I set a hand on Riggs’s shoulder and leaned over him to look at the display.
KevsCuz: They’re lined up.
HogDocKev: Great!
HogDocKev: Now, gimme the number on the right side of that display.
KevsCuz: 30765. Is that the altitude?
HogDocKev: Yep. There’s nothing to worry about, but that number’s a little low.
HogMasterHux: No it’s not. You’re fine where you are.
KevsCuz: Wait, which is it?
HogDocKev: You’re low. You’re heading to Colombia, which means you’ll be flying over higher terrain.
HogMasterHux: Flying higher means it’ll be harder to land.
HogDocKev: That’s THE OPPOSITE OF TRUE. Carter, when you fly too low, you have no time to correct your approach. Trust me. Have Riggs pull up on the yoke again very gently and slowly until that number reads at 33-35k, then ease off. That’s a better cruising altitude.
“Riggs?” I squeezed his arm. “Kev says you need to gain altitude until we’re at 35,000 feet.”
Riggs hesitated. “Kev says? What’s Hux saying?”
I licked my lips. “He says we’re okay where we are. But he also hasn’t found a manual.”
“Fuck.”
I read him the whole convo. “Kev wouldn’t say he knew what he was talking about unless he did,” I said staunchly. “We need to trust him.”
“Your cousin who spends his entire day in your grandfather’s basement playing with his Horn? You want to trust him with our lives?”
I thought this was very unfair, since it seemed like Hux played at least as much as Kev did, but unlike some people, I was capable of keeping a conversation on track.
“Yes,” I said simply. “Trust me when I tell you we can trust him, Riggs. Trust me.”
Riggs’s jaw worked before he nodded once. He pulled back on the yoke gently, and the nose of the plane tilted upward. We both watched tensely as it climbed to 35,000, then let out a deep breath as he slowly relaxed on the yoke.
“What’s next?” he demanded.
KevsCuz: We climbed.
HogMasterHux: Fuck.
HogDocKev: Good. Now I’m gonna contact air traffic control for you in Colombia. Looks like there’s a little airport west of Maracaibo in a town called Santa Irma that would work.
HogMasterHux: Seriously? Now you speak Spanish? JFC, this gets weirder and weirder. Dr. Rogers, please listen to me. I’m working to find you a manual. Just hold tight.
HogDocKev: Everyone knows English is the language of aviation. Duh. Now, hold on while I get you the radio frequency to plug into the Instrument Landing System, then they’ll guide you through how and when to deploy the landing gear, okay? The autopilot will do most of the work. You’re gonna be fine.
KevsCuz: Hux, is that a place you can get to easily so you can meet us?
HogMasterHux: Yeah. Santa Irma is the airport I was gonna direct you to. Our ETA is about forty-five minutes.
I let out a breath and relayed all of this to Riggs, who set his jaw and nodded, his eyes scanning the instrument panels.
A few minutes later, a call came over the radio. “H765D, this is Santa Irma, Colombia.”
“Santa Irma, this is H765D. We had a slight problem with our pilot…” Riggs explained the entire story—well, a heavily edited version that involved the pilot passing out from too much drink and us being forced to take over—and the air traffic control person explained in heavily accented English how to engage the autopilot system and input the coordinates for the airport so the plane could guide us there.
When they disconnected for a minute, Riggs looked at me, and his face broke out into a relieved smile.
“Does this mean we’re safe?” I asked hopefully.
“As long as they can get us on the ground, we’ll be home free.” A little thread of excitement hummed beneath his words.
“So… we did it? Go Team Riggs and Carter?”
Riggs shook his head, though his smile didn’t budge. “Not quite done yet.” He lifted a hand to cup my cheek, running his thumb over my cheekbone. “But yeah. Go Team Riggs and Carter.”
My heart thumped excitedly in a way that was part fear, part anticipation. And I figured if there were ever a time to take a risk, maybe it was right then.
“So, when we get back to Tennessee,” I began, “Maybe you and I could—?”
The radio crackled again. “H765D, begin approach to Santa Irma.”
Riggs winked at me. “Let’s table that, okay?”
“Oh.” I nodded aggressively. “Yeah, no. Totally. It can wait.”
Riggs engaged the radio, and the air traffic controller guided him in for a landing. My vision sort of tunneled when she explained that the airplane had an updated computer that would do everything except engage the landing gear and the brakes—that did not sound safe—but Riggs grabbed my hand and squeezed it before letting it go so he could keep both hands on the controls. “Deep breath,” he said.
I’d flown a thousand times before, but I’d never paid much attention to how quickly the plane lost altitude when it was time to land. The houses on the ground that started out as tiny specks grew larger and larger as we approached the airport and as our altitude dropped, my mouth flooded with the metallic taste of fear.