"Cockpit secure," Vasquez repeated, and for a moment her eyes closed. "Now we call Memphis, and you will hear how this is done." She reached across with her left hand and keyed the radio, and winced, and kept going. "And Micah— when we land, because we are going to land, you will tell your Mr. Abernathy that his student held a heading in a storm, in the left seat, at thirty-six thousand feet. Hold it still. That's it. Again. Just like that."
Chapter 16: The Voice from Memphis
The radio crackled so loudly that Micah flinched, and for a second all he could hear was static and his own breathing.
"Meridian four-one-seven, this is Memphis Center, say again your situation, slowly."
First Officer Elena Vasquez leaned forward with her left hand and pressed the transmit switch, her right wrist cradled against her chest in the makeshift sling Grace Kim had tied from a scarf. Her face was pale, but her voice stayed level.
"Memphis Center, Meridian four-one-seven. Captain incapacitated, medical emergency on board. My right wrist is broken. Autopilot is disconnected. We have turbulence, we are hand-flying, and I have assistance in the left seat."
There was a pause. Micah felt it stretch. He kept both hands exactly where she had told him to keep them, light on the yoke, eyes moving the way Joe Abernathy had drilled into him at Sky Lab: attitude, altitude, heading, airspeed, then back again, never staring at one thing too long.
"Meridian four-one-seven, copy," the controller said. "Who is assisting you?"
Vasquez glanced at him. "Tell him your name."
Micah swallowed. His mouth was dry. "My name is Micah Lawson, sir."
"How old are you, Micah?" The voice changed, just slightly. Not sharper. More careful.
"Fifteen, sir."
Another pause, shorter this time. Behind them, Micah could hear a baby crying and Grace speaking calmly down the aisle. Ahead was only black cloud and rain striking the windshield like gravel.
"Okay," the man said. "Okay. My name is Tom Reyes. I am going to be your voice from Memphis until you are safe on the ground. First Officer Vasquez, you are still pilot in command, is that correct?"
"That is correct," Vasquez said at once.
"Good. Then we do this together, in order, nothing rushed. Meridian four-one-seven, Memphis is your diversion. Repeat, you are cleared to divert to Memphis. Turn left heading two-four-zero, descend and maintain one-one thousand. I will keep the sky clear around you."
"Left two-four-zero, down to one-one thousand, Meridian four-one-seven," Vasquez repeated. She nodded at Micah. "You heard him. Small turn. Let the nose come around gently. I will watch the altitude."
His hands moved before his fear could catch up. At Sky Lab the yoke had been worn plastic on a battered simulator. This yoke was real, and the airplane answered in his palms, heavy and alive. The jet banked slightly, and the heading numbers began to roll.
"Easy," Vasquez said. "Hold it there. Do not chase it."
"I am not chasing it," he whispered, and then, embarrassed, louder, "Sorry. Holding."
"You are doing fine. Eyes outside the numbers for a second. Breathe."
Tom Reyes came back as if he had heard her. "Micah, I have a son who is seventeen. He cannot parallel park, so you are already ahead of him. Do only what First Officer Vasquez tells you, and read back what I tell you when she asks. Can you do that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. And call me Tom."
The jet shuddered through another band of rough air. A checklist binder slid on the floor. Vasquez caught it with her foot and did not wince, though Micah saw her jaw tighten around the pain in her wrist.
"Tom," she said, "we need a medical update relayed. Our captain, Daniel Mercer, is in the aisle with a doctor, Priya Nair, cardiologist. She believes heart attack. He is alive and receiving care. Request paramedics and an ambulance meet us on arrival, and advise the company."
"Copy that, four-one-seven. Paramedics will be waiting. I am declaring an emergency for you now, so you will have priority all the way in. No other traffic will bother you."
Emergency. The word settled over Micah, cold and clear. At Sky Lab, Joe had used it only on the hardest simulator days, and he had always said it the same way afterward: an emergency is not a panic, it is a list that got longer.
"Micah," Vasquez said, "green notebook can wait. Right now I need your voice. Tell Tom our altitude and heading."
He checked, the way he had been taught, twice before he spoke. "Tom, this is Micah. We are passing one-four thousand for one-one thousand, heading two-three-eight, turning to two-four-zero."
"Perfect readback, Micah," Tom said. "You sound like you have done this before."
"Only in a simulator, sir. In Jackson. For three years."
"Then tonight that counts. Keep flying the airplane. I will do the worrying about everything else."
Outside, lightning lit the cloud for one white instant. His thrift-store jacket was still damp at the cuffs, and the little green notebook pressed against his ribs, but his hands had stopped shaking quite so hard.