“Donovan?” John said. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah.” Donovan refocused on the job at hand. “I’m going to swing around and begin the descent. Once we start, I want you to give me constant altitude call-outs. It’ll give me a rough idea of where we are in relation to the water. We’re going to have to do this right the first time.”
John used his good hand to pull his harness as tight as it would go. “I’ve seen you fly; you’re good. You can do this.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.” Donovan took one last moment to steady the airplane. He thought of his daughter, Abigail, both sad and angry that he might never see her again. He thought of Meredith, Michael, and Eco-Watch. But his final thought before he rolled the 737 into a steep bank was of Lauren. He wished they’d had one last chance to talk to one another. Donovan pulled both throttles back and slowed the crippled plane. He locked his eyes on the turbulent waves below and started down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Henry, wait!” Michael shouted. He reached out and used one hand to grab the throttles, with the other he grasped Henry’s wrist, stopping him from shutting down the engines.
Startled, Lauren strained to see what Michael was looking at. In an instant, the security truck was swept away by what appeared to be an avalanche propelled by a huge snowplow. The security truck’s flashing red lights cast an eerie glow from beneath its tomb of snow as it careened sideways off into the grass.
“Go! Go! Go!” Michael yelled, as their path was once again clear. “Standing by on the flaps.”
“Wayfarer Boeing! This is O’Hare Tower. You are not cleared for takeoff! You are to hold your position!”
Henry added power and they started to move. As the Boeing rounded the final turn, the runway lights suddenly increased to full intensity to help guide them through the raging blizzard.
“Somebody up there likes us.” Henry settled in his seat as he lined up on the brightly illuminated runway. “Give me takeoff flaps and hang on. This could get ugly.”
“Flaps set,” Michael called, as the snowplows split off from each other, clearing a path for them to begin their takeoff roll.
Henry keyed the microphone. “O’Hare Tower. This is Boeing 31 Whiskey Alpha. We’re declaring an emergency.”
Lauren wasn’t sure why Henry had called the tower, or why he’d used the number painted on the tail of the airplane instead of a Wayfarer call sign. But moments later, he stood the throttles up and the powerful engines began to surge beneath them. Lauren was pressed backward as Henry released the brakes and the Boeing lurched forward and began to gather speed. From where she sat, she could only see two runway lights at a time and the lateral movement of the blizzard gave her the impression that the plane was slipping sideways. The snow-covered surface turned into a blur and pounded the airplane; the Boeing accelerating, then slowing as they plowed through eighteen-inch drifts.
“Eighty knots. We’re not accelerating very fast,” Michael shouted.
“Give me ten knot call-outs!” Henry battled against the wind. Each time the Boeing began to accelerate, they hit deep piles of snow that killed their speed. They needed at least 150 knots before the wings could generate enough lift to pull them off the runway.
“Ninety knots!” Michael called out, his voice steady.
Lauren gripped her seat and watched helplessly. A curtain of blowing snow momentarily blocked their vision.
“One hundred knots,” Michael called.
Every muscle in Lauren’s body was wire-tight as she could once again see the faint centerline lights. The 737 passed over a section of the runway with less snow and the Boeing surged forward.
“One hundred ten,” Michael yelled.
Lauren had no idea how much pavement remained. She was terrified they would run out of runway. If they did, they would careen into the multiple rows of metal stanchions at the far end.
“One hundred twenty,” Michael called out, his voice more hopeful. “One thirty! One forty! Rotate!”
Lauren sensed the sudden acceleration. In what seemed like slow motion, Henry pulled back on the controls. The nose of the 737 lifted off and pointed into the obscured sky, the main gear slamming loudly into drift after drift.
“Come on baby—fly,” Henry muttered as he struggled to get them airborne.
At 150 knots, the Boeing hit another section of ridges on the plowed runway. The impact shot up through the landing gear and rocked the airplane. Lauren winced. It sounded as if the undercarriage was being ripped away. Outside, the wings flexed and whipped at the structural assault.
Without warning, the horrific pounding abruptly ceased. They were flying. Free of the snow and producing maximum lift, the sturdy wings of the Boeing gripped the thick atmosphere and pulled the 737 upward.
In a flash, Lauren saw the glowing approach lights. She closed her eyes, anticipating the impact.
“Keep climbing!” Michael shouted.
“Gear up.” Henry fought the growing turbulence as the 737 clawed its way into the storm.
Michael’s attention was glued to the instruments. “Gear coming up.”
“We might get the shaker!” Henry inched the nose up as high as he dared. “It’s climbing. We’re accelerating. 200 feet, 500!” Michael leaned back and shot a quick look at Henry.
“God, that was close.” Henry carefully lowered the nose. “Flaps up.”
“Gear up and locked,” Michael reported. “Flaps are moving.”
Henry left the throttles at full power. Out of 800 feet he banked the airplane toward the east. He pushed the 737 to its limit. They quickly accelerated to 300 knots. The speed limit in this airspace was only 200 knots, but he didn’t care.
The storm battered them violently around the sky. Lauren could picture the 737’s wings and tail bucking under the strain. She prayed the airplane could take the punishment. The cockpit was silent except for the roar of the wind as it whipped past. Waves of snow lashed against the windows.
“Call the tower,” Henry said as they climbed. “See if they’ll help us now. Use our tail number; we can’t use a Wayfarer flight number today.”
“O’Hare. Boeing 31 Whiskey Alpha is airborne. We’re out of three thousand climbing,” Michael radioed.
“Roger 31 Whiskey Alpha,” Kate replied. “Understand you have declared an emergency. Radar contact. Turn to a 090 degree heading and climb to and maintain 8,000 feet. We’re standing by to assist.”
A shrill sound erupted in the cockpit, then ceased. Lauren froze as she searched the instrument panel for warning lights. A bell or buzzer was always the prelude to major trouble in the cockpit of a sophisticated jet.
“What’s that?” Michael also snapped his head at the noise.
“It’s the phone!” Lauren realized as she reached for Matt’s cell phone in her pocket.
She pushed the answer button and swept it to her ear. “Hello.” She paused for a second. “This is Lauren McKenna. Who’s this?”
“Lauren? This is Audrey Parrish. I was looking for Matt.”
Instantly Lauren put it together. “We’re on our way! We’re coming to get you! Tell Donovan not to ditch!” Her voice was a mixture of urgency and anguish. There seemed to be a thousand things that she needed to say.
“What do you mean? Where are you? They told us—.” Audrey sputtered.
“We’re in another plane!” Lauren could plainly hear the fear in her voice. “Tell Donovan to wait for us!”
“Lauren—we’ve already started. I don’t know if there’s time!”
“Get to the cockpit now!” Lauren screamed. “Go as fast as you can! You have to stop them!” Lauren tried to ignore the raw fear that threatened to unhinge her as both Henry and Michael turned, searching for some kind of confirmation that they weren’t too late.
“I’m on my way,” Audrey called out. “Oh my God! We’re in a steep turn! Tell Matt and Henry I love them.”
“I will.” The sting of tears burned Lauren’s eyes, as at the same
time a wave of hope began to build inside her. It would only take one sentence from Audrey to stop Donovan from ditching. He’d understand immediately. Seconds ticked by. She silently urged Audrey to get to the cockpit. But then a muffled explosion was followed by Audrey’s scream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Donovan jumped, startled by the loud noise from the cabin. It sounded as if something had exploded just beyond the cockpit door. They were in a tight spiral, just about to enter the small hole in the clouds. Donovan felt the controls for some sign that the damaged plane had somehow come apart, that the dangerous rip in the fuselage had let go and they would start a helpless tumble to the water below.
“Jesus Christ, what was that?” John twisted painfully in his seat.
“What happened?” Any moment Donovan expected to loose control of the 737.
“Can you hear that?” John cocked his head.
“No. What is it?” Donovan thought it might be the tearing of metal, the first sounds of the Boeing ripping itself to pieces. He kept the 737 in its tight spiral downward through the column of clear air.
“They’re shouting!” John said. “Donovan, it sounds like Keith!”
“I can hear them too.” The indistinct sounds finally registered. Someone in the back was yelling at them. It made no sense—why couldn’t they get to the flight deck? Donovan added power and pulled the 737 up sharply. “I’m going to level off. John, find out what in the hell is going on!”
Someone screamed from just beyond the bulkhead.
John put his hand on Donovan’s shoulder. “Something’s happened. I think they’re saying Audrey’s been hurt.”
“John. Can you take the plane? Keep doing 360s if you need to, but keep us in this clear air.”
“I’ve got it.” John gripped the controls with his good hand. “Go!”
Donovan squeezed out of the cockpit and saw immediately what had taken place. A solid yellow wall blocked his path. The twenty-foot long emergency escape slide had somehow inflated. Donovan knew that they inflated with near explosive force, he could tell that as it expanded inward, it folded over on itself twice and filled the forward cabin. On the floor, a delicate hand protruded from under the yellow material.
“Get something to puncture it with!” Donovan yelled to the other side of the barrier.
“I’ve got the crash ax,” Keith shouted. “Stand back!”
Above the wind, Donovan heard the hiss of air rushing from the tube. The slide deflated rapidly, whipping savagely in the wind before finally crumpling to the floor. Donovan pushed the rubber fabric aside and reached for the motionless form that lay underneath.
“Oh my God! Rafael!” Keith screamed toward the back as he saw the carnage.
Donovan recoiled. Blood was everywhere. Audrey’s coat was soaked, a puncture plainly visible in her life vest. Donovan knelt and pulled the vest aside. He hesitated, then tugged at her coat. They had to stop the bleeding. He looked at Keith. “What was she doing? Why was she up here?”
“The phone, where’s the phone?” Keith began looking frantically around them. “Donovan! We got one of the phones to work. She called her son, then she ran to the cockpit. We’ve got to find the phone!”
“Let me through!” Rafael charged forward, medical kit in hand. He knelt down, a grave expression clouding his face.
Donovan opened Audrey’s coat and began unbuttoning her blouse. Her blood was warm and sticky on his hands. Rafael reached in and ripped the saturated fabric away, exposing her flesh. Blood oozed from Audrey’s chest. Rafael immediately pressed his palm on her wound. Donovan turned away, helpless.
“I feel something sharp. It’s hard, like metal.” Rafael tried to explore the wound without letting up on the pressure. He took one quick look and blood poured from under his hand.
“Help me find the phone.” Keith was still down on his knees, his hands groping wildly under the mountain of deflated rubber.
Partially hidden under the folds, Donovan saw a black object. “I found it!” He picked it up. “Hello.” Instead of the static he expected, he heard an excited voice. “Don’t ditch! We’re coming to get you!” The words swirled in the chaos. With a sudden burst of understanding, Donovan whirled and ran to the cockpit. “Climb John! Climb! Get us out of here!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lauren slumped in her seat, her entire body had gone numb. The hand holding the phone fell limply into her lap. “We’re too late.” Her throat tightened as her eyes clouded with tears. “Oh dear God.” She pictured Donovan and the others disappearing into the icy depths of Lake Michigan.
“Lauren, what happened? What did you hear?” Michael reached out to her.
All Lauren could do was shake her head in utter defeat.
“Boeing 31 Whiskey Alpha, this is O’Hare Tower. Fly heading 030 degrees. Traffic is another Wayfarer 737 at eleven o’clock 20 miles.”
Michael’s brow creased, as if he’d not heard correctly. “Tower, say again. Understand 880 is still flying?” Michael reached down and eased the cell phone from Lauren’s hand. “Hello? Is anyone there?” Michael lowered his head as he listened. “I hear something. I still have a connection. They’re still there, but no one’s on the phone.”
Lauren wiped her tears. “Are you sure? What can you possibly hear? Audrey was running forward and I heard an explosion—then she screamed.”
“O’Hare Tower,” Henry said, keying the microphone, his fingers shaking. “This is Boeing 31Whiskey Alpha, say position of Wayfarer 880? What’s their heading?”
“Wayfarer 880 is now in a left turn heading northwest, altitude unknown. At your two o’clock and 18 miles.” Kate’s voice was strong and confident over the speaker.
Lauren was confused. She looked at Michael for answers.
“Don’t ditch! We’re coming to get you!” Michael shouted into the phone. “Someone answered! They heard me. It’s Donovan! Yes! He’s yelling for them to climb! We did it! We stopped them!” Michael pumped his fist in victory.
Lauren wouldn’t let herself believe it. She held out her hand for the phone. How could there be someone on the other end? She’d heard the sound of impact and Audrey scream. “Who is this?”
“Lauren? It’s Donovan.” His voice sounded tired and strained.
“What happened to Audrey? Are you still flying?” Her words came out in one breath. “I thought you’d crashed.”
“We’re almost back on top. John is climbing as we speak. Where’s Henry? Was that Michael?” A hundred questions needed to be asked. “Audrey’s injured. They’re working on her now. One of the forward emergency escape slides deployed inside the plane.”
“Oh my God! How badly is she hurt?” Lauren began to understand what it was she heard.
“I don’t know. It just happened.”
Two rapid beeps sounded in Lauren’s ear. She looked at Matt’s phone—the signal had been lost.
“Did they make it on top?” Henry asked. He’d turned to the new heading, leaving the throttles at maximum power.
“Yes. Donovan said they were climbing,” Lauren said, her voice trembling.
“We’ll have the tower vector us in closer when they get stabilized,” Michael said.
“What happened to Audrey?” Henry asked.
“All Donovan said was that she was hurt.” Lauren lowered her head. “He said an emergency slide deployed inside the cabin. It was the noise I heard.”
Henry winced. “Did he say anything else?”
Lauren shook her head. “All he said is that she was hurt; it was too early to tell anything about her condition. Then we were cut off.”
“We’ll get her on the ground as fast as we can,” Michael said. “At least they’re not in the water. We can still help them.”
“You’re right.” Henry straightened up in his seat as he collected himself.
Climbing steeply, the Boeing raced for the clear air above. The murkiness of the clouds diminished as they approached the top of the overcast. The airplane bur
st into the waning orange sunset. The sky to the east had already turned a shade of purple; to the west it was still light, but the winter sun would vanish in a hurry. Henry could fly by outside reference now. He leveled off and the 737 rapidly gained speed.
“Boeing 31 Whiskey Alpha,” Kate transmitted. “I need to separate you from another emergency in progress. Say your intentions?”
Henry picked up the microphone. “O’Hare Tower, this is Boeing 31 Whiskey Alpha. We’re VFR on top. We’d like to cancel our instrument clearance at this time.”
“Roger one Whiskey Alpha. Understand canceling IFR at this time. You are free to maneuver. Would you like to stay with me for advisories?”
“That’s affirmative O’Hare,” Henry continued. “We’d like updates on the traffic ahead if you don’t mind.”
“Roger that.” Kate’s voice gave just enough inflection to let the pilots know that she understood what needed to be done. “Traffic is at your twelve o’clock and ten miles, appears to be maneuvering.”
“We’re looking,” Henry replied.
Lauren scanned the clouds below and the empty sky ahead of them where 880 should be coming into view. She leaned forward, searching for the other 737. Beneath them, a glimmer of sunlight caught her eye. Another flash and she found 880, a small dark shape against the lighter colored clouds. “I’ve got them,” she said. “Straight ahead, moving left to right.”
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