Chapter 8 - Touchdown On Fire
BAM!
The right main landing gear slammed into the tarmac with a concussive shockwave that rattled my teeth in my jaw and caused two ceiling panels in the flight deck to crack open.
The immense downward force shredded two of the starboard tires instantly, sending burning rubber and molten steel flying across the rain-soaked runway.
The aircraft bounced violently into the air—five feet, ten feet—threatening to stall and smash back down on its wingtip.
I didn't hesitate. I shoved the yoke forward, forcing the nose wheel down onto the centerline, and stood on the emergency toe brakes with both feet.
SCREEEEEECH!
The anti-skid system pulsed frantically as the remaining steel brake pads clamped down against the glowing red rotors. White smoke and showers of bright orange sparks billowed out from beneath the landing gear struts, illuminating the dark Shannon night like a flare.
"Spoilers deployed!" Marcus screamed over the screech of burning metal. "Thrust reverser on engine two... pulling!"
The starboard engine roared into reverse thrust, throwing water and debris forward past the cockpit windows. The left engine remained at idle to prevent the asymmetric torque from spinning the jet into the grass.
The aircraft slid sideways across the slick runway, fishtailing violently as the shredded tires tore away from their rims.
Through the side window, I could see emergency fire trucks—massive, yellow airport crash tenders—racing alongside us on the parallel taxiways, their blue strobe lights flashing, sirens screaming against the wind.
The runway end markers were rushing toward us at terrifying speed.
Three thousand feet remaining.
Two thousand feet.
One thousand feet.
The brake temperature gauges on the center console spiked into the red zone: BRAKES OVERHEAT - 850°C.
Fire began to lick at the right wheel well as hydraulic fluid ignited against the incandescent steel rotors.
"She’s not stopping!" Marcus shouted, bracing his hands against the instrument panel.
"Yes, she is," I snarled, hauling back on the mechanical emergency parking brake handle with every shred of strength left in my body.
The mechanical cable caught. The rear wheels locked completely.
The 250-ton aircraft slewed thirty degrees to the right, sliding sideways across the rain-slicked asphalt in a screeching, smoke-filled drift before grinding to a complete, shuddering halt—barely one hundred and fifty feet from the end of the paved runway, its nose cone hanging over the muddy grass of the perimeter fence.
Silence descended upon the cockpit.
The only sound was the heavy, ragged breathing of two exhausted men and the distant, rhythmic pinging of overheated metal cooling in the pouring rain.
Marcus Cole slowly dropped his hands from the instrument panel. He turned his head, looked at me through his cracked glasses, and whispered, "We're alive. Holy mother of God... we're alive."
I didn't answer. I reached up and pulled both engine fire cutoff switches, shutting down the turbines and killing the fuel pumps.
Outside, five airport fire trucks surrounded the aircraft, instantly blanketing the burning right landing gear with thick blankets of white chemical foam.
I unbuckled my harness, stood up on shaking legs, and pushed open the armored cockpit door.
The passenger cabin was completely silent.
Every single person was frozen in their seat, staring toward the front of the plane in stunned, disbelieving shock. Oxygen masks dangled like forgotten vines; luggage littered the carpet; but nobody had suffered a critical injury.
Then, someone in the middle rows began to clap.
A woman began to weep tears of pure relief.
Within five seconds, the entire cabin erupted into thunderous, deafening applause. People were cheering, sobbing, hugging strangers across the aisles.
Douglas Martinez sat in his seat with his head in his hands, trembling uncontrollably, unable to look up as I walked past him.
I didn't look at him either.
I walked straight to seat 8B.
Jillian Rhodes was standing there, tears streaming down her face, smiling through her exhaustion.
And there, sitting in the middle of the chaos, was Norah.
She looked up at me, her big brown eyes shining beneath the cabin lights, clutching her teddy bear tightly against her chest.
"Daddy," she said softly, reaching her small arms out toward me. "You brought the plane down."
May you like
I knelt in the aisle, wrapped my arms around her small, fragile frame, and buried my face into her shoulder. For the first time in ten years, a tear slipped down the cheek of the most feared syndicate boss in the Midwest.
"I told you, sweetheart," I whispered into her hair. "Daddy will always bring you home."
