by Les Abend
Hart nodded with a smirk.
The FBI man walked to the driver’s side of his Jeep, sat down, and started the car. He offered a cursory wave to Hart and Maureen. As he drove by, he shouted in Arnold Schwarzenegger style, “I’ll be bock!”
When Ryan exited through the ramp gate, Maureen shook her head and said, “Nice save, Captain Lindy. I’m impressed.” She gave Hart a coy grin, turned and walked away toward the portable air stairs.
Shrugging his shoulders, Hart trotted toward the engine investigation team. He explained that that the FBI had decided to allow the NTSB to continue the investigation. With varying degrees of emphasis, the men expressed their relief.
Hart looked at Frank and said, “Open your hand, Mr. Chairman.” Frank raised his eyebrows and presented his palm. Hart dropped the pieces of metal shrapnel that he had found in the cabin seat into his hand. “Maybe you guys can figure out where in the engine these pieces came from. They were embedded in the headrest of the window seat fatality. I don’t think they’re compressor or turbine blades.”
“Thanks,” Frank said. “You may be right.”
“Well, gentlemen, apparently I’ve done enough damage for the day. I’m going back to where I belong…the command center. I’ll see you all at the progress meeting.”
12:30 EDT
The lunchtime crowd at Shooter’s was in its early stages of activity. A small armada of boats was beginning to circle in front of the long dock. The dock guys were scampering about, tying up boats and directing the rafting process. Fenders were being slung over the sides. Lines were being fastened to cleats. A festive mood was punctuated by the enhancement of the tan, bikini-clad women perched on bow decks and brightly colored upholstered seats.
The addition of a forty-five-foot Tiara among the lines of rafted boats was barely noticed. A long-legged blonde and a slinky redhead emerged from the cockpit, receiving the typical leering glances from the drooling throng of men dispersed about the pool area. They paused before taking the next sip from their half-empty Budweiser cans.
The two women were familiar faces…at least to the attendees of the weekend hot bod contest. Their current employer had recruited them directly from the weekend parade of high heels and thongs that strutted across the pool walkway every Saturday and Sunday afternoon. Making the rounds of the R-rated South Florida bathing suit circuit, the beer-soaked men had been a regular part of Amber and Serena’s world until a chisel-faced dark-haired man offered them the opportunity to be his personal assistants for an obscene amount of money. And if an occasional romp to a king-size bed was required, that was okay…as long as it didn’t involve anything overly kinky.
As the two women waited for Chris, they felt drawn to the party atmosphere that had been their life. Unfortunately, they had work to do. The two pain-in-the-ass high school girls locked in the Tiara’s salon were a serious liability. They needed to leave the dock ASAP.
A deep, scratchy voice from behind them said, “Didn’t know that the hottest chicks in Lauderdale knew how to drive a boat.”
Amber and Serena turned to see a bulky figure with a bald head climb awkwardly over the rail of the express cruiser that was tied alongside them. They smiled at Chris.
Serena said, “Hey, we’ve got college degrees, big man. Can’t you tell that we’re putting all that brainpower to good use?”
“Absolutely. But I’d rather see you put those tight asses to good use instead,” Chris said with a sneer.
“You’re a pig like the rest of them,” Amber said with a grin.
“Thanks, babe,” Chris replied with a smile as he jumped onto the boat. His Sperry Topsiders slapped the deck with a pronounced thud. He swiveled on his heels and scooped Serena into a thick arm. He squeezed and gave her an audible kiss on one of her high cheekbones. Chris took a step toward Amber and wrapped both arms around her tiny waist. He hugged and rocked backward, lifting the redhead off her bare feet. He smacked Amber on her glossy lips and then lowered her back to the deck.
“You’re late, Mr. Clean,” Amber said.
“Last night’s job went into overtime,” Chris said. He thought of yesterday’s infiltration into the gay world. He shuddered. At least he had ended the day on a high note.
“Likely excuse,” Amber cooed.
Chris asked, “How’s the babysitting going?”
“Not bad,” Amber said. “The older sister has more balls than some guys I know. She got a little out of line, but nothing that a little threat from our friends at Smith & Wesson couldn’t handle.”
“Can’t wait to meet them,” Chris said with a smirk.
Serena said, “There will be plenty of time for introductions. Let’s get out of here before we attract attention.”
“You two should have thought of that before you shook that booty in those bikinis.”
Serena smiled and bellowed, “Get the bow line, swine!”
“Aye, aye, Captain Blighness,” Chris bellowed, saluting.
Chapter Twelve
Saturday
17:30 EDT
Although never officially assigned, the Go-Team participants returned to the same seats they had occupied in the morning, a familiar habit. Conversation in the hotel banquet room buzzed. The atmosphere pulsed with a demeanor more conducive to the original intent of a room designed for festivity. Voices were less subdued and more animated. People’s stances were less awkward and more limber. Frowns were less frequent and smiles more abundant.
From the podium, Maureen Blackford called the end-of-the-day progress meeting to order. Voices slowly diminished from a normal tone, to a murmur, and then to complete silence. Reading from a yellow legal pad, the IIC briefed a summary of events. With her briefing complete, she slid the eyeglasses off her nose and held them between her fingers. She twirled them in a slow circle.
Maureen pointed at the chairman of the systems committee. A tall, lanky man in his mid-forties stood and faced the seated crowd. He cleared his throat and began to explain the investigation progress of his team.
“Coordination with DFDR information will confirm the engine fire and its effect on other aircraft systems. It appears that the preliminary finding, without DFDR and CVR input, indicates that the flight crew responded appropriately to multiple emergencies.”
The systems chairman paused for a brief moment. He locked eyes with Maureen and said, “The DFDR will most likely substantiate that a cause external to the right engine initiated its destruction.”
Maureen raised an eyebrow and asked, “Can you elaborate?”
“Uhh…well…EICAS data that has been downloaded and a one-hundred-hour history of engine parameters logged through the airline’s maintenance system offer no evidence that any adverse issues were developing to cause a catastrophic failure.”
“Okay, what then?” Maureen asked with a mildly impatient tone.
“We are considering that a high probability exists a source not related to the engine caused an explosion.”
“I see…” Maureen glanced at the lectern and grabbed it by the outside edges. “Are you basing this theory on anything related to the information that will be presented by one of the other committees?”
With a solemn tone, the tall, lanky man said, “No, ma’am.”
“Okay. Thank you.” Maureen turned toward another table. “Witness committee? Chad Levine?”
Chad stood. His knit shirt fit tightly across his chest. The NTSB emblem protruded outward. As he clutched a clipboard, his biceps stretched the elastic band of his short sleeves.
“Ms. Blackford, the witness committee has focused its attention on those passengers that indicated they had direct visual and/or aural exposure to the event. Since the airline immediately arranged for alternate travel routing, our contact with most of them has occurred via phone conversations. We have coordinated with the FBI in regard to the questioning of suspicious passengers.” Chad Levine gestured his head at Ryan seated at the table. “Special Agent Fredricks has additional information once my briefing
is complete.”
Chad continued. “The common denominator seems to be a very sudden event. An explosion of sorts. And a pronounced, one-time vibration that felt as though the airplane made contact with an airborne object; a speed bump in the sky is how one woman described it. In addition, the typical smoke and fire scenario was part of most stories. The passengers seated behind the engine in the aft cabin added credibility to this fact. The flight attendants confirmed many of the passenger accounts. All of this, of course, could be attributed to an engine coming apart internally…but I’ll leave the specifics to my colleagues on the other committees.”
“As was discussed at the organizational meeting this morning, the captain and the first officer are not available. Although their input will be of great assistance, the CVR is our best source for crew participation. That being said,” the committee chairman nodded at Jerome, “our Patriot Airlines Pilots Association member conducted a recorded interview of the first officer, Mike Townsend. The interview gave us a detailed perspective of the event. The conversation has been transcribed.”
Chad Levine scanned the banquet room and said, “That’s all we have for now. Special Agent Fredricks?”
As Ryan rose from his seat, he pulled the soggy stub of an unlit cigar from his lips. His jumping sailfish shirt hung unbuttoned at his sides. The black T-shirt underneath didn’t hide the bulge that rested on top of his belt.
Ryan said, “Let’s not beat around the bush here. We all know where this is going. You folks can dot your i’s and cross your t’s using the appropriate NTSB procedures, but as far as I’m concerned, we’re involved with a criminal investigation.”
A few sighs were heard. A handful of eyes rolled.
“Look, I apologize for my abrupt social skills. Please understand that I appreciate your expertise. You folks will be invaluable in building our case.” Ryan took in a deep breath and exhaled. “Let’s talk about what the FBI has discovered thus far.” He looked around the room. “First, we detained two passengers with questionable backgrounds. One of these passengers possessed a valid Trinidad passport. He has some criminal history, but mostly robbery arrests- nothing that indicated a connection with an organized group.
“The other detained passenger was born in Saudi Arabia but possessed a British passport. His business card lists him as a computer software marketing director for a London-based company. We’ve checked with our British counterparts and it appears that the company is legitimate, but…his frequent visits to a mosque that has bred Al-Qaeda soldiers have got people’s attention. Although he hasn’t made the no-fly list roster yet, that possibility may become a reality in the not too distant future. We are currently working with the Trinidad authorities to verify his activities over the last several weeks.”
“Thanks to Captain Lindy, we are tracking another individual who arrived from Miami on the same flight as the pilot investigation team. It turns out that this individual must have been traveling under an alias. His seat assignment matched a passport ID, but a database search tied the name to a very recently deceased U.S. citizen. We believe this individual returned to the States via a flight to JFK. His movements are being tracked. He may have been involved in the assault on Flight 63’s captain.”
Seats clattered with the sound of people shifting their position. A murmured conversation began among one of the tables.
The FBI man said, “That’s all I have for now, folks. Please communicate any pertinent information that you discover to your committee chairman or myself. And remember, the information discussed is confidential. Please don’t even discuss this with your significant others. Thanks.” Ryan nodded at Maureen as he plopped down onto his chair.
Separately, the committee chairmen from the airframe group and the cabin group stood and discussed their portion of the investigation. Their briefings were predictable and short in duration by virtue of the fact that most of the investigators from other teams had already taken the opportunity to tour the destruction inside the cabin. And when it came to the airframe structure, that mess was visible to everybody.
Without looking up from her notes, Maureen called for the chairman of the engine committee. She added, “I saved the busiest committee for last.”
Frank rose from his chair. His movements were stiff and awkward. He conveyed a tangible nervousness. He raised a battered clipboard to his line of sight.
“As many of you may already know, our unofficial findings of the right side GE CF6 ‘dash’ 80 engine indicate a catastrophic event occurred internally. We have found no evidence of foreign object damage. And as mentioned by the systems committee, historic analysis shows no signs of irregular operation.”
The engine committee chairman wiped his brow with the back of a hand. He continued. “The destruction of numerous fan blades, compressor blades, and turbine blades accounted for the instantaneous engine failure.” He dropped the clipboard to his side and looked at the IIC. “A fragment of a cell phone battery was found lodged against a stator vane. The battery’s position suggested that it had been ejected forward from within the engine. Additionally, shrapnel material that was discovered embedded in the seat of the window fatality had its origins from the accessory drive area. When the mechanics remove the engine from…”
With a solemn expression, Maureen interrupted. “I think that we’re all following you. Can you cut to the chase?”
Frank nodded. He cleared his throat, shuffled his feet, and looked at the floor. He began to open his mouth, but was interrupted again, this time by Matt Mattson.
Matt began to rise from his seat. He glanced at his committee chairman and asked, “May I?”
With a relieved expression, Frank nodded.
Matt said, “Thank you.” He turned to look at Maureen. “Ms. Blackford, it appears that a device was detonated in very close proximity to the IDG. It was most likely activated remotely via a cell phone or sat phone. End of story.”
The room was enveloped by the sound of whispering. All eyes focused on the IIC at the podium.
Rubbing her forehead with one hand, Maureen asked, “You’re telling us that an external explosion near the integrated drive generator blew the engine apart as opposed to an explosion that originated from the engine itself?”
“We believe so,” Matt said. “At the moment, we can find no other logical explanation.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your candor.”
Matt nodded at both Maureen and the committee chairman. In a slow movement, he slid back onto his chair. He searched the back of the room and found Hart seated at a table near the back wall. Hart displayed a thumbs-up. Matt nodded with a somber expression.
As Maureen emphasized the need to continue following NTSB policy and procedure despite the preliminary findings, Hart contemplated the speech to his team at the command center. The investigation was taking an interesting turn.
A familiar voice from behind Hart’s shoulder interrupted his thoughts. “Captain Lindy, I need to talk with you.”
Hart turned to find Ryan Fredricks crouching on one knee behind him. Ryan gestured toward the exit door at the corner of the banquet room. Hart scanned the room and then slithered away, following the FBI man out the door.
When the two men were in the corridor, Ryan said, “Come with me to my room, Captain.” Sensing a quip from Hart, Ryan added, “Don’t get any ideas, fly boy. Pilots aren’t my type. You guys have bigger egos than the CIA guys.”
Hart grinned and said, “I promise not to kiss and tell.”
Ryan shook his head and rolled his eyes. In silence, the two men walked down the adjacent hallway and into Ryan’s ground level room. When the door clacked closed, the FBI agent slid the chain into place. He walked over to the bleached wicker desk resting against the far wall and sat down. Ryan pressed the power button on his Mac laptop. He made a few adjustments and stood up. He motioned for Hart to be seated.
Hart looked at the laptop screen as he sat down. A low quality color video of a Patriot Airlines 767 mated to a
jet bridge was displayed. The vantage point of the camera appeared to be directed from roof level toward the nose of the airplane. The entire airliner, except for a portion around the left wing was visible.
“Do you recognize the airplane?” Ryan asked.
Hart studied the frozen scene for a moment. He read the N-number printed on the nosewheel door. Hart nodded.
Ryan said, “It’s the accident airplane. It’s the accident airplane approximately one hour prior to gate departure.”
“Okay,” Hart acknowledged.
“This is the security video. I’m not going to say a word. I want you to watch. I would like your professional pilot opinion on what you see.”
“This isn’t a musical, is it? I hate musicals,” Hart chided, masking an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.”
“No, it’s worse than a musical,” Ryan responded dryly. He moved the cursor over the play selection and clicked. Ryan reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out two cigars in cellophane wrappers. “Cigar?”
Hart raised his eyebrows and said, “Really? In the room? The hotel staff must love you.” Hart reached for a cigar, unwrapped it, and brought it to his lips. “Thanks.”
“Everybody tolerates a man with a gun and a badge,” Ryan said. He flicked his lighter underneath the end of Hart’s cigar.
As the room began to haze with white smoke, Hart focused on the security video. A few seconds passed, and then a pilot with three stripes on his epaulets emerged from the side jet bridge door. The pilot walked down the grated stairs to the ramp. Hart understood the familiar scene. It was the copilot. He was beginning the walk-around inspection.
The copilot walked in front of the nose of the 767. He paused for a moment and then in a methodical pattern continued his tour, following the footprint perimeter of the wide-body airplane. The copilot paused every few feet to peer at the next section of the 767, a typical procedure. A handful of minutes later, the copilot reached the outboard side of the right engine. He stopped. In one fluid motion, Hart watched as the copilot pressed the latches of the IDG access panel, opened the door and just as quickly closed it.
