“ATC, this is acting flight deck control aboard Flight 728. Captain is unconscious. First officer is medically distressed but responsive. I am maintaining control. Request priority emergency vector to nearest suitable runway.”
A tense pause followed.
“Acting control, state credentials.”
There it was.
The question that could kill us if bureaucracy got stubborn.
“My name is Emma Parker. Former United States Air Force pilot. I am qualified on multiple high-performance aircraft, not type-rated on the 747, but currently the only person in this cockpit capable of maintaining stable flight.”
Silence.
Then ATC came back, changed now.
“All stations, emergency traffic only. Flight 728, you are cleared priority. Stand by for diversion options.”
The first officer stared at me.
“Former Air Force?”
“Yes.”
“What did you fly?”
I kept my eyes forward.
“Things smaller than this.”
From the cabin came muffled crying, prayers, and the low murmur of hundreds of frightened people trying not to fall apart.
The aircraft shook again.
A red light blinked.
Hydraulic pressure fluctuation.
Of course.
“David,” I said.
