"Where is he?" Diane asked the woman sitting across the aisle.
"He got up right after we stopped," the woman said.
"He went toward the back galley."
Diane hurried to the back of the plane.
The galley was empty.
The rear service door was open.
A folded emergency slide hung from the door frame, still partially inflated.
"He jumped," Diane said.
She turned back to Hargrove.
"He escaped through the back."
Hargrove pulled out his phone.
No signal.
He looked at Maya.
"Maya, is there a radio in the cockpit?"
"Yes.
Grandpa showed me how to use the emergency frequency."
"Go back.
Call Mayday.
Tell them where we are, what happened, and that the co-pilot fled the aircraft."
Maya ran back to the cockpit.
She picked up the radio handset.
"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.
This is Flight 847.
We have made an emergency landing at—" She checked the navigation screen.
"Barton Island Airfield.
Captain is incapacitated.
Co-pilot Craig Morrison fled the aircraft.
He is suspected of dr*gging the captain and tampering with the fuel.
Request immediate assistance."
Static.
Then a voice came back.
"Flight 847, this is Coast Guard Station Hatteras.
We copy your transmission.
Help is on the way.
Can you confirm the aircraft is on the ground safely?"
Maya looked at Hargrove.
Hargrove nodded.
"Affirmative," Maya said.
"Aircraft is on the ground.
All passengers appear safe.
Captain is unconscious but breathing.
Request medical and law enforcement."
"Copy that, Flight 847.
ETA fifteen minutes."
Maya set the handset down.
She sat back in the captain's seat and closed her eyes.
Diane came back to the cockpit.
"The passengers are OK.
A few bumps and bruises.
The mother and child are fine."
"Good," Hargrove said.
"Captain Hargrove," Maya said without opening her eyes.
"Why would he do it?"
"Do what?"
"All of it.
The captain.
The fuel.
Why would he want this plane to go down?"
Hargrove was quiet for a moment.
"I don't know, Maya.
But when they catch him, they'll find out."
It took less than fifteen minutes.
A Coast Guard helicopter appeared over the trees.
Two local police vehicles followed, bouncing down the dirt road that led to the airfield.
Paramedics boarded the plane first.
They lifted Captain Stevens onto a stretcher.
His pulse was weak but steady.
"He's going to need his stomach pumped," one paramedic said.
"Whatever he ingested, it was a heavy dose."
"Will he be OK?" Diane asked.
"He'll live.
He's lucky you found him when you did."
As they carried Captain Stevens down the aisle, the passengers applauded.
He couldn't hear it.
But they clapped anyway.
Then the police came aboard.
One of them — a tall man with a weathered face — approached the cockpit.
"Who flew this plane?"
"I did," Maya said.
The officer stared at her.
"You're — how old are you?"
"Eleven."
He looked at Hargrove.
Hargrove nodded.
"She flew it.
I talked her through it.
She's the reason we're alive."
The officer knelt down to Maya's eye level.
"Young lady, that was the bravest thing I've ever seen."
"Thank you, sir.
Did you find Mr.
Morrison?"
The officer's expression changed.
"We found him.
Half a mile from here, running through the marsh.
He tripped and broke his ankle."
"Can I talk to him?" Maya asked.
The officer frowned.
"Why?"
"Because I want to know why he tried to k*ll everyone on this plane."
The officer looked at her for a long moment.
Then he sighed.
"Come with me."
Maya walked down the aisle.
Every passenger watched her go.
Some reached out and touched her shoulder as she passed.
She stepped off the plane into bright sunlight.
Morrison was sitting on the ground beside a police car, his ankle wrapped in a splint, his hands cuffed behind his back.
He looked up when he saw her.
His expression didn't change.
"You," he said.
"Me," Maya said.
"You think you're a hero, little girl?"
"No, sir.
I think I'm alive.
And I want to know why you tried to make sure I wasn't."
Morrison sneered.
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
Morrison looked away.
"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," he said.
"That's what they paid me."
"Who paid you?"
"A shell company.
Connected to a rival airline.
They wanted this flight to go down.
Crash the stock price.
Let the buyout go through."
Maya stared at him.
"One hundred and sixty-two people on this plane.
A mother with a baby.
A little boy who's four years old.
And you did it for money?"
Morrison's jaw tightened.
"You don't know what it's like.
Twenty years of flying.
Pay cuts every year.
Pension gone.
They were going to fire me in six months."
"So you decided to k*ll everyone because you lost your job?"
"I didn't care about the passengers.
I cared about my family."
"Those passengers ARE families," Maya said.
Her voice was shaking.
"That mother in row seven — she was taking her son to meet his grandmother for the first time.
That businessman you were going to m*rder — he has two daughters waiting for him at home.
Captain Stevens has a wife."
Morrison's face went blank.
"I didn't think about—"
"No.
You didn't.
That's the problem."
Maya turned to walk away.
"Hey," Morrison called after her.
"You got lucky.
That's all.
Lucky your grandpa taught you.
Lucky that pilot was on board.
Lucky the fuel lasted long enough."
Maya stopped.
She turned back.
"Luck is when something good happens and you didn't do anything to deserve it.
I trained for four years.