The scoreboard squealed and fell silent. In the glass-walled room of Aerospace in Lagos, an airplane lay beneath incorrect answers: crossed arrows, disputed numbers, warring lines, visible desperation.
At the front, billionaire CEO Johnson Uche gripped the table with both hands. His eyes were moist, his voice trembling: « We have forty-eight hours. If we fail, we lose contracts, we lose everything. » No one breathed.
From the doorway came a low, serene voice, completely out of place. I can correct that. Everyone turned. A man in his forties, torn coat, dust on his shoes, brown bag on his chest.
The guards advanced, but Johnson raised his hand: wait. They stopped. The stranger held their gaze. He studied the drawing as if it were a long-lost friend. He repeated: I can fix it, let me try now.
Hours earlier, Williams Andrew woke up under the Echo Bridge. Light filtered between the pillars; Danfoss groaned; a vendor shouted “pure water.” He sat up, clutching his bag like a precious treasure.
Inside he kept three things: a worn aeronautical engineering book, old certificates, and a half-empty pen. He washed at a public tap, looked at the water, and forced a brief smile today.
He walked toward Victoria Island with the early morning crowd. The silver letters on the skyscraper always drew him in: Aerospace. He used to pass by slowly, like a hungry man before a bakery, pain mingled with a secret, daily hope.
Today the building buzzed differently. People with credentials were running, cameras were flashing, anxiety was in the air. Williams entered through an open door, not stealthy, just small, not wanting to bother anyone today.
Upstairs, he saw the room. The whiteboard looked like a torn map. He heard « 48 hours » and felt the number like a blow: countdown, teams lost step by step, chaos.
Driven by an inner urge, he clutched the bag and moved forward. Johnson looked at him: What did you say? Williams replied: I can correct it, let me. Murmurs: Madness. What does he know? Johnson, exhausted, risked one last time.
He swiped the scoreboard: if you waste our time, you lose my company. Don’t waste it. Williams came in, smelling of sun and dust. Without a word, he took the scoreboard and waited three seconds.
He erased two angry arrows from the wing, drew a clean line. He circled “AOA” and wrote: vibration sensor drift. He added brief equations: the feedback loop overreacts strongly here too.
He explained it simply: with small jolts, the sensor triggers a high nose, it panics, the autopilot pushes down, the pilots fight, it becomes a jerking motion. A few seconds are all it takes to crash fatally.
He drew a filter to stop panic. He ordered two assistants to check airspeed and vertical speed. If three agree, act; if only one screams, wait. He wrote: gentle hands on the nose always.
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