Warren looked at the chart. "There's a smaller strip, military, mostly inactive, 14 miles northwest. Runway is... it's not long."
"How not long?"
"4,200 feet."
She did the math: a regional jet at approach speed with partial hydraulics and degraded engine performance landing on 4,200 feet. The numbers were not comfortable numbers.
She keyed the mic. "Reeves, 7702. I need a closer option. What can you tell me about the military strip northwest of my position? Over."
Reeves came back fast: "7702, the strip is Harlow Auxiliary Field. Decommissioned National Guard. Last active use four years ago. Runway is asphalt, 4,200 feet. No ILS. No approach lighting system. Wind at that location is variable, estimated 190 at eight knots. There are no emergency services staged there." A pause. "Zariah, I have to be honest with you: that runway was not built for the aircraft you're flying."
"I know," she said. "What's my alternative?"
"Caldwell is 48 miles in your current engine state."
"In my current engine state, my right engine is showing performance degradation, and I have approximately 12 minutes before my hydraulic pressure drops to a level where I start losing meaningful control authority." She checked the gauge: 2,400 and still moving. "48 miles at reduced airspeed is 15 minutes minimum. I don't have 15 minutes of hydraulics."
Silence on the frequency. She could hear him working through it on the other end: the math, the options, the responsibility of confirming a decision that had no good answer.
"Harlow has a surface inspection flag from the last maintenance review," he said. "There may be cracking on the asphalt. I can't guarantee runway surface integrity."
"Copy that."
"Zariah—"
"Mr. Reeves." Her voice was quiet and exact. "I need you to get emergency services moving toward Harlow Field right now. I need the best surface condition information you can get me in the next five minutes. And I need you to trust that I understand what I'm flying into." She adjusted the heading. "Can you do that?"