Jacob Brennan never planned on being anything other than a quiet farmer in central Kansas. After twelve turbulent years as an Air Force Combat Controller, he had returned to the countryside with one goal—peace. He kept to himself, worked his 300 acres, repaired his own machines, and visited town only when he needed supplies.
Most people knew him as “the Brennan boy who came home from the military,” polite, capable, but entirely ordinary.
They didn’t know about the missions, the landings under fire, the controlled chaos he carried in his memory like an invisible rucksack. On an unusually warm September afternoon, Jacob was repairing a stubborn carburetor in his workshop when a sound sliced through the quiet—the frantic crackle of his aviation scanner.
He always kept it on, half out of habit, half out of comfort. But this time, the comfort vanished the second he heard the transmission.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday.
This is November Seven Two Three Bravo. Learjet 45—dual engine failure—six thousand feet—eight souls on board.”
Jacob froze. Outside, a faint roarless streak crossed the sky, gliding far too fast and far too low.
He stepped out, squinting.
The jet’s engines were dark. Its glide slope—if one could call it that—looked catastrophic.
He grabbed his handheld radio, sprinted outside, and keyed the transmitter. “Hutchinson Tower, this is Jacob Brennan, ground observer at northeast county.
That jet isn’t making it to your runway.”
A pause crackled back.
“Sir, this line needs to remain open.”
“I’m former Air Force Combat Controller, 23rd Special Tactics Squadron. I can talk him down. My field is clear—half a mile long.
It’s his best shot.”
Another voice came on—older, authoritative.
“…Ground observer, stand by.”
Jacob watched the jet drop below five thousand feet, losing altitude brutally. The math hit him.
At this rate, three minutes. Maybe less.
Then: “Ground observer, you’re cleared to transmit on guard frequency.
Pilot requests assistance.”
Jacob raised the radio. “November Seven Two Three Bravo, this is Brennan. I have visual.
I can guide you to a safe landing.
Do you copy?”
The answer came, shaken but steady. “Copy, Brennan.
This is Captain David Fletcher. Please tell me you know what you’re doing.”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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