Code Black (18 page)

“Wayfarer 880, we show you drifting right of course,” Kate announced.

“Jesus Christ! I can’t see anything!” John yelled, pushing both throttles to maximum power. “I’m getting us out of here!”

Donovan could hardly see the panel in front of him. He turned to Keith, “As soon as we’re in the clear, pull all the breakers!” Keith, wide-eyed, nodded in agreement.

Donovan grabbed the extinguisher. He didn’t need to watch John anymore. He could hear the whine of the CFM engines as they spooled up to full power. Any second and they would be in a massive climb for the clear air above. He pulled the pin on the extinguisher, gripped the handles and fired the bottle directly into the flames. The white vapor streamed from the nozzle and swept the flames away. Donovan then aimed at the overhead panel. He emptied the bottle as the smoke continued to pour out.

Through the dense smoke, Donovan watched in horror as another sheet of flames erupted behind John. Donovan squeezed the handle but the extinguisher was empty. He let it drop and reached through the smoke to try and find the second one.

John twisted violently in his seat, shrieking in pain. “Oh Jesus, I’m on fire!” He released his grip on the controls. “Help me! I’m burning!” He screamed helplessly into the microphone.

The flames shot up from the left arm of John’s uniform. The synthetic material had ignited. Donovan pointed the fresh bottle and fired. John writhed in agony, his screams filling his headset, as his hands frantically beat the flames away. Donovan dropped the bottle—no one was flying the airplane.

Donovan grabbed the controls, fighting to see the instruments through the dense smoke. Their speed was building. Donovan knew they desperately needed to climb, but when he pulled back on the controls they didn’t move. He tried again but nothing happened. He felt them jerk in his hands as John tried in vain to escape the flames. Ignoring the fumes, Donovan pulled his mask aside. “Keith! Get him off the controls! I can’t fly!” Keith’s muscular arm reached around and tried to subdue the pilot. Donovan hoped it would be enough. Keith could only use one arm if he was going to keep the breaker in. John’s cries of agony dissolved into nothing more than a pitiful moan. Donovan forced his mask back into place, took a breath, and then recoiled as a small amount of smoke shot into his lungs. He threw his head from side to side trying to escape the caustic fumes, gagging and coughing. His throat and nose were burning. He resisted the urge to rip the mask away. Donovan focused on the panel, while at the same time attempting to force clean air into his tortured lungs. The instruments before him flickered once, and then went black. The electrical feeders had finally burned through and now they were flying completely blind.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lauren had flinched then stiffened, when the first screams had sounded through the speaker. Now there was nothing but silence.

“Wayfarer 880. This is O’Hare Tower. I show you drifting right of course. Do you copy?” Kate transmitted for the third time.

Lauren stood over her and watched the blip continue in a right turn. With each successive sweep of the scope, it was obvious they were headed wildly off course. The radar was still picking up information from the 737’s transponder, indicating that they were in a rapid descent. Lauren traced 880’s path and a new horror filled her. On their present heading, rising up into the clouds, were two of the tallest buildings in the world. The Sears Tower rose to over 2,000 feet above sea level. The Hancock and Amoco buildings were nearly as tall. The 737 had turned directly toward them and had been picking up speed.

“Wayfarer 880 do you read O’Hare?” Kate gave Lauren an expression of helplessness. “880, please respond!”

Frank put both hands to his temples. “Keep trying. We have to reach them!”

“Wayfarer 880 this is O’Hare. Turn left now. Repeat. Turn left now. Wayfarer 880 how do you read?” Kate kept transmitting. She looked up. “They’re below 2,000 feet and descending.”

“Tell them to turn,” Devereux pleaded. “They need to turn!”

“I’ve just lost their transponder,” Kate said. “Now I don’t have any altitude information on them.”

Lauren steadied herself on the console. She knew a fire must be engulfing the cockpit, and she felt ill. The screams she heard from 880 were almost inhuman. She had no idea who they came from, but she knew they would be etched in her mind forever. Every sweep of the radar put Donovan closer to the buildings. She could see the small circle on the scope that warned where the skyscrapers were. 880 was now less than a mile away. It was only a matter of seconds.

“What’s their altitude?” Devereux shouted.

“We have no way of knowing,” Henry shot back at his boss.

“Wayfarer 880. If you read me turn left or right. Turn now, please!” Kate implored the blip to alter course.

The blood drained from Lauren’s face and her legs threatened to buckle. It was incomprehensible that the airplane might crash in moments. The 737 and all the people aboard 880 would be strewn across the streets of downtown Chicago. She thought of the densely populated Loop, all the buildings that reached up into the sky. She could see the helplessness on Henry’s face. She thought of him losing a daughter; now his wife was in mortal danger. And Lauren thought of Donovan and their life together, all of the plans they’d made for the future. On the radar screen the ghostly green image of 880 and the warning area merged.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Forget the breaker—grab his arms!” Donovan yelled into his mask, the words muffled by the rubber seal. Donovan hoped that Keith would hear him. “Pin him back against his seat!” The sound of the slipstream grew louder. Donovan yanked as hard as he could, doing everything possible to regain control of the jet. He felt Keith bang against him; the larger man had unbuckled himself and moved toward John. In the smoke-filled cockpit, Keith braced himself to counter John’s pain-driven frenzy. Keith measured his point of attack, then leaned forward and wrapped John up with both arms. He forced the captain away from the controls, ignoring his distorted cries of distress.

With a lurch, the controls in Donovan’s hands became free. He instantly felt the dangerous high-speed vibration. He pulled back. The altimeter needle crept slightly higher; the noise in the cockpit changed. It sounded like they had accelerated even more. He felt as if he were spinning. The deadly warnings of vertigo raced through Donovan’s mind.

The smoke began to diminish, pulled out of the cockpit by the tremendous vacuum created from the rip in the airplane. Donovan could barely see the tiny altimeter. He was shocked to find they were down to 1,600 feet. Their speed was almost 280 knots. Donovan had never felt so helpless. With the loss of power, the emergency horizon gyro had spun down. There were no instruments to tell him which way was up. All he could feel were conflicting G-forces. He had no idea where they were in relation to the ground, or if they were even right side up. The gyro that had moments ago been giving reliable information was spinning wildly. Donovan was filled with uncertainty; if he did the wrong thing it might be fatal. If he did nothing, it would absolutely be fatal. He held his breath and pulled back on the shaking controls, terrified of the result. If they were in a bank, the turn would tighten and they would simply stall. The 737 would roll upside down and slam into the ground.

In a flash, two rows of red lights filled Donovan’s side window. Just below, a vibrant fluorescent glow reached out to him. Donovan fought to orient himself. There were confusing rows of lights falling away beneath him, dissolving in the driving snow. He caught a fleeting glimpse of people seated near a window. The dark gray walls, the glass and the people inside seemed near enough to reach out and touch. The twin red-and-white spires that soared up from the top of the John Hancock building flashed past and melted into the clouds behind them. Donovan put it all together, the split-second reference gave him what he needed. The 737 was in a steep bank to the right. Donovan leveled the wings and pulled on the yoke as hard as he dared, images of the damaged airframe flooding his mind. With the other hand, he pushed both throttles all the way to the stops. The seconds ticked off in his head as he pictured their climb away from the concrete and steel mountains below them. He tried his best to hold their attitude steady. He pleaded for the cloud tops to show themselves before becoming hopelessly disoriented once again. It slowly became brighter. The airspeed bled off to less than 200 knots. He was running out of speed.

“I can see blue sky!” Keith pointed out the windscreen. “Right above us.”

The 737 burst out of the clouds and into the clear air of the winter afternoon. The airplane was banked to the left, the nose pitched up almost 25 degrees. Donovan carefully brought the Boeing to a stable position and pulled back the power. The buzz in the controls subsided. He sat for a moment, stunned, amazed that they were still flying. The massive suction behind them pulled the smoke out quickly. He slid his mask over his head, then turned to Keith. “Is the fire out? Can you see if anything is still burning?” Donovan recoiled at the stench of burned insulation mingled with the more pungent smell of charred flesh and hair.

“I think it burned itself out.” Keith relaxed his grip on John and took a closer look. “Just some residual smoke.”

“You can let him go,” Donovan said. “Check the panel for any signs of fire.” Donovan fixed his gaze on the overhead section; the smoke looked to be dissipating.

“I don’t see a thing,” Keith said, wrinkling his nose. “I think whatever was burning lost its electrical source. We’re damn lucky.”

Donovan peeled his goggles off. His legs and arms shook uncontrollably. He knew it was the after-effects from the massive amounts of adrenaline that had just been pumped into his body. He looked out the window at the clouds below. It was pure luck that they’d missed the Hancock building. He couldn’t stop his legs from shaking as the image replayed in his mind. They had been well below the top of the building. He guessed they had missed it by only a scant few feet. A little more to the right and they would’ve plowed into the side of the massive structure. Images of an airliner striking a skyscraper were a horror he and everyone else in the world were all too familiar with.

“John, can you hear me?” Donovan said as he reached over and put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Keith, go back and get help; bring the medical kit.” Keith nodded and raced from the cockpit. “John, we’re back on top of the clouds; we’re in the clear.”

John rolled his head side-to-side. Tears streamed from glazed eyes; they trickled out from under his goggles, his mask was still secured. He made a weak gurgling noise.

Donovan saw John’s right hand; he must have burned it while trying to sweep the flames away. It was bright red, the blisters rising; the cuff of his shirt was black and singed. “Hang in there, John. Help is on the way.”

Audrey was the first onto the flight deck, her hands shot to her mouth. “Oh my God!”

“John’s been burned.” Donovan said.

Audrey leaned over John and quickly tried to inspect his injuries. He pulled away. She turned to Donovan, shaking her head. “It’s not good. We need to get him in back.”

“Coming through,” Rafael announced from the door.

“Give us a second, Rafael. We’re coming back to you,” Audrey called out, then turned to Donovan, her face filled with revulsion at the sight of John’s burns. She pointed to the goggles and oxygen mask. “We might have to cut these off him. The straps look melted to his skin.”

“Do whatever you have to. Just keep him off the controls,” Donovan said, frustrated at not being able to help. He caught partial glimpses of John as Audrey stood over him and studied the best way to remove the partly melted gear. He was moaning into his mask, still conscious. Donovan wondered if it might be a blessing if John were to just black out.

“John. I think I can remove your goggles. Hang on to the seat,” Audrey instructed.

A muffled shriek filled the cockpit. John’s body jerked, then went rigid. Donovan shuddered at the painful cries and looked away.

Audrey dropped the smoke goggles on the floor. The strap had melted; clumps of burnt hair clung to the crinkled elastic.

“Breathe, John. Take deep breaths.” Audrey squeezed his good hand. “It’s not as bad as I thought. We’ll take the mask off in a second.” Audrey said to Donovan. “How do I do this?”

“There are two red tabs underneath his mask. When you squeeze them together, the straps around his head will inflate; then you slide the whole thing up and over. But be careful. If you let go, the straps will contract again.” Donovan could clearly see the hesitation in her eyes; her face had gone white from the strain. “Just do it one quick sweeping motion.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “Here it goes.”

Donovan’s muscles tensed as he heard the straps inflate on John’s mask. Without the rubber seal over his mouth, John’s wail of agony, now clearly audible, cut Donovan to the core. John flailed against his harness as he reacted to the blinding pain. The controls bucked momentarily in his hands, but Donovan was able to hold the 737 steady.

“It’s okay John. It’s over.” Audrey held him tightly, her voice wavering. “When you’re ready, we’ll try to get you up. Do you think you can walk?”

John gasped through clenched teeth.

“Keith!” Audrey yelled back to the cabin. “Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. What can I do?”

“There’s not enough room in here for both of us. I’m coming out, then I want you to help John back to the cabin.”

Keith moved into the small space. He took a moment to decide where it would be best to grasp the injured pilot. “This is going to be a little awkward.”

“I’ll lean over to give you more room.” Donovan gave Keith as much space as he could, gripping the controls firmly. “I’m ready when you are.”

Keith put one hand under John’s right arm, then reached out to support his unburned left hand. John groaned as Keith lifted him out of his seat. “I’ve got you.”

John swayed slightly. His face was drawn and colorless. He held his burned arm away from his body. Tears trickled from his bloodshot eyes.