CODE BLACK
by Philip Donlay
iBooks
Habent Sua Fata Libelli
For my son Patrick
“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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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Donlay, Philip
Code Black
ISBN 978-1-59687-368-1, hardcover
ISBN 978-1-59687-933-1, trade paper
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.
CHAPTER ONE
Seated over the wing in 19F, Donovan Nash glanced at his Rolex and discovered it was only five minutes later than the last time he checked. If there had been any other option, he wouldn’t have gotten on this flight. But with a blizzard brewing in the Midwest, he’d calculated that this was the last flight with a decent chance of making it into Chicago before the storm caused major problems. He guessed that they were probably still forty-five or so minutes out from O’Hare. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and glanced uneasily toward the front of the plane. Behind the thin curtain up in first class sat a woman he desperately hoped would stay where she was.
Donovan himself held a first class ticket for seat 2B, but as he’d boarded the flight and had been about to take his seat he saw her—seated next to the window in 2A. Even though it had been nearly eighteen years since they’d spoken, he knew instantly that any exposure to her was dangerous. Audrey Parrish would be in her mid-forties by now, but with her refined elegance, slim figure and shoulder-length blonde hair, she appeared far younger. Though he knew he’d changed a great deal over the years, both from the surgeon’s knife and the natural aging process, Donovan realized there was a very real chance that she could recognize him. If that happened, his carefully concealed world would immediately come undone.
Shocked at seeing her, Donovan had tried to remain calm as he walked casually past his assigned seat. As he’d passed, Audrey had looked up at him briefly. He’d wanted to turn away, but couldn’t help himself as he searched her blue eyes for any hint of recognition. She’d gazed out her window, then back at Donovan again, as if she were about to say something, then changed her mind. Donovan had hurried through first class into the relative safety of coach. He’d quickly explained to a flight attendant that there was a business rival in first class, and that he’d prefer to sit back here. She’d shrugged and gestured rather indifferently toward several rows of empty seats.
Donovan often wondered what those who had known him before would think of him now, of all that he’d accomplished. When Audrey had known him he was quite literally a different man—very little about his former self bore any resemblance to who he was today. In all the years since he’d made his fateful decision, Audrey represented his first contact with someone from what had been the inner-circle of his previous life. He looked down at the paperwork he’d planned to finish on the flight, but the proximity to Audrey made it next to impossible to concentrate. He remembered her as being extremely intelligent and resourceful, somewhat feisty, and perhaps even a little over-ambitious. She’d been fresh out of law school, a junior attorney who had been assigned as part of an acquisition team he’d outsourced for the take over of a rival company. Donovan’s thoughts tumbled back through the years as he dredged up the images of their last contact. It hadn’t gone well.
Playing through his mind, he recalled how she’d caught him completely off guard by making what was clearly an overt sexual advance—and he winced at the memory of how poorly he’d handled the situation. How abruptly he’d dismissed her. It all seemed so long ago. He thought of how he looked now, as opposed to then. At forty-five years old, he was still in pretty good shape, though his six-foot-two frame wasn’t as lean and muscular as it had once been. The normal changes of growing older hadn’t escaped him either. The creases on his angular face were getting deeper and his short brown hair was peppered with gray. When he looked in the mirror he still found his deep blue eyes looking back at him, but his forties had seen the onset of full-fledged middle age. But unlike most men, Donovan welcomed the subtle changes—even relished them. Anything that distanced him from the man he used to be was a plus.
Had Audrey already dismissed him, or was she up there trying to decide where she knew him from? Would she connect him with a man she thought had died eighteen years ago?
He looked out his small window and studied the line of thunderstorms that marked the leading edge of the cold front. The cloud tops rose far into the stark blue sky. Donovan’s usual place in an airplane was up in the cockpit, and he imagined himself there, threading the plane through a narrow gap in the weather. He’d been a pilot for half of his forty-five years—never an airline pilot, but he flew jets and had logged thousands of hours flying around the world. It was his one true passion, one he’d used to escape parts of his life that had proven far too difficult. His other passion was the company he’d formed. Eco-Watch was, in a word, everything Donovan had been searching for his entire life. In the eight years since its inception, Eco-Watch had grown from humble beginnings to become one of the leading private research organizations in existence. Eco-Watch’s collection of specialty aircraft and ships were in constant demand and booked months, if not years, in advance. At any given moment, Eco-Watch teams and equipment were crisscrossing the globe helping governments, universities, and other recognized groups study the planet. The primary mission objective was to help facilitat
e an understanding of both natural and man-made events that presented any kind of threat to the world’s population. Donovan liked to think that what he’d created was making a difference in the world.
Very few people knew that he’d founded Eco-Watch. Donovan operated under the title of Director of Aircraft Operations; it took him out of the spotlight and gave him far more freedom than he’d have otherwise. For the better part of the last two decades he’d carefully rebuilt his life, and at the same time, fiercely guarded his identity with every resource at his disposal, and his resources were vast.
A figure came through the curtain that separated first class from coach, and Donovan tensed, then relaxed, as he recognized one of the young flight attendants. So far, Audrey was up front, and the longer she stayed there the better. Donovan knew that once they landed, he would simply stay onboard until Audrey was well off the plane. After that, it would be easy to vanish into the terminal and disappear once again.
Donovan’s thoughts turned to his fiancée. They had only been apart for two days but he missed Lauren terribly. Once he made it to Chicago, he and Lauren would meet up with Michael Ross, Donovan’s best friend and colleague, and they would then fly the brand new Eco-Watch Gulfstream jet back home to Dulles.
From the beginning, she’d captivated him with her startling beauty and his pure physical longing for her had never ebbed. He imagined the subtle expressions she’d radiate, a flash of her emerald-green eyes, a smoldering glance over her shoulder as she absently brushed her auburn hair away from an inviting neck. He’d been instantly attracted to her, but it was her warmth and intellect that had won him over. They’d met several years earlier on a mission to study an Atlantic hurricane; Donovan had been the Eco-Watch pilot flying the sorties out of Florida. Lauren served as the lead scientist and he quickly learned she held a number of degrees, including a doctorate in Earth Science from MIT. She was one of the smartest, most complex, and most exciting women he’d ever known. He imagined her smooth skin, the faint scent of juniper when he kissed her, and found himself even more impatient to get to Chicago. It had taken him years to finally reach a kind of negotiated peace with himself, and now he’d finally met the woman he was going to spend the rest of his life with. Lauren was the reason that, against his better judgment, he’d stayed on this airplane instead of quietly turning around upon seeing Audrey. Lauren was one of four people in the world who knew the truth about who he’d once been. His secret had nearly cost him his relationship with her, and though their relationship had been at times tumultuous, it now represented the most important part of his life. Lauren, and their daughter Abigail, meant everything to him. Donovan removed his wallet from his pocket and extracted a credit card, then pulled the phone from the seatback and swiped the card through the slot. Moments later he had a dial tone and punched in the numbers to Lauren’s cell phone.
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