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“Turn around!” I insist. I’d head into a formation of enemy fighters anytime, but not this nasty weather band. Whoever let this flight take off was insane!
“Go back to your seat, sir!” the co-pilot shouts.
The plane goes into a nosedive following a lightning strike. The engine light comes on, and the cabin fills with screams and cries.
“Reduce power,” I command.
“Are you crazy?” He trembles.
“Cut the power. We need to slow down before you level the wings,” I guide him.
He listens to my advice, and the plane slows, although we’re still diving. He then nods at the empty pilot chair. “Well, that seat’s yours.”
I jump into it, then gently pull back the control column to raise the plane’s nose. The aircraft steadies, and we gradually gain back altitude.
“Doc, how’s the captain?” I glance back into the cabin.
“He’s breathing,” the doctor replies.
“Take a seat! Strap him and yourself up. It’s gonna be rough.”
For a good half hour, we’re in constant turbulence. People have stopped screaming, though several are puking instead.
“We’ve got this,” I assure my co-pilot despite the engine failing.
By now, he seems to have gathered his composure, alerting ‘May Day’ to air traffic control and communicating our intention.
“We’re landing soon. Hang on!” I yell.
This is no Snow Leopard, and I’m not in contested airspace, but my blood thickens like I’m in battle. I have lives depending on me.
Our altitude drops faster than I’m comfortable with, but anything is better than free-falling.
“Brace, everyone! Brace!” the co-pilot shouts as I take the Cessna to the ground.
A thump draws gasps from the passengers. It’s almost a dead-stick landing, but we’ve arrived in one piece.
Soon, fire engines swarm the plane.
“Everyone okay?” I yell.
Among the cries, I hear ‘yes’ from most people.
“Shit…” the co-pilot breathes when we’ve come to a complete stop. “Who are you?”
“Clayton Hartley. Former US Air Force.” I hate to say former, but I never pretend to be something I’m not.
“I guess no flying school will teach you that.”
I pat his shoulder. I’ve known a few Kenyan pilots, and they’re some of the best in the world. I mean, bush planes are bread and butter for many of them. This kid has skills. He just needs to learn to make better decisions.
We then help everyone disembark, starting with the almost incapacitated pilot. Ambulances and paramedics gather on the tarmac.
The two ladies run to me, throwing me a relieved hug. “Thank you.”
I pat their backs lightly. Curiously, they appear to be the least shaken out of anyone.
“Hey, you never said your name,” one of them states as I rush away.
