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  “Gear down, before landing checklist,” Deter said.

  Tris grasped the handle that lowered the Astral’s landing gear. She kept her left index finger pointed at the three lights that would turn green when each of the plane’s wheels were down and locked. After a few seconds, Tris saw the left main and nose gear lights illuminate, but the right gear light remained dark.

  “I do not have three green. No three green,” she said quickly. The aircraft was just six hundred feet above the ground.

  “What the fuck?” Deter screamed but took no action as the Astral moved closer to the ground.

  Deter hesitated so Tris made the call. “We don’t have three green. Go around!”

  “Go around!” Deter slammed full power on the aircraft. He swore under his breath as the airplane’s nose hesitated, then pitched up.

  Tris lifted the gear handle to stow the gear. Maybe raising it would shake something loose, and that third light would come on next time they tried to put the wheels down. But first, the Astral had to get away from other air traffic.

  “Tower, Nine Tango X-ray, missed approach. We can’t con-firm that the landing gear is down and locked. We need a vector to an area where we can diagnose the problem.” Deter nodded along with her demand.

  “Roger, Nine Tango X-ray, fly heading two-four-zero, climb and maintain six thousand. Let us know what happens.”

  “What is wrong with the goddamn gear? Recycle it! Now!” Deter’s words landed like blows, his anger unrestrained. Tris recovered quickly; she had to. And she couldn’t punch back. The five souls aboard the Astral were in real danger. They weren’t on the ground with options—they were in the air with none.

  Tris lowered the gear again, as Deter commanded. Still only two green lights.

  Someone traveled toward the cockpit. Ross stood behind them. He hadn’t said a word.

  “Larry, let the passengers know we had to go around. Up to you what explanation you want to give them.” Tris gave the order.

  “We’ll keep recycling the gear and see if we get three green,” Deter said, more composed. At least he’d lowered his voice. Tris took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  The Astral flew in a holding pattern away from other airplanes, with the autopilot on. Now Tris could think. They survived a calamity close to the ground. With the immediate urgency over, the action in the cockpit slowed. It was something she’d learned at the commuter; the first thing you do in any emergency is take a breath.

  Ross talked to the passengers. She couldn’t hear everything he said but knew his velvety baritone would soothe them. The executives simply nodded and returned to what they were doing. Tris had to grin—Ross had a way with people. All things considered, Tris was glad Ross spoke to them.

  In the captain’s seat, Deter quietly reviewed the emergency checklists. As sweat stains spread under the arms of his uniform shirt, Tris smelled the strong scent of fear.

  Her hands hovered over the yoke as the autopilot slowly rotated it to the left. The sound of the ambient air traveling over the aerodynamic arms of the Astral changed only slightly in the turn. But Tris could feel it: the initial, subtle resistance of the aircraft, disturbed from equilibrium when the right wing rose and then descended as the autopilot finished its leisurely turn.

  When Tris flew as a passenger she would guess the configuration of the airplane solely by sound. A slight rumbling accompanied by barely discernable bumps—the slats poking out of the front of the wing. A bang, the aircraft slowing briefly, followed by twenty seconds of movement and a loud click—that was the gear. The run-up of engines, pitch of the nose, and feel of the wing expanding to slow the aircraft—final flaps down, aircraft with the nose up high, ready to touch down on the runway.

  Inside, the airflow would increase with altitude and then decrease all the way to its final dump as the aircraft depressurized near the ground. She would sit in her aisle seat, close her eyes, and fly every airplane down the pipe by those sounds.

  “Ok, Tris, gear down.” Deter sounded like he was underwater. He addressed Tris by name, which he rarely did in the cockpit. A testament to the gravity of the situation and, she hoped, Deter recognizing the need for calm, concerted action by the flight crew.

  Tris reached across her body toward the gear lever, a long switch with a round plastic handle that poked out of the middle of the instrument panel. She grasped and raised the lever to remove it from its safety lock. Tris glanced at the airspeed indicator to make sure they were still at a safe gear down speed. If they flew too fast, the gear could be ripped off the airplane as it lowered.

  Tris slowly extended the handle to the full down position and waited. She heard the gear doors click open. The airplane buffeted slightly as the gear assemblies lowered. But how many?

  She saw the first green light. The left was down and locked. Then came the second green. The nose wheel was in position.

  There was no green light on the right main.

  “I have two down and locked. What’s next?”

  “Aw goddamn it! Useless fucking cunt.”

  The sheer force of Deter’s roar threw Tris back in her seat and up against the right side window. The glass was freezing against her cheek. Her heartbeat raced as though she were running from a loaded gun, cornered with no means of escape.

  As the slur reverberated in the cockpit, Tris forced herself back into the moment. Yes, he said it. Finally said it. She pressed her lips together, her jaw tense and eyes narrow. She wanted to scream too—at Deter to shut up. Just shut up and fly the plane! But she couldn’t get into it with Deter now. He’d lost his grip, with the plane in the air and passengers in the back.

  Long seconds passed before anyone spoke. “Come on! Keep your voice down!” Ross finally said as he glanced back and forth at the passengers. “Keep it together, man. I’m not upfront. I can’t help you here.” Tris blanched at the implication. Even if there was some practical benefit to Ross being in a pilot’s seat—which there wasn’t—neither Deter nor Tris could get up now. It would further alarm the passengers, who were sitting only ten feet away watching the pilots’ every move. And if what she suspected was true, if Ross was legally drunk and sat in the cockpit, or took one single action as a pilot, it could cost them all their careers.

  “November Nine Tango X-ray, contact approach one-one-eight-decimal-nine-zero. Are you declaring an emergency?”

  Deter shook his head “no” so hard she could feel his seat wobble in its tracks.

  “Negative. We’ll contact approach,” she said.

  “It’s probably a light,” Deter offered, as if the events of the last few minutes never happened. Like the word, “cunt” wasn’t still bouncing back and forth off of all three of them. She shot a look at Ross, who had nothing to add.

  “I can do a quick light check. Make sure it’s not a burned out bulb.” Tris pointed to the button she’d press to make all the indicator lights on the panel come on. This way, if the right main gear light stayed out, chances were it was just a burned out bulb and the gear was actually extended.

  “Good idea,” Ross said. She saw Deter nod out of the corner of her eye.

  “Ok. But when I do, the red lights will go on, too. Some of them will flash. Larry, can you tell the folks in the back in case they notice it? They are probably already a little freaked out.” She looked directly at Deter, her expression taut and purposeful. Tris welcomed the measured sound of her own voice.

  “Good idea. Hang on a minute.” Ross spoke briefly to the passengers. Seconds later, he stood behind the pilots. “Go ahead.” He pointed to the test button. Tris pressed it. The green right main gear light came on. Shit. It’s working. The problem wasn’t a bulb.

  Tris had another idea. “Right. Ok. Let’s try putting them down again and ask tower for a flyby.”

  Deter jumped back in. “Yeah, we can,” he said, “but let’s say they see three gear down, even though we aren’t getting three green lights. I’m concerned that the right main may be down, but not locked
, or worse, crooked. The only way anyone can know for sure they are properly extended and locked down are three green lights. If the right main buckled on the runway, well, that could be catastrophic.” Tris knew he was considering numerous scenarios, including the worst case—the gear collapsing, the right wing hitting the ground and bursting into flames.

  “Think we have enough to make Paris?” Ross nodded toward the fuel gauges. Paris had an Astral repair station located on the field. If they had to make an emergency landing, that was the best place to do it. All three of them looked at the fuel remaining. Tris could almost hear the air being sucked out of the cockpit. They had enough gas to stay aloft another forty-five minutes, tops. No way they could make Paris.

  “I wish,” Deter said. “This is as good a place as any. The runway is long, and they have crash, fire, and rescue trucks.” Deter tapped his fingers on the yoke, his posture stiff, muscles rigid as he looked from Tris to Ross and continued.

  “Here’s the plan,” he said, resuming his role as pilot-in-command. “Let’s try to lower them again and do a flyby. If the tower doesn’t see three down, we’ll come back out here,” Deter said, gesturing outside the cockpit windshield, “and consider our options.” He looked past Tris to Ross. “I think landing with two down is better than gear up. You?”

  “Yep,” Ross and Tris answered at the same time.

  “We can use engine thrust and the rudders to try and keep the right side of the aircraft from falling to the ground until the airspeed bleeds off enough to prevent a fire, even if the right side hits. Larry, make sure both passengers are sitting on the left side of the plane. We need as much ballast on that side as possible, and they stand the least chance of getting hurt on that side. They can get out quickly.” He paused. “If the worst happens.”

  “Roger. I’ve got it.”

  “Ok. Gear down.”

  Tris reached over, released the handle lock, and pulled it down. And, again, only two green lights illuminated.

  “Ok. Raise the goddamn gear.” Deter erupted again. “And tell approach we need a flyby.”

  “Hey! Keep. Your. Voice. Down. The passengers already asked me if you were ok up here,” Ross said sharply. Tris looked straight ahead. If Deter lost it again, if in her professional judgment he could no longer be trusted to safely control the aircraft or make decisions, she’d relieve him of his PIC duties and take control of the airplane. She’d have no choice.

  A few beats passed. “If we have three down, we’ll make the approach and pray the right main doesn’t collapse. We’ll prepare for a two-wheel landing.” Deter’s composure faded back in. “Ok. Bring the gear up again.”

  Tris’s heart slammed against her chest as she raised the gear handle. Maintain the majestic calm. Despite Deter’s cavern of disrespect, she was crew on this airplane. And it had to land soon.

  “Luxembourg Approach, Nine Tango X-ray. We are not getting three green lights when we lower the gear. Requesting flyby to see if tower can confirm the gear is down. The light we’re not getting is the right main, so requesting right traffic.” This was what she trained for. Tris let her demeanor set the tone in the cockpit.

  Deter nodded at her request for a right turn in front of the tower. It would give Luxembourg the best view of the right main gear.

  “Roger, Nine Tango X-ray, understand. Fly heading zero-six-zero, vectors for flyby Luxembourg Tower. Contact tower now, one-one-eight-decimal-one-zero. Good luck!”

  “Over to tower, thanks.” Tris dialed in the new frequency. Before checking in, she asked Deter if he wanted Luxembourg to roll emergency vehicles, just as a precaution.

  “Not yet,” he replied. “We need to lower the gear one more time for the flyby. If the lights finally come on, no need. If they don’t, which, well, we’re all expecting, yes, roll the trucks.”

  Deter clicked off the autopilot and hand-flew the airplane. Tris checked on with the tower. Tower responded quickly. “Nine Tango X-ray, yes, we understand you need visual confirmation of the gear. Descend to pattern altitude and fly a close downwind. We’ll let you know what we see.”

  “Roger, tower.”

  “Gear down,” Deter called from what sounded like very far away. Once again, and for what she hoped was the final time, Tris pulled the lever and lowered the gear. As the handle clicked into position, Tris heard the familiar change in airflow as the gear assemblies dropped from their sheltered positions in the bottom of the fuselage. She felt the left main gear lock into place and then the nose. Tris had no tactile signal from the right main.

  But then she saw the light.

  “Three green. I have three green,” Tris announced breathlessly, almost beyond belief. “The gear is down and locked. I’ll continue with the Before Landing checklist.” Her voice was calm and strong.

  Deter responded in the clipped tenor of command. “Ok. Let tower know. Tell them we’ll need to swing around to a long downwind and can turn final in another mile.”

  “One hundred, fifty, twenty, ten,” the Astral’s synthesized voice droned, ticking off the airplane’s distance from the ground on final approach. Emergency vehicles with their lights flashing were positioned along the edge of the runway. Deter flew the aircraft. Tris communicated with ATC. Ross briefed the passengers on emergency evacuation procedures if the Astral’s gear collapsed.

  Tris looked straight ahead during those final seconds of flight. Deter’s shirt was soaked in sweat as he gently pulled the power levers to idle. The Astral rolled forward.

  The gear held.

  “Astral November Nine Tango X-ray, welcome to Luxembourg,” tower chirped. “Contact ground control for taxi.”

  Thirty-Seven

  THE CRASH TRUCKS sped away with their lights off, back to their garage. “Shutdown checklist,” Deter called as he set the parking brake and moved the Astral’s power levers to the shutoff position. The flight was over, but unfinished.

  The passengers ran out of the plane as soon as they could without saying a word to any of the pilots. Deter followed them inside. They had an early departure the next day to Gander, Newfoundland, where they’d fuel up for the nonstop leg home.

  Tris felt another set of footsteps walk quickly down the airstairs. Ross jogged into the terminal.

  Relieved to finally be alone, the stress, the fear, the anger she’d sloughed off just to get down safely shrouded her. Tris closed her eyes as her shoulders slowly collapsed, her stoic façade with it. She realized her hands were shaking.

  Cunt. More than just an insult, it sent the shameful message that a person’s genetics, their physical characteristics were reason alone to despise them. That’s what made it insidious, and why it hurt so badly.

  “No. Oh no,” were her only intelligible words. Her throat tightened, and every nerve ending tingled. She pulled her knees to her chest, hugged them, and bent her chin. Her right foot shoved the co-pilot seat as far back as it would go.

  Curled up and crammed into a corner in the cockpit, her head pushed against the circuit breaker panel, its tiny plastic knobs pressed into her skull. She never felt as insignificant or alone.

  Her instincts implored her to fight back at the highest possible decibel. Take those feelings and shove them down. You’re an expert at it.

  She’d done it with her family. She’d done it with Bron. And for the sake of her passengers, the safety of the flight, and her own life, she’d done it on the way to Luxembourg.

  Tris forced her body harder into the metal, plastic and Plexiglas corner of her co-pilot seat. There, in that tiny space, the trauma, outrage, and sorrow she’d endured this last year twisted around her like a tornado’s vortex. Her brain was thrown into overload.

  Memory took over. She thought of a small picture of her and Bron standing next to their airplane on a Clear Sky trip in Roanoke, Virginia. Bron brandished his trademark toothy mug. She wasn’t smiling.

  He was the one who had wanted to take that picture. It was their last trip together as a crew, although neither knew it at the
time. He’d called his buddy in crew scheduling and requested Tris as his first officer.

  “Hey, the company loves it when we fly together. They save money on a hotel room.” Bron liked that everyone at Clear Sky knew they were together. Tris would have preferred to keep the information close.

  “Hey, can you get a shot of the two of us in front of the plane?” he’d asked the ramper. She remembered feeling impatient, like she’d had enough photography for one day. They’d already taken a bunch of pictures on the trip, but for some reason, this one was important to Bron. And Bron was important to her, so she stood next to him, with her arm barely draped around him. Why couldn’t she just let go and enjoy him? There was doubt behind every moment, each experience cloaked in it.

  No, it wasn’t the best picture of the two of them, with her standing stoically next to the man she loved, but it ended up being the last. Barely a month later, she answered the phone in the middle of the night to learn that Bron’s twisted body had been pulled from his car by the Jaws of Life.

  Her heartbeat thrummed, just like it had during their Luxembourg leg. Tris stared at the empty captain’s seat beside her and mouthed something, but made no sound. She was sure, in time, she could make the right noise pass her lips, put together the letters and make a word, then a sentence. Then a prayer. A prayer for Bron. But mostly for herself.

  Yet she didn’t have time. There was no time. Weary from the fight, she had to face the rest of the crew.

  Thirty-Eight

  ROSS RAN UP the steps of the Astral. Tris unfolded her body and wiped her face with a catering napkin. The last hour’s events replayed in her head. Irregular procedures, especially if the crash trucks rolled, always led to questions. As crew, she’d be interviewed. And possibly urine tested. Maybe that’s what Deter and Ross were doing inside. If so, she’d be next.

  Without saying a word, Ross walked from seat to seat, filling a trash bin.