by Tom Clancy
“Oh, my God.”
Amy Rice was already dead, despite the flawless performance of her passenger-side air bag. The speed of the collision had driven her side of the car under the trailer, where the sturdy rear fender, designed to prevent damage to loading docks, had ripped through the coachwork like a chain saw. Nora Dunn was still alive but unconscious. Her new Cresta C99 was already a total loss, its aluminum engine block split, frame bent sixteen inches out of true, and worst of all, the fuel tank, already damaged by corrosion, was crushed between frame members and leaking.
Snyder saw the leaking gasoline. His engine still running, he quickly maneuvered his truck to the shoulder and jumped out, bringing his light red CO2 extinguisher. That he didn’t quite get there in time saved his life.
“What’s the matter, Jeanine?”
“Jessica!” the little girl insisted, wondering why people couldn’t tell the difference, not even her father.
“What’s the matter, Jessica,” her father said with a patient smile.
“He’s stinky!” She giggled.
“Okay,” Pierce Denton sighed. He looked over to shake his wife’s shoulder. That’s when he saw the fog, and took his foot off the gas.
“What’s the matter, honey?”
“Matt did a job.”
“Okay ...” Candace unclipped her seat belt and turned to look in the back.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that, Candy.” He turned too, just at the wrong time. As he did, the car drifted over to the right somewhat, and his eyes tried to observe the highway and the affairs within his wife’s new car.
“Shit!” His instinct was to maneuver to the left, but he was too far over to the other side to do that, a fact he knew even before his left hand had turned the wheel all the way. Hitting the brakes didn’t help either. The rear wheels locked on the slick road, causing the car to skid sideways into, he saw, another Cresta. His last coherent thought was, Is it the same one that ... ?
Despite the red color, Snyder didn’t see it until the collision was inevitable. The trucker was still twenty feet away, jogging in, holding the extinguisher in his arms like a football.
Jesus! Denton didn’t have time to say. The first thought was that the collision wasn’t all that bad. He’d seen worse. His wife was rammed by inertia into the crumpling right side, and that wasn’t good, but the kids in the back were in safety seats, thank God for that, and—
The final deciding factor in the end of five lives was chemical corrosion. The gas tank, like that in the C99, never properly galvanized, had been exposed to salt on its trans-Pacific voyage, then even more on the steep roads of eastern Tennessee. The weld points on the tank were particularly vulnerable and came loose on impact. Distortion of the frame made the tank drag on the rough concrete surface; the underbody protection, never fully affixed, simply flaked off immediately, and another weak spot in the metal tank sprang open, and the body of the tank itself, made of steel, provided the spark, igniting the gasoline that spread forward, for the moment.
The searing heat of the fireball actually cleared the fog somewhat, creating a flash so bright that oncoming traffic panic-stopped on both sides of the highway. That caused a three-car accident a hundred yards away in the eastbound lanes, but not a serious one, and people leaped from their vehicles to approach. It also caught the fuel leaking from Nora Dunn’s car, enveloping her with flames, and killing the girl who, mercifully, would never regain consciousness despite the blazing death that took her to his bosom.
Will Snyder was close enough that he’d seen all five faces in the oncoming red Cresta. A mother and a baby were the two he’d remember for the rest of his life, the way she was perched between the front seats, holding the little one, her face suddenly turned to see oncoming death, staring right at the truck driver. The instant fire was a horrid surprise, but Snyder, though he stopped jogging, did not halt his approach. The left-rear door of the red Cresta had popped open, and that gave him a chance, for the flames were mostly, if temporarily, on the left side of the wrecked automobile. He darted in with the extinguisher held up like a weapon as the flames came back toward the gas tank under the red Cresta. The damning moment gave him but one brief instant to act, to pick the one child among three who alone might live in the inferno that was already igniting his clothes and burning his face while the driving gloves protected the hands that blasted fire-retarding gas into the rear-seat area. The cooling CO2 would save his life and one other. He looked amid the yellow sheets and expanding white vapor for the infant, but it was nowhere to be found, and the little girl in the left seat was screaming with fear and pain, right there, right in front of him. His gloved hands found and released the chrome buckle, and he yanked her clear of the child-safety seat, breaking her arm in the process, then jerking his legs to fling himself clear of the enveloping fire. There was a lingering snowbank just by the guardrail, and he dove into it, putting out his own burning clothing, then he covered the child with the salt-heavy slush to do the same for her, his face stinging with pain that was the barest warning of what would soon follow. He forced himself not to turn. He could hear the screaming behind his back, but to return to the burning car would be suicide, and looking might only force him into it. Instead he looked down at Jessica Denton, her face blackened, her breathing ragged, and prayed that a cop would appear quickly, and with him an ambulance. By the time that happened, fifteen minutes later, both he and the child were deep in shock.
8
Fast-Forwarding
The slow news day and the proximity to a city guaranteed media coverage of some kind, and the number and ages of the victims guaranteed more still. One of the local Knoxville TV stations had an arrangement with CNN, and by noon the story was the lead item on CNN News Hour. A satellite truck gave a young local reporter the opportunity for a global-coverage entry in his portfolio—he didn’t want to stay in Knoxville forever—and the clearing fog gave the cameras a full view of the scene.
“Damn,” Ryan breathed in his kitchen at home. Jack was taking a rare Saturday off, eating lunch with his family, looking forward to taking them to evening mass at St. Mary’s so that he could also enjoy a Sunday morning at home. His eyes took in the scene, and his hands set the sandwich down on the plate.
Three fire trucks had responded, and four ambulances, two of which, ominously, were still there, their crews just standing around. The truck in the background was largely intact, though its bumper was clearly distorted. It was the foreground that told the story, however. Two piles of metal, blackened and distorted by fire. Open doors into a dark, empty interior. A dozen or so state police officers standing around, their posture stiff, their lips tight, not talking, not trading the jokes that ordinarily went with their perspective on auto accidents. Then Jack saw one of them trade a remark with another. Both heads shook and looked down at the pavement, thirty feet behind the reporter who was droning on the way that they always did, saying the same things for the hundredth time in his short career. Fog. High speed. Both gas tanks. Six people dead, four of them kids. This is Bob Wright, reporting from Interstate 40, outside Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Commercial.
Jack returned to his lunch, stifling another comment on the inequity of daily life. There was no reason yet why he should know or do more.
The cars were dripping water now, three hundred air miles away from the Chesapeake Bay, because the arriving volunteer firemen had felt the need to wet everything down, knowing even then that it was an exercise wasted on the occupants. The forensic photographer shot his three rolls of 200-speed color, catching the open mouths of the victims to prove that they’d died screaming. The senior police officer responding to the scene was Sergeant Thad Nicholson. An experienced highway cop with twenty years of auto accidents behind him, he arrived in time to see the bodies removed. Pierce Denton’s service revolver had fallen to the pavement, and that more than anything had identified him as a fellow police officer even before the routine computer check of the tags had made the fact official. Four kids, two
little ones and two teens, and two adults. You just never got used to that. It was a personal horror for Sergeant Nicholson. Death was bad enough, but a death such as this, how could God let it happen? Two little children ... well ... He did, and that was that. Then it was time to go to work.
Hollywood to the contrary, it was a highly unusual accident. Automobiles did not routinely turn into fireballs under any circumstances, and this one, his trained eyes saw at once, should not have been all that serious. Okay, there was one unavoidable fatality from the crash itself, the girl in the death seat of the first Cresta, who’d been nearly decapitated. But not the rest, there was no obvious reason for them. The first Cresta had rear-ended the truck at ... forty or fifty miles of differential speed. Both air bags had deployed, and one of them ought to have saved the driver of the first car, he saw. The second car had hit at about a thirty-degree angle to the first. Damned fool of a cop to make a mistake like that, Nicholson thought. But the wife hadn’t been belted in ... maybe she’d been attending to the kids in the back and distracted her husband. Such things happened, and nobody could undo it now.
Of the six victims, one had been killed by collision, and the other five by fire. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Cars were not supposed to burn, and so Nicholson had his people reactivate a crossover half a mile back on the Interstate so that the three accident vehicles could remain in place for a while. He got on his car radio to order up additional accident investigators from Nashville, and to recommend notifying the local office of the National Transportation Safety Board. As it happened, one of the local employees of that federal agency lived close to Oak Ridge. The engineer, Rebecca Upton, was on the scene thirty minutes after receiving her call. A mechanical engineer and graduate of the nearby University of Tennessee, who’d been studying this morning for her PE exam, she donned her brand-new official coveralls and started crawling around the wreckage while the tow-truck operators waited impatiently, even before the backup police team arrived from Nashville. Twenty-four, petite, and red-haired, she came out from under the once-red Cresta with her freckled skin smudged, and her green eyes teary from the lingering gasoline fumes. Sergeant Nicholson handed over a Styrofoam cup of coffee that he’d gotten from a fireman.
“What do you think, ma’am?” Nicholson asked, wondering if she knew anything. She looked like she did, he thought, and she wasn’t afraid to get her clothes dirty, a hopeful sign.
“Both gas tanks.” She pointed. “That one was sheared clean off. The other one was crumpled by the impact and failed. How fast was it?”
“The collision, you mean?” Nicholson shook his head. “Not that fast. Ballpark guess, forty to fifty.”
“I think you’re right. The gas tanks have structural-integrity standards, and this crash shouldn’t have exceeded them.” She took the proffered handkerchief and wiped her face. “Thanks, Sergeant.” She sipped her coffee and looked back at the wrecks, wondering.
“What are you thinking?”
Ms. Upton turned back. “I’m thinking that six people—”
“Five,” Nicholson corrected. “The trucker got one kid out.”
“Oh—I didn’t know. Shouldn’t have happened. No good reason for it. It was an under-sixty impact, nothing really unusual about the physical factors. Smart money is there’s something wrong with the car design. Where are you taking them?” she asked, feeling very professional now.
“The cars? Nashville. I can hold them at headquarters if you want, ma’am.”
She nodded. “Okay, I’ll call my boss. We’re probably going to make this a federal investigation. Will your people have any problem with that?” She’d never done that before, but knew from her manual that she had the authority to initiate a full NTSB inquiry. Most often known for handling the analysis of aircraft accidents, the National Transportation Safety Board also looked into unusual train and vehicle mishaps and had the authority to require cooperation of every federal agency in the pursuit of hard data.
Nicholson had participated in one similar investigation. He shook his head. “Ma’am, my captain will give you all the cooperation you can handle.”
“Thank you.” Rebecca Upton almost smiled, but this wasn’t the place for it. “Where are the survivors? We’ll have to interview them.”
“Ambulance took them back to Knoxville. Just a guess, but they probably air-lifted them to Shriners’.” That hospital, he knew, had a superb burn unit. “You need anything else, ma’am? We have a highway to clear.”
“Please be careful with the cars, we—”
“We’ll treat it like criminal evidence, ma’am,” Sergeant Nicholson assured the bright little girl, with a fatherly smile.
All in all, Ms. Upton thought, not a bad day. Tough luck for the occupants of the cars—that went without saying, and the reality and horror of their deaths were not lost on her—but this was her job, and her first really worthwhile assignment since joining the Department of Transportation. She walked back to her car, a Nissan hatchback, and stripped off her coveralls, donning in their place her NTSB windbreaker. It wasn’t especially warm, but for the first time in her government career, she felt as though she were really part of an important team, doing an important job, and she wanted the whole world to know who she was and what she was doing.
“Hi.” Upton turned to see the smiling face of a TV reporter.
“What do you want?” she asked briskly, having decided to act very businesslike and official.
“Anything you can tell us?” He held the microphone low, and his cameraman, while nearby, wasn’t turning tape at the moment.
“Only off the record,” Becky Upton said after a second’s reflection.
“Fair enough.”
“Both gas tanks failed. That’s what killed those people.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Very.” She paused. “There’s going to be an NTSB investigation. There’s no good reason for this to have happened. Okay?”
“You bet.” Wright checked his watch. In another ten minutes he’d be live on satellite again, and this time he’d have something new to say, which was always good. The reporter walked away, head down, composing his new remarks for his global audience. What a great development: the National Transportation Safety Board was going to investigate the Motor Trend Car of the Year for a potentially lethal safety defect. No good reason for these people to have died. He wondered if his cameraman could get close enough now to see the charred, empty child seats in the back of the other car. Good stuff.
Ed and Mary Patricia Foley were in their top-floor office at CIA headquarters. Their unusual status had made for some architectural and organizational problems at the Agency. Mary Pat was the one with the title of Deputy Director (Operations), the first female to make that rank in America’s lead spy agency. An experienced field officer who had worked her country’s best and longest-lived agent-in-place, she was the cowboy half of the best husband-wife team CIA had ever fielded. Her husband, Ed, was less flashy but more careful as a planner. Their respective talents in tactics and strategy were highly complementary, and though Mary Pat had won the top job, she’d immediately done away with her need for an executive assistant, putting Ed in that office and making him her equal in real terms, if not bureaucratic ones. A new doorway had been cut in the wall so that he could stroll in without passing the executive secretary in the anteroom, and together they managed CIA’s diminished collection of case officers. The working relationship was as close as their marriage, with all the compromises that attended the latter, and the result was the smoothest leadership of the Directorate of Operations in years.
“We need to pick a name, honey.”
“How about FIREMAN?”
“Not FIREFIGHTER?”
A smile. “They’re both men.”
“Well, Lyalin says they’re doing fine on linguistics.”
“Good enough to order lunch and find the bathroom.” Mastering the Japanese language was not a trivial intellectual challenge. “How much you want t
o bet they’re speaking it with a Russian accent?”
A light bulb went off in both their minds at about the same time. “Cover identities?”
“Yeah ...” Mary Pat almost laughed. “Do you suppose anyone will mind?”
It was illegal for CIA officers to adopt the cover identity of journalists. American journalists, that is. The rule had recently been redrafted, at Ed’s urging, to point out that quite a few of the agents his officers recruited were third-world journalists. Since both the officers assigned to the operation spoke excellent Russian, they could easily be covered as Russian journalists, couldn’t they? It was a violation of the spirit of the rule, but not the letter; Ed Foley had his cowboy moments too.
“Oh, yeah,” said Mary Pat. “Clark wants to know if we would like him to take a swing at reactivating THISTLE.”
“We need to talk to Ryan or the President about that,” Ed pointed out, turning conservative again.
But not his wife. “No, we don’t. We need to get approval to make use of the network, not to see if it’s still there.” Her ice-blue eyes twinkled, as they usually did when she was being clever.
“Honey, that’s calling it a little close,” Ed warned. But that was one of the reasons he loved her. “But I like it. Okay, as long as we’re just seeing that the network still exists.”
“I was afraid 1 was going to have to pull rank on you, dear.” For which transgressions her husband exacted a wonderful toll.
“Just so you have dinner ready on time, Mary. The orders’ ll go out Monday.”
“Have to stop at the Giant on the way home. We’re out of bread.”
Congressman Alan Trent of Massachusetts was in Hartford, Connecticut, taking a Saturday off to catch a basketball game between U-Mass and U-Conn, both of whom looked like contenders for the regional championship this year. That didn’t absolve him from the need to work, however, and so two staffers were with him, while a third was due in with work. It was more comfortable in the Sheraton hotel adjacent to the Hartford Civic Arena than in his office, and he was lying on the bed with the papers spread around him—rather like Winston Churchill, he thought, but without the champagne nearby. The phone next to his bed rang. He didn’t reach for it. He had a staffer for that, and Trent had taught himself to ignore the sound of a ringing phone.
