Canopy coming down. The heavy acrylic lowered, locked with a pressurized thud. The screaming wind muted to a dull roar. I was sealed in.
“Hush,” I said, my call sign. “Taxiing.”
I released the parking brake and eased the throttles forward. Instantly, a savage gust slammed into the right side of the jet, rocking 60,
000 pounds of titanium violently on its landing gear. The right wing dipped so hard I thought the tip would scrape concrete. I kicked the rudder, fighting to keep the nose wheel aligned with the fading yellow line under the floodwater. The jet didn’t want to taxi. It wanted to turn into the wind like a weather vane. My forearms burned as I forced it down the taxiway.
At the runway threshold, I looked ahead. Through the rain‑streaked canopy, there was nothing. No horizon. No lights. No stars. Just a black, churning void where the ocean met the sky. I didn’t stop. If I stopped, the crosswind would blow me off the tarmac into the coral.
