Chapter 3: If You Can Walk Away from a Landing…
"Okay, that's done," Astrid said. "Finally." The last part she let out off-radio, breathing a quiet sigh of relief.
Flipping up her helmet visor, she rubbed her tired eyes. The sun was high in the sky, shining bright and forming glare spots through the cockpit canopy, making her squint.
This was harder than she had anticipated; without her own reference to look at, Hiccup had to verbally read out to her everything shown on the Flight Management Computer display. She would tell him which keys to press, and the process would repeat. Merely getting to the fuel status screen had taken far too long, and then there was navigation and waypoints.
On a positive note however, barring the initial snarkiness, Hiccup proved to be very easy to talk to.
The passenger-turned-pilot listened carefully, was very succinct and exact in describing what he saw, and verified with her the results of everything he did. The questions he asked regarding how the systems interacted showed he was astute and attentive too.
He also peppered their lulls and breaks with pop culture references, puns, and terrible jokes, some of them too geeky or obscure for Astrid to understand. The mental image it all conjured up in her mind was of a young-ish guy in jeans and a hoodie, standing behind the counter at a comic book or maybe board game store.
But Astrid found his wittiness a welcome interruption to otherwise somber silences that would've left both of them with too much time to ponder, to dwell on what-ifs.
Paralysis or resignation were common reactions when someone without training was suddenly made all too aware of the possibility of impending death. Freezing up was never good, but the latter could be equally bad; pressured to do something, going through the motions of struggling, yet without any real care toward the outcome.
Hiccup was impressive. Between his silly banter and her instructions, he didn't leave himself time for fatalistic thinking, and kept up an upbeat atmosphere.
As for herself, she'd also rather not think about how her voice could be the last one he ever hears.
"Let's go over the checklists and approach charts next. The checklists are electronic, and the charts will probably be in the pockets or pilot's bag, think you can find them?"
While she waited, Astrid tried to stretch as much as the confines of the cockpit allowed. On longer flights like this she missed the luxury of being able to walk around. Or to use the lavatory. She didn't envy the Air Force pilots that had to fly transatlantic to Europe.
Eyeing the airliner off her wing, Astrid idly wondered what it was like in the cabin. She had positioned herself further away post-visual check, but passengers could no doubt see her.
They would've seen the live missiles she carried too.
At the back of her mind was also a nagging concern that later she might be reprimanded for her actions. Putting aside whether she should be assisting, she hadn't been a 777 line pilot for some time, and never an instructor.
But even with a century of flight, the sky could still be an unpredictable and unforgiving place. And like their oceangoing counterparts, when a call for help went out everyone in the airspace pitched in.
Hiccup returned with the charts, and she began instructing him on how to fly via autopilot inputs.
After running through her improvised and heavily condensed lesson for what felt like several dozen times, Astrid was satisfied Hiccup could now recite the procedures by heart. Her check captain from her type certification days would've been proud.
"So, that's all there is to it?" Hiccup asked her. "Man, you airline types have it easy, just relax and let the plane do its thing. Meanwhile my local airstrip doesn't even have a tower," he teased.
Astrid rolled her eyes at the provocation. "Don't get cocky, kid."
They continued on in silence, and Astrid took the opportunity to take off her oxygen mask and down the last of her water supply. The talking had left her throat parched, and she was starting to regret not having packed another bottle in her flight suit.
Speaking of drinking…
"You know, you're gonna owe me a few drinks after this," she informed Hiccup matter-of-factly.
"I will buy you drinks for the rest of your life if this works."
"I'll hold you to that. And just to be clear, you won't be able to brush me off with Bud Light."
"Oh don't worry, I'll get you baijiu," came his response, quick as usual. "They host guests with it over in Beijing. Distilled from some kind of fermented grain, looks like vodka except much stronger, well over 100 proof.
"Supposedly Henry Kissinger used to say they could solve any diplomatic dispute if everyone drinks enough of it. For a lifetime, I'd say the bottle in my bag should last you?"
Oh, hell no. Throughout her time at bars near air bases, other military types, especially the Air Force hotshots, always assumed her lithe figure (and being a woman) meant she couldn't hold her drink.
And without fail she always drank them under the table, so she was not about to let a civvy taunt her too.
"I've been to Chicago, I've had Malört," was her smugly boastful retort. "Your Chinese liquor doesn't scare me."
"What on earth is Malört?"
Astrid could virtually see the question mark floating over his head and grinned to herself. She loved telling this story.
"During the Prohibition, a guy called Carl Jeppson made a homebrew from wormwood and sold it as a dental anesthetic. When the police came they didn't buy his story, so he offered they try it to prove he was innocent.
"The cops thought he was trying to bribe them until one did, and it was so bad that they were convinced nobody would ever willingly drink it, and they left him alone after that. That's been selling as Malört ever since."
The pause that followed was remarkably long, and Astrid indulged in a bit of reveling at having stumped him for the first time.
"So you're telling me," Hiccup ultimately replied slowly, "that you went into a bar, asked for this, this Malört, paid for it… And nobody stopped you?"
Now it was Astrid's turn to burst out laughing.
"NorCal, good morning. Blade Three One and Three Two escorting Air China Nine Eighty-Five Heavy with you now."
On a normal day, the airspace around San Francisco International Airport was one of the busiest in the country.
Northern California Terminal Radar Approach Control—NorCal—managed the arrival of all the aircraft destined for several airports in the Bay Area like a well-choreographed dance, before handing off to individual airport tower controllers for the last leg.
Today though, traffic had been cleared and operations all but halted at SFO in preparation for their emergency arrival. And to reduce Hiccup's workload, all the controllers from here on out would be on the same radio frequency.
Astrid asked for a descent profile and instrument approach to Runway 28R, the northwest-heading runway at San Francisco and also their longest.
Once close enough the runway's Instrument Landing System would guide the airliner in, rather than needing Hiccup to eyeball it. The localizer would keep the plane aimed at the centerline of the runway, and the glideslope providing a gentle 3° descent to the ground.
She would shadow him on the way down, eyes peeled for any flight path deviations, but by now she was optimistic, cheery even.
As long as Hiccup configured for an automated landing correctly, it could almost be another regular landing.
"Heavy?" Hiccup's voice buzzed through her headset.
It took her a moment to figure out what he was asking about.
"Yeah, the Triple Seven leaves a stronger wake turbulence, so the 'heavy' at the end of the call sign reminds controllers to maintain enough separation."
"I'm not okay with you calling me heavy. I'll have you know I have only 10% body fat, I'm like a pigeon. Or a talking fishbone, depending on who you ask."
Astrid groaned. "Focus, Hiccup," she chided. "This is the part where you need to start thinking like us, like a real pilot."
"Yes ma'am. Sorry."
"Blade Three One and Air China Nine Eight Five." The controller was back. "ILS for Runways Two Eight Left and Two Eight Right unavailable, glideslope NOTAMed out of service due to construction. Sorry, we thought you were already told."
A flash of annoyance and anger drew across her features. What a colossal screw-up, she thought.
Here they were, trying to get a few hundred people on the ground safely, and those they relied on for support couldn't get what was basically a game of telephone right.
It wasn't the end of the world, yet it left Astrid anxious about whether something else had been missed.
"Fine," she answered curtly, "we'll take ILS for One Nine Left."
"Roger, turn left heading one zero zero, descend—uh, correction… Standby."
Standby? For what, so Hiccup could waste fuel circling in a holding pattern instead of reserving it for as many landing runs as he needed?
"Negative on One Nine Left, Blade Three One. Request Air China Nine Eight Five make a visual approach for Two Eight Right."
"What? Why?" Astrid practically snarled, professionalism quickly evaporating.
She heard Hiccup give a soft, mirthless bark of laughter and utter something about Murphy's Law.
"Blade Three One," the controller said, sounding rather uncomfortable, "suggest you contact Bigfoot for further information."
For the second time this morning, she wondered what the hell was going on. Bewilderment seemed to be the running theme for the day.
Thoroughly agitated, Astrid punched in the radio frequency for her Western Air Defense Sector controllers for a situation update.
Bigfoot reported that airport officials had advised the ILS on the shorter 19L was not certified for autoland. She knew that, but under the circumstances she considered the lack of radio signal redundancy more a bureaucratic issue.
Others evidently disagreed, warning that any failure, however temporary, could cause an upset that Hiccup would be unlikely to recover from.
A risk assessment also found that a residential area was located several hundred yards beyond the end of 19L, and the approach to the runway would take the flight over Berkley and downtown Oakland.
Consequently, civilian authorities had determined the additional exposure of population centers to danger and the possibility of high casualties on the ground were unacceptable, and ruled out the option.
Astrid sat motionless in her seat, stunned.
"They're going to risk killing an entire plane full of people over the off-chance more people on the ground could get hurt?" she demanded harshly, incredulous.
She knew she had stepped out of line as soon as the words left her lips, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Whoever made that decision needed a good, firm smack to the head.
A lengthy wait ensued, and upon Bigfoot's return it was a different voice speaking, "Blade Three One and Three Two, return to base. Units from Fresno are en route to relieve you."
Without bothering to check if her microphone was active, Astrid let loose a slew of expletives, not even sure who she was furiously cursing.
Bigfoot repeated the order, audibly stern and uncompromising. She growled out a terse "Roger that," and went to join Hiccup's frequency.
Hesitation prevented her from speaking immediately. What was she going to tell him?
The truth would destroy his morale. Hiccup was sharp, and would undoubtedly arrive at the same conclusion she did:
Either the higher-ups deemed his odds of success so low that collateral damage became a major part of the equation, or they were already treating him and everybody else on board as dead men walking.
He trusted her though, of that she was certain. She could use that.
"Hiccup…" Astrid said gingerly and bit her lip, knowing she came off strangely guilty.
"Hiccup," she tried again, "the weather forecast says the crosswind on One Nine Left will be too strong for the autopilot to handle when you get there. You'll have to fly a visual approach to Two Eight Right yourself."
Without letting him react, she hurriedly continued, "I need to go as well, I'm getting low on fuel. I'll be running on fumes by the time I get back to base."
The words left a bad taste in her mouth, no matter how much she told herself it was for his benefit.
"Oh," he responded faintly, and she hated the sudden note of vulnerability in his voice, hated how it was her fault.
"I'm sorry," Astrid apologized, heartfelt and wishing she could offer more.
"Hey, you'll do great, I know you will. And once you're down, come find me in Portland sometime," she added gently.
"Are you asking me out on a date?" he asked, and Astrid could hear the return of a little smile in his voice.
"Yeah, I suppose I am," she chuckled. "I'm counting on those free drinks."
Whatever comeback Hiccup may have had never materialized, their exchange interrupted by air traffic control.
"Air China Nine Eight Five, we have instructors here with us ready to talk you down. Rest assured you're in good hands, let us know when you're ready."
Astrid took that as her cue to leave. But first she maneuvered closer to the airliner, drawing level with it and sidling up to the left cockpit window.
Looking out of the canopy over her shoulder and seeing she'd caught Hiccup's attention, she dipped her fighter's left wing followed by the right in a wing wave.
"By the way," she announced abruptly, "the name's Astrid."
Hiccup didn't say anything, instead acknowledging by waving his hand back. Astrid pulled away, gunning the engines and leaving the Boeing behind.
Try as she might though, she couldn't keep her mind off him. As the minutes passed and the outside scenery changed from towns and cityscape to rolling hills, she only grew more anxious.
There was physically no way she could spend the next two hours in suspense, and then sit through debriefing and gods knew what else once she landed without the slightest clue of what happened.
Against her better judgement, Astrid switched a radio to the frequency from earlier and began listening in.
"Make your call outs over the radio, think of us as your pilot monitoring."
"Okay, um, flaps 1." That was Hiccup. He sounded nervous.
She listened as he descended to a lower altitude, and shook her head when he needed to fly an S-pattern to bleed off speed after forgetting to deploy the speedbrakes on the way down.
"Focus, Hiccup," she murmured.
Next came the trickier segment, managing speed and altitude to match the descent profile.
She heard him report reaching the last waypoint ahead of the runway, and mentally visualized the reference points he should be using to judge his approach.
"Yeah you're coming in too high and fast, go around and we'll try again."
To be expected. Getting it on the first try would have been nothing short of miraculous.
Attempt number two was aborted when Hiccup instead descended too rapidly, flying too far under the glideslope to recover.
The messages were getting quieter, a result of the weakening signal as she flew further away, and she twisted the radio's volume knob all the way over.
"I know it's tough, but you need to act faster and earlier. Try to predict where the aircraft will be rather than fixate on where it is. This time call out your speed and altitude and we'll help."
Astrid frowned. Hiccup was doing the job of two pilots alone, that could as easily overwork and overwhelm him.
He appeared unfazed however as he worked through his third try, and she kept her fingers crossed that this would be it.
"Flaps 20. One seven four, nineteen hundred."
"You should be able to see the PAPI lights, use them as a guide."
Third time might indeed be the charm, Hiccup having evidently split the difference between the previous two approaches and found a sweet spot. Inwardly, she cheered as the tower kept up a string of encouraging confirmations that he was on track.
"Alright good. Now, you're going to have to take over soon. You're nearly there, you're doing great. Hold her steady, make smooth control inputs and you'll be down in no time."
And just like that, her elation at how far he'd come was replaced by a sense of dread and a growing knot in the pit of her stomach.
Less than five hundred feet above the ground and about a mile from the runway threshold, Hiccup would have to turn the autopilot off and manually land the enormous 450,000-pound airliner himself.
Astrid could hardly hear the intermittent transmissions now, and she listened intently to try and distinguish anything amid the loud static.
"…Need to arrest your sink rate, pull up some more…"
The next words she barely made out, but they were unmistakable.
"Go around! Go around!"
And then, silence.
The time ticked by second by agonizing second, and a growing tightness in her chest told Astrid she hadn't been breathing.
But the lone sound in the cockpit was the drone of engines.
Tears pricked at the back of her eyes and she squeezed them shut. She slammed a fist hard against the canopy, her other hand gripping the control stick so tightly that it hurt.
Head hung forward over her chest, Astrid grit her teeth and drew in a shuddering breath, forcing herself to breathe normally, and hoped, prayed, that she was simply out of range.
By the time the autopilot leveled them off and began a sweeping turn to set up for another landing attempt, Hiccup's heart still hadn't stopped hammering in his chest, the blood continuing to pound in his ears.
Even before the cry to go around rang out through the radio, he could tell the ground was rising up far too quickly.
What followed had been a frantic reach for the takeoff/go-around switch, and in his panic he might have pressed it twice, he couldn't remember.
The ground had continued looming dangerously in the cockpit windows, despite the massive turbofan engines unleashing a roaring howl as the flight computer instantly commanded full power.
But the most powerful jet turbines in the world nonetheless seemed inadequate, and with how close the water appeared once the instruments at last showed a positive climb rate, Hiccup imagined the main landing gear wheels could have skimmed the surface.
Drawing in deliberate, steady deep breaths, Hiccup tried to calm his nerves from the near brush with disaster. He was fine, he was alive.
And if he wanted to stay alive, he needed to keep his head in the game.
The problem was with less than a minute of flying time till touchdown, he couldn't get a sense of how the 777 handled. His flying instincts did kick in eventually, but by then he had already flown out of the tiny margin for error.
Then again, what else could be expected when someone like him got thrown behind the wheel of a jet so big its engines could fit a small plane inside?
He needed either more time to learn the machine's rhythm, or let the autopilot take it down all the way, lack of precision in its current setting be damned.
The latter was not an option, or so he was told. Apparently the Boeing manual was unequivocal about disengaging the autopilot, though it made no mention of why. Hiccup personally figured that if there was ever a time to test what would happen if it stayed active, now was it.
Without warning, four chimes suddenly echoed through the flight deck. Startled, Hiccup inspected the displays to find what the alert was for. There on the center panel was a little line of text that made his stomach drop: "FUEL QTY LOW."
Checking the Flight Management Computer confirmed that the fuel tanks were near empty; predicted flying time suggested there was no room for another missed approach. This would be the end, one way or another.
"On the bright side," he muttered out loud to the empty cockpit. The flight attendant had left earlier to help prepare the cabin for an emergency landing and direct the evacuation that would presumably follow. "At least there won't be a fire if I crash."
"Turn right heading two five zero to intercept Two Eight Right localizer, reduce speed to one eight zero knots."
Right, he still had an extended list of tasks until he reached that stage. Hiccup tried to push the fact that the twinjet's tanks possibly held more vapor than fuel out of his mind.
"Heading set to two five zero," he said, turning the heading dial. He did the same for the speed selector, and stretched across to the right side of the dashboard to push the localizer mode button. Accessing the myriad buttons would be a lot easier with someone in the other seat.
"Speed set to one eighty, localizer armed."
With the airspeed decreasing, he delicately reached around the throttle quadrant to pull the flaps lever down another two notches, extending the trailing edge surfaces of the wings so they would keep the Triple Seven aloft at lower speeds.
Retracting his hand, Hiccup was careful not to graze against the other controls, particularly the thrust levers. The way they moved of their own accord was disconcerting. The automated system made constant engine power adjustments to maintain the selected speed, and the levers shifted to reflect that.
The control column did the same too, and the combined effect gave Hiccup the distinct impression that the jet was alive with a mind of its own. All he was doing was giving it instructions, and hoping it cooperated.
Hearing the flaps thunk into place, he reported "Flaps 20." Approximately the same time, his display indicated the autopilot had captured the localizer signal and was turning the aircraft to track the beam, and he looked back up out the windshield.
Had it not been for the stressful circumstances, Hiccup would have savored the marvelous view.
Merely a few scattered clouds, like floating cotton candy, interrupted an otherwise clear sky, with unimpeded visibility. The entire Bay Area lay spread out beneath him, nestled snugly amidst two mountain ranges, the water a sparkling blue, waves reflecting glints of sunlight.
The San Mateo Bridge, his five-mile reference landmark, stretched across the sea linking the two shores of the bay, seeming impossibly long. Further north in the distance stood the suspension bridge linking San Francisco and Oakland, the cities merely two dense gray clusters of buildings at each end.
San Francisco International Airport itself sat on the water's edge about halfway from the bridges, its perpendicular runways a cross shape jutting out from the coast. 28R was built partially on a strip of reclaimed land in the sea, the runway starting at the seawall and preceded by a long pier that housed lighting for night operations.
"You're roughly ten miles out, reduce speed to one seven zero and start your descent. Wind is two four zero at six knots."
Hiccup switched the autopilot flight director to vertical speed mode, and dialed in his descent speed.
The descent profile was effectively a basic trigonometry question, matching airspeed and descent rate to obtain and stay on a given approach angle.
One minute later, they were drawing near enough to the San Mateo Bridge that Hiccup could readily make out the cars scurrying along its length, and he flipped the landing gear toggle down, the airframe juddering as the heavy undercarriage locked into place.
The bridge slipped beneath his line of sight. Hiccup promptly reduced the forward speed setting to 160 knots and extended the flaps to their full length once the airspeed indicator showed they were slowing down.
A brief glance out the right window told him they had overflown the bridge and were descending through 1,750 feet. Going well so far.
Afterwards came the landing checklist. "Speedbrake armed, landing gear down, flaps at 30, checklist complete. Set approach speed one four three knots."
For good measure, Hiccup double checked the autobrake was set to maximum as well. He'd rather melting brakes over running out of runway.
Not that it would make a difference if he couldn't wrestle the aircraft onto the runway in the first place, he thought darkly.
As they closed in on a little green hill and marina that protruded out into the water from the left-hand-side coast, another idea flitted into his mind: What if he took over a lot sooner? The extra altitude would give him more time to get a feel for the beast of an airplane's peculiarities.
Hiccup shifted around in the pilot's seat, flexed his fingers, and gripped the yoke firmly in both hands. With his left thumb raised and hovering over the little black button, the enormity of what he was about to do hit him.
On his very last chance, he was going to ditch the plane's advanced automation and trust solely in his instincts.
It sounded crazy. It probably was.
"ONE THOUSAND." The monotone robotic voice of the Boeing's computer once again began announcing their height.
Two clicks on the button and the autopilot disconnect siren blared.
Straight away the smooth and steady motion of the 777 vanished, the previously continuous, precise control corrections from the computers no longer holding it in place. Air currents buffeted the jet and Hiccup instinctively made a few jerking inputs to counteract.
Luckily the fluctuations were small, the sheer size of the airliner dampening the wind's effect. It took him another couple of seconds to get a handle on maintaining attitude.
Hiccup tapped the trim tab on the yoke a few times with his thumb, adjusting the horizontal stabilizer so the aircraft would naturally sustain its current orientation in the air, and eased off on the control column.
Squinting at the grass to the left of Runway 28R, he spotted the guidance Precision Approach Path Indicator lights illuminated two white and two red, much to his relief. He was still on the glideslope.
The altimeter rolled through 500 feet. "FIVE HUNDRED. MINIMUMS, MINIMUMS."
The more he heard the mechanical voice, the less Hiccup liked the sound. Totally devoid of emotion and wholly dispassionate, it was as if the plane itself could not care less what became of it.
Hiccup's eyes flicked rapidly between the windshield and the instrument panel, scanning the digital dial needles, arrows, and numbers as he attempted to coax the behemoth downward steadily in a straight line, if not necessarily gracefully.
"FOUR HUNDRED."
The pier that led up to 28R was looking incredibly close, the water dominating his field of view. He pulled back gently on the control column and tried to aim for a couple hundred yards past the runway threshold, gaze fixing on the patch of ground blackened by thousands of landings on the same spot.
What was that rule from one of his first flying lessons? The aiming point stays glued to the same spot on the windshield on a stabilized approach.
"THREE HUNDRED."
The end of the pier disappeared under the airliner's nose. Hiccup heard something over the radio, but it didn't register in his mind. With a start he noticed the PAPI lights were now showing three white and one red; they were coming in too high. He began pushing on the yoke.
"TWO HUNDRED."
They were almost at the seawall. He could tell they were going to overshoot and added more pressure on the controls. This was by no means a stabilized approach but it couldn't be helped. The attitude indicator showed the jet pointing slightly nose down.
"ONE HUNDRED."
"C'mon buddy, come on!" he whispered desperately. The large white block letters spelling 28R sped past underneath.
"FIFTY."
The plane was coming down far to the right of the runway centerline, and the westerly breeze was not helping. So close to the ground, he didn't dare turn the controls more than a little, more concerned with ensuring the wings were level.
"FORTY."
"THIRTY."
Hiccup's left hand pulled on the yoke, raising the nose high to try and slow the airplane's descent moments from touchdown, while his right hand pulled the engine throttles all the way down.
"TWENTY."
"TEN."
The main landing gear hit the asphalt with a heavy thump that felt like it compressed his spine, followed immediately by a dull bang and scraping noise from the rear, and Hiccup knew he had landed hard and at a high angle, striking the 777's tail against the runway.
Yet he didn't dare ease off on the yoke, fearing they had bounced and were airborne again. Only when he felt the control column pulling against his grip did he let the nose start dropping down.
A muted squeal of rubber and faint vibrations signaled the nose gear finally settling onto the ground, and straight away Hiccup pulled the thrust reverser levers up. The engines rumbled as they revved again, air surging out of cascade vanes to slow the speeding aircraft, and the sharp deceleration flung him against the shoulder straps.
They continued hurtling down the runway, whizzing past the entrances to several taxiways. His feet fought with the brakes and rudder, trying to keep the nose aimed straight forward. Up ahead, he could see the antenna array for the localizer beyond the end of the asphalt, a row of red metal poles growing bigger.
In his mind's eye Hiccup saw the plane bearing down on the antennas, the steel masts tearing through the aluminum skin of the Boeing's lower belly and collapsing the front landing gear. The nose would plow into the ground, unstoppable momentum from the rest of the plane crumpling the damaged fuselage and folding the front section into the ground with him inside…
Strange, they didn't seem to be getting any closer.
Turning his attention to the instruments, it looked like the airspeed indicator was no longer working. Eyes wide, he jerked his head up and his gaze darted around out the flight deck windows.
They'd stopped.
Belatedly, Hiccup realized the thrust reversers were still on, and he hastily stowed them to prevent the airplane from sliding backwards and pulled the parking brake lever.
For a few seconds Hiccup simply sat there, unmoving. Staring down the length of his body, all limbs were present and accounted for, and the feeling of the shoulder straps digging uncomfortably into his skin told him he was definitely alive.
Squeezing the microphone key, he swallowed a few times and gasped out breathlessly, "Air China Nine Eight Five, stopping on the runway. Please don't make me taxi this thing to a gate."
A blast of noise came out of the speakers when the tower replied. "That was a beautiful landing! Jesus, that was amazing! I've got an entire room full of people up here cheering for you, you can probably hear it. Absolutely incredible!"
"Thanks, but I don't think the mechanics will agree," he quipped dryly, recalling the tailstrike and hoping he hadn't damaged the bulkheads beyond repair.
"'Any landing you can walk away from is a good one,' you did a terrific job, no need to be modest. Ground crews are on their way and will be with you shortly."
Hiccup reclined in the seat, and became aware that his hands were clenched stiffly on the controls, knuckles white from the pressure. Forcefully unclasping his left from the yoke and prying his fingers from the throttles, he could see he was trembling.
A bubble of unadulterated joy inflated in his chest, rising up and the next thing he knew he was flat out breaking into laughter. Hiccup threw his arms up and punched the air repeatedly, whooping in delight until he was hoarse.
It worked! Oh thank gods it worked! He could scarcely believe he'd pulled it off; he wasn't sure how he'd done it, but clearly he did.
As swiftly as the euphoria came, it was replaced by a wave of exhaustion and he flopped limply into the seat's sheepskin covers. His skin felt cold and clammy, and he guessed he'd perhaps sweated off a few pounds through the whole ordeal.
Muffled cries could be heard beyond the cockpit door, and with a start Hiccup remembered the cabin full of passengers.
It was truly over. He was alive and well, as were three hundred odd others.
There was one more thing.
"Tower, Air China. Any chance you could get word to the escort fighter from earlier that I made it down?"
"I'll see what I can do, but I'm sure they'll find out in no time themselves. There's enough news vans outside the fence for the whole thing to be the top story on every channel."
Well. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Would she—would Astrid—approve? He could see (or rather, hear) her offer a few claps and proceed to launch into an assessment of how he could've done better.
Flashing lights in the corner of his vision caught his attention, and Hiccup twisted around to look out the window down the length of the fuselage. A bright yellow-green airport crash tender had pulled up, and appeared to be dousing the main landing gear with firefighting foam.
Facing back down the runway, more fire trucks and ambulances were rushing towards them, only to come to a halt some distance away.
A short while later he understood the problem: the twin turbofans were sitting at idle, but nonetheless still spinning and sucking in huge volumes of air.
Hiccup peered all over the flight deck, and pressed the mic button again.
"Tower, Air China Nine Eight Five."
"Go ahead."
"How do I turn off the engines?"
A/N: This chapter was rewritten So. Many. Times. Including repeatedly after I thought I was satisfied with it. Hopefully its quality reflects its extended delay!