by Les Abend
The VP continued. “So…I’m going to have you ladies wait here for the moment. And then Mr. Washington, our security officer, will escort you out the building to the back parking lot. Okay?”
Ashley and Kim nodded.
Ms. Abbott said, “I have to leave the office for a little while.” She looked at Kim with a sly smile. “I have to find more students to torture. In the meantime you can use my desk to finish any homework that you might have. If you’re not here when I return, please give my regards to your dad when he gets home.”
The VP rose from her chair and gently patted both Ashley and Kim on the shoulder as she left the office.
Kim turned to face her sister. She gave Ashley a playful punch to the shoulder and said, “Awesome! We’re going to be celebrities, Sis!”
10:25 EDT
Rod was perched on the corner of his desk. He looked away from the TV screen that sat on an end table in the corner. He stared out the window of his office at the 777 parked at the gate below. The jet bridge that was mated to the forward entry door was now moving away from the airplane. The red rotating beacon light on top of the fuselage was illuminated, an indication that the airplane was about to begin its pushback. He twisted his wrist to check the time on his Breitling watch.
The watch was an anniversary gift. His wife felt that Patriot Airlines’ new Miami chief pilot should have a watch that was reflective of his status. He wasn’t fond of watches with big faces, but his wife had spent almost every bit of her schoolteacher’s monthly paycheck to buy it for him. He smiled for a brief moment. What a difference from his first marriage…
The 777 was the morning departure to London. Good. It was on time for once. As the big jet began to roll backward, Rod sighed. He brushed his salt and pepper hair away from his tan forehead. His tan was a result of the weekend’s efforts on the golf course. He hadn’t played well, nor had anybody else for that matter. The tournament was an airline-sponsored charity to benefit breast cancer research. The only event that was taken seriously by the players was the Scotch tasting at the clubhouse.
Rod patted the TV remote control into the palm of his other hand as if the device was a ball in a baseball mitt. He had grown weary of pressing the channel button. None of the network news stations had definitive information on the accident or his crew. He should have known better.
The chief pilot stared at the mess scattered across his desk. He hadn’t moved one piece of paper since the telephone call when he had got the news a half-hour ago. He felt himself begin to grind his teeth. Patience was not one of his better virtues.
The console phone on the desk warbled a ring. Rod slid off the corner to his feet and turned to look. A green light was illuminated. It was his direct line. Finally! Maybe he’d get some real information. He yanked the receiver off the cradle.
“Rod Moretti.”
“Captain Moretti, how the hell are you?” The voice on the other end of the line didn’t wait for a response. “You haven’t drunk all of the management Kool-Aid yet, have you?”
“Only half. And I pour Grey Goose into the other half. Who the hell is this?”
“Sammy. Who’d you think?”
“Wow. Sam Mason! How do I deserve the pleasure of a phone call from the union president?” Rod paused. “Wait…don’t tell me…let me guess.” He smiled. “You guys want me to ask the company for a full-time masseuse in the crew lounges?”
“How did you know?”
“I’m psychic that way.”
“Psychotic don’t you mean? I’ve seen you fly an airplane.”
“Don’t judge me when I’m not sober.”
“Sorry.”
Rod sighed, and said, “Sam, I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve got all my intel about the accident from CNN. I’ll probably be the last to know.”
Sam cleared his throat. His tone became serious. “In fact, I’ve got news for you.”
“That figures.”
“Don’t take it personal. It seems that the crew actually followed the accident checklist on our little laminated cards that we have the guys attach behind their ID badges. As per the checklist, the captain called PAPA headquarters about an hour ago.”
“No sense in the captain talking to his supervisor. I certainly don’t give a shit about their well-being. ”
“Like I said, don’t take it personal. They’re doing the right things. And remember…you decided to put on the black hat, buddy.”
“It’s only a black hat to the 2 percent of the seniority list that wants attention for the wrong reasons. I still have this stupid notion that I can make a difference.” Rod sighed. “Is my crew okay?”
“For the most part. My understanding is that physically they are fine. A brief conversation with the copilot seems to reflect some stress issues. That’s to be expected. We’re sending two trained critical incident stress management pilots from our peer support group on the next flight from JFK to Bermuda. PAPA’s accident investigation Go-Team is assembling as we speak. So far, we haven’t got confirmation from the NTSB regarding its authority to conduct the investigation. I think they’re waiting for approval from Bermuda via the State Department. They must not see a problem because the investigator-in-charge, the IIC, has already been assigned. I think the company is getting their usual suspects together also. They promised to let us know who the players are on their Go-Team.”
“It sounds like the ball is rolling,” Rod said.
“Well…” Sam’s voice trailed off for a moment. “Yeah…pretty much.”
“What’s wrong, Sammy.”
“It appears that Bermuda’s version of our U.S. Airport Authority is dragging their feet for the moment.”
“Really? You know why?”
Sam released a quick snort and said, “It seems that our captain exercised his captain’s authority.”
“How so?”
“Apparently he wasn’t happy with the request from some airport manager-type for the passengers to remain on board until their M.E. officially pronounced the two fatalities as deceased.” Sam let out a brief chuckle. “Our captain, in so many words, told this manager guy to get fucked. The captain initiated the deplaning process on his own authority.”
“Good for him.”
“We’re all on the same page, but it’s delaying the process.”
“I’ll make a call.”
“I was hoping you would say that,” Sam replied.
“Anything else?”
“How about making sure that our peer support guys and the Go-Team are allowed travel passes with Class-1 status from their home bases to Bermuda?”
“Done. Just give me a list of names. Is that it?”
“For now, thanks. I love you, man.”
“I love you, too, Sam. Just do me a favor and keep me up to date…even if it’s off the record. Sooner or later, I’ll be in the loop. As a chief, I’ll have to talk to the crew when they return.”
“Do you want off-the-record stuff now?”
“Of course.”
“I’m not on speaker phone, am I?”
“Nope. Go ahead.”
“GE engines don’t just come apart without warning. The captain said that there was no indication of any problem prior to the shit hitting the fan. He’s been on the Seven-Six for a hundred years. He’s had one precautionary shutdown in over ten thousand hours of flying the airplane. And that was because of a low oil pressure EICAS message verified by the oil gauge display.”
Rod glanced at the muted images on the TV screen and asked, “No high temps? No vibration indications? No power fluctuations? Nothing?”
“Nothing.” Sam drew in a deep breath. “You do know that Trinidad is a nice place to harbor terrorists?”
“Careful. Let’s not go there yet.”
“That’s what accident investigation is for.”
“How about that gremlin creature from the Twilight Zone movie? Anybody thought of that idea?”
“That’s a good theory. Maybe you should participate wit
h the company’s Go-Team instead of waiting in your office to give the standard fifty lashes to the guys calling in sick.”
“We don’t give lashes anymore. It’s messy and inhumane. We use electroshock therapy.”
“Excellent. Things have improved already since you got the chief job a month ago.”
“Don’t mention it.” Rod sighed and said, “I looked at the crew list. I don’t really know the captain other than to just say ‘Hi’. Is Jim a ...?”
Sam interrupted. “I know what you’re thinking. Jim’s a straight arrow. Former Air Force F-16 jockey. Gulf War vet. Plays well with others. All of that stuff. You probably wouldn’t have seen him in your office until the day he signed his retirement paperwork.”
“Gotcha. Thanks, man.”
Sam added, “By the way, Hart Lindy will be in charge. He’ll have official NTSB status as the union’s Go-Team party coordinator. He’s our accident investigation chairman as you probably know.”
Rod winced at the sound of Hart’s name. A few moments of silence passed.
“Yeah, sounds fine,” Rod acknowledged. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”
“You’ll be getting a call from the Miami domicile reps soon. Have a good one, buddy.”
Rod heard a click in his ear. He set the phone back down onto the console cradle.
“An airplane accident with fatalities and Hart Lindy. Great. This can only get better…” Rod muttered.
10:45 EDT
Hart had just laid his open bag on the corner of the bed to start packing when his cell phone began to chirp. The chirp was the selected ring for an unknown caller. Other than at the gym, his cell phone hadn’t spent much time away from his ear for the last hour. Hart glanced at the digits displayed on the caller ID. Where was that area code from? He had seen it before. Hart stared at the number for a moment. He remembered. Washington, D.C. Hart pressed the green Talk button.
“Hey, it’s Hart.”
“Is this Captain Lindy?” a female voice with a hint of a Hispanic accent asked.
“Yes, it is. Who’s calling?”
“I’m Julia, the secretary for NTSB investigator-in-charge, Maureen Blackford. Could you hold please while I put the IIC through?”
“Yeah, sure,” Hart replied as he walked into his closet, the cell phone pressed against an ear. He surveyed the array of shirts hanging in a meticulous row, all of them facing in exactly the same direction. What would be appropriate attire for Bermuda?
“Captain Lindy?” a calm voice inquired.
“This is he.”
“It’s Maureen Blackford. Remember?”
Hart thought for a moment. No images were rushing into his head. He probably should know.
Maureen added, “It’s all right. It’s been a while. San Juan. Flight 57. Coming back yet?”
Flight 57...? Hart looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. Maureen Blackford? Oh, yeah. His mind flashed an image of a tall woman with an intense expression on her face. The tall woman was wearing a pair of khaki pants with a blue polo shirt. A circular NTSB insignia patch was sewn above a breast pocket.
“I’m sorry, Maureen. I remember now. You were chairing the procedures committee, right?”
“Yup, you got it.”
“Yeah. I was assigned to the systems committee. We never really crossed paths too often,” Hart said. An uneasiness that hadn’t surfaced from his memory was making Hart feel unsettled. He couldn’t put a finger on it.
“Well, it looks like we will be working together again. I understand that PAPA has designated you as the party coordinator.”
“That’s true. A friend of mine had the lapse in judgment to promote me past my level of competence. And the sad thing is, it’s a volunteer position. At least my friend gets paid.”
“The government did the same for me.”
Both Hart and Maureen Blackford chuckled.
Maureen said, “Bermuda has given us the green light to begin the investigation.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.”
“Me too.” Maureen paused. “If you would, please have a roster available that lists your party members to present at the organizational meeting.”
“I will. In fact, I can offer you resumes. They all have appropriate backgrounds for their appropriate investigative committees.”
“I’m sure. If your people are anything like your guys at the Flight 57 accident, we’ll be in good shape.”
“Thanks. The great aspect to this accident is that not only do we have surviving crew and surviving passengers, we have an intact airplane.” He added, “Just let us know the agenda and where you folks are going to set up your command center and we’ll do the same. My group should be on scene by tonight sometime.”
“We’ll have the information available in a few hours. How about l have my secretary email you?”
“Works for me, Maureen.”
“See you soon.”
Hart’s cell phone went silent as the call disconnected. He stared at the iPhone for a moment as if the device could explain his uncomfortable feelings. He dismissed his thoughts and turned his attention to the wardrobe in his closet. He glanced at his stack of shorts. Well...he was going to Bermuda. Nah…maybe for the bar at the end of the day, but not for the investigation. He certainly wasn’t going to wear a pair of those geeky, calf-high, ankle socks.
He ran a thumb over the top of his shirts. Maureen Blackford? Now it was coming back. She had first introduced herself at the NTSB Command Center that was set up at a banquet room of the Caribe Hilton in San Juan. Most of the faces involved with the investigation of Flight 57 were grim, but Maureen’s eyes sparkled with excitement. It was bothersome. Not so much that she was enthusiastic, but that her attitude seemed contrary to someone immersed in a tragedy.
When the CVR transcripts of the last few minutes of airborne dialogue were made available to the investigation, a checklist omission by the flight crew had been discovered. When the checklist item was discussed at a progress meeting with the other committees, Maureen minimized the omission as a contributing cause of the crash. But her murmured discussions with the IIC at the podium indicated otherwise. And so did the press briefing that followed.
When the press briefings were aired, the synopsis discussed by the IIC seemed to be leading in the direction of pilot error. Maureen could always be seen on camera, strategically located at just the right spot in the background. She wore her best professional smile, nodding at the appropriate moments.
The pilot-error theory was treated by the PAPA investigation team as if the Kennedy assassination’s Grassy Knoll was being revisited. When the Heineken started to disappear from the ice-laden cooler in the party coordinator’s room, the adjectives used to describe Maureen Blackford were not for public consumption. It took several reminders over several days for the party coordinator to impress upon the team that their responsibility as third-party participants was to help find a cause for the crash and not to defend any one person or any one theory. Their main objective was to assist the NTSB in determining the cause to prevent the same accident from ever happening again.
But there was one more aspect to his uneasiness toward Maureen Blackford. His brain had conveniently stored the information away until just now. Flight 57 had been a horrific scene. The devastation to the small section of old San Juan where the Airbus 320 impacted had been instantly transformed into a war zone. Blackened buildings. Airplane fragments. Clothes scattered among the tops of coconut palms. Body parts. And the all-consuming charred smell. The smell hadn’t left his nostrils for months after the investigation.
Hart had needed an escape. He had teased the hotel bar manager with his best lines and his best smile late into the night. She had followed him to his room. Before Hart could slip his key card into the slot, the bar manager had slipped a wet tongue into his mouth. At just the right moment, Maureen Blackford had trotted down the hallway. She had simply nodded, a barely perceptible grin etched on her face.
And now it wo
uld be Hart’s responsibility to keep the investigation team focused on the main objective. He gnashed his teeth. It would also be his responsibility to keep opinions of the new IIC from influencing the course of the investigation. Great…
Chapter Five
Friday
12:05 EDT
Chris DeFazio took a big gulp from his beer mug and glanced at the blond-haired guy sitting at the other end of the bar. Crap! What the hell was he doing in this place!? A frickin’ gay joint! If the guys at the VFW saw him now, it would be over. If only this job wasn’t paying so damn well…
He dropped an elbow over his hip and felt the hard plastic handle of the H & K hidden beneath his tropical shirt. Chris had just called his contact. Now that he finally had tracked the guy down at the bar, he’d have to find out just how much the light-in-the-loafers dude really knew.
This job wasn’t as much of an adrenalin rush as Iraq, but it was better than selling car insurance to assholes at his brother’s office. That sucked. Every time the phone would ring and the light would blink on his desk phone, he would cringe. In the worst way, he wanted to be back in-country shooting ragheads with his buddies. Nobody understood. They just thought that he was crazy.
That touchy-feely shrink at the VA had told him to join a support group that dealt with PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder? Shit! What did that shrink know about PTSD? The shrink’s only lifetime trauma was probably an increase in the greens fees at the country club! Bet the shrink had never seen a Humvee do barrel rolls after getting whacked by an IED…and then seen the guys you just had breakfast with get burned to a crisp like the bacon they had eaten. Worse yet, you couldn’t do anything to help except watch.
