“I can’t hold it, it’s too heavy!” Gerald whimpered, his face slick with sweat.

“Put your hands back on the yoke,” Malachi commanded, his voice surprisingly loud. “Just hold it steady.”

The massive jet plunged into a dark wall of cloud, and the cockpit went pitch black for a second.

Then, a massive sheet of lightning illuminated the sky outside, revealing towering columns of grey water and wind.

The turbulence hit us like a solid wall.

The nose of the Boeing pitched down sharply, throwing my feet off the floor.

I grabbed the headrest of Malachi’s seat, my fingers digging into the leather.

“Pull back, Gerald!” Malachi yelled. “Pull with me!”

Both of them strained against the controls, their muscles tensing under their shirts.

The nose slowly rose back up, but the aircraft was shaking violently from nose to tail.

“The radio,” I said, reaching for the hand-mic on the pedestal. “We need to tell Gander we’ve lost autopilot.”

I pressed the transmit button. “Gander Center, this is Flight Seven Eight Two, do you read?”

Only a high-pitched squeal came through the speakers, followed by dead silence.