“Seven Eight Two, be advised. Carnmore is experiencing severe gale-force crosswinds. Ground gusts are forty-five knots. The landing gear must be fully locked before you attempt the approach.”

“We understand,” I said.

I hung up the mic and looked at Malachi.

“He said the winds are forty-five knots,” I said.

“My dad taught me about crosswinds,” Malachi said, his face pale but determined. “We have to crab the plane into the wind. We align it at the very last second.”

“At twelve years old?” Gerald whispered, his face white. “You’re going to try to land a commercial airliner in a gale?”

“I don’t have a choice, Mr. Whitmore,” Malachi said.

He reached for the landing gear lever on the main panel.

“Let’s get the gear down early,” Malachi said. “We want to make sure we’re stable.”

He pulled the heavy lever down.

We waited.

Usually, there is a deep, mechanical clunk as the huge wheels drop into place.

But this time, there was only a high-pitched whine.

On the main instrument panel, three small wheel symbols began to flash.

The nose gear turned green.