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In those movies—Superman Returns, Supergirl—the Kryptonians looked like they were struggling with every ounce of strength just to stop a plane from crashing.
Truth was, lifting a comrcial airliner? That was easy for soone with Kryptonian strength. One hand, no sweat.
The hard part? Keeping the plane intact while doing it.
Anyone who's seen The Boys might rember that infamous scene. Holander—strong, invincible, arrogant—tried to save a plumting jet and nearly tore it in half. Because here's the thing: airplanes aren't designed to be held up at a single point. Try lifting one by the fuselage, and you're basically jamming a knife into soft butter.
That's why Superman always looks constipated when doing it. It's not because he's straining—it's because he's carefully using his bio-field to spread out the force, to cradle the entire structure like a giant hand.
Compared to that?
What Henry was doing was child's play.
First of all, this wasn't so double-decked, wide-body passenger jet. The plane he was carrying? A 20-seater corporate jet. Barely counted as a snack for soone like him.
Second, this thing hadn't entered full freefall yet. It wasn't nose-diving or cartwheeling through the air. The cabin depressurization had only nudged it off course. It was still gliding—just badly.
And third, Henry wasn't grabbing the plane like so action figure yanking on a toy. He was braced underneath it, back and limbs spread out to increase surface contact, supporting it like a second wing.
Really, all he'd done was beco the aircraft's unofficial, external backup engine. He wasn't defying death so much as giving the plane a push in the right direction.
Inside, the crew and passengers could hardly believe what they were feeling.
Smooth flight.
No shakes. No spins. No gut-wrenching dives.
"Are… are we saved?" Mark asked, still gripping the armrest like it owed him money.
Brian didn't relax. "We're still in the air. That's all I'm saying."
He untied the rope from his waist and stepped forward. "Henry. Can you actually hear ?"
The plane gave two gentle sways, left then right—barely a bump, but deliberate.
Brian let out a breath. "Okay. That's good."
Now he was starting to grasp the magnitude of the secret Henry had asked them to keep. If the man could hold a plane in the air like this…
That wasn't just flight. That was strategic weapon potential. You could strap a nuke to his back and drop him anywhere in the world.
But this wasn't the ti to think about what Henry was. Right now, the priority was: get this bird on the ground in one piece.
Brian grabbed the flight map and rapped on the cockpit door. "Luca, it's Brian. Cabin pressure's stable. We're good back here."
The Italian pilot cracked open the door, eyes wide. "What in God's na just happened?"
Brian stepped inside, voice low as he explained. Then he pointed to the instrunt panel. "We need to make it look like the plane is gliding under its own montum. That ans we fake the descent. Can we still aim for the military airbase?"
Luca didn't answer imdiately. He flicked off the intercom, so nothing he said would be recorded.
"With our current altitude and rate of descent?" he said at last. "Reaching the base is… unlikely. We may need to find sowhere closer. Maybe the desert. Even a crash landing in sand would be safer than falling short."
Brian nodded, then turned and addressed the air behind him. "Henry, I know you can hear this."
He spoke clearly, calmly, as if narrating for an invisible pilot.
"If we want to keep your abilities secret, we need to make this look like a powerless glide. That's our cover story. So we need you to fly this like a glider—nothing more."
He pointed to the instrunts as he spoke.
"Keep your bank angle under three degrees. Ideally under one-and-a-half. Three's your max. Any sharper, and it'll show up on radar as abnormal flight behavior."
"Use the descent rate from Flight 143 as your reference—six hundred feet per minute. Doesn't matter that it was a jumbo jet. Descent rate is mostly based on wing loading and aspect ratio, not weight."
"Translation? Our glide rate should match theirs closely. You stay within that range, you're golden."
"Don't try any sudden pitch-ups or rapid rolls. No over-correcting. Just hold the course. The plane can still handle basic aerodynamic flight. Let the captain guide it."
Brian paused, letting it all sink in.
"The landing, though… that's on you."
"If we can't find a lit runway in ti, we're hoping for flat desert terrain. Sand should cushion the impact enough for a survivable crash landing."
"But you have to keep the plane intact. Not just for our safety—but for the instrunts. If those transponders survive, rescue teams can find us faster."
"Henry… do you understand?"
The plane gave two soft dips, as if nodding.
Brian nodded back, then slid into the co-pilot seat beside Luca. "Alright, Henry. Ti to fly. Just follow the captain's lead. I'll watch the gauges. If you're pulling too hard or letting us drop too fast, I'll tell you."
He looked straight ahead, voice steel-hard. "There are seven lives on this plane, brother. We're counting on you."
Then Luca flipped the radio back on.
"Saudi Approach, this is Tango-96-Hotel. Mayday, Mayday. We are now in a full fuel-loss situation. Entering powerless glide."
The response from the control tower crackled in instantly, calm but tense.
Clearance granted.
Vectors inbound.
Descent path authorized.
They were now in full ergency protocol.
But inside the cabin, things weren't quite as panicked as you might expect—because there was a Kryptonian outside, flying like a ghost beneath them, holding the plane in the sky with nothing but willpower and steel muscle.
And that made all the difference.
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