by Les Abend
With a solemn nod, Kim gave the iPhone back to Ashley. Ashley slid the phone back into her pocket.
“But how did he find us if you couldn’t call Dad…or text him?” Kim asked with raised eyebrows.
“Really? Are you serious?”
Kim’s eyes widened. “Tell me, brat!”
“You’ve never heard of the Find My iPhone app?”
With a sigh, Kim said, “I’m not an idiot. Of course.” She raised her palms with an incredulous expression. “But I turned the app off on my phone.”
Ashley sighed and said, “Ever hear of parental authority?”
“Out with it, Ash! We don’t have time for twenty questions.”
“Sprint has its own program, Family Locator or something.”
Kim shook her head and rolled her eyes. “No wonder Dad would have that sly look when I’d come home from Justin’s house. He knew that I wasn’t doing homework with Nina.”
“And Mom…you told her that you were at study hall even though you and your girlfriends were slurping iced lattes at the mall.”
The two girls lapsed into a long minute of silence.
In one fluid motion, Kim tilted her head back, shook it, and then dropped her face into her hands.
“What?” Ashley asked.
Talking through her hands, Kim said, “We’re idiots.” She raised her head abruptly and looked at Ashley. “If Selma and Louise…and Shrek get what they want from Dad, whatever the hell that is, we’re no longer useful to them.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that we have to find a way to get the hell out of here before the maniacs get rid of us!”
Ashley’s upper lip began to quiver. Her eyes began to well up. She took in a deep breath and sat up straight, fighting the emotions that were about to escape. “What do we do? We’re locked down here like a couple of witches about to be burned at the stake.”
“Exactly. That’s why we have to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
Kim gestured her head up toward the salon door and outside. “For the crazy people to come down and get us.”
“Then what? Are we going to yank on Super Shrek’s little finger till he cries?”
“I’ve got a plan.”
06:05 EDT
“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats!” Maureen Blackford said, bellowing through the array of microphones bearing the names of various news agencies attached to the lectern. She surveyed the hotel banquet room, offering an impatient sigh as the accident investigators shuffled into their seats.
In front of the tables, crouching men and women scurried about. Shutters clicked. Lights flashed. Cell phones were held in the air. Electrical wires crisscrossed the rug.
A dull murmur persisted. Then, after a moment or two, the room fell silent except for the occasional squeak of a table or chair.
Maureen slid a pair of black-framed glasses onto the bridge of her nose, glanced at a yellow legal pad, and said, “First, I would like to begin by thanking not only my NTSB team but all of the participants in the investigation of Patriot Airlines Flight 63. This task would have been daunting without each and everyone’s contribution.” She scanned the tables. “It is important to remember that our purpose is to find reasons for such catastrophes so that they never occur again. We owe it not only to the families that lost loved ones, but also to the traveling public. The traveling public depends upon the professionals that maintain the standards in keeping air travel the safest form of transportation in the world.”
Clearing her throat, Maureen said, “I would like to welcome members of the media to the conclusion of this field investigation.” She gestured an upturned hand toward the back of the banquet hall.
Shutters clicked again. The back wall was filled with standing men and women wearing ID tags and news agency logos. Their faces displayed a diverse group of expressions from anxiousness to impatience to boredom.
Maureen continued. “The conclusion of the field investigation does not conclude the entire investigation. The process continues, utilizing all the data that has been obtained on site. I am gratified by the thoroughness demonstrated from each and every party member of the investigation team. Because of their thoroughness, we will be able to determine a conclusive cause for the damage to the airplane and the resulting fatalities.”
Hart leaned back in his chair and exchanged glances with Ryan Fredricks. The FBI man offered a solemn look. He drummed his fingers on the tablecloth and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Earlier, Hart had chided Ryan for his uncharacteristic wardrobe of a blazer and open-collar, buttoned-down shirt. Ryan had responded with a dour expression and a roll of his eyes.
“In that regard…” Maureen paused for effect, “…as of this moment, it appears the cause of the engine fire was the result of a detonation occurring outside of the main structure of the right engine, just inside the cowl. This caused the internal destruction of the engine, which resulted in turbine and compressor blade fragments breaching the fuselage of the airplane. The metal fragments became shrapnel, causing the death of two passengers. Under normal circumstances, jet engines are designed to contain their internal parts in the unlikely event severe damage occurs.”
“A preliminary review of the cockpit voice recorder indicates the crew followed emergency procedures and protocols in the manner for which they were trained.” She scanned the room. “In other words, their performance was exemplary despite the circumstance of multiple emergency events.”
The media people in the back of the room shuffled on their feet. Eyebrows were raised. A handful of pens were brought to notepads.
“Translation?” Maureen asked, pausing for effect. “A device foreign to the engine was remotely detonated, causing the damage. We have evidence that the device may have been activated by a cell phone or satellite phone. In other words, Patriot Airlines Flight 63 was sabotaged.”
The banquet hall began to rumble with a steady crescendo of hushed voices. Hands started to rise in the air. The people from the back wall advanced forward a step at a time.
“I’ll take questions in just a moment, but first…” Maureen’s voice trailed off as she watched Ryan rise from his chair and stride toward the podium. “It appears FBI Special Agent Fredricks would like the opportunity to speak.” Maureen frowned, her expression mildly incredulous. She gave Ryan an almost imperceptible glare and slid to the side, allowing him access to the microphones.
Ryan took a deep breath and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I echo Ms. Blackford’s sentiments. The FBI is grateful for the expertise provided by the investigation participants.” Ryan tugged on the sides of his blazer, adjusting the jacket’s position around his collar. “This should come as no surprise, but as of this moment, the investigation is no longer under the jurisdiction of the NTSB. The FBI is now treating the event as a criminal act.”
The back of the banquet hall erupted in a cacophony of voices. Once again, hands were raised. The words “Special Agent” were uttered loudly in inquisitive tones. The newspeople exchanged perplexed expressions. Cell phones were raised to ears. Pens scribbled on pads. Laptops and iPads were opened.
The investigative team members remained seated at their respective tables. Some squirmed in their seats. Most had impassive faces, an indication that the FBI man’s statement was already a matter-of-fact assumption. Others looked amused by the reaction of the press.
Rising above the din, a voice with a distinctive British accent resonated from the back of the room. The voice identified itself as being from CNN and asked, “Is this event being considered an act of terrorism?”
A momentary hush flowed into the banquet hall.
Ryan Fredricks gritted his teeth. He looked at Maureen Blackford and shrugged his shoulders. Maureen responded with a nod and a smirk that indicated the crowd’s reaction was no longer her problem.
“Terrorism? At this time we are not ruling anything out,” Ryan stated.
The CNN voice asked, “Do you
have a suspect or suspects…or anybody claiming credit?”
“The investigation is ongoing. I can’t say at this moment.”
Another voice shouted, “Special Agent Fredricks, is it true that the captain of Flight 63 has been hospitalized as a result of an assault in his hotel room?”
“Yes. Fortunately, the captain’s injuries are not life-threatening. That investigation is also in progress.”
The same voice asked, “And it is also our understanding that the copilot’s daughters were abducted within hours of Flight 63’s emergency landing here in Bermuda?”
Ryan took a breath through his nose and said, “Yes, that is a correct statement.”
The CNN voice inquired, “Has it been determined that the captain’s assault and the abduction of the copilot’s daughters may be related? It seems like an awful coincidence, even to us in the media.” The CNN man grinned, an attempt at self-deprecating charm.
“Everything is being considered,” Ryan replied.
More questions were shouted. The noise became an almost unintelligible din of singular origin.
Amid the chaos of voices, Ryan’s stern voice announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, please! When we have definitive information, we will pass it on to you. We are in the preliminary stages of a criminal investigation that is dynamic with many moving parts. Please give us time to do our jobs. Thank you!” Ryan looked at the sea of faces staring in his direction. “That’s all I have.”
The FBI man walked away from the lectern and out a side door. A roar of questions continued.
Maureen resumed her stance on the podium in front of the lectern and said, “Thank you all for coming. This concludes the NTSB’s field investigation report.” Maureen glanced at Hart and shook her head. The NTSB IIC exited through the same door as Ryan, leaving the banquet hall in a commotion of babble.
Hart felt compelled to follow her, but resisted the urge. Now was not the time, especially with the world’s attention focused on the latest developments. At this point, it was best if Hart focused his own attention on strategy outside of the accident investigation. But he couldn’t tell his team. He didn’t want them implicated if his plan unraveled.
As Hart rose from his chair at the table, his cell phone chattered against the change in his pocket. He surveyed the room and noticed a small cadre of reporters advancing toward his position. He glanced at the caller ID. It was the president of PAPA. Hart caught the attention of Jerome, seated at an adjacent table, and gestured in the direction of the advancing reporters. Jerome nodded, walked toward the approaching crowd, and watched Hart escape out the side door.
Hart pressed the Talk button and said, “Sammy, you don’t waste any time. The press conference is barely over. You didn’t even give me the opportunity to be molested by a flock of media people. I might have missed my debut on Anderson Cooper.”
“Anderson Cooper can wait.” Sam sighed and asked, “So what’s your take on this?”
“Well, it’s definitely sabotage. Terrorism? Hmmm…maybe.”
Sam said, “I understand that you’ve had some interesting experiences of your own.”
“Yeah…creepy stuff. That’s why I won’t rule out terrorism just yet.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Hart sighed and said, “Sam, you’re going to have to trust me on this. It’s better that you don’t know everything for the moment.” Hart peered down the hallway. A reporter he recognized was walking toward him at a slow gait. Hart turned away into a narrow corridor and opened the door to a room labeled, “Housekeeping storage.” The dark storage room held a stale, musty odor that intensified as he shut the door behind him.
Hart whispered, “Listen, I’ll be glad to send you all the info on the nuts and bolts of the accident investigation but we need to leave it there.”
“Okay. I understand. But don’t hurt yourself. Love you…well, in a man-crush kind of way.”
“I love you too, Sammy. Thanks. Oh…can you keep me on paid union leave for at least another three days?”
“Not a problem. I’ll make it happen. Talk to you soon.”
As the phone displayed, “Call ended,” Hart cracked the door open just enough to view the immediate vicinity. No one was nearby. He exited the storage room in a quiet rush and headed in the direction of his hotel suite.
Hart thought, “I’m doing cloak and dagger stuff. Really?” He was beginning to feel like an actor in a bad spy movie.
Chapter Fifteen
Sunday
06:15 EDT
Ashley and Kim huddled together on the acrylic steps of the Tiara’s salon. They peered through the tinted glass door outside into the boat’s cockpit. The nearly rising sun bathed the area with a dim glow. From the girls’ vantage point, activity was minimal. Occasionally, the big, bald guy would stomp past their line of sight, but that was all they could discern.
A far corner of the cockpit had a dark smear on the deck. The smear was probably blood from where Amber had fallen. But the slinky redhead was nowhere in sight. The implications of the dark smear sent a collective chill down their spines.
And for a long time now, no sign of their dad was evident. Earlier they had heard some scuffling outside accompanied by raised voices. The Tiara’s deck above their heads had thumped with footsteps. For a while, through the portals of the salon, they could see the old Sea Ray bobbing alongside. But now the girls saw only open ocean. Where had the boat gone?
Turning away from the scene outside, Ashley started to ask, “What do you think happened to…?”
Kim interrupted, “I don’t know. Dad’s gotta be okay. He just has to be…” Her voice dissipated into a whisper.
The sisters remained silent for a few moments. As they sat, the sound of shuffling feet grew louder. The shuffling feet were accompanied by a metallic scraping noise. Kim peered out onto the deck and leaned closer to the salon door.
Kim gasped and whispered, “O-M-G, Ash!”
Ashley turned to look outside. She was about to ask the reason for Kim’s exclamation but the scene she witnessed was all the answer needed.
The big bald guy was carrying a limp Amber in his thick arms. His T-shirt and Amber’s blouse were speckled with blotches of red. Most of Amber’s torso was wrapped with a heavy aluminum chain, the links tightly bound. In a free hand, the bald guy was dragging a large Danforth anchor that was attached to the chain.
“We’re not really seeing this, are we?” Ashley asked with the intonation of a faint whimper.
“We need an erase button,” Kim said with a shudder.
Mesmerized, the sisters stared outside. They watched, both knowing the outcome while simultaneously hoping that something other than the obvious would occur.
The bald guy leveraged his leg over one of the stainless steel transom doors that led to the swim platform. He kicked, forcing the door to swing open. He shuffled out onto the swim platform and swiveled his head from side to side as if someone would actually witness his activity this far offshore. Satisfied, he lowered Amber’s lifeless body into the water. Slowly rising to his feet, his expression, distorted by the dim light, was a mixture of somberness and anger. The bald guy shook his head, stepped through the transom, and back into the cockpit.
Ashley grabbed Kim’s wrist and pulled her off the salon steps toward the dining table in the center of the cabin. They stopped and turned, staring back through the sliding glass door, perhaps hoping that the horror from outside would vanish. The girls shook their heads, tears filling their eyes.
“What’s next?” Kim whispered.
06:20 EDT
Mike sat uncomfortably on the Sea Ray’s V-berth. He had propped his arms behind him in an attempt to support his upper body. His fingers were pressed tightly into the bedspread that covered the thin mattress. He grimaced periodically, clenching his teeth when the occasional needles of sharp pain pulsed through his body. The back of Mike’s head and his ribs had taken a nasty blow when the monster of a bald guy had knocked him down wi
th linebacker force.
The woman the bald guy called Serena had relaxed her wide stance. She had also released her two-handed, tactical grip on the Glock. The gun was now in one hand, resting against her hip, leveled at Mike.
With a quick jerk of her head, Serena flipped away a few strands of blond hair that were covering an eye. Her jaw stiffened. She snorted and said, “You’re in a tough spot, Mr. Pilot.”
Mike looked up at Serena for a brief moment and then slowly lowered his gaze, moving his eyes in an unfocused stare at the mottled carpet.
“You do understand that you’re in a lose/lose situation?” Serena asked, not expecting an answer. She shook her head in disgust. “Let me explain it to you. It’s real simple. First, you probably killed Amber. That makes the bald refrigerator and me really, really pissed. He’s not a nice person when he’s pissed. Second, we need access to what you left in Bermuda. Withhold that access, and we’ll end the life of your little daughters…and we’ll let you watch.”
Mike snapped his head up and glared at Serena. He snarled and asked, “If I give you the information, who’s to say we won’t all be murdered anyhow?”
“Do you want to gamble with your daughters’ lives?”
Still staring at the blonde, Mike took a deep breath. A minute passed in silence. He turned toward Serena and gestured toward the galley. “Open the drawer to the right of the sink. There should be a pen and paper inside. I’ll write down a user name and password along with an online website. Your boss will know what to do with it.”
Serena glowered with a nod. She took a step toward the galley sink and opened the drawer. She peered inside, shuffled an assortment of junk, and pulled out a pen and a piece of scrap paper.
Shoving the pen and scrap piece at Mike, she said, “The information better prove correct. I don’t have to remind you of the consequences.”
