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“The computer systems are online and working, and the gauge is functioning, so we’re losing fuel,” said Captain Ross. “It’s happening somewhere in the balance system, and I haven’t been able to stop it.”
“Then don’t transfer any more fuel.”
“Roger that.” He exhaled sharply. “But according to the range indicator, we don’t have enough left to make it across the ocean. And I’m…” He rubbed his neck. A ring of flushed skin circled his collar.
“You’re what?” I studied the captain. Besides the flushed skin, he was unusually short of breath. The co-pilot, who we called Ayal since her last name was unpronounceable, was flipping through manuals, her tense features averted from the blinking controls. I turned back to Captain Ross.
“Do you feel okay, Mike?”
“I don’t feel great,” he said with his usual flair for understatement. “I could really use your help.”
“What can I do?”
His eyes flicked between the computer screen, the blinking lights, and the vast emptiness of sea and sky outside the window. “Communicate for us. I’m turning toward the Azores. Horta Airport. Ponta Delgada. Santa Maria. There has to be somewhere we can land.”
“Why don’t you let me fly?” I said. “You take over ground control and coordinate our redirect.”
His face was rigid, without affect. He punched the flight monitor, a blunt thunk of knuckles. “Damn it. We’re still losing fuel.”
“I’ll employ fuel-saving maneuvers. Just find us a place to land, preferably not in the ocean.”
It wasn’t a joke, not a funny one, anyway. If our fuel depleted to the point of starvation, the engines would flame out and we’d be gliding, with no ability to power the airplane or accelerate. A plane this size, at a high enough altitude, could glide fifteen to twenty minutes before craft met firmament, but not much longer.
I checked the fuel gauge and did some math as Ross chanted our coordinates and mileage to an air-traffic controller in some faraway tower. Engine one began to sputter. Shrill engine-failure warnings overlapped the low-fuel dings.
“Silence those,” I requested, thinking of Ella back in the cabin. I’d promised her we’d be safe. “Where the hell’s the fuel going?”
Ayal looked up from her manuals. “It’s got to be a leak in the right wing fuel line. We transferred too much petrol before we realized we were losing it in the process…the indicator…we thought the oil alert…we didn’t realize it was related to the fuel system until it was too late.”
“It’s okay. Calm down.” I looked into her frantic, dark-rimmed eyes. She’d flown for five years with Gibraltar. She wasn’t a long-timer like Ross, but she was experienced enough to know that running out of fuel over the Atlantic was a pretty bad emergency. “It’s going to be all right,” I said. “The Azores are in range, and there are nine islands to choose from. We’ll make it.”
“Ever landed in the Azores?” Ross ground out.
“A few times.”
“Without instruments? What if we lose power?”
I shook my head. “Even if we lose engine two, the ram air turbine will power the sensors we need to steer the plane.”
Ayal paled. “What if the flaps and spoilers fail? In flight school, we learned about an engine flameout situation where hydraulic power was lost. If that happens—”
A new, blaring siren on the panel informed us that engine one was shutting down due to fuel starvation. Even knowing it was going to happen, the change in thrust was a shock. The cockpit lights flickered and the plane dipped sideways.
“Increase engine two thrust,” said Ross. “Descend to thirty-two thousand feet.” Then he stood and put down his headset, placing a finger atop his wrist as if to take his pulse. “Kids, my blood pressure is…” He wove on his feet.
“Are you having a heart attack right now?” I asked. There wasn’t time for niceties. “Are you having a medical emergency?”
“No, no.” Ross waved a hand. “I’m light headed. My heart is racing, but there’s no pain.”
“Do me a favor and don’t have a goddamned stroke on top of everything else going on right now.”
Ayal ignored my outburst and spoke to the captain in a soothing voice. “Go sit down in the back, Mike. Chew some aspirin and try to relax.” She turned to me. “Can your friends look after him? You’re going to have to help me do this.”
“I will. Give me a minute.”
She turned away, taking brisk instructions from Portugal’s air-traffic control officials. I held the door open and guided Ross through, watching him for signs of an impending heart attack or stroke. He kept apologizing. At least it let me know he wasn’t in active trauma.
“I don’t want you to worry about anything,” I told him. I gestured to my friends. “Get up, please. You all have to go to the back of the plane and buckle yourselves in.”
