Code Black (17 page)

“Thanks. I’ll need every bit of it.”

Donovan glanced over his shoulder at Keith, who was now wearing insulated gloves, smoke goggles, and holding an oxygen mask. He seemed out of place in the cockpit of a modern jet. A fire extinguisher was at his feet. “Are you ready? Do you have any questions?”

Keith nodded. “The others in the back—is the rear of the plane the safest? I’ve always heard that, but never knew if it was true.”

“In this situation it’s by far the best place,” Donovan replied, but wondered to himself how the 737 would stay together with all the structural damage. He guessed it wouldn’t take very much to snap the weakened fuselage in half and end up skidding down the runway in pieces. Donovan wished he could shake off his thoughts of Audrey, but one simple phrase ran through his mind:
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned
.

“Keith, you do exactly what we tell you,” John reiterated. “Nothing more, nothing less. Is that understood?”

“I understand,” Keith said.

Donovan took a moment to watch John. He could almost see and feel the captain’s tension rising. He was aware of his own adrenaline surge, though at this point he didn’t know which he dreaded more. The upcoming approach—or Audrey Parrish.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

At the sound of the phone, all conversation in the cab abruptly ceased. Koski quickly punched the button. “Tower.”

“This is 880,” Donovan’s voice announced over the speaker. “We’re ready.”

“Donovan, this is Henry. I take it John is going to be doing the flying and you and I will talk?”

“That’s the plan. All the breakers have been pulled. What we need now is the exact sequence in which you want us to reset them. We’ve got someone up here to help us do all of that. But before we start—what’s the weather, any improvement?”

“It’s about the same, Donovan. RVR is pretty steady now at 600 feet.” Henry fingered the notes he and Tucker had created, checking them for the umpteenth time. “Okay. Are you ready for the sequence?”

Lauren could feel the tension in the cab rising. She crossed her arms and her fingernails dug painfully into the palms of her hands. She’d listened quietly as dozens of fire trucks and ambulances were positioned strategically along the runway. Kate had tried to explain what was happening, while at the same time offering comfort. Lauren was deeply thankful for the woman’s efforts.

“Go ahead. I’m writing it down,” Donovan replied. “We’ll want to locate all the breakers before we start this, make sure we have them identified.”

Henry ran down the list, then stopped and waited as Donovan read everything back. “You’ve got it. That’s the exact sequence we’ve figured out. Within sixty seconds, you should have the instruments you need to start the approach. Radar will have you positioned to intercept the approach course before you push everything in. We’re estimating the time from start to landing at a little over six minutes. That will minimize your exposure to fire.”

“You won’t mind if we try to make it a little faster than that,” Donovan said.

A nervous grin flashed across Lauren’s face. Right now, more than anything, she needed to hear that Donovan sounded confident. It was a sharp contrast to the apprehension that was building within her.

“I understand completely,” Henry said. “I look forward to meeting you.”

Lauren’s attention was drawn across the cab to Devereux. His eyes darted nervously around the room as if he were measuring something. He moved slowly in their direction.

“Let’s have a current altimeter setting, then give us a vector for the intercept,” Donovan said. “And just to make sure, we’ll be able to talk to you on 120.75 when we get everything powered up.”

“That’s correct.” Koski gave them the altimeter setting, then looked at Kate seated at the radarscope, her face focused and determined. He gave her a quick nod.

Kate responded with a practiced professionalism. “Wayfarer 880, turn right to a heading of 150 degrees. This is for a downwind leg to ILS 32 Left,” she explained. “I’m going to turn you on a 25 mile final.”

“Roger, turning to 150 degrees,” Donovan said. “I think 25 miles sounds good. We’re still several thousand feet above the clouds here. What altitude do you want us at when we turn all this on?”

“Eight thousand feet, Wayfarer 880,” Kate said.

“Okay, we’re out of ten thousand for eight thousand now.”

“Consider yourself relieved from this operation.” Frank Devereux spoke in a hushed voice to Henry. “You can stay and observe if you like.”

Though Lauren suspected this was coming, the words cut deeply. Frank Devereux had sat back quietly while Henry had both organized and accomplished all that needed to be done. In her mind it was a completely chicken-shit move on the part of Devereux. She watched as Henry’s expression drew taut.

“You can be in charge,” Henry said, as he shot a look of hatred at Devereux. “Just let me get 880 on the ground.”

Devereux recoiled. “You are relieved as of this moment. I have my orders from the top. We both know it’s best.”

“We do, huh?” Henry made no attempt to either lower his voice or hide his anger.

“Fine. It’s all yours. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“You’re too emotionally involved right now to be running this,” Devereux sneered, echoing Cyrus’ words.

Lauren glanced around at the personnel in the cab. They had all heard the heated exchange. She could see everyone’s general discomfort at being exposed to what was obviously a political issue.

“If you weren’t being manipulated by Cyrus,” Henry said, pointing his finger at Devereux, “Honestly, would you still be doing this?” Frank looked away, stung, the words producing their intended effect.

“What’s going on down there?” Donovan said over the speaker.

“Donovan, this is Frank Devereux, Vice President of Flight Operations. I’ve just arrived and I’m taking over at this end. Nothing for you has changed. We’ll be turning you shortly for the approach.”

Lauren closed her eyes, shaking her head in frustration. The fate of Donovan and the others was now officially out of Henry’s hands—and with it perhaps her own input. She wondered where Matt was, and if he’d overheard the orders that had led up to this action. Inwardly, she cursed Cyrus and wished Michael had somehow arrived in time to help her with this deteriorating situation.

“I don’t really know who you are. But I was kind of getting used to Henry,” Donovan said. “I think he was doing an outstanding job.”

“Let’s just get back to the task at hand; Henry is still here, but only as an observer,” Frank stated.

“Wayfarer 880, turn right to a heading of 340 degrees,” Kate interrupted. “You will roll out on the final approach course, 25 miles from touchdown.” She had just made the perfect vector; 880 would be positioned exactly where it needed to be.

“In the turn now,” Donovan reported. “We’re getting ready to push in the breakers. Tell us when we’re one minute from intercept.”

Lauren moved away from Devereux, her anger and frustration barely under control. She looked over Kate’s shoulder at the blip on the screen. It was hard to imagine the green shape was an airplane—an airplane with Donovan on board. It struck Lauren as almost surreal.

“One minute from intercept.” Kate glanced at the second hand on her watch. “Wayfarer 880, you are cleared for the ILS approach to runway 32 Left.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Okay, Keith, now!” Donovan listened and counted the seven distinct clicks as each specific circuit breaker was reset in sequence. They were just skimming the tops of the clouds at 8,000 feet. John was flying the airplane beautifully. Donovan switched off the cell phone and set it beside him. The lights on the VHF radio blinked to life. He slipped his oxygen mask on and faced the instrument panel as more lights began to flicker. It was working. Donovan was relieved to see the instruments powering up. He quickly tuned the radios to the appropriate frequencies.

“Okay, I’m getting some action here.” John shifted in his seat as systems began to return. “We’re on the localizer.”

Donovan could hear John clearly through his headset. The microphones in the oxygen masks were working. He watched as electronic indicators settled into position. It showed them lined up perfectly with the distant runway. The signals would guide them down an invisible path to the airport. As long as John flew the 737 so that the two needles were precisely centered, the aircraft would touch down on the centerline of runway 32 Left. “Looking good, John.” Donovan turned to Keith, who gave him a thumbs-up.

“The gyro appears to be stable.” John focused on the standby attitude indicator. Its information was vital; without it, he could become instantly disoriented. “Here we go. I’m leaving eight thousand feet. We’re on the glide slope.”

The Boeing descended toward the tops of the clouds. Light turbulence buffeted the 737 as they sped through the wisps of vapor. Donovan’s muscles tightened; they were committed, heading into the raging blizzard that lay between them and the ground.

The world outside the cockpit went from blue to gray. Donovan keyed the microphone. “O’Hare Tower. This is Wayfarer 880. We’re out of eight thousand feet. On glide slope and localizer. Great vector.”

“Roger 880, we read you loud and clear,” Kate said calmly. “The snow removal equipment is clear and we have emergency vehicles standing by. All of the approach lights are on full intensity.”

“Tower. What’s the wind and RVR,” Donovan said. He felt as though the world was going by in slow motion, but his senses were moving at the speed of light.

“Wind is 290 degrees at 15, gusts to 25. RVR is 600 variable to 800 feet. Altimeter is 28.92. Runway surface is plowed 125 feet wide, full length.”

Growing turbulence pounded the Boeing. Each jolt threatened to displace the aircraft from its required position in the gray murky sky. John rode out each series of bumps, and corrected their glide path to keep them on course.

“I show us 19 miles from the airport, on localizer, on glide slope. Airspeed is 220 knots.” Donovan knew how difficult John’s job was and was relieved to see he was handling the plane expertly.

“It’s going to get rougher as we descend,” John said. “I’ll want call-outs of any deviation at all.”

“You’re 17 miles from touchdown.” Kate’s voice came over the speaker loud and clear. “Wind is now 330 degrees, at 17 knots with gusts to 28 knots. RVR is holding steady at 700 feet.”

“We copy O’Hare.” Donovan held his breath as a powerful gust tipped the 737 into a 20 degree bank. John fought the controls, trying to bring the wings of the Boeing back to level. They had drifted slightly out of position.

“We’re a little right of course, and a little bit low,” Donovan called out. The sensitivity of the course needles would increase as they got closer to the runway.

“Correcting,” John said.

Donovan scrutinized the strain on John’s face. His eyes never left the precious few instruments in front of him. The tendons in his forearm flexed as he battled both the elements and the damaged 737.

“Uh, something is getting pretty hot back here.” Keith pulled his mask aside. He had one glove off; his bare hand pressed to the gray metal panel, his gloved hand held in the crucial power breaker.

Donovan spun around in his seat. His eyes scanned each panel for smoke. He found none. He nodded at Keith, then directed his attention back to John, who was fighting yet another onslaught of turbulence.

“Any smoke?” John asked, his eyes riveted to the panel.

“None,” Donovan said. “We’re almost halfway there. I’m showing us a little high on the glide slope.”

“Wayfarer 880, the RVR is now 800 feet.” Kate’s excited voice announced the news of the improving visibility.

“Just keep it coming John. We might pull this off yet,” Donovan said. “We copy O’Hare; just hold the weather right there.”

“We’ll try, Wayfarer.”

Donovan felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw the first wisps of smoke beginning to seep from the panel behind John’s seat. Keith’s eyes were wide and unblinking.

“What is it?” John said.

“Just a little smoke,” Donovan said. “Don’t worry about it. I show us a little right of course and low.”

“Where’s it coming from?” John asked, his voice filled with apprehension.

“There’s not very much. Far less than the first time,” Donovan reported, but he knew John’s stress level was rising fast. John couldn’t do anything but continue to fly the plane while something behind him began to burn. Donovan looked back over his shoulder as Keith pointed at the overhead panel. More smoke was starting to drift from it also. “Just keep flying, John. Check your glide slope; we’re still a little low.”

John added power. He struggled with the turbulence and the added distraction of an unseen fire. He steadied the 737 and brought the two needles back into place. “How bad is the smoke now?”

“It’s okay. We’re only 15 miles from the airport. Less than five minutes. You’re looking good, John. Just keep flying this thing the way you’ve been doing. We’ll be on the ground shortly.” Donovan could sense John’s apprehension getting the better of him. Donovan needed to keep John’s attention on flying the plane. “Stay with it, John. You’re a little right of course, slightly high. Speed is good.”

“Oh Christ. We’ve got a fire!” Keith cried out through his mask. His terrified voice filled the cockpit.

Donovan spun around. Bluish flames flickered from the edge of the panel. Smoke poured from the seams. “Keep your mask on! Don’t let go of the breaker!” Donovan shot a look at John. “You fly! We’ll handle this.”

“What do you want me to do?” Keith yelled.

For an instant, Donovan was afraid Keith might try to bolt from the cockpit. But the man bravely held his position. “Just keep holding in the breaker!”

“How bad is it?” John’s voice was clipped and tense, his breaths came in ragged gulps.

“Manageable,” Donovan said as calmly as he could. “We’ll make it. I’m going to use the extinguisher.”

More turbulence battered the 737. Donovan held on tightly as they rode through the worst of it. Without warning, as if a volcano had decided to let go, a plume of gray smoke erupted from the overhead panel. It poured out thick as liquid. Within seconds, visibility in the cockpit was near zero.