“Okay,” Alastair said. “The way I see it, we’ll pass south of the runway at… about three thousand feet. A tight left turn at, ah… fifteen-hundred, no, twelve-hundred-feet-per-minute descent rate should put us on final approach at six hundred feet above the ground with a little energy to spare.”

“Tight, but okay. Alastair, tell the controller that, and also tell him we need to begin our turn not an inch farther than one mile east of the approach end of the runway, displaced exactly one and a half miles south.”

“You’re sure?”

“Check me, Alastair, but I think that’ll give us wiggle room. I can always slip it to a landing as long as we have some hydraulics left, which means I’ve got to keep the speed up, which means I’ll have to dive it down final.”

“How about the gear?”

“We’ll put the gear down as I start the turn to final. Use it as a speed brake. Be ready to yank the manual releases if we don’t have enough hydraulic pressure. And… keep your left leg clear, but on short final, pull out the manual crank on the pitch trim wheel and stand by to help me flare.”

“Roger.”

“I’m gonna hold two hundred knots until we’re lined up fat on final, and I may try to extend some flaps at that point to slow us down. If we touch down at two hundred, we’ll never get her stopped.”

“Got it. We’re thirty-nine miles out.”

Alastair relayed the plan carefully to the controller, watching the unfolding flight path on the flight computer and the horizontal situation indicator in front of him to verify they were being aimed ever so slightly to the south of the airport.

“They know we’re coming?” Alastair asked the controller.

“Yes, sir. Crash equipment is standing by. You’re cleared to land. Verify you’ve got no engine power?”

“We’re flamed out. No fuel.”

“Roger.”

“Twenty-eight miles to go, Craig,” Alastair said, yanking his flight manual out of his flight bag and wildly leafing through to check the speed figures for final approach at their weight.

“Since we’re so light, she’s going to want to float when you flare, and we won’t have speed brakes, and of course, there are no reversers without… you know…”

“Engines running,” Craig finished.

“Yeah.”

“Got it.”

“Twenty miles,” Alastair said.

“Okay… look… get me set up now for the ILS, double check I have the right frequency in the radio, and make sure we’ve got the right inbound course set in… that’s a heading of two seven zero.”

“Already done.”

“When… when we break out, we take whatever we’ve got. I’m going to have to plunk it down and get on the brakes to get stopped.”

“Understood, Craig. You won’t have antiskid, you know, and if you blow the tires…”

“I know… we’ll never stop. I’ll be careful.”

“Twelve miles.”

“Roger. Altitude?”

“We’re good. Coming through six thousand feet. I wish we could see something besides gray out there.”

“We will. Lock your shoulder harness.”

“Okay.”

“Get on the PA. Tell them in the back to get in a brace position.”

“I can’t. No electrical.”

“Roger,” Craig said.

“I show your heading dead-on to pass one and a half miles south. Weather information remains the same. The tower reports the ceiling is a bit better than the hundred fifty feet, and all approach lights are on.”

“Roger,” Craig said.

“We’re four miles from the airport, Craig, heading zero nine zero degrees, one point five miles south.”

“Okay. Call me perfectly abeam the end of the runway, then give me mileage increments east of that point.”

“Will do.”

“Altitude’s… three thousand five hundred,” Craig said to himself, pushing the jet’s nose down slightly to reach three thousand as they passed abeam the end of the runway.

“Abeam, Craig. Speed two hundred twenty. Zero visibility.”

“Roger.”

The controller repeated the same information.

“Stand by, now, sir,” Alastair said. “No more transmissions while we’re working this.” He glanced at the left seat. “Okay, Craig, we’re one half mile east, twenty-eight hundred feet above the ground, speed two hundred knots.”

“Roger.”

“Coming up on one mile east, speed two hundred, altitude twenty-six hundred.”

“Keep calling it. Not turning yet.”

“One point one miles, one point two, one point three…”

“Okay!” Craig said. “Now. Landing gear down!” He rolled the 737 into a forty-five-degree left bank, beginning the turn back to the runway.

“Gear down,” Alastair repeated, working the handle and checking the gear as it fell into place and rewarded him with three green lights.

“Gear down and locked, Craig, coming through heading of north, forty-degree bank, speed two hundred, altitude two thousand one hundred, and we’re one point nine miles from the end of the runway. We’re high and fast. I see no lights out there, no glow through the fog, nothing.”

“Okay. Have faith.”

“Localizer alive, Craig. Coming fast.”

“Steepening… the… bank!” Craig said, rolling the 737 into a nearly fifty degree left bank angle to catch the ILS inbound course. He rolled out of the turn precisely on course and perfectly aligned with the unseen runway ahead and reached for the speed brake handle, pulling it to the deployed position. The windmilling hydraulic pressure dutifully raised the speed brake panels on both wings, steepening the descent and slowing them.

“Bang on course, one point two miles out, altitude one thousand six hundred. We’re a thousand higher than we should be.”

“Flaps straight down to fifteen!”

“Flaps? Craig, the speed brakes are out! No speed brakes with flaps, remember?”

“Can’t help it. I’ve got to slow!”

“Roger.” Alastair moved the flap handle quickly as Craig pushed forward to increase the descent rate with the flaps beginning to come out on the residual hydraulic pressure.

“Point nine from the end, way above glide slope, speed one ninety, we’re one thousand two hundred.”

“Dumping it! Flaps thirty!”

Alastair complied, his left hand moving the lever almost instantly.

“Flaps are coming through fifteen on the way to thirty. Half mile, Craig, eight hundred feet, two thousand feet per minute down and one eighty on the speed.”

“Call the glide slope when you see it! We’ll intercept it from above.”

“Sink two thousand, quarter mile out, four hundred feet, speed one seventy-five.”

“I’m gonna hold the sink rate until I see it!”

“Sink two thousand, three hundred feet, speed one seventy-five. Remember the hydraulics may die! Don’t wait too long to pull!”

A galaxy of fuzzy lights swam into view just ahead, coming up at them fast as Craig began hauling back on the yoke.

“Sink twelve hundred, two hundred feet, speed one sixty. PULL, CRAIG!”

Craig yanked the yoke almost back in his lap, feeling the nose coming up but with greater sluggishness each passing second as the airspeed slowed the turning of the engines and the hydraulic pressure bled away.

“One hundred feet! Sinking too fast!” Alastair said, the runway under them now but the sink rate still excessive.

Craig had unfolded the manual handle on the pitch trim on his side, as had Alastair, and suddenly they were both rotating the wheel backwards at a blinding rate to the nose-up position. They felt the nose respond at the last second as the 737 settled into ground effect, killing off the remainder of the sink rate as the tires kissed perfectly onto the surface with a moderate plunk.

“Reverse it! Rotate nose down!” Craig barked as Alastair complied, both of them cranking the pitch trim in the opposite direction, lowering the nosewheel to the runway.

“Brakes, Craig!” Alastair called as Craig’s right hand left the manual trim and yanked the speed brake handle back, momentarily startled to find it already deployed. He’d forgotten.

There was only emergency brake pressure now to stop them. The normal antiskid protection had died with the electrical system, leaving only the glow of the battery-powered flight instruments on Craig’s side as the runway lights flashed by. “Airspeed one hundred twenty, Craig!”