Code Black by Philip S. Donlay Page A

notes were being written on one particular board that covered an entire wall. Flight 880’s flight number had been put up, a question mark next to the word “casualties”.
    Lauren felt herself go numb. On the screen, a reporter in a parka stood before the camera in the driving snow. Behind him was a virtual parking lot of official vehicles, their lights flashing in a surreal rhythm.
    “Live from just outside Fort Wayne, Indiana. This is Neil Hadley. I’m standing just a short distance from the grizzly crash scene of what I’m told is a Military KC-135 tanker. The four-engine Boeing aircraft is used by the Air Force for aerial refueling operations. Filled with what we can only guess is thousands of gallons of volatile aviation fuel, the jet plunged to the ground just outside this quiet subdivision approximately half an hour ago. Eyewitnesses described a loud noise, followed by a huge explosion as the plane was destroyed in a giant fireball. Unconfirmed reports suggest that the airplane was already in pieces as it fell out of the sky. Debris, we understand, is scattered over a large area and not confined to this site. Severe thunderstorms pounded this region earlier, with high winds and some reports of hail. But as you can see now, the snow is really beginning to come down. No word yet as to how many people were on board, or how many victims might have been killed on the ground. Rescue efforts are being hampered by both the rain-saturated ground and intense fire. This aircraft is said to have been en route to Chicago’s O’Hare airport. The officials on the scene have said it is too early to rule out anything—including, I’m told, an act of terrorism.”
    Lauren looked across the room at Henry, his jaw working furiously as he studied the images on the screen. Lauren turned back to the television as the grainy picture showed the reporter reaching up and adjusting his earpiece. He paused, collected himself and once again began talking.
    “I’ve just been given new information. It seems there are now reports coming in, of aircraft debris, and some possible bodies, located at least a mile from here. We’re also receiving unconfirmed reports of a power outage at the air traffic control center in Indianapolis, the radar facility that controls all of the air traffic in this area. We have no indication yet that these events are linked, but we do now know that the FBI has been called in to investigate. As soon as we have more details on this latest disaster, we’ll get that information to you.”
    “It’s not ours,” Henry said finally, turning down the volume.
    Lauren was overcome with relief, her entire body shaking. One moment she feared she was looking at the burning wreckage of Donovan’s flight, only to be back where she was a few minutes ago—hoping against hope that he could somehow still be alive.
    “Where are they?” she heard herself say out loud at the same moment her cell phone rang. In one swift motion she pushed the answer button and brought it to her ear. “Hello.” Lauren heard nothing as she repeated herself. She looked at her phone and saw that there was no signal, but the lack of a number on caller ID told her it had probably come from the DIA. Without hesitation, she fled the room, ignoring the looks from those around her, she went straight to the phone she’d used before. She quickly punched the buttons and waited.
    Lauren reached out to brace herself against a table. She feared the worst. It hadn’t taken her boss very long to call her back. “It’s me,” she said, as Calvin answered.
    “I’m glad you’re still there,” Calvin said. “Okay, we found one of the planes. It was a KC-135 and it’s crashed in Indiana.”
    “I know about that one,” Lauren said. “What about the other one, Donovan’s plane?”
    “We’re still looking,” Calvin began to explain. “Steven had an idea that I think is encouraging. We were able to pinpoint the exact coordinates of the KC-135 crash