He jolted.
“Check hydraulic indications.”
His hands moved clumsily. Training resurfaced through panic.
“System two fluctuating. System three low but holding.”
“Good. Keep watching.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Believe later.”
Lightning exploded ahead.
For one terrifying second, the whole world beyond the windshield turned white.
Then the aircraft lurched.
A warning tone screamed.
The left side dipped.
Passengers screamed behind us as the cabin tilted.
I fought the roll, jaw clenched, arms steady though every muscle in my body burned with old memory.
Not again.
Not like this.
The storm had teeth.
It clawed at the wings, shoved at the tail, dropped air out from beneath us in sudden invisible holes. The aircraft groaned around me, metal and rivets and human hope straining together.
“Altitude!” I barked.
“Twenty-eight thousand six hundred! Dropping! Twenty-eight three!”
I adjusted pitch.
The nose lifted slowly.
Too slowly.
“Come on,” I whispered.
The aircraft shuddered.
