Through the cockpit window, Michael saw the lights of Rabaul, strung along the edge of the bay. But between them and the runway stood the formidable obstacle of the Vulcan Crater range, its ancient cone a black silhouette against the twilight. They were descending too fast, too steep.

Silence filled the cockpit, broken only by the whine of the spooling-down engines.

Tonight, however, the aircraft carried more than just passengers and cargo. In the forward hold, strapped down under three layers of netting, was a large, styrofoam-insulated box. Inside, kept cool by gel packs, were twenty delicate, genetically-modified vanilla orchid seedlings. They were a gift from a Taiwanese agricultural firm to a collective of village farmers in the Gazelle Peninsula. The seedlings were the future—a cash crop resistant to the blight that had decimated their traditional vines.

“We are not dumping,” he said. “But we are landing. Hang on.”

Then, a miracle. A fire truck, positioned for the emergency, turned on its high-intensity strobes, illuminating the last 500 feet of the runway. Michael aimed the nose for the blue lights.

The Rabaul Princess rolled to a stop with barely 200 feet of asphalt to spare. The heat from the brakes shimmered in the air.

“ Rabaul Princess , Mayday received. You are cleared direct. Descend and maintain one-zero thousand. No other traffic.”