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  She turned the Astral parallel to the runway. “Slats and flaps 15,” she commanded. Willett just sat there and smiled. She asked again. He folded his arms across his chest. Binghamton Tower was calling them, asking them to slow down and follow a Falcon 50 ahead of them. Willett didn’t answer; he just kept grinning and staring at Tris.

  “Dave, I need slats and flaps fifteen right now. And you need to answer ATC,” she said again. “Do I have to do everything myself?”

  He responded by taking a sip out of a bottle of water. His gaze never left Tris. She reached over, quickly lowered the slats, and keyed the mike and responded to ATC.

  “Binghamton Tower, Astral Nine TX, request immediate landing clearance. We are declaring an emergency—we have an incapacitated pilot upfront.” More laughter from the passengers. As she’d been trained, she yelled back for someone to come up and help her.

  Ross’s voice called out, “Oh, we’re not worried. We know you’ve got it!”

  Tris opened her eyes, expecting to see the center console of the Astral and Willett sitting next to her with an otherworldly grin on his face. But she was in bed, alone, in a hotel room in Dallas. It was 5:30 a.m.

  Today was the day. Her training complete, Tris would fly for the right to be a captain on the Astral and fulfill her unspoken promise. To Bron. To herself. Despite constant distractions, Tris stayed focused on her end goal.

  She knew if a corporate pilot busted a type ride in the jet she’d been flying for eight months, her career would be over. And she’d have failed Bron again.

  Anxiety built in her chest and throat. Tris welcomed the game-day stress. She’d done the work and today she’d get the payoff.

  Her ride was scheduled at 10:00 a.m., exactly when she wanted it. Get in there, get it done. Her examiner, Jim Jensen, was supposedly a “good guy,” according to her instructors. No-nonsense, by the book, so she’d heard from some of the other pilots she ran into at the training center. They’d begin with an oral exam. Tris wasn’t con-cerned about the oral. She knew the Astral’s systems and structure as though she’d fastened every rivet, hung every valve herself.

  She climbed out of bed and stretched. It was still dark outside as fading stars began giving way to the sun. She tossed a single-serve packet of grounds into the in-room coffee machine. Impatient, she paced as she waited for it to stop dripping so she could pour the coffee into one of the complimentary Styrofoam cups. Experience had taught her that hotel room coffee smelled better than it would taste. Still, she loved this particular perk.

  When her room phone rang, she thought it was housekeeping. Training hours were odd, and they were always wondering when she’d be out of her room.

  “Hello?”

  “Tris?” It wasn’t housekeeping. They always called her Miss Miles. “Tris, Brian Zorn here. Got a minute?” A good luck call?

  She realized she hadn’t answered right away and forced out a tentative “Sure.”

  “Tris, some news. Not sure if you’ve heard.” Zorn always gave an initial nod to the rumor mill. “Tris, Larry Ross was in a car accident a couple nights ago. He isn’t in town to fly your check ride with you.”

  “Oh my god, what happened? Is he ok? Where is he?”

  “Not sure of the details yet. He’s at St. Luke’s. Tris, it was really bad.” Zorn sounded uncharacteristically upset. Tris didn’t think anything could get to him, but this did. “He had surgery last night and he’s still unconscious.” Zorn stopped abruptly. Tris thought he might say more but didn’t.

  “Surgery? What kind? Oh my god, was anyone else hurt?” She immediately assumed he was driving drunk. And this time, she couldn’t stop him. His personal life was collapsing, and somehow this accident was the last domino.

  Zorn sighed. “He hit another car. It had a woman and her two children in it.” He stopped, and she heard him swallow hard. “They all died. The three of them. They’re dead. Larry’s the only one who lived, as far as we know.”

  She had no idea how much time had passed when she felt her left palm begin to throb. This time, her nails were dug in so far she’d drawn blood.

  Tris released her grip, shook out her hand, and forced herself to focus on the check ride.

  “I mean, I know this is a totally unexpected situation, and, god, poor Larry… ” And there was more hesitation on the other end of the line. “And, so, what about the ride?” The words left a gritty aftertaste in her mouth.

  “Look, Tris, we know this isn’t ideal with everything that’s going on. We don’t want to lose the schedule.” Pause. “We sent Deter. He’s on his way now. I talked to Jim Jensen, and he pushed your ride to 2 p.m. Deter’ll meet you there.”

  Tris shivered. She’d prepared for every possible contingency in the simulator but never imagined flying this ride with anyone other than Ross. Certainly not with Deter.

  “Brian, look, well, the last time I saw him, Deter that is, it…he and I haven’t talked much since Europe. You know…”

  “I know. I know. I’m sorry, Tris. We could try and put it off if you want. Not sure when we’d complete it though. Maybe you could go next year if the money’s in the budget. We don’t want to force you, or make you uncomfortable.”

  Bullshit. “Have you spoken to Deter about this?”

  “I have. Look, he knows how to support a check ride. He did it for years in the military. And he flew support for Dave Willett’s ride in the Astral,” Zorn said, even though Tris knew Willett had failed the first time. “But I’ll handle it however you want. Will you agree to ride with Deter? Take a second and think about it.”

  Tris assessed the odds. The Astral required two pilots upfront for a reason. She needed someone to be the kind of co-pilot she had always been for the captains she flew with, someone who could anticipate, have their hand already touching a switch before she asked for it. To prompt her when it got busy, cue her for what came next. Would Deter be that person?

  Still, it was her check ride, not Deter’s. Only she could pass it. If she didn’t go today, she wouldn’t get another chance.

  Maybe this flying thing wouldn’t work out after all. She and Bron always joked that they could become florists if career options seemed bleak. Gallows humor. She grimaced at the receiver before she spoke.

  “Ok. Let’s do it.”

  Fifty

  TRIS SLEEPWALKED THROUGH her daily routine after the call with Zorn. She showered, dressed, loaded up her flight bag. Tris could barely lift it since it was stuffed with so many manuals. Outside she walked through a steady drizzle to her rental car, but didn’t even notice until she had to turn on the windshield wipers.

  Tris flew the required maneuvers again in her head as she drove her white Grand Am through the streets of Dallas to the training facility. She issued imaginary commands that were followed by Deter’s clipped, one-word responses uttered as he nimbly did what she directed. She was so engrossed in her mental preparation, she almost drove past the simulator building’s tiny industrial parking lot.

  Today, she would finally prove to Deter she wasn’t just some ponytailed, big-breasted accessory in the cockpit. His distrust of female pilots plunged deep, and the whole brouhaha over Luxembourg made things worse.

  She still had no idea how they’d found out about his remark. That one comment, one word, uttered during unimaginable stress. She still wasn’t sure if he directed it at her. Yet, if Deter couldn’t keep his head in an emergency, that in itself was serious.

  But that word. Horrifying in a vacuum, but, given the circumstances, even worse. Tris was his co-pilot, an asset. Yet she’d been obliterated right where she sat.

  Deter lashed out that day in the way bullies do. He attacked someone he saw as weak and could crush. As she moved closer to a critical moment in her career, for the first time Tris wondered whether Deter’s comment was even directed at her, or just the explosive product of an extraordinary situation and an angry man.

  There was no time to figure it out. “Keep your eyes on the prize,” Danny told
her last night. She was relieved when he called to wish her good luck. “Just ignore distractions, get the type.” As though the whole rutted landscape of her experience at Tetrix could even out with that one accomplishment.

  For so long, Tris believed that making captain would somehow even the count, be the huge success that would zero out her mistakes: her Clear Sky training, her relationship with Bron. At least she’d have something to show for the parade of horribles she’d been subject to.

  But it could change nothing, replace no one.

  Tris walked through the training center’s sliding glass doors with her two heavy bags of books balanced on her shoulders. The first thing she heard was Deter’s voice. He stood at the reception desk with a cup of coffee, chatting up the woman behind the counter.

  Deter saw Tris and looked away. No greeting, no wish of luck. As she approached him, he finally turned to her. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she responded. “Do you know what briefing room we’re in?”

  “Two.”

  “Ok. I’ll head over there.”

  “Ok. I’m right behind you,” Deter said. There was no support required during the oral exam, where Tris would be judged based on her knowledge of the Astral. Tris couldn’t figure out why Deter would want to sit in, but she didn’t care. She knew the Astral cold.

  “Ok, I’ve gotta go listen to this oral. Have a good one, Gina,” Deter said to the receptionist before leaving with Tris. “I didn’t expect to be anywhere near here today. I have a seven thirty flight out, so I’ll say goodbye to you now. You’ll probably be gone when I get out of the box.”

  The box—pilot-speak for the simulator. And it actually was a big, white box. It sat high above the ground on long, silver cylinders. When powered up, hydraulic lift provided tactile sensations of flight. Or something close to them.

  Tris and Bron coined it “the stimulator.” Much harder to fly than the airplane itself, Bron always said that it “just sucked the will to live right out of you.”

  Tris, Deter and Jensen sat crammed in a windowless briefing room. Outside, the simulator rocked in time to flight maneuvers.

  Jensen fired questions at her. Deter said nothing as she dashed off thorough, correct answers to each one. She was pleased to show the depth of her understanding of aircraft systems, procedures, and operations. Deter never acknowledged it, but it meant something to her.

  She and Deter were on a short break before the sim ride began. She pressed him for any information about Ross.

  “Do you know how it happened?” She asked, but had her own suspicions. Deter’s eyes met hers and he nodded slightly, knowingly. They both thought Ross had been drinking.

  “Not really. Just what I saw on the news.” Deter shook his head. “His car looked pretty banged up.”

  “Is he going to…”

  “Make it?”

  Tris nodded.

  “No idea. It was a bad accident, three people dead and all. And he’s in the hospital unconscious. Poor bastard,” Deter said as he walked to the men’s bathroom.

  Ross killed people. Could she have prevented it? Maybe if she had told Deter about O’Slattery’s. If she’d told someone, anyone at Tetrix that he came to her room in Vienna, how drunk he was.

  Tris looked down at the crisscrossed metal panel she stood on, through to the concrete floor twenty feet below. Ross lost his family. Now, this. Why, then, was she so conflicted, at once feeling partially responsible, yet angry at his drunken stupidity.

  No. It was not her fault.

  She did not cause those three deaths. Only the one.

  Fifty-One

  TRIS STOOD ON the catwalk a few yards from the simulator entrance. There was a chain in front of the metal door, the red “In Use” light illuminated on the square, white structure. She needed to wait a few minutes longer until the previous crew finished up. The box’s hydraulic legs slid feverishly up and down. Someone was working hard in there.

  She thought she was alone until she heard Deter and the man she thought was Jensen talking farther down the hallway. She heard laughter and someone—Deter, she thought—say loudly, “No kidding. You know him?” Aviation was a small community; with all the years Deter had come here for training, of course they’d know each other and have friends in common. Tris grudgingly accepted that she’d be sharing the ‘stimulator’ with a couple of country cousins for the next two hours.

  Finally, the simulator door popped open. The exiting crew joked and slapped each other on the back. Two passes. With barely a nod between them, Deter and Jensen headed inside, and she followed.

  When the two pilots strapped into their seats, Jensen set the sim’s computer to Exeter and Kennedy airports for Tris’s ride. She was familiar with both of them, though she preferred Kennedy with its long runways. Long runways, high altitudes, and extra fuel—a pilot’s best friends.

  Jensen started out the ride with basic maneuvers and non-emergency situations that Tris had to assess and resolve. Deter was a competent first officer who responded in rhythm with her commands. She made flight decisions quickly and correctly.

  One by one, Tris completed the required maneuvers. She knew she flew the box within required tolerances. She kept looking over at Deter, hoping today of all days he’d show some signs of support. A smile and nod. A “looks good” now and then during a particularly tense maneuver. He’d occasionally jot something down on a small notepad.

  The simulator creaked and bounced as Tris landed it for the third time. Jensen changed the visual setting to the departure end of the runway. He made sure Tris and Deter completed the after landing checklists and gave them a new takeoff clearance as they configured the Astral for the next takeoff.

  Tris ticked off the list of required maneuvers quickly in her head to figure out what was left. Wind shear demonstration, visual approach and landing, and the V1 cut. Wind shear and the visual always came last. The V1 cut was coming up next—and she’d only get one chance.

  Tris took a deep breath and looked over at Deter. He sat Zen-like as Jensen entered data into his control panel behind the simulated cockpit and out of sight of both pilots. Deter probably knew the check ride protocol as well as Jensen. But he didn’t know Tris’s training history.

  Both engines would operate normally on the takeoff roll, then right as Deter called “V1, Rotate,” she’d hear the sound of an engine spooling down, feel the airplane yaw left or right. If she aborted the takeoff after V1, they would crash. If she took off but didn’t keep the aircraft climbing straight ahead, they would crash.

  Jensen set the sim to Exeter. They’d depart on Runway Two-Four Right. Good. She’d make a right turn and climb to four thousand feet. Just do it—block everything else out. It’s show time.

  “Astral Nine Tango X-ray,” Jensen said, using their aircraft’s tail number to make the ride more realistic. “Runway Two-Four Right, cleared for takeoff.”

  Tris pushed the power levers forward. “Power set,” Deter said. “Eighty knots.”

  She glanced at her airspeed indicator. “Cross-check.” The simulated sound of the wind tripping by outside and the bumpy feel of the runway below them were the only tactile sensations.

  “V1. Rotate.”

  As the left engine failed right at V1, Tris jammed the right rudder pedal to the floor and banked the wings. She lifted the heavy nose into the air, to get it away from the ground. Maintain course, maintain airspeed, and, for God’s sake, climb.

  “Left engine failure,” she called.

  “Positive rate.” Deter confirmed they were rising.

  “Gear up.” Then, at four hundred feet, “Flaps up, stand by for engine failure memory items.”

  At that precise moment, Jensen-as-tower instructed, “Nine Tango X-ray contact departure one-one-eight-decimal-five, climb and maintain four thousand.” Tris kept the aircraft under control and continued to climb. Deter said nothing.

  “Tell ATC we’ve had an engine failure and ask for vectors back to the ILS Two-Four Right
approach.”

  Deter did as he was told. “Departure, Astral Nine TX climbing to four thousand. We’ve had an engine failure, requesting vectors back to the ILS Two-Four Right at Exeter.”

  “Roger, Astral Nine Tango X-ray. Are you declaring an emergency at this time?”

  “Yes. Have them roll the trucks,” Tris ordered.

  “Roger.” Deter keyed the mike. “Departure Nine TX, we’re declaring an emergency.”

  “Astral Nine Tango X-ray, understand. Do you want emergency vehicles standing by?”

  “Affirmative.”

  So far, so good. No altitude, airspeed, or heading busts. They made it up to four thousand and Tris had the aircraft stable. She kept her right hand on the one good power lever, and opened and closed her left hand to make sure she didn’t get the death grip on the yoke. Her palm was clammy and her fingers cramped.

  “Is the emergency checklist complete?”

  “It is,” Deter replied.

  “Thanks. Ok, descent and approach checklists, please.” Tris began to configure the aircraft for the approach. Sure enough, the check airman vectored them back to Exeter before Deter finished the checklists—a standard training ploy meant to distract her from flying the airplane. In the real world, Exeter would have sent every other arriving aircraft into a hold to give priority to the crippled Astral. She’d need to get it on the ground quickly and safely.

  Just then her scan moved over to the altimeter. The needle dipped beyond a hundred feet low. Shit. Why didn’t Deter alert her? She glanced over at him while gently lifting the yoke to reverse the trend. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a slight grin on Deter’s face. He jotted down a quick note on his pad. Oh shit. Did he notice? Did the examiner?

  “Astral Nine Tango X-ray, are you ready for the approach? Turn to the heading of Two-Six-Zero to intercept the final approach course.” Jensen delivered the approach clearance.