispered. “Altitude. Right.”
Behind me, the businessman finally found his voice.
“What is happening?” he demanded, but his tone had changed. Less command. More fear. “Who are you?”
I did not look back.
“Get out of the cockpit.”
“You can’t just—”
The veteran from row 37 appeared in the doorway.
He was in his late fifties, broad-shouldered, gray at the temples, with the quiet authority of a man who had given orders under gunfire.
“She told you to get out,” he said.
The businessman turned on him.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Someone who knows enough to shut up when a pilot is saving my life.”
The word pilot struck the cockpit harder than thunder.
