“Left wing…” Danny whispered.

His eyelids fluttered and closed again.

“What did he say?” Whitmore whimpered.

“What about the left wing?”

“The fuel imbalance,” Malachi said.

He was checking the overhead panel.

“They pumped all the fuel into the left main tank.”

“That’s why we’re tilting.”

“It’s making the crosswind landing even harder.”

The gray clouds outside suddenly broke.

Below us, the dark green fields of the Irish coast appeared.

They were streaked with white foam where the sea met the cliffs.

The rain was hitting the windshield in loud, horizontal sheets.

The wipers were clacking at maximum speed.

“There’s the runway,” Malachi said.

He pointed through the rain.

A long strip of gray concrete sat near the edge of the water.

It looked incredibly small from this height.

Several yellow emergency vehicles were parked near the threshold.

Their lights were flashing tiny dots of red and blue.

“Shannon Military Sector, this is Flight Seven Eight Two,” Malachi said into his headset.

His voice was steady, but I could see his shoulders shaking.

“We are on final approach.”

“Our right main gear is unsafe.”