He held on with the desperate strength of a dying man.

“He’s going to kill us all anyway!” I yelled.

Thorne knelt down beside the center pedestal.

The green and red lights of the avionics bay glowed on his face.

He reached under the dark plastic molding.

“The primary communications line,” Thorne murmured, almost to himself.

“The one that links the VHF radios to the satellite antenna.”

“Don’t,” Malachi said.

He did not turn around, but I could see his eyes in the reflection of the glass screen.

“My dad said the radio is our lifeline.”

“Your dad is a relic of an older era, Malachi,” Thorne said.

He positioned the metal jaws of the cutter around a thick bundle of insulated gray wires.

“In the modern world, we control the flow of information.”

The phone overhead stopped ringing.

A heavy, dead silence fell over the cockpit, save for the rush of the wind outside.

The digital timer on the black box showed 01:58.

Thorne squeezed his hand closed.

The metal jaws met.

A small spark shot out from under the dashboard, casting a brief blue light across the cabin.