Code Black

“When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the eart with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.”

—Unknown

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Thriller/Adventure

Hardcover, Adult/General Fiction

Copyright © 2007 by Philip Donlay

First Edition

Cover Art & Design Les Munoz

Typeset by The Great American Art Company

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A heartfelt thanks goes to all of the aviation professionals around the world whose tireless work and dedication keep our skies safe. A further thanks goes to the men and women at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport—day in day out, you’re the best in the world.

For their patience, friendship and insight, I offer a special thanks to Sheren Frame, Bo Lewis, D. Scott Erickson, Rebecca Norgaard, Emily Burt and Tony Moss; you’ve played a bigger part in this than you’ll ever know. Thanks to Kimberley Cameron, Roger Cooper, Nicole Barron and Adam Marsh for your steady hands and professional guidance. To Dr. D.P. Lyle, for spectacular help with all things medical. A final heartfelt thanks goes to my family. To my brother Chris, who is by far the smartest person I’ve ever met. To my Mom and Dad for their unwavering support in everything I’ve done. Finally, to my son Patrick, whom I love dearly, thanks for letting me see the world through your eyes.

PROLOGUE

“Don’t touch him, he’s still hot!” Roy Wickstrom shielded his eyes as fiery sparks arced up from the body slumped against the high-voltage feeds. Wickstrom was the foreman of the maintenance crew, and one of his crew had just made a terrible mistake—the worker was now only a charred corpse that danced and convulsed on the short-circuited conduit. Wickstrom turned and fought the bile rising in his throat as the dead man’s clothes burst into flames. “Pull the breaker—we have to get him off of there!”

“We can’t!” came the frantic reply. “The junction box has ignited! We’ve got to shut off the main power or this whole place is going to burn!”

“Shut it down then!” Wickstrom instinctively reached for his flashlight as one of his crew slammed down the heavy metal handle attached to the breaker box. The deep hum of the electrical current in the room came to an abrupt halt. Wickstrom waited in the darkness for the backup generator to pick up the load, but all he heard was his own breathing and the sharp peal of thunder as it echoed through the dark building, finally reaching the basement. Someone emptied a fire extinguisher on the burning body, and the rush of compressed gas was followed by groans as the acrid smell of burnt flesh filled the room.

“Get him off there and call 911,” Wickstrom said as he clicked on the flashlight and played the beam over the smoldering body. “I want the main power back on as soon as possible!” He shifted the beam to a worker standing nearby. “You’re with me! We have to get to the generator.”

The twin beams from their flashlights lit the way as they both hurried to another part of the basement. Wickstrom put his shoulder against the thick steel door, and as it opened he was met with the sound of cascading water. He pointed his light toward the source and found a stream of rainwater pouring from the ceiling onto the standby generator.

“Find a tarp or some plastic!” he yelled as he peeled off his jacket and plunged under the icy shower to try to protect the components. As the water continued to soak the generator, a cold stab of fear swept over Wickstrom. He pictured the air traffic controllers upstairs, responsible for guiding airplanes over a six-state area, and who were now sitting in the dark.

* * * * *

The room around him went pitch black. Mark Dresser watched helplessly as his radar screen died, leaving only a small bright dot in the center. Above the distant exit an emergency floodlight flickered and then came to life, casting its harsh beam across the room. Mark keyed his microphone, the ghostly images of the dozen airplanes under his care clearly etched in his mind.

“Wayfarer 880, this is Indianapolis Center. Descend and maintain flight level 310.” Mark paused as he mentally counted to three, and then broadcast the message again. “Wayfarer 880, do you read Center?”

His calls were met with silence. The noise in the room was starting to escalate with the buzz of other air traffic controllers growing equally desperate to talk to the pilots in their airspace. Mark had less than five minutes before his situation went critical. He snatched a phone from its cradle and waited for the familiar ringing of the direct line to Chicago Center. If he could talk to his counterparts in the neighboring facility, they could direct Wayfarer 880 to descend and head off what was rapidly becoming a problem, but the phone in his hand was as lifeless as the screen in front of him.

Mark banged his fist on the useless radar console. He was torn between staying at his station, hoping that everything would come back online shortly, or leaving the heavily insulated room to get outside where his cell phone would work. In the darkness he turned toward his supervisor’s desk. “Tom! I’m going to have a big problem if I can’t move some airplanes around.”

Tom Keller was already up on his feet and covered the distance in three strides. “What have you got?”

“I was about to descend a Boeing 737, Wayfarer 880. I needed the separation from a Military KC-135. They’re both going through the same hole in the weather.”

“The backup generator should come on any second. How long until there’s a problem?”

“Less than five minutes. I needed Wayfarer to turn or descend, then I lost the whole thing.”

“Even if it’s close, the 737 has TCAS,” Keller replied. “They’ll be able to avoid any serious problems.”

Mark shook his head. “The transponder on the KC-135 isn’t working right. It’s been intermittent since he came into my sector.” They both knew that without a working transponder on the military aircraft, the Wayfarer jet would have no way of knowing the KC-135 was even there. The TCAS equipment that alerted airplanes to a potential midair collision required both airplanes to have an operating transponder so they could “talk” to each other electronically.

“Oh God! How close is it going to be?” Keller pressed his fingers against his temples and pondered the unthinkable.

“Given that they’re both going through the same opening in the thunderstorms at the same altitude—” Mark looked up in the near darkness at his boss. “These planes could hit.”

“Go!” Tom reacted instantly. “Do whatever it takes to reach Chicago Center. Try the pay phone in the hallway or use your cell phone. I don’t care how you do it, but find a way. I’ll stay here and if this mess comes back up I’ll make the call. What’s his call sign?”

“Wayfarer 880.” Mark yanked off his headset. “Just have him descend out of 36,000 feet.”

Mark flew from his chair and ran for the door. He pushed through and raced down the dimly lit corridor. He rounded a corner and crashed into another person. The impact threw him into the brick wall. “Shit! Sorry.” He propelled himself forward and ran as fast as he dared, leaving a stunned coworker sprawled behind him.

“Get out of my way!” Mark yelled as he rounded another corner. His left foot slipped on the waxed floor but he steadied himself. He could see the pay phone just ahead, and he prayed it was on a different circuit from the other phones. He slid the last four feet and yanked the receiver from its cradle.

He jabbed at the buttons furiously and tried to blot out the image of a collision between two airplanes. There wasn’t a controller in the business who hadn’t had nightmares about this very situation. A 737 could carry as many as 150 people, and the KC-135 had a crew of at least four. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t escape the image of two airplanes colliding, the debris and passengers raining down from five miles above the earth. He pictured the tiny flags that the investigators would sink into the ground to mark each of the dead, and then the hundreds of body bags that would be lined up in somewhere in a makeshift morgue. The death toll was bound to be staggering.

“We’re sorry, all circuits are busy. Please try your call later,” the automated voice calmly requested.

Mark looked at the phone as if it had somehow betrayed him. He yanked his cell phone from his pocket, ignored his trembling hands and pushed the power button as he ran toward the front door. Moments later he burst through the double glass doors into the driving rain and huddled under the small awning. Breathing heavily, he turned his back to the deluge and checked that his phone had powered up. Vivid flashes of lightning danced in the clouds overhead followed by the rolling sound of thunder. Mark dialed the number for Chicago Center. As the hisses and clicks sounded in his ear, he waited and tried not to hyperventilate. Rain came in torrents; another explosion of thunder rattled the structure around him. He looked at his watch—it was going to be close, but there was still time.

Mark swore under his breath when he heard the busy signal. He disconnected the call and hit the redial button. He squeezed his eyes shut as waves of self-recrimination washed over him. Why hadn’t he descended or turned one of the airplanes earlier? Why was any of this happening? His spirits soared as an encouraging click came over the phone, but he slumped as he heard the recording. “All circuits are busy.”

Oblivious to the cold and being soaking wet, he tried over and over to reach Chicago—the mental picture of two airplanes hurtling toward the same point in space played out in his mind’s eye—until he knew that he’d run out of time. He felt hollow as he tried to grasp the realities of a five-hundred-mile-per-hour impact, the screams that would follow and then be silenced forever. He pressed the send button again and when the recording sounded, his hand dropped to his side. Mark helplessly scanned the building for any sign that the power had been restored, that the aircraft had been reached in time, but the dark interior told him no such miracle had taken place. He stared numbly into the northern sky. Whatever was going to happen was now unavoidable.