“If You Permit, I Will Fix It”, No One Could Fix Billionaire’s Jet Engine Until A Homeless Girl Did

A billionaire in a navy blue suit checked the time, again. Engineers wiped sweat. Security watched the doors.

Then a clear voice cut through the noise. If you permit, I will fix it. Heads snapped toward the open hangar door.

A young woman stood there in a tattered gown, her hair wild from wind and heat. She looked thin, like someone who had been skipping meals. Grease stained her fingers.

Her eyes, bright and steady, looked only at the engine. Laughter broke the tension. Are you joking? Engineer Sam asked, half smiling, half tired.

Sam’s jet, maintenance, repair, and overhaul. He had worked on private jets for twenty years. We’ve been at this for six hours.

One of his engineers shook his head. Who let her in? Security. Another called.

Please take her out. Two guards stepped forward. The man in the navy blue suit, Andrew Jacobs, billionaire CEO and owner of the sleek Bombardier Challenger, parked outside, raised his hand.

Stop. His voice was calm but strong. In my line of business, I have seen unusual things.

Let the young lady speak. The guards froze. The girl took one more step.

Sir, she said. Eyes still on the engine. I heard your team say there was an unusual noise during landing.

Like a whistle. Then the engine ran rough and wouldn’t spool properly after shutdown. May I look? Sam’s mouth opened in surprise.

That is exactly what happened, he muttered. Andrew studied her face. The hangar buzzed with the distant hum of generators and the faint smell of jet fuel.

Outside, girls cried over the runway. Inside, no one breathed. Give her the gloves, Andrew said.

A ripple of shock moved through the team. The guards stepped back. Someone handed the girl a pair of clean grey gloves.

Her hands trembled for a second as she slid them on. And then they didn’t tremble anymore. She moved to the engine with quiet confidence, checked the intake, ran her fingers lightly along the sensor harness, and listened, as if the metal itself could whisper its secret.

She crouched by a small panel near the compressor section and tapped it gently. Do you even know what you’re touching? A young engineer asked. She didn’t answer him.

She reached for a flashlight and a small mirror. Her face drew close to the open panel. There, she said softly.

That clamp is wrong. It’s tight, but it’s on the wrong groove. That makes a tiny air leak.

The leak sings like a whistle under load. And here, she traced a wire. This sensor wire has a small crack in the insulation.

It’s rubbing against the bracket. When it heats up, it tells the engine the wrong thing. The system tries to correct, and the engine feels rough.

Sam blinked. How could we miss that? Because both problems hide each other, she said. The leak makes the sound.

The bad wire makes the engine act sick. If you fix only one, you still see trouble. Andrew stepped closer.

Can you fix it? She looked up at him, then at the tools. If you permit. His eyes held hers for a long second.

Do it. The hanger changed. The team shifted from doubt to watchfulness….

The girl’s hands moved fast and neat. She loosened the clamp, reset it into the proper groove, and tightened it to a clean click. She trimmed and re-wrapped the sensor wire, laid a sleeve over it, and tied it away from the metal bracket, so it wouldn’t rub again.

She cleaned the area, and checked it twice, then a third time. She worked like someone who knew engines, the way a singer knows a song. Sam leaned forward, his mouth open.

His lead engineer whispered. Boss? She might be right. Time? Andrew asked without looking at his watch.

Seventeen minutes, someone answered. The girl straightened. Sweat dotted her forehead.

She pulled off the gloves and set them carefully on the cart. I’m done, she said. There was silence.

Sam took a slow breath. We’ll test it, he said, trying to sound firm. But his voice had changed.

There was respect in it now. Andrew nodded once. Roll it out.

The crew moved quickly. The engine stand clicked and rolled across the polished floor. Outside, the afternoon sun poured gold over the tarmac.

A ground cart was hooked. Cables were joined. Safety cones appeared.

The team spoke in short, careful words. The girl stood back, hands clasped, watching everything, ready if anyone asked for her. Who are you? Andrew asked quietly, stepping beside her.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her eyes glistened, but she blinked the wet away. If the test goes well, she said softly.

I will tell you my name. He studied her for a heartbeat, then gave a small nod. Sam and his team finished their checks.

He looked up at Andrew and gave a thumbs up. Andrew returned it and walked to the control cart himself, the tail of his suit sharp against the sun. He placed his hand on the starter switch, but paused and glanced back at the girl.

She stood very still, the wind lifting strands of her hair. In her eyes was something fierce and quiet, like a small flame refusing to go out. Everyone clear, Sam called.

Cones were checked again. Lines were clear. Two mechanics moved to safe positions.

The warning beacons began to spin, blinking red across the white wing of the Challenger. The airport air felt thinner, as if the whole of Lagos held its breath with them. Andrew rested his thumb on the starter.

The clock on the hangar wall ticked once, loud as a knock. Here we go, he said. He pressed the button, and the world around the engine leaped to life.

A low whine rose, faster and faster. Numbers climbed on the small screen. The whine deepened into a smooth rush, and then a sharp alarm chirped.

Sam’s head snapped toward the panel. A single red light blinked. The sound wavered.

Every face turned to the girl in the torn dress. She took one step forward, eyes locked on the engine, and lifted her hand as if to say, Wait, listen. The hangar felt frozen in time.

Every mechanic, every engineer, every guard, even Andrew Jacobs himself, waited to see if the engine would roar to life or choke like before. The warning light glared red, casting a faint glow across the metal surface. The sound of the jet engine wavered, rising and falling, as though caught between working and dying…

TO BE CONTINUED…