Code Black

by Donlay, Philip S.

  “Henry!” Glen shifted his attention away from Lauren. “Glad you made it here so quickly. Matt. Good to see you, too.”

  Henry turned to his son. “Matt, I’ve got work to do. Why don’t you go get something to drink, or go wait in my office?”

  Over Henry’s shoulder Lauren saw the dismissive expression on the teenager’s face. He ignored his father’s direction and stood defiantly, listening in on their conversation.

  Henry looked at Lauren, ran his eyes the length of her body then asked curtly. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Dr. Lauren McKenna,” she said, bristling at his abrupt manner. She glared at him. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Henry Parrish, chief pilot for Wayfarer Airlines, and I want you out of here. I don’t have time for civilians right now.”

  “I’ll leave.” Lauren stepped forward until she was inches from Henry. “But after I do, I’ll go straight to the press and tell them about your missing airplane.”

  Henry shot a furious glance at Glen. “What did you tell her?”

  “I told them,” Lauren continued, her intensity swelling as she spoke, “that I was on the phone with someone on board the flight. He told me there was another airplane coming at them, and then I lost the connection. I’m not going anywhere until I know exactly what’s happened.”

  “Fine, but I want you out of the way and off the phone.” Henry shifted his attention to the uniformed captain to his right. “Tucker, why are you here?”

  “I’m the person Dr. McKenna found in the terminal,” he quickly explained. “I brought her here.”

  “With this weather I doubt you’re going anywhere. I’m putting you in charge of our guest. Right now we have far more questions than answers. Glen, get me the passenger manifest for the flight. I trust we’re using all of our assets trying to locate the airplane?”

  “Here’s the manifest for flight 880.” Glen handed the printout to Henry.

  “Flight 880?” Matt’s attention shot from Glen to his father.

  Lauren watched as the young man dug furiously in his pocket and finally produced a wrinkled scrap of paper.

  “Did you say flight 880 from Washington, D.C.?” Matt stammered, as all eyes turned toward him.

  “Yes,” Lauren answered, when it seemed as if no one else was going to.

  “Look for mom!” Matt demanded, “Is she there?” It’s the flight she was going to try to make to get home tonight.”

  “Oh Jesus.” Glen held up a duplicate of the sheet he’d given Henry. At the bottom were the non-revenue names—airline personnel who were allowed to fly free if space were available.

  “Is she there?” Matt said with a raised voice.

  Henry pursed his lips and nodded.

  Lauren immediately felt her heart go out to the young man. He suddenly shared the same terrible purgatory she herself was trapped in.

  “It’s your fault,” Matt accused his father. “If anything’s happened to her, it’s your fault!”

  Lauren saw a flash of anguish, or perhaps it was guilt, appear momentarily on Henry’s hardened features. She looked at Matt, his hands balled up in angry fists. She couldn’t help but wonder what conflict had caused father and son to have declared such open warfare on each other.

  “Right now we don’t have any idea what’s happened,” Henry said, his voice wavering.

  “Call them on the radio!” Matt continued and he grew even more animated “Talk to air traffic control! You’re in charge, do—something!”

  “We have. We’re doing everything we can.” Henry offered as he shot a quick glance at Glen, who nodded in agreement.

  Henry reached out to put an arm around his son but Matt instantly side-stepped the gesture.

  “I know this place like the back of my hand. I can help,” Matt said defiantly, once he was out of the reach of his father.

  Henry’s expression hardened once again. “This isn’t some intern training exercise, Matt. We’re trying to get this situation figured out. I can’t have you getting in the way right now.” He let out a measured sigh. “I have people who are trained to do these things.”

  “Yes sir! Captain.” Matt hissed, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “I don’t have time for this, Matt,” Henry replied quietly.

  “There’s a news flash for you! Captain Parrish only has time for himself.” Matt spun away as he got in the last shot.

  Henry shook his head in frustration as Matt left, then shifted his attention back to Glen, who had visibly shrunk away from the confrontation between father and son. “I’ll need the emergency procedures manual as well as the current phone list for essential personnel. Tucker, like I said, look after Dr. McKenna while we try and get some answers.”

  “I don’t need looking after,” Lauren spoke firmly. “If you lose an airplane, does that mean it’s crashed? Or does it mean something else? I’m a scientist and I deal in absolutes. Do you have any idea what has or hasn’t happened to flight 880?”

  “No, not right this moment,” Henry replied, his icy tone matching hers.

  “So the fact that you don’t know where they are could mean that they are in fact still flying?”

  “That is correct,” Henry said, nodding impatiently. “Which is why I have better things to do than stand here and debate semantics.”

  Lauren pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and with one glance saw she barely had any signal. “I need a phone.” Lauren looked around, trying to spot the closest one.

  “I can’t allow you to make any calls,” Henry said, shaking his head.

  Lauren stepped closer to Henry and lowered her voice menacingly. “Give me a phone now. I’m calling people who can help us find your missing plane. They’ll need to know the situation, but I can assure you they’ll keep a lid on this until it’s appropriate.”

  “I’m sure that’s your intention,” Henry replied. “But until we know exactly what’s happening, I’m going to have to insist that you don’t talk to anyone outside this room.”

  “Dial this number.” Lauren fought her rising anger at this impossible man. She moved to the counter and furiously jotted down a classified phone number. She ripped the sheet from the pad and held it out to Henry. “This number is for the Operations room of the Defense Intelligence Agency. Once you’re convinced I’m not calling CNN, hand me the phone, and let me find the goddamn airplane!”

  “Do it.” Henry snatched the paper from Lauren’s hand and passed it to Glen, all the while keeping his eyes locked with Lauren’s.

  Glen moved to a phone and moments later put his hand over the receiver. “It’s who she said it would be.”

  Henry motioned for her to take the call.

  “This is Dr. McKenna.” Lauren pictured the Operations room at the DIA and the elite team of operatives always on duty in front of a multitude of display screens. The world’s most sophisticated space-based intelligence platforms could be called up at a moment’s notice. “To whom am I speaking?”

  “Lauren, it’s Steven. Where are you? What in the world is going on?”

  “Steven. I have an emergency in progress. Please get Director Reynolds.”

  “What?” Steve stammered for a second as the gravity of Lauren’s request sunk in. “Hang on. I’m notifying the Director now; I’m sure he’ll be here in a moment. Are you okay?”

  “No, Steven, I’m not.” Lauren had worked closely with Steven for years. He was what she often described as a techno-nerd—but he was very good at what he did.

  “What can I do?” Steven asked as soon as he’d put out the call for the Director. “We know he’ll authorize whatever you want. Where do you want me to start?”

  “I’m in Chicago.” A small sense of balance and stability flowed through Lauren as she switched into scientist mode. She could easily picture Steven, hands poised over one of several keyboards spread out before him. He would be bathed in the soft glow from a bank of high-resolution screens that displayed highly classified satellite reconnaissance infor
mation. Once the Director gave his blessing, Steven could instantly pull up data from any government source that currently existed.

  “Lauren, it’s Calvin,” came a winded voice. “What’s going on and how can I help?”

  “It’s Donovan.” Lauren battled another bout of tears. She was touched that her friends at the DIA were so quick to come to her aid. Calvin was one of her biggest champions at the DIA—almost a father figure. He was a slender, graceful man, who always came to work in his trademark tie and suspenders, one of a handful of civilians who headed up divisions at the DIA. His piercing, hawk-like gaze displayed a keen intellect and was backed up by a commanding demeanor. Calvin was easily one of the brightest men Lauren had ever met. Calvin and Donovan knew each other, and though the two strong-willed men had locked horns at first, they had eventually developed a mutual respect for each other. “He’s on a commercial flight traveling from Dulles to Chicago,” Lauren continued. “I was talking to him when I lost the connection. His last words were that there was another plane and it’s a possibility that they collided. I’m in Wayfarer Airlines Operations and they’ve lost contact with the flight as well. Can you help us find them?”

  “I need an approximate position and airplane type.” Calvin replied immediately.

  “Donovan told me they were less than an hour out of O’Hare. I don’t know what kind of plane.” Lauren looked up at the expectant faces around her.

  “Boeing 737,” Henry answered.

  “It’s a Boeing 737,” Lauren repeated.

  “Got it,” Calvin replied. “I take it they don’t have any idea if these planes actually collided or if they’re still flying?”

  “None at all.” Lauren felt her emotions waver at the grave tone of Calvin’s voice.

  “I think we can find them, but it’s going to take a little maneuvering at this end. I want to talk to the CIA and employ their resources as well.”

  “I understand.” Lauren knew what Calvin had in mind. The CIA’s Keyhole satellites were in orbit 300 miles above the Earth and moving at twenty-five times the speed of sound. Each of them could easily identify an object as small as a license plate. She tried to picture their classified orbits, but couldn’t. She had no idea if there was one in place over the United States, though if she were to hazard a guess she imagined that there would be.

  “Do you want me to call you back on the phone you’re on, or your cell phone?”

  “Try the cell phone first. But I’d appreciate it if you would only talk to me about this,” Lauren replied as she glanced at the strangers around her. She knew her connection with the DIA would ensure she was kept in the loop.

  “I’ll call you back shortly.” Calvin’s voice softened. “Is there anything else I can do? Are you with anyone?”

  “Michael is on his way.” Lauren was helpless to stop herself as tears formed in her eyes. “He’s at Midway airport with the new Gulfstream, but now he’s trying to get here.”

  “Very good, I’ll see what I can do about helping Michael get there,” Calvin replied, calmly. “We’ll start working at this end, and I’ll let you know the moment we have something. Call me on my direct line if you think of anything else I can do.”

  “Thank you.” Lauren bit her lip as she hung up the phone. She wiped her eyes, then gathered herself and turned to face Henry. “Hopefully we’ll know something soon.”

  “That’s it?” Henry challenged, not bothering to hide the fact that he was annoyed. “What exactly do you think they can do to find a single missing plane?”

  “Right now there are dozens of highly trained experts sifting through information from sources I’m not at liberty to discuss.” Lauren glared at Henry. “On the whole, I’d say I’m doing a hell of a lot more than you are.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Donovan knew he had to quickly figure out how far to push the damaged 737. Violent thunderstorms lay dead ahead, the clouds racing upward into the atmosphere. The growing turbulence pounded the airplane, like sledgehammers pummeling the thin aluminum skin. In his rush to gain control of the airliner, he hadn’t fastened his harness. He cursed his lack of discipline. Any more mistakes and he knew this airplane could come raining down in a million pieces.

  Donovan braced himself as the Boeing sped closer to the deadly weather. He wished he could buckle himself in, but he knew he didn’t have time. He put more pressure on the controls and pulled the power back to slow the Boeing, trying in vain to decrease the radius of the turn. He’d give anything if this were a Gulfstream. He had thousands of hours in Gulfstreams, could fly them in his sleep. But a 737, even an intact one, was a mystery to him. Donovan braced himself as a seething column of clouds raced upward. The wall of the thunderstorm now filled the windshield.

  Donovan held his breath as the Boeing, still in as tight a turn as he dared, punched into the side of the storm. Immediately, the turbulence punished the stricken 737. Donovan was helpless as the Boeing rushed wildly upward in the center of the storm. He struggled to focus on the tiny airspeed indicator, but the turbulence made it almost impossible. Silently, he willed the 737 to stay together. Metal screeched above him as the overhead panel buckled, then fell downward. Inches before it reached his head it slammed to an abrupt stop. Donovan jumped at the noise and crouched down in his seat. A new fear invaded his thoughts; if the panel fell away from what was left of the ceiling, he would be trapped and helpless as the 737 flew on without anyone at the controls. Donovan forced himself to ignore the lethal object hovering above him. It would either stay where it was or it wouldn’t. There wasn’t anything he could do about it now.

  The gray world inside the clouds began to grow brighter, and Donovan allowed himself the brief hope that they might make it. All he needed was for the airplane to stay intact for a few more seconds. High above, a hint of blue sky through the swirling vapor lifted his spirits.

  With one last lurch, the 737 burst from the side of the thunderstorm. And in that instant, Donovan realized the plane was flying far too slowly; the Boeing’s nose was pitched up dangerously high and the plane was running out of speed. His momentary relief at still being alive was replaced with the threat of stalling the 737. If his airspeed dropped below a minimum level, there wouldn’t be enough airflow over the wings to maintain sufficient lift. The airplane would simply quit flying and spin down into the storm.

  Carefully, he banked the 737 and gently lowered the nose. He desperately needed airspeed, but couldn’t afford to be reckless. The controls began to feel better in his hands. The airliner was slowly doing what he wanted. The sound of the slipstream began to grow louder as the small airspeed indicator showed that their speed was building. Each tick of the second hand in his head put them further away from the murderous weather.

  Donovan let out a long breath into his mask, and finally dared to blink his dry eyes. He ignored the involuntary shaking in his knees. He twisted to look over his right shoulder at the line of thunderstorms. Their tops had built above the Boeing, reaching far into the stratosphere. Banking toward clear air and traveling at four miles a minute, Donovan turned his attention to the precious few instruments he had. The backup altimeter showed them at 38,400 feet. The airplane had been driven up nearly half-a-mile in just a few seconds. Damn it! He cursed silently into his mask, he needed to be going down instead of up. Donovan yanked the throttles back as far as they would go and forced the nose of the 737 to drop below the distant horizon. More than anything, he had to try to make up for lost time.

  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 gi
ve 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.