Friday, September 15th, 20xx. An ordinary day. The weather over Guangzhou Baiyun International Airport was cloudy to overcast. The Air China 1332 cabin crew had finished taking inventory of blankets, headphones, among other items. Everything was in place and ready, waiting for the flight crew.

“I can’t believe I’m flying with Jia-ge[1] today. I’ve got to make a post about this,” said a new flight attendant, Yang Feifei, who then turned on the front camera of her phone so she could fix her bangs.

Next to her stood cabin manager Cheng Xuan, who was much more experienced and had already met the flight crew during the preflight briefing. To her, there was nothing unusual about today’s flight. Takeoff, landing, Guangzhou to Beijing, Beijing to Guangzhou, the same old route, repeated thousands of times. Apart from the fact that today’s captain was Air China’s celebrity, nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Taking a selfie?” she teased Yang Feifei. “Remember to wait until after the flight.”

Yang Feifei nodded. “Of course, Xuan-jie[2]. Work comes first.”

 

Before long, the flight crew boarded, with Chen Jiayu as captain, Xu Hangchuan as copilot. They greeted the cabin crew one by one with courtesy.

Many rumors abounded about Chen Jiayu internally within Air China.

Three years ago, he had been involved in the most serious aviation accident in the last five years in domestic civil aviation. The Air China Flight 416 he had been piloting had refueled at Soekarno-Hatta Airport in Jakarta, Indonesia. Unfortunately, a fault in the construction of the airport’s aviation fuel pipeline that led to fuel contamination ultimately resulted in the sudden jam of the aircraft’s fuel valve at cruising altitude, bringing about the serious failure of both engines. When Chen Jiayu, who had only been promoted to captain for just over a year at the time, had called “mayday” in the air fifty nautical miles from Hong Kong International Airport, the news had reached the ears of just about everyone in civil aviation in China almost simultaneously.

Yang Feifei had still been a student in school then, and had only found out about it afterwards, but Cheng Xuan remembered. She had been working as a flight attendant for China Eastern at that time, and was on vacation during a shift change. She’d been at another flight attendant’s house, watching the entirety of Chen Jiayu’s life-and-death emergency landing at the Hong Kong airport livestreamed on TV.

Whether the plane, originally headed for Shanghai, could successfully make it onto land, and whether it could land at an airport with a proper runway had both been unknowns. A forced landing on water would most probably have taken the lives of all 238 people on board. US Airways Captain Sully’s emergency landing in the Hudson River was called a miracle not without reason, but that was in the calm Hudson River, not the stormy, turbulent sea. Waves in the South China Sea could reach two meters high, they could tear the plane apart the moment it touched the water’s surface, or tumble it many times over, destroying the aircraft and the lives within in mere minutes.

While one of the engines had been stalled due to fuel delivery failure, he’d been able to slowly increase the other engine’s thrust to 70 percent after more than ten minutes of fumbling, but the worst part was that thereafter it had been completely stuck at 70 percent and couldn’t be reduced. Although this had provided enough thrust for the plane to make it to Hong Kong and avoid a catastrophic water landing, it had also directly resulted in an inability to decelerate at all during landing.

In the end, sitting at the controls of this Airbus A330, he’d skidded into the longest runway of Hong Kong International Airport at the precarious speed of almost 100 knots above the normal approach speed. Upon landing, the right engine’s thrust reverser had failed to respond immediately, and he could only slam on the emergency brakes. After skidding down almost the entire runway, the plane had finally come to a stop just 200-some meters from the runway’s end at the water’s edge. Hong Kong media had broadcast the entire landing, calling it the “Miracle of Flight 416,” and some even claimed that it had been the most successful forced landing in domestic civil aviation in the past decade. From crew to passengers, there had been no casualties; the most serious injuries were nothing more than scrapes. Following the evacuation of all passengers, Chen Jiayu and his copilot Chang Bin had exited the cockpit, and almost immediately after they’d hopped out, the tires had burst into flames due to high temperatures from excessive friction during landing. The remarkable story of survival was captured by reporters who’d rushed to the scene and later broadcast numerous times in both domestic and international media outlets.

At first Air China had intended to suppress news of the incident, because the cause had still been under investigation. However, video footage from the media and photos and recordings taken by passengers at the scene had soon spread across the internet, and those in the civil aviation circle had all naturally come to know of this hero pilot.

As the investigation concluded, it had become clear that the cause of the incident had been a problem with the aviation fuel line used by the Jakarta airport, and that there had been no operational errors on the part of Chen Jiayu and Chang Bin. On the contrary, their excellence in piloting and steadfast fortitude in the face of danger were what made it possible for everyone to survive. Consequently, instead of suppressing the news, the higher-ups began to heavily publicize their heroic feat. Chen Jiayu was featured in countless news programs, interviews, shows, and even livestreams. He’d initially been reluctant, but the secretary had insisted that he make these appearances, so in the end, other than that one time when “Touching China” had reached out to Air China, he hadn’t uttered any refusal. Air China might have really hit the jackpot this time around. Not only had there been no casualties—not even a fractured bone—Chen Jiayu had also been a star captain in his own right: 185 centimeters tall, handsome, comes from a family of fliers, with his father a pilot, his mother a flight attendant, and his grandfather having served in the Air Force—he’d been the perfect promotional vehicle.

His fame had spread beyond those in civil aviation, so it was not surprising that a new flight attendant like Yang Feifei would be on cloud nine for being able to fly with him.

 

They were finishing up the preflight checklist when Xu Hangchuan asked Chen Jiayu, “Jia-ge, is this your last flight of the week?”

Chen Jiayu nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be resting in Beijing for two days, then come back.”

In accordance with his experience, flight record, and reputation, for the past few years Chen Jiayu had been consistently flying international long-haul flights for Air China, and only Airbuses. International multi-leg flights were especially popular, since they were good for accruing flight hours and they only involved one round trip per week—less work, more money. These flights were undoubtedly the most sought-after gigs in any airline. Yet, not long ago, Chen Jiayu had pushed aside these coveted international long-haul flights, even undertaking the training to obtain a Boeing license, and made the transfer to flying short-haul. Xu Hangchuan didn’t quite understand why, but he didn’t know Chen Jiayu that well, and did not think it was fitting for him to ask.

Although Chen Jiayu was the captain, he did not plan to be the pilot flying. Instead, he intended to let Xu Hangchuan take main responsibility of operating the aircraft, so that Xu Hangchuan could accumulate experience and flight hours; he, on the other hand, would be in charge of other responsibilities such as checklists and radio communications. This would be good training for Xu Hangchuan. They’d been ready for takeoff for some time, but there were some issues in Baiyun Airport’s scheduling, which kept them waiting for another half hour.

Xu Hangchuan lived in Guangzhou and often flew from Baiyun. He could tell that Chen Jiayu was getting a bit impatient, though holding back any temper, so he explained, “This has been happening a lot lately. Not sure if there’s a shortage in ground personnel or if traffic’s just been heavy lately. Last time another captain and I were delayed for four hours.”

Chen Jiayu said, jokingly, “You might as well not fly if you’ve been delayed for four hours.”

Xu Hangchuan sighed, resigned. “There’s nothing for it. The tower’s not so cooperative, and it’s really about time the airport got an expansion.”

Chen Jiayu watched as two planes that had arrived later than they had—China Eastern and Cathay Pacific—taxied out before them, adding to his annoyance. But Guangzhou wasn’t his territory. He turned on the radio, wanting to argue with the ground, but then felt that it was unnecessary, and turned it off again.

 

The cabin had gotten very noisy because of the delay, and a few passengers were making things especially difficult, putting up such a fuss over hot and cold water that Yang Feifei felt like crying. Chen Jiayu had to come out from the cockpit to check up on the situation—Xu Hangchuan was flying today, so he was in charge of everything else, including, of course, making sure that everything was in order in the cabin. The first thing he saw was Yang Feifei dabbing discreetly at her eyes with a tissue. He frowned, but then saw cabin manager Cheng Xuan put a hand on Yang Feifei’s shoulder. She gave him an affirmative nod, and only then did Chen Jiayu return to his seat.

“Something wrong?” Xu Hangchuan asked him.

Chen Jiayu said, “No, nothing. You just focus on your flying.” He took out his phone and checked—no texts and no messages—and slid it back into his pocket.

In contrast to the passenger cabin, the cockpit was quiet and devoid of chatter. After forty minutes of waiting, Xu Hangchuan quietly steered the Boeing 737-800 onto and off the runway.

 

From time to time, Chen Jiayu would recall the events of that day, two years and ten months ago. Flying into the sky, he hadn’t known what sort of fate had awaited him. And it wasn’t just him and his copilot Chang Bin—two exemplary captains each with four stripes on their shoulders—but also the various travelers aboard Flight 416, whether they were successful bankers, or entrepreneurs who were constantly flying places, or backpackers with little money in their pockets—the lives of more than two hundred people had been irreversibly rewritten since that day. They had become “survivors.”

He could remember the momentary panic when the engine stalled, the fuselage shook, and he could remember seeing the thrust for both engines drop to a glaring zero on the display panel, the plane falling thousands of meters over the South China Sea, nothing more than a glider. He could clearly remember every second of the process, the memory of which had imprinted itself in his mind as though carving a gramophone disc, and it was like reading a disc, too, playing it over and over in the one thousand and some days afterwards. Whenever this happened, he forced himself to forget.

 

“Air China 1332, runway 2R, right turn heading 090, cleared for takeoff.”

He picked up the radio and read back the tower’s instructions.

Under the engines’ thrust, the aircraft quickly accelerated. He fixed his eyes on the speedometer. “V1.” This was the takeoff decision speed; once the aircraft reached this speed, it must continue to take off no matter what.

“Rotate.” The nose of the Boeing 737 lifted up, heading for the skies over Baiyun Airport.