Code Black

by Donlay, Philip S.

  “Calvin,” Lauren said, “we’ve talked to them again and studied the damage to the airplane. The first thing we need to do is to try to find them some good weather where they can land. I’m told they could go 200, maybe 300, miles from here with the fuel they have. The captain said it doesn’t even have to be an airport; he’d settle for a stretch of road if he could see the ground.”

  “We’ve been looking into that since you called,” Calvin said. “This could take some doing; as you’ve no doubt guessed, the storm is really intensifying. We’ve re-tasked a satellite to focus on your area. Give us a second to make some adjustments. In the interest of time, we’ll scale down the search from the usual 1,800 mile swath down to 600.”

  “That works,” Lauren pictured the activity in DIA Operations. The Defense Meteorological Satellite Program, or DMSP, had been the backbone of military weather forecasting for the last twenty years. High above, in a polar orbit, some 450 miles above Earth, the nearly two-ton satellite was always peering down on the planet’s surface.

  “Lauren,” Calvin said. “We’re getting the analysis now. It’ll take a few more seconds and we should have something for you.”

  Lauren listened as a vicious blast of wind rattled the tower windows behind her. Through the phone she could hear the murmur of voices and what sounded like papers being shuffled.

  “Lauren, I have the data,” Calvin said. “I’m afraid the news isn’t good.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Henry Parrish is about as good as they come. I, for one, am glad he’s the guy working on this,” John said as he gestured at the destroyed cockpit. “I have faith he and the airline will find some way to get around all this. Henry’s not the most emotional guy you’ll ever meet, but I’d want him in my lifeboat every time.”

  Donovan nodded absently at the accurate description of his old friend. Henry was a serious man, one of the most talented and meticulous pilots Donovan had ever known. His attention to detail was a textbook study in the art of being prepared for every eventuality. It had taken Henry a long time to loosen up from when Donovan had first hired him. But once Donovan had demonstrated that he himself was indeed a serious pilot, and that he could fly equally as well as Henry, they’d gotten along famously. In the years they flew together, Donovan discovered that Henry was a private, yet highly emotional man. Henry’s natural state was to put up a wall against the outside world. So, it came as no surprise that John had described Henry as someone who came across as being somewhat distant.

  “What do you think our options are if we can’t get the power back?” Donovan asked; he wanted to keep John talking as much as possible. Every now and then John seemed to drift off, and Donovan didn’t know if it was the result of his injuries or if he was simply thinking about the situation.

  “I don’t know what we’ll do.” John glanced anxiously at his watch. “I do know that twenty minutes is going to feel like an eternity.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing. What are we missing?” Donovan inventoried the decimated cockpit. “Is there something else we should be doing?”

  “I’m hesitant to start pushing in circuit breakers again. I’d rather not torch this airplane with us inside. Let’s wait a few minutes and see what Henry has for us before we get desperate.”

  Donovan shook off the image of being burned alive in the wrecked cockpit. “If you have the airplane, maybe I’ll go back and check on things. It would be great to have at least one more phone. Unless you want to go?”

  “No. You go. I’ll stay here,” John replied.

  “Can I get you anything, maybe something for the pain?”

  “I’m fine. You might take a quick look around back there. See if anything has changed. I don’t know if it’s my imagination or not, but I’m starting to feel a little different vibration in the ailerons. It might be nothing. This thing seems to have a different feel at every speed.”

  “I’ll look everything over again and be back as soon as I can.”

  Free of the cockpit, Donovan stopped in the forward galley. Alone in the purgatory between the decimated cockpit and the rows of dead people, he surveyed the huge hole in the roof. He couldn’t see the tail without the mirror, but he knew if the vertical fin failed, it would all be over in a matter of seconds. If John was feeling something different in the controls, it would most likely be something with the wings. Donovan stopped and leaned up against the side of the plane and pulled his phone out of his pocket. With freezing hands he carefully typed a short, concise, text message to Lauren. He hoped when she received it, no one else would be close enough to read what he’d written. Just as he finished, he looked up to see Audrey coming toward him, a concerned expression on her face. He hit the send button and stuffed the phone into his pocket.

  “Donovan? Is everything all right?” Audrey called out above the roar of the wind.

  Donovan nodded. “I spoke to your husband again. He’s working on a solution.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Audrey said, nodding. “Did he say anything about Matt?”

  “I’m sorry.” Donovan shook his head. “There wasn’t really time. John and Henry did most of the talking.”

  Audrey forced a smile as she lowered her head.

  Donovan searched for the right words, but found none. He didn’t know what to tell her, or any of the other people aboard this plane. “If I get a chance, I’ll ask him next time we talk.”

  “Thank you. It’s just hitting me all the sudden. Sitting back here waiting is awful. Henry knows this airplane as well as anyone. He once told me he thought he could assemble a 737 from a pile of unmarked parts.”

  “I’m sure they’ll come up with something.” Donovan tried to sound reassuring but knew he’d failed. “Did you find any other phones?”

  “So much of the luggage in the overhead compartments was sucked out.” Audrey pulled up the collar on her coat. “We found six phones, some had dead batteries and a few were smashed. Keith is taking them apart; he’s hoping he might be able to swap parts and repair at least one.”

  Above the noise in the cabin, Donovan heard what sounded like a scream and whirled around. A figure in the aisle moved with an unsteady gait toward the rear of the plane. Christy screamed again, putting her good arm over her face as if to protect herself from the approaching passenger.

  Donovan raced down the aisle and grabbed the man by the shoulders. With more force than he’d intended, he spun the man until they were facing.

  “Let me go!” came the panicked shriek of the man Donovan had seized. “What are you doing?”

  “Relax. I’m not hurting you.” Donovan eased his grip and studied the man’s face, trying to assess his condition. He had no idea if the man posed a threat or not, no idea if any of the oxygen-deprived people might be dangerous.

  The man yelled again, “What’s going on? What happened to us?”

  Donovan moved slightly to allow Keith to join him. “Calm down,” Donovan said, attempting to reassure the frightened man. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Four,” he responded correctly. “Who are you?”

  “He’s one of the pilots,” Keith replied.

  “What’s your name?” Donovan asked, his tone firm and controlled. The confused man turned his head to look at the others and Donovan winced at the sight of him. The left side of his face and scalp looked as though it had been sanded away. Though not a deep wound, it had to be painful.

  It took a moment for the man to reply. He seemed transfixed by the interior of the wrecked plane; a look of disbelief further contorted his bloody face. “I remember a noise. The plane lurched.” His expression clouded as he tried to remember. “Then I woke up.” His English was slightly accented. “What’s happened to us?”

  “It’s a long story.” Donovan guided the man toward the rear of the plane. “We were hit by another plane. We need to get you looked at.”

  Donovan could still see the alarm in Christy’s eyes, though she seemed to have settled down once
Donovan and Keith had the situation under control. Donovan turned to the man. “Sit here. Keith, find him a coat to wear.”

  Keith returned, reached in, and wrapped a heavy coat over the injured man.

  “My name is Rafael,” he said finally, his hands went to his face; he winced at the pain as his fingers gingerly explored his wound.

  Keith knelt down with the medical kit and some damp paper towels from the lavatory. “I’m not sure where to start.” Keith hesitated as he studied the injury.

  Rafael pulled away and stopped Keith from touching him. “Do you have a mirror?” Rafael asked. “I’m a medical student. I need to see.”

  “I saw one earlier,” Keith said, raising himself up. “Be right back.”

  Keith returned with a small mirror he’d found in a passenger’s purse. He handed it to Rafael who in turn examined his own injuries.

  “It’s just superficial,” Rafael announced finally, then looked down at the medical kit. “Are there any other injured people?”

  “Christy, the flight attendant is banged up pretty bad,” Keith answered. “But besides her I think it’s mainly just a few scrapes and bruises.”

  “Donovan!” Audrey called from where she sat with Christy. She pointed at something across the aisle. Donovan stood—someone else was awake. Donovan took several steps closer and spotted a man in a suit and tie seated in a center seat. He looked to be in his late fifties, his bald head and weathered features were marred with dried blood. He’d pulled off his mask and was jostling the arm of the woman seated next to him. She still wore a mask but her eyes were closed.

  As Donovan moved in, the man spun in his seat and leveled a look of desperation at him.

  “I need—” the man stammered. “Someone do something! Help us!”

  “Try to calm down and relax. We’ll help you,” Donovan said soothingly.

  “Get us out of here.” He spoke to the woman seated beside him. “Mary, wake up!”

  “We have a doctor on board. Let him look at her.” Donovan lied, but he wanted to get the man out of the way so Rafael could see if his companion was among the living.

  “Wake up!” The man was growing more agitated. He raised his voice to the inert woman as he ignored Donovan. “Mary, wake up!”

  Donovan reached in and gripped the man by the upper arm, trying to ease him up from his seat.

  “Leave me alone!” The man jerked his arm upward at Donovan, then tried to twist free but was held firm by his seat belt, which he savagely released. He then began to shake the woman. “We have to get out! Now!”

  Donovan’s patience evaporated. He knew how dangerous it was to shake an injured person. He once again gripped the near-hysterical man, but this time he did so with far more force. With one swift tug, he dragged the agitated man from his seat and propelled him into an empty seat a row behind. Rafael quickly went to the aid of the woman.

  “Sit there and don’t move,” Donovan said with authority. He examined the gash on the man’s head and nose and decided the wounds weren’t dangerous; in fact, most of the bleeding had already stopped. No doubt it was an injury from flying debris. “Tell me if you’re hurt.”

  “Go to hell!” the man sputtered. “You have no right to accost me!”

  “I need you to settle down,” Donovan said calmly, as he switched tactics. He didn’t want this to escalate into a shouting match. He shot Rafael a quick glance, hoping to get a clue as to the woman’s condition. Rafael shook his head almost imperceptibly.

  “Sir. My name is Donovan. Can you tell me your name?”

  “What difference does it make?” The man began flailing in his seat, fighting against Donovan’s iron grip. “Get us out of here. We’ve been in a plane crash!”

  “We haven’t crashed,” Donovan said. “We’re still flying.”

  At the words, the man blinked his eyes as if trying to awake from a bad dream. He turned and gazed out the small window.

  “Sir,” Rafael said. “Your wife is alive, but not responsive.”

  “What?” He stared forward. “She’s not my wife. She’s my secretary. You’re a doctor. Do something!”

  “I’ve done all that I can.” Rafael said.

  “I don’t understand.” He looked around at other people sitting quietly in their seats with their eyes closed. “What happened?”

  “Tell me your name first,” Donovan urged, finally feeling like he was making some progress.

  “I’m Norman Wetzler,” he said. “Mary is my secretary.”

  “We’ve been hit by another airplane,” Donovan began, hoping to make Wetzler understand that he was lucky to be alive. “There are only a few of us conscious. Can you tell us if you’re injured?”

  “No! I’m fine.” Wetzler touched the top of his head and his hand came back dry. “How could we be hit by another plane? How could this happen?” He looked around, still unable to make sense of his surroundings. He shuddered against the cold and wrapped his arms around his chest in an effort to try and warm himself.

  “We’ll find you a coat in a minute. Where are you from?” Donovan asked, noting Wetzler’s deep tan.

  “I live in Mexico City.” Wetzler said. “Why?”

  “Keith,” Donovan said. “Where do you live?”

  “Aspen, Colorado.”

  “Rafael?”

  “La Paz, Bolivia.”

  “I think the three of you are alive because you live in high-altitude cities.” Donovan continued with his theory. “Your bodies have more red blood cells than those of us who live at sea level. It’s what saved you.”

  “Yes, of course.” Rafael nodded in agreement. “It makes perfect sense. But how did you and the others survive?”

  “We managed to make it to the portable oxygen bottles. We had enough supplemental oxygen to breathe until we made it down to a lower altitude.”

  “You let the others die?” Wetzler sneered as he looked up at Donovan.

  “Shut up!” Keith snapped. “This man has been doing everything he can to help us survive, and you’ll treat him with respect, or you’ll have to deal with me.”

  Wetzler started to get up out of his seat but Donovan’s firm hand forced him back down quickly. “Sit down!”

  “Don’t you threaten me,” Wetzler seethed. “When I get finished suing this airline into oblivion, I’ll start on you, for assault and intent to inflict bodily injury!”

  “I’d suggest you shut up,” Donovan said, then paused for effect. “As one of the pilots in charge, I have the authority to come back here and personally handcuff you to a chair. So don’t press your luck.”

  “And I’ll be right here to back him up,” Keith said, making a fist for emphasis, and his eyes left no doubt he’d follow through if need be.

  Wetzler’s face contorted as he fought his growing rage.

  “Now that we’ve reached an understanding,” Donovan continued, “Do you, or Mary, happen to have a cell phone? The airplane radios aren’t working and we need cell phones to communicate with the ground.”

  “I don’t have one. I don’t know about Mary.”

  “Audrey is in charge back here and I’ll expect you to follow each and every order she gives.” Donovan and Wetzler made eye contact. “Do we understand each other?”

  “Yeah,” Wetzler said with as much displeasure as he dared. “We understand each other.”

  “Perfect.” Donovan turned to Keith. “We might need an extra pair of hands up front. I’m going to want you with me when I go back to the cockpit.” Donovan felt a small measure of relief that he had just hit upon the perfect way to keep Audrey out of the cockpit. If Keith stayed up front, Audrey would need to be in the back with the survivors. “Rafael, if you can, take a look at Christy. Audrey thinks she might have broken something. Also, maybe you can figure out who is alive and who isn’t back here. If you could wrap the survivors in a blanket, or find some way to identify them, it’ll make it easier for the emergency medical people to know who’s who once we’re on the ground. Audrey,
how many phones do we have that work?”

  “Two.” Audrey reached into her pocket and handed them to Donovan. “The batteries are pretty low on both.”

  “Thank you.” Donovan took the phones. “Rafael, if you have any problems with our Mr. Wetzler, come get us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You ready?” Donovan turned to Keith.

  “What is it you think I can do?” Keith asked with a measure of skepticism.

  “I’ll explain it to you once we get up front.” Donovan led Keith to the cockpit. Halfway to the front of the plane, Donovan stopped, then leaned over a row of seats to take a closer look at the left engine. A thick dark fluid seeped back in the slipstream. The liquid danced and vibrated as it worked its way free from a seam in the aluminum.

  “What is it?” Keith asked. He maneuvered next to Donovan, looking out the window.

  “It’s oil,” Donovan replied once he’d studied the color and viscosity of the liquid. “We’re leaking oil.”

  Keith pursed his lips and his eyes turned serious, though there was no sign of panic. “Will it run without oil? We can still fly on one engine, right?”

  “It can run a long time without oil,” Donovan said, twisting the truth a little. “And yes, we can fly with just one engine.”

  “I thought so,” Keith said and nodded knowingly. “Jet engines are different than piston engines in that regard.”

  “It’ll either run or it won’t.” Donovan quickly looked at both wings. There was no visible difference than from before. He once again led the way up to the front of the plane. The cockpit was just ahead. “Be careful, some of these edges are really sharp.”

  “Wait. Hang on for a second,” Keith called out in a strangled voice.

  Donovan stopped. Keith had bent over, hands on his knees. “What’s wrong?” He could see the big man fighting for gulps of air.

  “Just a little lightheaded or something. Give me a second, I’ll be all right.”

  Donovan put his hand on the man’s back. “Deep breaths. In and out. Do you think you’re going to be sick?”