MANILA, PHILIPPINES

The heavy glass doors slid open, and the pilot and first officer for AmerAsia flight 56 stepped inside from the steamy night.

Captain Darius Jardine surveyed the Manila flight terminal, which was bustling despite the late hour. Gradually the sounds coalesced into a familiar din as people called out to loved ones, hugged, and hustled toward their gates or through the front doors, heading for home or a new adventure. Over the intercom, a woman's robotically-soothing voice announced a series of late-night flight departures. In his over a decade as an airline pilot, Jardine had been in thousands of airport terminals, and the Manila airport didn't feel much different than the ones in Cincinnati or London or Beijing.

Jardine rolled his black bag over the sky-blue terminal carpet until he reached the international security checkpoint. He made brief eye contact as the security man glanced over his credentials.

"Captain Jardine," the security man said, "you have a nice flight, sir."

Jardine flashed a smile and moved on through the checkpoint. He paused to wait for his copilot, James Henderson, who was trailing behind. Tall and thin, Henderson stood stiffly as the security officer gave him the once-over, then returned his papers.

An orange-haired policewoman, part of a security group loafing nearby, laughed thunderously at something a co-worker said, then mouthed, "Good morning," to the pilots as they passed through the checkpoint.

"Look at her," Jardine whispered to Henderson. "Homeland Security is recruiting from clown schools."

Jardine grinned and cast his arm across Henderson's shoulders. "You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

Henderson didn't respond. He just peered blankly ahead. Jardine shrugged and headed towards the gate, his wide strides drawing attention of everyone on the concourse. Henderson fell into step behind him.

At the moment, Henderson was wound tight. So was Jardine, but he didn't show it. He tipped his chin high in the air. Passengers congregated in groups, checked the time on their phones, glanced up at the big flight board, huddled around a bar television set. Jardine ignored all the riff -raff , the pain-in-the-ass, demanding passengers he ferried around every day. Commercial airline pilots were glorified bus drivers in the sky, nothing more, hauling around the great unwashed. At gate D-14, Jardine saw it through the window.

A wide-body Boeing 777. Possibly the most reliable machine on earth.

Flight 56.

His flight.

An odd feeling coursed through his body. He forced it back to wherever it had come from. He and Henderson strode through the passengers who'd already congregated in the waiting area. Near the ramp that led to the aircraft, a voice spoke up.

"Excuse me, sir?"

It was a woman's voice. Jardine turned and saw a young mother in a long, floral dress and an easy smile. Her towhead son, who looked to be about four, clutched her hand. The boy was on the brink of tears, staring down at a blood-red teddy bear at Jardine's feet.

"My son has always been fascinated with pilots," said the mother.

"Indeed," said Jardine. He crouched down. "It's the best job in the world, and I get to do it every single day."

"Is it dangerous?" asked the boy.

Jardine grinned. "Of course not. Airplanes are the safest form of travel."

Jardine chucked the kid lightly on the chin and unleashed a giant megawatt smile. The boy hid shyly behind his mother's legs, clutching his teddy bear.

"Do you ha