PART 3 — THE WOMAN WHO KNEW HOW TO FLY
The aircraft dropped another thousand feet.
The alarm screamed through the radio.
Mercer’s breathing became louder.
“I’m losing altitude!”
“Mercer, stop fighting the stick,” I said.
There was silence.
Then:
“Who is this?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
The technician looked at me.
“Ma’am?”
I reached for the headset.
“Give me the radio.”
He handed it over.
I pressed the transmit button.
“Lieutenant Mercer, release the controls.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Release them.”
“I can’t!”
“You can.”
His voice cracked.
“Ma’am, I don’t know who you are, but I’m in an aircraft that’s trying to kill me!”
I looked through the window.
The jet was now banking dangerously.
I closed my eyes for half a second.
The smell of jet fuel.
The vibration.
The radio static.
The sound of a young pilot panicking thousands of feet above the ground.
It brought back memories I had spent years trying to bury.
I opened my eyes.
“Mercer.”
“Yes?”
“Listen carefully.”
The entire maintenance room had gone silent.
“You’re looking at the instruments.”
“Yes.”
“They’re lying to you.”
Another pause.
“How do you know?”
I looked at the card.
“Because I know what was changed.”
He went silent.
Then he asked the question that changed everything.
“How?”
I took a breath.
“Because I designed the original system.”
Nobody in the room moved.
The technician slowly turned toward me.
Mercer didn’t respond.
I continued.
“Your artificial horizon is giving you a false attitude indication. Your flight-control interface is feeding contradictory data into the system. If you keep correcting based on what you’re seeing, you’ll make the aircraft worse.”
Mercer’s voice was barely audible.
“Who are you?”
I looked down at my faded flight suit.
At the insignia he had ignored.
At the years of wear he had mistaken for insignificance.
“My name is Captain Elena Ward.”
Silence.
Then I heard one of the technicians whisper:
“Captain Ward?”
Another voice answered:
“That’s impossible.”
Mercer finally spoke.
“Captain Elena Ward…?”
“Yes.”
“The Elena Ward?”
I said nothing.
He knew.
Everybody in that room suddenly knew.
I had flown experimental aircraft before Mercer had even received his first flight assignment.
I had spent years testing emergency-control systems.
And twelve years earlier, I had been involved in the accident that changed the entire program.
The accident that had taken two pilots.
The accident that had convinced me never to sit in a cockpit again.
At least, that was what everyone believed.
Mercer breathed heavily over the radio.
“Tell me what to do.”
“Stop looking at the panel.”
“What?”
“Fly by the aircraft’s actual response. Not what the screen is telling you.”
He followed my instructions.
The aircraft leveled slightly.
The warning tone changed.
“I’m getting control back.”
“Good.”
“I’ve got it.”
“No.”
I looked at the maintenance screen.
“Not yet.”
The technician stared at me.
“What is it?”
I pointed at the display.
“There’s another problem.”
Mercer heard me.
“What problem?”
I watched a second warning appear.
Then a third.
My face went cold.
“Your emergency system has been disabled.”
Mercer stopped breathing for a moment.
“What?”
“The backup control circuit isn’t responding.”
“How long do I have?”
I looked at the numbers.
Then at the runway.
Then at the aircraft descending through the clouds.
“Not enough.”
Nobody spoke.
Mercer whispered:
“Can you get me home?”
I tightened my grip on the radio.
“Yes.”
Then I looked at the maintenance technician.
“Open the old simulator.”
He stared at me.
“The simulator?”
“Now.”
He ran.
Mercer came back over the radio.
“Captain Ward…”
“Yes?”
“Why did you come here today?”
I looked through the window.
His three friends were no longer laughing.
One had lowered his phone.
Another was staring at the aircraft.
And the third was staring at me.
I answered quietly.
“Because someone sent me your flight schedule.”
Mercer went silent.
“Someone who knew this aircraft had been sabotaged.”
Another pause.
“Who sent it?”
I looked at the handwritten card.
There was one final detail I hadn’t noticed before.
A name.
Written beneath the warning.
MERCER — IF SHE’S THERE, LISTEN TO HER.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Because I recognized the handwriting.
It belonged to the pilot who had died twelve years earlier in the accident that ended my career.
And there was no possible way he could have written that message.
Not twelve years ago.
Not last night.
Not ever.
Unless someone had been hiding the truth from me all these years.
I raised the radio.
“Mercer.”
“Yes?”
“Forget the checkride.”
“Why?”
“Because this isn’t a training flight.”
I stared at the aircraft disappearing into the clouds.
“Someone wanted you dead.”
And then the radio went completely silent.