“I don’t really know who you are. But I was kind of getting used to Henry,” Donovan said. “I think he was doing an outstanding job.”
“Let’s just get back to the task at hand; Henry is still here, but only as an observer,” Frank stated.
“Wayfarer 880, turn right to a heading of 340 degrees,” Kate interrupted. “You will roll out on the final approach course, 25 miles from touchdown.” She had just made the perfect vector; 880 would be positioned exactly where it needed to be.
“In the turn now,” Donovan reported. “We’re getting ready to push in the breakers. Tell us when we’re one minute from intercept.”
Lauren moved away from Devereux, her anger and frustration barely under control. She looked over Kate’s shoulder at the blip on the screen. It was hard to imagine the green shape was an airplane—an airplane with Donovan on board. It struck Lauren as almost surreal.
“One minute from intercept.” Kate glanced at the second hand on her watch. “Wayfarer 880, you are cleared for the ILS approach to runway 32 Left.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Okay, Keith, now!” Donovan listened and counted the seven distinct clicks as each specific circuit breaker was reset in sequence. They were just skimming the tops of the clouds at 8,000 feet. John was flying the airplane beautifully. Donovan switched off the cell phone and set it beside him. The lights on the VHF radio blinked to life. He slipped his oxygen mask on and faced the instrument panel as more lights began to flicker. It was working. Donovan was relieved to see the instruments powering up. He quickly tuned the radios to the appropriate frequencies.
“Okay, I’m getting some action here.” John shifted in his seat as systems began to return. “We’re on the localizer.”
Donovan could hear John clearly through his headset. The microphones in the oxygen masks were working. He watched as electronic indicators settled into position. It showed them lined up perfectly with the distant runway. The signals would guide them down an invisible path to the airport. As long as John flew the 737 so that the two needles were precisely centered, the aircraft would touch down on the centerline of runway 32 Left. “Looking good, John.” Donovan turned to Keith, who gave him a thumbs-up.
“The gyro appears to be stable.” John focused on the standby attitude indicator. Its information was vital; without it, he could become instantly disoriented. “Here we go. I’m leaving eight thousand feet. We’re on the glide slope.”
The Boeing descended toward the tops of the clouds. Light turbulence buffeted the 737 as they sped through the wisps of vapor. Donovan’s muscles tightened; they were committed, heading into the raging blizzard that lay between them and the ground.
The world outside the cockpit went from blue to gray. Donovan keyed the microphone. “O’Hare Tower. This is Wayfarer 880. We’re out of eight thousand feet. On glide slope and localizer. Great vector.”
“Roger 880, we read you loud and clear,” Kate said calmly. “The snow removal equipment is clear and we have emergency vehicles standing by. All of the approach lights are on full intensity.”
“Tower. What’s the wind and RVR,” Donovan said. He felt as though the world was going by in slow motion, but his senses were moving at the speed of light.
“Wind is 290 degrees at 15, gusts to 25. RVR is 600 variable to 800 feet. Altimeter is 28.92. Runway surface is plowed 125 feet wide, full length.”
Growing turbulence pounded the Boeing. Each jolt threatened to displace the aircraft from its required position in the gray murky sky. John rode out each series of bumps, and corrected their glide path to keep them on course.
“I show us 19 miles from the airport, on localizer, on glide slope. Airspeed is 220 knots.” Donovan knew how difficult John’s job was and was relieved to see he was handling the plane expertly.
“It’s going to get rougher as we descend,” John said. “I’ll want call-outs of any deviation at all.”
“You’re 17 miles from touchdown.” Kate’s voice came over the speaker loud and clear. “Wind is now 330 degrees, at 17 knots with gusts to 28 knots. RVR is holding steady at 700 feet.”
“We copy O’Hare.” Donovan held his breath as a powerful gust tipped the 737 into a 20 degree bank. John fought the controls, trying to bring the wings of the Boeing back to level. They had drifted slightly out of position.
“We’re a little right of course, and a little bit low,” Donovan called out. The sensitivity of the course needles would increase as they got closer to the runway.
“Correcting,” John said.
Donovan scrutinized the strain on John’s face. His eyes never left the precious few instruments in front of him. The tendons in his forearm flexed as he battled both the elements and the damaged 737.
“Uh, something is getting pretty hot back here.” Keith pulled his mask aside. He had one glove off; his bare hand pressed to the gray metal panel, his gloved hand held in the crucial power breaker.
Donovan spun around in his seat. His eyes scanned each panel for smoke. He found none. He nodded at Keith, then directed his attention back to John, who was fighting yet another onslaught of turbulence.
“Any smoke?” John asked, his eyes riveted to the panel.
“None,” Donovan said. “We’re almost halfway there. I’m showing us a little high on the glide slope.”
“Wayfarer 880, the RVR is now 800 feet.” Kate’s excited voice announced the news of the improving visibility.
“Just keep it coming John. We might pull this off yet,” Donovan said. “We copy O’Hare; just hold the weather right there.”
“We’ll try, Wayfarer.”
Donovan felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw the first wisps of smoke beginning to seep from the panel behind John’s seat. Keith’s eyes were wide and unblinking.
“What is it?” John said.
“Just a little smoke,” Donovan said. “Don’t worry about it. I show us a little right of course and low.”
“Where’s it coming from?” John asked, his voice filled with apprehension.
“There’s not very much. Far less than the first time,” Donovan reported, but he knew John’s stress level was rising fast. John couldn’t do anything but continue to fly the plane while something behind him began to burn. Donovan looked back over his shoulder as Keith pointed at the overhead panel. More smoke was starting to drift from it also. “Just keep flying, John. Check your glide slope; we’re still a little low.”
John added power. He struggled with the turbulence and the added distraction of an unseen fire. He steadied the 737 and brought the two needles back into place. “How bad is the smoke now?”
“It’s okay. We’re only 15 miles from the airport. Less than five minutes. You’re looking good, John. Just keep flying this thing the way you’ve been doing. We’ll be on the ground shortly.” Donovan could sense John’s apprehension getting the better of him. Donovan needed to keep John’s attention on flying the plane. “Stay with it, John. You’re a little right of course, slightly high. Speed is good.”
“Oh Christ. We’ve got a fire!” Keith cried out through his mask. His terrified voice filled the cockpit.
Donovan spun around. Bluish flames flickered from the edge of the panel. Smoke poured from the seams. “Keep your mask on! Don’t let go of the breaker!” Donovan shot a look at John. “You fly! We’ll handle this.”
“What do you want me to do?” Keith yelled.
For an instant, Donovan was afraid Keith might try to bolt from the cockpit. But the man bravely held his position. “Just keep holding in the breaker!”
“How bad is it?” John’s voice was clipped and tense, his breaths came in ragged gulps.
“Manageable,” Donovan said as calmly as he could. “We’ll make it. I’m going to use the extinguisher.”
More turbulence battered the 737. Donovan held on tightly as they rode through the worst of it. Without warning, as if a volcano had decided to let go, a plume of gray smoke erupted from the overhead panel. It poured
out thick as liquid. Within seconds, visibility in the cockpit was near zero.
“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.
Code Black Page 14