She looked up. The hydraulic pressure gauge was ticking down: slowly, but moving. Not another tampering—this one was probably genuine cascade: the thermal buildup in the avionics bay affecting the hydraulic system controller. One deliberate fault creating conditions for a second fault that hadn't even been planned.
"How much do I have?" she asked.
"Pressure is at 2,800. Normal is 3,000. It's dropping slowly."
She did the math: at the current rate, she had enough hydraulic pressure for the approach and landing—maybe. If nothing else degraded, and if she managed the control inputs carefully: minimizing hydraulic demand, using trim rather than control surface deflection wherever possible, conserving what she had.
"I can work with that," she said. "But I need to land this aircraft before that pressure gets below 2,000. After that, I start losing control authority I can't recover."
"How far out are we?"
She checked the navigation display. "62 miles."
The radio crackled: static resolving into fragments, then into something clearer. "7702, do you copy? Over."
"Reeves." She keyed the mic. "7702, I copy. You're broken but readable. I set 7600 during interference. Current state: left engine at 69%, hydraulic pressure beginning slow decline. I estimate adequate for landing if I can maintain current rate. I need to know my distance, and I need to know that runway is ready. Over."
Reeves' voice was steadier now that the storm cell had moved slightly: "Copy all. You're 60 miles out. Runway is prepared. Emergency services staged. Foam trucks on standby. I need your fuel state. Over."
"Fuel is adequate. The imbalance is still present, but manageable. I'm not declaring a fuel emergency." She glanced at Warren, who nodded confirmation. "Over."
"Understood. Zariah, I need to tell you something." A pause. "Caldwell Regional—the runway is 5,800 feet. For a regional jet in normal configuration, that's workable. In your configuration with the hydraulic issue, it's tight. I need you to be prepared for that."
She'd already known it would be tight; she'd done the math twice. "Copy," she said. "I'm prepared."
Gerald had done what Zariah asked: he'd moved through the cabin quietly, professional—the way you move when you don't want to alarm people more than they already are. He positioned himself two rows ahead of the man in the middle seat, the one whose name was on the manifest as Mr. Derek Hollins. And he'd asked Keely to take the aisle seat directly beside him under the pretense of a passenger welfare check.