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You'd think that in the face of potential disaster, people would panic. Scream. Lose their minds.
Instead, everyone aboard the plane was… disturbingly calm.
Henry found it almost unnerving how collected everyone was. It should have been a good thing. It was a good thing. But something about it just felt wrong.
Well, not everyone was calm.
The flight attendant—still strapped into her seat across from him—was visibly trembling. She'd curled into herself, arms wrapped tightly around her body. She wasn't screaming or sobbing, just shaking. Quietly. Helplessly.
At least she wasn't shrieking at full volume, turning the tension up to eleven. In that regard, she was doing better than most might in her position.
Henry glanced over at her.
She must've noticed, because she tried to offer a smile—one of those small, fragile smiles that were more about courtesy than reassurance. It only made her look more breakable.
From the cockpit, they could still hear the pilot's voice calmly communicating with air traffic control. The fact that he hadn't uttered the words "Mayday" was the only thing keeping the cabin from tipping into chaos.
A few minutes later, the rainbow mist outside the window—fuel spraying from the wing—vanished. The engine noise dulled noticeably. Not silent, but definitely strained.
Brian emerged from the cockpit, a folded map in hand, and spread it out in the aisle. His team gathered around, peering at the chart over his shoulder.
He turned first to Audrey Hepburn and said, "Good news first: the second we noticed the fuel leak, the pilot shut the fuel-balancing valve between the two wing tanks. That means we've still got one engine functioning, even if we can't reroute fuel mid-air."
Bernie cut in smoothly, like he was reading from a script: "So that means there's bad news coming."
Brian nodded grimly. "Yeah. The bad news is we never got a full refuel back at the airport. Now we've lost more than half of what we had. That means we can't fly very far. Definitely not all the way to the U.S. Not even sure we'll make it to Europe.
"And since we're heading into nighttime flight conditions, we need an airstrip equipped for night landings. Preferably at a friendly base."
Sam tilted his head. "So… that sounds like a plan? Why the long face, boss?"
Brian's tone dropped. "The problem… is this country right here." He tapped a shaded section of the map labeled Republic of Yemen.
Mark blinked. "Didn't they just unify? North and South Yemen? That was, like, a month ago. Aren't they kinda pro-Western now? Should be smooth sailing, right?"
Brian's voice was calm, but heavy. "Yemen's been a republic for all of three weeks. Sure, they're friendlier than they used to be. But their government's still fragile—probably not fully operational.
"We've squawked 7700—emergency transponder code—and ATC is trying to get permission for us to cross their airspace. But if Yemen says no, then we'll have to divert over the Gulf of Aden and around the Red Sea to reach Saudi airspace. That's a massive detour."
He looked at them all. "With our remaining fuel? It's gonna be tight."
Audrey asked quietly, "Is there anything we can do?"
Brian sighed. "Honestly, ma'am? Not really. We just have to wait and hope for clearance. It's out of our hands now."
"Not entirely," Bernie added, with that old-dog optimism he wore like armor.
Mark leaned in. "What do you mean?"
"Pray, kid. Pray ATC gets the green light from Yemen. Pray we land before the gas runs out."
The rest of the ex-soldiers immediately crossed themselves in unison, muttering Amen… then followed it with a synchronized "Motherf*er." A fluent ritual, clearly well-practiced.
Henry, lacking both religion and the need for prayer—being, after all, a superpowered Kryptonian in disguise—simply watched. None of this truly worried him. But he couldn't exactly say, "Relax, I'll just carry the plane if it goes down."
Audrey didn't know that. She just knew Henry was bulletproof. Not flight-capable.
Still, she gripped his hand tightly and stared out the window as night crept over the horizon. Her posture was serene, her voice composed—but the pressure of her grip said enough. She was nervous. Just not showing it.
Brian eventually ordered everyone back to their seats.
He was secretly grateful they'd already burned through all the ammo. The last thing they needed right now was someone getting twitchy with a loaded gun.
The only person he didn't send back to sit was the flight attendant.
He approached her gently. "Ma'am, would you mind getting everyone a round of whiskey? I think we all need it—including you."
He added with a wink, "Except the pilot, of course. He's got to stay sharp."
"Y-Yes. Of course. I'll take care of it right away." She nodded quickly, pulling herself together with practiced poise. Within seconds, she'd unfastened her belt and slipped into her professional persona, moving down the aisle with a forced but serviceable smile.
Brian exhaled as he returned to his seat, the weight of helplessness settling in. He'd been trained for war, prepared for high-risk operations—but moments like these made him question what any of it was for. Did any of it really make a difference?
Trying to cut through the heavy silence, Henry glanced over. "So… Brian. You got family?"
Brian raised an eyebrow at the sudden personal question but saw nothing behind Henry's face but a need for small talk. Oddly, it helped. Even Audrey leaned forward, eyes bright with interest.
Brian allowed himself a small smile. "Yeah. A wife—Reina. She's pregnant. Kid's due any day now."
He pulled out his wallet and handed over a photo.
Henry took it and admired the image of a beaming couple, faces pressed together in the golden light of what looked like a sunset. "She's beautiful. You both look happy."
He passed the photo to Audrey.
Her face lit up in a way no one had seen all flight. "You can tell you love each other," she said softly, her smile genuine—almost glowing.
And for a moment, the fear lifted.
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