Pilot.
Not flight attendant.
Not little girl.
Not somebody in the way.
The businessman stepped back, shaken by the veteran’s certainty.
“Sir,” I said without turning, “secure the door area. No passengers past this point.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The veteran did not hesitate.
That, more than anything, told me he knew.
Not guessed.
Knew.
The cockpit door closed behind him.
For the first time since the emergency began, I had space to think.
The aircraft pitched again.
I corrected.
Too much pressure, and the old giant fought back. Too little, and the nose wanted to sink. A 747 was not a fighter jet. It did not respond like the aircraft I had known. It carried weight differently. It moved like a cathedral with wings.
But the sky had rules.
Storm or no storm.
Machine or no machine.
Fear or no fear.
The sky always had rules.
And I remembered them.
“Flight 728,” air traffic control called, breaking through the frequency. “Confirm pilot identity and status.”
I keyed the mic.
