"Alive."
"Good."
Dr. Malik looked at Wade.
"But his heart is unstable."
Wade nodded.
"We'll make the landing gentle."
The doctor stared at him.
"That's all I'm asking."
Wade looked through the windshield.
Ahead, a storm was building.
One Shot
Sixty miles from Fairbanks, the weather deteriorated rapidly.
The controller warned them.
The ceiling was falling.
The winds were increasing.
They had perhaps twenty minutes before the airport went below minimums.
Miles checked the numbers.
"It's going to be close."
Wade reached into his jacket.
He pulled out Ruby's photograph and placed it where he could see it.
"Who's that?" Miles asked.
"My reason."
The photograph showed Ruby at eight.
Holding the crayon drawing.
"My Dad."
Wade looked at it.
"Everyone has a reason."
He returned his hands to the controls.
"That's mine."
The wind struck them.
The aircraft yawed.
Wade corrected.
"Crosswind."
Miles checked.
"Eighteen knots. Gusting twenty-six."
Wade nodded.
"That's manageable."
The doctor looked at him.
"How long?"
"Twelve minutes."
"His heart is getting worse."
Wade understood.
"You get one shot?"
"One shot."
No go-around.
No second attempt.
Wade nodded.
"Copy."
Miles stared at him.
"Are you sure?"
Wade looked forward.
"I've landed in worse."
"Where?"
"Somewhere I don't like to remember."
Miles gave a nervous laugh.
Wade almost smiled.
Then the storm arrived.
The runway disappeared behind a wall of snow.
"Callaway," the controller said, "Fairbanks is now below minimums."
Miles looked at Wade.
"What do we do?"
Wade closed his eyes.
He saw Ruby.
Then he opened them.
"We land."
"Below minimums?"
"It's our only option."
He looked at Miles.
"I fly the instruments."
"You watch outside."
"The instant you see the runway, you call it."
Miles nodded.
"Runway in sight."
Wade looked forward.
"That's it."
He began the approach.
The Runway
Three miles.
On course.
Two miles.
Descending.
One mile.
Nothing but white.
Wade couldn't see the runway.
He didn't need to.
He trusted the instruments.
He trusted Miles.
He trusted twelve years of training.
Four hundred feet.
Three hundred.
Two hundred.
The aircraft shook in the crosswind.
Wade corrected.
One hundred fifty feet.
Miles stared through the windshield.
Nothing.
Then—
"RUNWAY IN SIGHT!"
Wade opened his eyes fully.
There it was.
Lights.
Runway.
Dead ahead.
The storm had opened for only a few seconds.
Wade moved the controls.
He corrected the crab.
Straightened the nose.
The wheels descended.
The aircraft touched the runway.
So gently that Dr. Malik barely felt it.
"We're down," Miles whispered.
"Not yet."
Wade fought the crosswind.
Brakes.
Rudder.
Centerline.
The aircraft slowed.
Slower.
Slower.
Finally, the jet stopped.
Silence.
Dr. Malik looked at Whitfield.
"His heart is still going."
Miles covered his face.
He was laughing and crying at the same time.
Wade released the controls.
His hands were steady.
He took Ruby's photograph.
"I came home," he whispered.
Then he looked at the cockpit door.
"And I brought everybody else home too."
The Applause
Paramedics rushed aboard.
Gene Whitfield was carried away.