Free Four Past Midnight by Stephen King

turned his head and found Nick’s face less than three inches from his own.
    Now he’ll grab my nose and start to twist it, Brian thought.
    Nick did not grab his nose. He spoke with quiet intensity, his eyes fixed unflinchingly on Brian’s. “I see a look in your eyes, my friend ... but I didn’t need to see your eyes to know it was there. I can hear it in your voice and see it in the way you’re sitting in your seat. Now listen to me, and listen well: panic is not allowed.”
    Brian stared at him, frozen by that blue gaze.
    â€œDo you understand me?”
    He spoke with great effort. “They don’t let guys do what I do for a living if they panic, Nick.”
    â€œI know that,” Nick said, “but this is a unique situation. You need to remember, however, that there are a dozen or more people on this plane, and your job is the same as it ever was: to bring them down in one piece.”
    â€œYou don’t need to tell me what my job is!” Brian snapped.
    â€œI’m afraid I did,” Nick said, “but you’re looking a hundred per cent better now, I’m relieved to say.”
    Brian was doing more than looking better; he was starting to feel better again. Nick had stuck a pin into the most sensitive place—his sense of responsibility. Just where he meant to stick me, he thought.
    â€œWhat do you do for a living, Nick?” he asked a trifle shakily.
    Nick threw back his head and laughed. “Junior attaché, British embassy, old man.”
    â€œMy aunt’s hat.”
    Nick shrugged. “Well ... that’s what it says on my papers, and I reckon that’s good enough. If they said anything else, I suppose it would be Her Majesty’s Mechanic. I fix things that need fixing. Right now that means you.”
    â€œThank you,” Brian said touchily, “but I’m fixed.”
    â€œAll right, then—what do you mean to do? Can you navigate without those ground-beam thingies? Can you avoid other planes?”
    â€œI can navigate just fine with on-board equipment,” Brian said. “As for other planes—” He pointed at the radar screen. “This bastard says there aren’t any other planes.”
    â€œCould be there are, though,” Nick said softly. “Could be that radio and radar conditions are snafued, at least for the time being. You mentioned nuclear war, Brian. I think if there had been a nuclear exchange, we’d know. But that doesn’t mean there hasn’t been some sort of accident. Are you familiar with the phenomenon called the electromagnetic pulse?”
    Brian thought briefly of Melanie Trevor. Oh , and we’ve had reports of the aurora borealis over the Mojave Desert. You might want to stay awake for that.
    Could that be it? Some freakish weather phenomenon?
    He supposed it was just possible. But, if so, how come he heard no static on the radio? How come there was no wave interference across the radar screen? Why just this dead blankness? And he didn’t think the aurora borealis had been responsible for the disappearance of a hundred and fifty to two hundred passengers.
    â€œWell?” Nick asked.
    â€œYou’re some mechanic, Nick,” Brian said at last, “but I don’t think it’s EMP. All on-board equipment—including the directional gear—seems to be working just fine.” He pointed to the digital compass readout. “If we’d experienced an electromagnetic pulse, that baby would be all over the place. But it’s holding dead steady.”
    â€œSo. Do you intend to continue on to Boston?”
    Do you intend ... ?
    And with that, the last of Brian’s panic drained away. That’s right, he thought. I’m the captain of this ship now ... and in the end, that’s all it comes down to. You should have reminded me of that in the first place, my friend, and saved us both a lot of trouble.
    â€œLogan at dawn, with no