“We are going to attempt a gravity drop.”

The radio crackled.

“Roger, Seven Eight Two,” a voice with an Irish accent came through.

“The runway is clear.”

“Wind is two-eight-zero at forty-five knots, gusting fifty.”

“Good luck, son.”

Malachi took a deep breath.

“Okay,” he said.

“Grace, hold onto the seat.”

“Mr. Whitmore, brace yourself.”

“What about him?” Whitmore pointed at Thorne.

“Sit on the floor, Doctor,” I said.

“And put your hands where I can see them.”

Thorne did not argue.

He sat down on the metal floor of the cockpit, his back against the bulkhead.

He kept his phone face down on his knee.

Malachi pushed the yoke forward.

The nose of the Boeing dipped.

The speed increased.

The wind hit us like a solid wall.

The aircraft shivered and veered to the right.

“It’s pushing us off,” Malachi said.

He kicked the rudder pedals hard.

My feet slipped on the metal deck as the floor tilted beneath us.

“Now,” Malachi said.

“The gravity drop.”

He pulled the manual gear release handle on the floor.

Nothing happened.

He gripped the yoke with his left hand.