Code Black (6 page)

He checked his heading against the position of the sun. He knew he was on the north side of the squall line. Donovan gingerly turned the airplane fifteen degrees left; he used his best guess to put the airplane on a rough heading for Chicago. He really had no idea exactly how far he might be from anything, or more importantly, how he was going to be able to land the airplane with no electrical power. He momentarily took his eyes off the horizon and studied the wrecked overhead panel for some sign of life, something obvious that he might be able to correct and give himself electricity. Within seconds, the controls began to vibrate in his hands.
Be careful! Watch your pitch
, he warned himself as the airspeed built quickly due to his inattention. He made a subtle correction, silently urging the aircraft to descend.

Donovan relaxed slightly, knowing that the largest storms were behind him. He took a moment to survey the empty sky in front of the 737. Far ahead, all he could see were clouds. Carefully, using one hand at a time, he managed to secure himself in the seat harness, pulling hard on the straps.

Donovan concentrated on keeping the Boeing in a descent. The cockpit was a blur as they burst in and out of another layer of clouds, turbulence jolting the airplane and precipitation pelting the windshield. Donovan could only get fragmented glimpses of the weather ahead. The cockpit grew dark. He had done this a thousand times, but always in a fully functioning airplane, with all the information that technology had to offer.

He could hear the roar from the cabin as they quickly picked up more speed. At six miles per minute, the Boeing sped across an invisible line that marked the edge of the disturbed air. The last bit of turbulence spit them out with a final jolt, and they flew smoothly away from of its reach.

Despite the aching coldness of the cockpit, Donovan’s hands were sweaty and he wiped the perspiration on the thighs of his trousers. He closed his eyes and exhaled into his mask. He prayed the more stable air would reduce the risk of the overhead section coming loose again.
Get this thing down now—before the people in back run out of oxygen
. The only way to judge his heading was to focus on the standby compass. The primitive device floated and bobbed in its case.

Donovan felt a presence at his left elbow. He turned as Audrey squeezed into the cockpit. Her eyes filled with horror when she saw the copilot’s body on the floor and the unconscious captain. She touched Donovan on the shoulder, then slid her mask aside.

“Please tell me you know how to fly,” Audrey demanded as she looked around in dismay at the shattered cockpit.

Donovan nodded, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon.

“Can we take these off yet?”

Donovan shook his head. “No. We’re still too high.” He pushed his mask back to his face and took a deep breath.

“Are you okay? You’re bleeding.” She pointed at his forehead.

Donovan guessed he’d injured himself in his mad rush to get to the cockpit. “I’m fine. I’m more interested in how seriously he’s hurt.” He looked across the cockpit at the slumped form of the captain. The 737 entered another layer of clouds. Donovan tensed his body for the turbulence but there was none. The Boeing cruised along without a bump.

Audrey moved across the cockpit and examined the captain, turning his head and inspecting his wound. She spent several moments assessing the severity, then turned to Donovan. “I don’t know how badly he’s injured, but at least he’s still alive.” She looked out the windshield, then back down at the panel. “How can you fly with no instruments?”

Donovan gave her a weak smile from behind his mask. He could see both the fear and courage in her familiar eyes. He wondered how long he could remain a stranger to her with this much contact. The two aspects of his appearance-altering surgery they couldn’t address were his eyes and his voice. More than anything, he wished that he could minimize his exposure to her. “I have enough for now, but I’ll need him if we’re going to get this thing on the ground.”

She gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, and quickly vanished through the doorway.

Donovan concentrated on his flying. The diffused gray world inside the clouds gradually brightened as the 737 continued its descent. He had to find clear air. He needed the distant horizon as a reference if he was going to keep the airplane straight and level. With all of the main instruments gone, he couldn’t risk staying in the clouds for any length of time. The biggest danger was the potential of vertigo, which would be akin to closing your eyes on a roller coaster. In a matter of minutes he could become hopelessly confused, having no way of knowing which way was up or down. Spatial disorientation was one of the fastest ways to lose control of an airplane.

The Boeing twinjet burst from the base of the high clouds into clear sky. To the west, the sun sat low on the horizon. Below him, stretched as far as he could see, the clouds were splashed with orange and yellow in the late afternoon light. Donovan let out a slow breath into his mask. The air was smooth, and for the first time since he’d sat at the unfamiliar controls, he let his wire-taut muscles relax a little. His thighs ached, as did his hands. He flexed his fingers until some of the stiffness was gone, then loosened his harness a fraction. The aircraft was starting to respond better, thanks to the increasing air density as they descended. He dropped the nose, but within seconds the slight vibration grew worse. He eased back and it disappeared. He had to settle for the pitiful rate of descent he had. There would be no emergency descent. Normally with an emergency decompression, the airplane would be coming down at more than 6,000 feet per minute. Shaking his head in frustration, he calculated their descent at a mere 800 feet per minute.

The standby altimeter crept past 25,000 feet; Donovan needed to get the airplane down to 10,000 before he could safely breath without his mask. He again tested the controls. If he relaxed his grip, the airplane wanted to turn to the right. It took constant pressure to hold the nose straight. Donovan pushed the left throttle up an inch, and the aircraft yawed as the thrust on that side became greater. He repeated the procedure on the other side. His little test at least confirmed that both engines were producing thrust. Silently, he gave thanks for small miracles, though he still had to constantly adjust the extra sensitive pitch of the 737. When he had let the speed build too much, the vibration in the controls became dangerous. From everything he was feeling, he knew the tail section must be damaged.

Donovan once again turned his attention to the cockpit around him. Every one of the primary flight instruments was useless. Back-up systems that should have allowed at least partial power had failed. Not a single electrical component on any of the panels was illuminated.

The overhead section was what worried Donovan the most. He could only take small measured glances upwards to get a better look. But as he quickly looked back and forth, he began to get a better picture of what he was dealing with. The tremendous force of the impact with the KC-135 had pushed the metal framework down and thrust it twenty degrees to one side. A little further aft, the twisted wreckage from the roof structure nearly blocked the entry onto the flight deck. Behind the captain’s seat, up near the ceiling, was more damage. Donovan knew enough about airplane design to understand that virtually all of the ship’s electrical power was routed from the compartments behind their seats, through the overhead panel. He shook his head at the wire bundles that dangled above him, frayed ends swaying back and forth like severed arteries to essential organs.
This is one screwed up airplane
.

Donovan couldn’t help but wonder about the people in the back. Above each row of seats were the emergency oxygen generators. They produced air for approximately twelve minutes, usually more than enough time for an airliner to descend to a safe altitude. It was taking him far longer than that; those passengers with masks would probably have run out of oxygen by now.

Donovan glanced back at the entryway. He thought he felt Audrey returning to the cockpit, but the passageway was empty. If something happened to her, he would have no way of knowing, or helping. He’d be forced to deal with all of this alone. What if he were the sole survivor?

He focused his attention back to flying the Boeing. Audrey was on her own; whatever was happening behind him in the cabin was outside his sphere of influence. His job was to keep this airplane flying—if he lost control of the 737, nothing else would matter.

CHAPTER SIX

Lauren watched as the chaos in Operations moved from the counter and was now centered on a desk away from the lounge area. Henry Parrish had turned his back on her with a silent, but dismissive expression and began issuing orders to the people around him. David Tucker was still standing next to her; Lauren sensed he was torn between watching her and wanting to join the fray.

“There’s an airplane crash in Indiana. It’s on CNN!” The dreaded words carried across the room to where Lauren stood.

Lauren’s knees turned weak as Tucker escorted her into a different section of Operations. Moments later, Lauren stood with other members of the Wayfarer staff. They’d gathered in what she’d heard described as the war room. All four televisions were switched on, and tuned to different news stations. Henry increased the volume on the set marked CNN. The room had a complex communications system, though primitive by DIA standards. Lauren guessed they could monitor all of Wayfarer’s ground and flight frequencies, as well as all of the O’Hare air traffic control transmissions. The electronics were powered up and careful notes were being written on one particular board that covered an entire wall. Flight 880’s flight number had been put up, a question mark next to the word “casualties”.

Lauren felt herself go numb. On the screen, a reporter in a parka stood before the camera in the driving snow. Behind him was a virtual parking lot of official vehicles, their lights flashing in a surreal rhythm.

“Live from just outside Fort Wayne, Indiana. This is Neil Hadley. I’m standing just a short distance from the grizzly crash scene of what I’m told is a Military KC-135 tanker. The four-engine Boeing aircraft is used by the Air Force for aerial refueling operations. Filled with what we can only guess is thousands of gallons of volatile aviation fuel, the jet plunged to the ground just outside this quiet subdivision approximately half an hour ago. Eyewitnesses described a loud noise, followed by a huge explosion as the plane was destroyed in a giant fireball. Unconfirmed reports suggest that the airplane was already in pieces as it fell out of the sky. Debris, we understand, is scattered over a large area and not confined to this site. Severe thunderstorms pounded this region earlier, with high winds and some reports of hail. But as you can see now, the snow is really beginning to come down. No word yet as to how many people were on board, or how many victims might have been killed on the ground. Rescue efforts are being hampered by both the rain-saturated ground and intense fire. This aircraft is said to have been en route to Chicago’s O’Hare airport. The officials on the scene have said it is too early to rule out anything—including, I’m told, an act of terrorism.”

Lauren looked across the room at Henry, his jaw working furiously as he studied the images on the screen. Lauren turned back to the television as the grainy picture showed the reporter reaching up and adjusting his earpiece. He paused, collected himself and once again began talking.

“I’ve just been given new information. It seems there are now reports coming in, of aircraft debris, and some possible bodies, located at least a mile from here. We’re also receiving unconfirmed reports of a power outage at the air traffic control center in Indianapolis, the radar facility that controls all of the air traffic in this area. We have no indication yet that these events are linked, but we do now know that the FBI has been called in to investigate. As soon as we have more details on this latest disaster, we’ll get that information to you.”

“It’s not ours,” Henry said finally, turning down the volume.

Lauren was overcome with relief, her entire body shaking. One moment she feared she was looking at the burning wreckage of Donovan’s flight, only to be back where she was a few minutes ago—hoping against hope that he could somehow still be alive.

“Where are they?” she heard herself say out loud at the same moment her cell phone rang. In one swift motion she pushed the answer button and brought it to her ear. “Hello.” Lauren heard nothing as she repeated herself. She looked at her phone and saw that there was no signal, but the lack of a number on caller ID told her it had probably come from the DIA. Without hesitation, she fled the room, ignoring the looks from those around her, she went straight to the phone she’d used before. She quickly punched the buttons and waited.

Lauren reached out to brace herself against a table. She feared the worst. It hadn’t taken her boss very long to call her back. “It’s me,” she said, as Calvin answered.

“I’m glad you’re still there,” Calvin said. “Okay, we found one of the planes. It was a KC-135 and it’s crashed in Indiana.”

“I know about that one,” Lauren said. “What about the other one, Donovan’s plane?”

“We’re still looking,” Calvin began to explain. “Steven had an idea that I think is encouraging. We were able to pinpoint the exact coordinates of the KC-135 crash through the seismic disturbance caused by the airplane’s impact with the ground.”

Lauren’s brow furrowed as she forced herself to follow what Calvin was trying to say.

“Steven accessed the United States Geological Survey’s seismic array. As you know, basically, the entire planet is wired to detect even the slightest earthquake or tremor. The crash of the plane was recorded and triangulated by the sensitive earthquake detection array. The impact registered like a small-scale earthquake.”

“But you told me you’re still looking for Donovan’s plane.” Lauren’s spirits soared. “Are you telling me there’s only been one seismic disturbance—as in one crash?”