34,900 feet.

34,860 feet.

“Malachi, look at the thumb wheel on your right,” I said, pointing to the autopilot panel. “Don’t touch the yoke yet. Try to adjust the pitch trim.”

“It’s not responding,” Malachi said, his fingers flying over the grey plastic wheels. “The buttons are numb. It feels like the plane is steering itself away from my hands.”

“It is,” Thorne said from the back of the cockpit. “I disabled the primary bus before I cut the VHF lines. You have no lateral guidance.”

Whitmore scrambled to his knees, his hands clawing at the fabric of my uniform trousers.

“Let me out,” Whitmore gasped, his face purple. “I have five million dollars in a holding account in London. I can transfer it to you, Doctor. Right now. Just give me an oxygen mask.”

Thorne didn’t even look at him.

He kept his eyes on the countdown timer. 00:45.

“You don’t understand, Mr. Whitmore,” Thorne said. “Money is quite useless when the air pressure drops below the survivable limit.”

I grabbed the emergency oxygen mask from the yellow container beside the captain’s seat.