The plane stabilizes briefly. The intercom crackles. Craig Jennings's voice comes through—shaky, thin, trying to sound professional, but failing badly: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing severe turbulence. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened. Everything is under control."
Benjamin knows he is lying. Everything is not under control. The A320 is not designed to shake like this from turbulence alone. Something is wrong with the right engine. And the brief stabilization means the autopilot kicked in. But if the engine fails completely, the autopilot will not be enough. Not in this storm.
60 seconds pass. The plane shakes again, harder. The overhead oxygen masks deploy in rows 15 through 22. More screaming. A flight attendant stumbles down the aisle, grabbing headrests for balance, her face white as paper.
Then the cockpit door opens. Karen Bellows rushes in. She comes back out 12 seconds later. Her face has changed. The professional mask is gone. What is underneath is raw animal fear. She grabs another flight attendant and whispers something. The other attendant's hand flies to her mouth. They both look toward the cockpit like they are staring at a coffin.
Benjamin watches every movement. He reads their body language the way Captain Davis taught him to read instruments: with precision and without emotion.
The captain is down. He is certain of it now.
Karen Bellows picks up the intercom. Her voice trembles: "If there is any passenger on board with flight experience, any experience at all, please identify yourself to a crew member immediately."
Silence.
174 passengers, and not a single hand goes up. The businessman in the golf shirt stares at his shoes. Pamela Hargrove clutches her pearls and whispers prayers to a god she only remembers in emergencies.
Nobody moves. Nobody speaks.
Except Benjamin.
He unbuckles his seatbelt. He stands up, and he begins walking toward the front of the aircraft.
Grace Anderson sees him rise. Her eyes widen. She whispers, "Benjamin, what are you doing?"
He does not answer. He just walks—steady, straight, one hand brushing the overhead bins for balance as the plane shudders beneath him.
Passengers watch him pass. A teenager, a black teenager in a faded t-shirt, walking toward the cockpit of a dying airplane. Some stare in confusion, some in disbelief.
An elderly man grabs his wrist and says, "Sit down, son. This is not the time for games."
Benjamin gently removes the man's hand and keeps walking.
He reaches the front galley. Karen Bellows sees him, and her expression shifts from fear to fury. She steps in front of the cockpit door, blocking it with her body. And that is when she shoves him backward and hisses the words: "A filthy little brat like you dares to rush into the cockpit? You want to kill everyone faster? Is that it?"
Benjamin stands still. The plane drops again 100 ft. Karen stumbles. Passengers scream.
And in that chaos, Benjamin speaks for the first time since the crisis began. His voice is low, steady, and terrifyingly calm.
"The right engine has a stage 2 compressor stall. Your autopilot is compensating, but it will fail within 6 minutes in this wind shear. Your captain is unconscious or dead, and your first officer has less than 400 hours on type. If you do not let me through that door, everyone on this plane will die, including you."
Karen Bellows freezes. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
Karen Bellows stares at Benjamin like she is seeing him for the first time. Her mind is trying to reconcile two realities: the filthy little brat she shoved 30 seconds ago, and the boy who just diagnosed the aircraft's engine failure with surgical precision. Her mouth is still open; no words come out.
Behind her, the cockpit door is ajar. Through the gap, Benjamin can see it: Captain Ronald Beckett slumped sideways in the left seat, his body held in place only by the shoulder harness. His face is gray. His arms hang limp.
On the right side, Craig Jennings is gripping the yoke with both hands, sweat pouring down his temples, his eyes darting across the instrument panel like a student who walked into the wrong exam.
The master caution light is flashing amber. The engine warning display for the right powerplant is pulsing red. And through the windshield, there is nothing but black: a wall of storm clouds lit by flashes of lightning that make the cockpit glow like the inside of a strobe.
The plane drops again, hard. Karen grabs the doorframe. From the cabin behind them comes a fresh wave of screaming—louder, more desperate, more primal than before.
Benjamin looks at Karen. He does not repeat himself. He does not beg. He simply says, "Move."
And she does.
Benjamin steps into the cockpit. The smell hits him first: sweat, vomit, and the sharp metallic tang of electrical systems under stress. Captain Beckett's body is heavy and still. Benjamin does not look at the captain's face. He cannot afford to feel anything right now.
He turns to Jennings. Jennings sees him and his reaction is immediate: "What the—? Who let you in here? Get out! This is a restricted area!"
His voice is high-pitched, cracking at the edges. His hands are shaking on the yoke so badly that the control inputs are jerking the plane left and right in micro-corrections that are making the turbulence worse.
Benjamin sits down in the observer seat behind the center console. He speaks clearly: "Your vertical speed indicator is showing -1,500 ft per minute. You are descending and you do not realize it. Pull back gently, 2° nose up. Do it now."
Jennings stares at him. "You are a kid! A kid! Get out of my cockpit before I—"
The ground proximity warning system interrupts him. A robotic female voice fills the cockpit: "Sink rate. Sink rate."