Micah pressed the switch the way she had taught him, and his voice went out over Tennessee, young and clear and louder than his fear.
"Memphis, Meridian four-one-seven, level one-one thousand, ready for approach instructions. We are coming in."
Tom answered like a man standing up from his chair. "Four-one-seven, I have you. Let us bring you home."
Chapter 21: Descent
The descent began with a number Micah had said a hundred times in the simulator and never once in a real sky.
"Meridian four one seven, descend and maintain eight thousand," Tom Reyes said from Memphis, his voice calm inside Micah's headset. "Expect vectors for the visual backed by the instrument approach, runway one eight right. Altimeter three zero one two."
"Descend eight thousand, one eight right," Elena Vasquez repeated beside him, her left hand moving to the altitude selector while her right wrist, swollen and braced against a folded towel, stayed still in her lap. She glanced at Micah. "Your turn. Say it back to him exactly, then set it."
Micah pressed the transmit button the way Joe Abernathy had taught him, thumb steady even when his heart was not. "Memphis Center, Meridian four one seven descending to eight thousand, altimeter three zero one two."
"Good readback, four one seven," Reyes said. "You are doing fine work up there."
Below the nose, cloud filled every window, and the jet sank into it with a soft shudder, rain drumming steadily on the windshield.
"Now we make her ready to land," Vasquez said. "Slowly. No rushing, even when we are frightened. Checklist first — what do we check before descent?"
Micah reached for the laminated card with his right hand while his left stayed near the yoke, just as she had positioned it. He did not hold the yoke tightly. Joe's voice was in his ear, older and closer than the storm. Fly the plane first. Hands light. Listen.
"Descent checklist," Micah read aloud. "Pressurization — set for Memphis."
"Set," Vasquez said, tapping the panel with her left hand. "Next."
"Altimeters — three zero one two, both sides."
She leaned, squinting across at his side because she could not reach across with her injured arm. "Read mine the number I cannot set, and I will set yours by telling you. We are each other's hands tonight. Go ahead."
Micah turned the small knob under her direction, clicked it to 30.12, and felt a quiet pride — a thing done right, in order, when disorder was everywhere else.
Behind the cockpit door he could hear Grace Kim on the intercom, low and even, telling one hundred and forty-two people to fasten belts low and tight. He thought of Sofia calming passengers, and of Captain Mercer in the aisle under Dr. Priya Nair's hands, alive.
"Flaps," Vasquez said. "We will take them in steps as we slow. I cannot pull that lever and keep my hand on the thrust at the same time. That lever is yours, but only when I call it. Understand?"
"Only when you call it," Micah said.
"Flaps five, please. And call the speed as we pass it."
His fingers closed around the lever. In the simulator it had been loose and worn. This one was solid and cold and real, and his hand shook. She saw, and did not scold him.
"Breathe out as you move it," she said quietly. "Joe taught you that too, I think. Good mentors teach the same things."
He breathed out. "Flaps five, moving."
The jet answered with a low whine from the wings and a gentle lift, as if it were remembering what it was built to do. The airspeed needle eased down. Vasquez nodded once.
"Well done. Now gear — not yet. Gear waits until I say. What do we never do with gear?"
"Never guess," Micah said. "We check three greens."
"Three greens," she repeated. "When the time comes you will read them to me, one by one, and if there are not three, we do not pretend there are. We tell Reyes. We tell the truth and we fix it."
Reyes came back as if he had heard his name. "Four one seven, turn left heading one five zero, descend to four thousand. Memphis is reporting heavy rain, wind one nine zero at eighteen, gusts twenty-six. Runway is wet but open. Fire and medical are standing by for you."
"Left one five zero, down to four thousand," Micah said before Vasquez could nod, then caught himself and looked at her. She smiled, tired and real, beneath the oxygen of her own pain.
"You may answer when you are sure," she said. "I am right here to correct you. That is what a crew is."
The jet banked gently left, the cloud outside tilting, and Micah felt the turn in his stomach and in his grandfather's small green notebook, safe in his jacket pocket over his heart. He had not opened it once in the air. He did not need to. Every page was a habit now, and the habit was holding.