I reached for the receiver and pressed the button.

There was nothing but static, followed by a high-pitched, warbling tone.

“The radio antenna must be tied into the main bus that went down,” I said, hanging up the phone.

A sudden, violent tremor shook the floorboards.

The aircraft pitched forward slightly, the nose dropping three degrees on the standby horizon indicator.

Malachi grabbed the control column with both hands.

“The autopilot just clicked off,” he said, his knuckles turning white.

“Can you turn it back on?” Gerald asked from the doorway, his voice rising in panic again.

“The wires are cut, Gerald,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady for Malachi’s sake.

The plane shook again, harder this time.

Outside the windshield, the dark expanse of the Atlantic night was suddenly illuminated by a jagged flash of lightning.

In the brief flash, I saw massive, towering clouds rising like black mountains directly ahead of us.

We were flying straight into an Atlantic squall line.

“The plane is turning to the left,” Malachi said, his voice strained as he pulled back on the yoke. “It feels really heavy.”