Page 52 of Blind Prophet

“I bet you still dress in suits to meet your father.”

That’s a dig. She disapproves. But, if we’re going to fight, it won’t be over fashion.

“Do you smell that?”

I inhale deeply. If she’s implying I farted…

It’s a burning odor. Oil. The smell is faint.

The master caution light illuminates. A loud alarm blares. My mind shifts instantly to the countless simulation hours, the rigorous aviation training that was as much about crisis management as actual flying. Seven figures worth of aircraft, and somehow I’m more concerned about Caroline’s grip on the armrest than the hydraulic failure warnings.

“What’s HYD?” Caroline asks the second the hydraulic warning light flashes on the multifunction display.

I scan the terrain with the same precision I use reviewing satellite coverage maps. The topographical features I usually observe from space are now critical landing zones. There’s a break in the trees. A stream.

“What’s going on, Dorian?”

“It’s going to be okay. I need you to hold on. Stay calm.”

I flick to contact air traffic control.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is Hotel Echo One Two Three, Airbus H160 helicopter.”

There’s a crackle. Caroline white-knuckles the edge of the seat. This is it. She’ll never fly in a helicopter again. Took me a year to convince her to go up in one.

A deep male voice responds, “Hotel Echo One Two Three, this is Telluride tower. Go ahead with your mayday.”

“Tower, Hotel Echo One Two Three. We have a critical hydraulic system failure.” My voice stays steady—the same tone I use while announcing disappointing quarterly results or explaining orbital trajectory modifications to investors. But this isn’t about market corrections or satellite adjustments. This is Caroline’s life. Our lives.

“Suspect contaminated fluid. Controls becoming unresponsive. Requesting immediate emergency landing clearance.”

I scan for landing zones as if analyzing market opportunities—quickly, systematically, weighing every variable. The stream offers better visibility, but the clearing provides more control surface options. These split-second decisions feel familiar—like choosing satellite positions or timing market entries—except now, Caroline’s white-knuckled grip on the seat reminds me this isn’t just another business calculation.

“Unresponsive? Your controls aren’t working?”

“Caroline…I need to concentrate.”

The vibrations increase.

“Roger, Hotel Echo One Two Three. Understood you have hydraulic failure. What are your intentions?”

“Tower, I’m attempting to maintain control. Need to land immediately. Current position is 38.2627 North, 108.1103 West. Descending through 5,500 feet. Request any nearby clear areas for emergency landing.”

“Hotel Echo One Two Three, understood. There’s a clearing about two miles southeast of your position. Can you make it there?”

“Affirmative, Tower. Attempting to reach the clearing. Be advised, control is deteriorating rapidly. May not make a controlled landing.”

“Roger that, Hotel Echo One Two Three. Emergency services have been notified and are en route to the clearing. Do you have any souls on board and fuel remaining?”

“Tower, we have two souls on board and approximately”—Fuck—“three minutes of fuel remaining. Be advised, vibrations increasing. Situation is critical. I see a clearing. I’m taking it.”

“Understood, Hotel Echo One Two Three. Keep us informed of your status.”

“Wilco, Tower. Commencing final approach to clearing. Will advise on touchdown?—”

“Dorian?”

The nose dives precariously.

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