Mayday at Two Thousand Five Hundred by Frank Peretti Page B

as everyone watching their broadcast, could hear the painstaking, step-by-step radio communications between Dr. Cooper and his son. That and the image of the two airplanes descending together said it all.
    â€œLooking good,” said Brock. “Two mile final, five hundred.”
    Again, Runway One Three lay waiting for them, coming up fast. The buildings and streets of Georgetown seemed to move rapidly under and behind them. They were sinking, sinking, lower and lower.
    â€œWe’re too low,” said Brock. “More throttle.”
    â€œMore throttle, Jay,” ordered Dr. Cooper.
    The cameras on the ground now began taping the two Skylanes approaching over the tops of the buildings, and the reporters by the fence picked up their narration:
    â€œThis could be it, the final moment.”
    â€œAs all the world watches with held breath. . . .”
    â€œNever in all my career have I witnessed a moment like this one.”
    Jay moved his hand from the throttle to the autopilot knob, then back to the throttle, then back to the autopilot knob, then back to the throttle, memorizing where they were. He could feel a little bit of stirring in the airframe, as if Yankee Tango were coming into some turbulence again. He reached for the yoke with his right hand and found it. He could feel the autopilot tweaking the yoke left, then right, then right again, then left, fighting the wind gusts, trying to keep the wings level.
    â€œOne mile, three hundred.”
    The two aircraft came over the north fence. Their shadows raced once more across the grass, coming closer, closer.
    â€œTouch right,” said Dr. Cooper, and this time his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and instructed again, “Touch right.”
    The Yank banked to the right then returned to neutral. They were coming in crooked, a little to the left of Runway One Three, their noses turned slightly to the right, into the wind. Dr. Cooper was trying to anticipate the wind, hoping to get The Yank over the runway.
    They passed over the runway threshold. The big white numbers, one three, passed under them, only slightly to their right. Now they were using up the runway, losing hundreds of feet of it each moment.
    â€œHold her right there, Jay, steady as she goes. One hundred feet.”
    The shadow of Eight Yankee Tango was racing along the concrete of Runway One Three.
    Jay reached down and gave his seat belt one last tightening tug, then placed his right hand on the yoke. This time he held the autopilot knob with his left thumb and index finger and braced his hand against the panel with his other fingers. He could not let his hand be jerked away from that knob again!
    Brock eyed the end of the runway coming up fast.
    â€œToo much power, too much power, he won’t get down in time!”
    â€œLess power, Jay!” Dr. Cooper almost shouted.
    â€œBack it off easy.”
    Oh man, here goes. Jay cringed and prayed as he pulled the throttle back.
    The Yank nosed down and began to drop faster toward its shadow on the pavement below.
    Joyce let out one little cry and then ran for the fence. “I can’t watch this, I can’t watch!”
    Johnny Adair opened his arms and held her as she buried her face in his chest.
    Lila kept watching, no longer aware of the asphalt under her feet. In her mind and soul, she was in that airplane with her brother, feeling it, flying it, willing it to land on the runway.
    â€œCome on now, easy, easy . . . ,” she coached.
    The two airplanes descended together, one over the runway, one over the grass. They were like twins, mirror reflections of each other. At fifty feet off the ground, Brock lowered ten degrees of flaps and throttled for level flight, keeping pace with the descending Yank.
    â€œHand on the throttle, Jay,” said Dr. Cooper. “You’re fifty feet off the runway.”
    Jay’s hand was already there. He waited, knowing nothing but what his father told him. Trust, Jay!