Man of Honor

by Chris Malburg

  Helen looked over Gallagher’s shoulder and through the open tent flap at the five NTSB investigators already carefully walking the crash scene. Police stood around the perimeter keeping the onlookers back. The investigators were taking photos. One focused on an engine laying in the field; another stopped and knelt down on the snowy ground. She was looking into the cockpit broken away from the fuselage and laying open on its side some twenty yards south.

  “How much time for your investigation?” Helen asked.

  “Any NTSB investigation takes as long as it takes. Can’t rush this sort of thing. That’s how mistakes are made. I’ve had investigations take less than six months and some as long as two years.”

  “Seems like a gruesome job.”

  “Parts of it certainly are. Who likes helping the medical personnel pull dead bodies from mangled wreckage then spend months puzzling together the cause of the crash? It’s a calling that sucks you in.”

  “By now, you must dread the ring of your phone,” Helen said. “Probably happens at the worst times.”

  Gallagher appraised Helen up and down for a moment and then nodded his head. “Once the calling has you, there’s no escape. Ever.” Gallagher changed tact, “It’s unusual to have the Whitehouse involved before the investigation even gets started.”

  “You heard the same phone call I did,” Helen said.

  “The President’s Chief of Staff called my boss at NTSB. You’re to shadow my team. I’m to afford you every courtesy and assistance.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gallagher. I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

  “No need. We’re all after the same thing here. Let’s get you suited up,” he said. “Everyone on the crash site wears protective clothing.” He reached into a cardboard box and handed Helen a white exposure suit. “Put this on, please.”

  “Gloves and booties too?” Helen asked.

  Gallagher peered out of the tent at his five investigators suited up head to toe and slowly walking the site. “Yes. Everything. My people aren’t wearing their respirators right now. It’s probably unnecessary. But attach it to your belt anyway. If I tell you to put it on, it’s for a very good reason.” He handed over the green plastic bag containing her respirator.

  “What’s there to be afraid of?” Helen asked. She sat in a folding chair and pulled the booties over her boots.

  “Lots of nasty stuff. Bodily fluids for one—blood and tissue. Probably bodily waste too. It happens. There could also be hydrazine. It’s a clear, oily substance that smells like ammonia. A bioenvironmental nightmare. We’re contacting Boeing now to find out if they use hydrazine in the Dash-2 emergency power units. Their crash team should be here anytime.”

  Helen saw compassion in the NTSB chief’s eyes. “Tough job, Chief.”

  Gallagher nodded. “NTSB performs a service so that others may live.” Gallagher inspected Helen’s protective suit. “Okay. Follow me, please.” He turned and led the way out of the tent, talking as he went. “If your eyes start itching, if you feel dizzy or your nose and throat feel irritated, let me know immediately then leave the crash site. Finally, if you just want to leave the scene, please do so. These are not nice places. You’ll see things you will never want to see again. No one will think any less of you. It happens to all of us.

  “One more thing,” Gallagher grabbed a clipboard off the table nearest the tent flap, “everyone entering the crash site signs in and out. You see all of our names on the top sheet. Please enter your name too. You’re one of us now.”

  Helen followed Gallagher out of the tent. He lifted the yellow hazardous danger tape for them. Not more than ten feet into the area, Helen stumbled over a twisted landing gear resting next to a smashed aluminum sink from the house that had been in the jet’s path. Gallagher nimbly stepped around it. Just another day at the office.

  “I always begin my initial assessment the same way,” Gallagher said, “I walk the perimeter of the site counter clockwise. I want a clear picture of the scene. I look for the direction of the impact, the impact crater, and where the major pieces of wreckage came to rest. I catalog things I observe that I’ll want to know more about. Follow me.”

  Helen felt an eerie quiet hanging over the scene. No raging fire. Not in this crash with empty fuel tanks. No pneumatic saws or demolition hammers working the site yet. Too soon for that. The other NTSB blue jackets were doing the same walk around. The loudest sound was the gently falling snow.

  Helen walked behind Gallagher. Her boot caught a jagged piece of metal. She freed it and continued walking deeper into the wreckage. Only the occasional soft voices of the accident investigators conferring among the wreckage disturbed the silence.

  “Come on over here, Helen.” Gallagher pointed toward the wing. “What do you see?”

  “Looks like it snapped off when the jet hit those high tension wires.”

  “Good. My initial examination of the wreckage looks for abnormal conditions. I’m watching for things that are either missing or included but don’t belong there. Take a closer look.”

  Helen spoke up, “Oh, I see—or don’t see—there’s the wing but the engine is missing. Where’s the engine?”

  “Exactly. Where’s the port side engine? I don’t need to answer such questions at this stage. Just make a note that there’s something abnormal here. Let’s move on.”

  Helen’s own breath condensed in a cloud in front of her face. Harsh, bright light from the floodlights on tall stanchions the NTSB crew had erected bathed the scene in the afternoon twilight. The largest sections of wreckage rose above the few inches of snow accumulated on the ground. It was falling harder now, floating down through the light in icy crystals.

  They completed their walk around the entire perimeter of the crash site. Gallagher stopped. “Before we enter the fuselage and passenger compartment, turn around and observe the ground scar leading from the impact point right up to here.”

  Helen inspected the area of plowed earth beginning about twenty-five yards from the downed power lines. Then the two wrecked houses, the main impact crater and a swath of downed trees and shrubs as the wreckage smashed its way deep into the adjacent park before finally coming to rest.

  “What does that tell you?” asked Gallagher.

  Helen thought out loud. “The jet did not come in nose down like in a dive. It was more of a glide. Then the power line arrested its downward glide. But it still had plenty of forward momentum. The nose hit the ground first, followed by the fuselage. Momentum carried the fuselage over the ground like a huge stone skipping over the water. That’s what caused the ground scar. By that point, the jet had come apart—nose, wings, and tail. The fuselage is the largest part of the wreckage. That’s what blew through the two houses.”

  On the other side of the crash site, one of the white-suited investigators working on the empennage tail assembly held up his hand to catch Gallagher’s attention. He hefted an orange metal box about the size of a large shoebox over his head.

  Gallagher nodded. “He found the flight data recorder and the cockpit voice recorder. Those two items will tell us about the jet’s performance and may offer up some clues of what happened during various stages of the flight.

  “Okay. Now’s the time I ask you again if you want to enter the aircraft. It’s not a nice place. Even though the bodies are gone, you’ll see all sorts of gruesome things. Smell that? Stray jet fuel—though not much. And hydraulic fluid, some other hydrocarbons, chemicals, and something else. The smell of death. You don’t have to enter if you don’t want to.”

  Helen merely nodded.

  They stepped through a jagged, gaping hole in the fuselage where the sharp corner of a reinforced brick wall tore open the aluminum skin like a can opener. “Watch where you step and where you put your hands. The torn, jagged skin of the aircraft and the twisted metal parts are razor sharp.”

  Helen wore heavy canvas gloves and a hard plastic helmet. She played her flashlight over the interior. The once pristine business jet—amo
ng the most luxurious in the sky—was now a mass of wreckage. The cushy leather seats were ripped out of their floor anchors. Some faced backward; some were upside down. She flashed the light around the dirty, dusty main cabin again. Just aft was the dining cabin. The place was a mess. Broken dishes, table knives bent in half and other flatware were strewn about.

  Probably having lunch when they succumbed, she thought. She stepped over a mass of broken glass that lay on the floor—remnants of wine bottles. Cookies and pastry littered the floor. Must be the galley area. A smashed chrome cappuccino machine lay where it came to rest, yanked from its galley stanchions. Suitcases had broken open and strewn the victim’s clothes around. Then there was the smell Gallagher had warned of. Cloying, somehow thick, with an iron-rust odor. Sad. What happened to these people just hours ago was not their fault. A sigh escaped Helen’s lips—signaling a deep sense of loss and hopelessness. It spread over her like a stifling shroud.

  Through the hole in the fuselage, Helen spotted an NTSB investigator also wearing the white protective jumpsuit. The woman knelt beside the cockpit and played her flashlight over the instruments. Geeze, to see this horror every day, month after month and try to make sense of it. I wouldn’t have been a very good aircraft accident investigator. Helen shook her head sadly, but with a growing respect for these stalwart professionals. They coax and drag what actually happened to the surface. Not easy.

  Helen’s flashlight beam fell on one of the plush white leather seats. “This person was dead before the accident. See how the blood looks like it just dripped onto the seat? If these people were alive at any time during the accident there would be arterial spray and lots of blood spatter. Instead, the blood just seeped out and dripped down due to gravity. Either they were killed instantly or died before the plane crashed.”

  “You’re a forensic pathologist are you?” Gallagher asked.

  “Conjecture. I’ve seen more than my share of crashed autos from the cars my company makes. You get to know what to look for.”

  “I can’t disagree. Still, our job at this stage is to keep an open mind. You might be right or it could be something else entirely that killed the victims. Hypoxia—suffocation from lack of oxygen—also fits your hypothesis. But what might have caused hypoxia? We need a professional’s insight to determine the actual cause of death and when it occurred.”

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  Before Jack knew it the Blackhawk had set down on the visitor’s ramp at Grissom Air Reserve Base. A Navy captain dressed in flight gear introduced himself. He motioned for Jack to follow him to a gray van parked beside an F/A-18E—the two-seater version of the Super Hornet. The sleek gray jet seemed

  crouching, waiting for launch. Two plane handlers were standing beside it, also waiting.

  Jack climbed into the van and changed into flight gear—jump suit, G-suit, boots, gloves, helmet, and face mask.

  “Let’s double time it, sir,” he urged Jack. “We need to overtake the LTS450. My bird can do it, sir, but not if she’s sitting here on the ground.”

  Jack connected the dots. Naval aviator—even here at an Air Force Base. Navy fighter jet. “Captain, this InterTrans flight is going to overfly Los Angeles isn’t it?”

  “That’s what they’re thinking, sir. Looks like it’s going to come down in the Pacific.”

  “A carrier landing?”

  “It’s called a trap, sir. USS Ronald Reagan is waiting for us.”

  During Jack’s military and FBI career, he had flown in all types of aircraft. But never in the supersonic Hornet. Climbing aboard required his own plane handler to place Jack’s hands and feet one by one in the cockpit so he didn’t damage anything. Once seated, the plane captain velcroed his legs to the seat frame so they wouldn’t flail around in case of an emergency ejection. Soon Jack was strapped in with the four-way harness and his G-suit was plugged into the jet. Next came the helmet. All the hoses and connections snapped in place. Immediately, cold, fresh air flooded his mask. It mixed with the kerosene smell of jet fuel and the silicone smell of the mask. The pilot’s voice talking to Grissom’s control tower came over the earphones requesting clearance for immediate departure.

  Before he left, the plane handler pulled a safety pin from the frame of the ejection seat and held it up for Jack’s inspection. Jack nodded. Like sitting on a rocket, he thought.

  The jet roared as its twin engines launched them down the runway. Seconds later, the vibration stopped as the runway fell away. Suddenly, someone was sitting on Jack’s chest. The horizon rotated 90-degrees to the line of flight as the Captain pointed the jet’s nose straight up. Along with the engine’s roar, through the intercom, Jack heard the Captain grunting and straining his core muscles to help the G-suit keep blood from leaving his upper body and pooling in his legs. Jack followed suit. Almost immediately, the dark tunnel that was closing his vision began to open. Jack swore into his mask. “G-induced blackout is not going to happen to me on this hop.”

  After meeting up with a KC-135 tanker then climbing to their cruising altitude of 50,000 feet and accelerating to Mach 1.25, the intercom came alive, “Sir, I have secure radio traffic for you. Will you take it?”

  “Who is it?”

  “Sir, the Marine Colonel said it is the White House Situation Room calling.”

  “Patch them back here, Captain.”

  “Yes, sir. Soon as I know you’re connected, you will hear me switch off.”

  “Jack, where are you now?”

  “Mr. President, you don’t know?”

  “Naw, son. I just politely ask my people to get hold of you. Truth is I think they enjoy figuring out where you are and how to connect us.”

  Jack looked out the canopy at the slight curvature of the earth so far below. The ground rolled by beneath the jet. “Looks like somewhere over the Midwest, sir. I should be on the coast in an hour or so.” Jack heard some voices arguing loudly in the background.

  “Good. We figure you’ll arrive about 55 minutes ahead of the LTS450. I want you to coordinate with the NTSB crew already on scene.” Jack heard his godfather’s voice fall in pitch. “My National Security Advisor thinks there’s a chance these incidents are somehow connected. If that theory proves correct—”

  “We may be in for other aircraft incidents?” Jack interrupted.

  “That’s a big if. Personally, I think she’s full of shit. Something like what she’s describing would inflate her importance. But out of an abundance of caution, I am taking a direct interest in this. That’s why you and Helen are helping out while the agencies get their feet under them—”

  “That’s who I hear in the background?”

  The President blew out an exasperated breath. “Turf war. FBI, CIA, and Homeland all want the lead on this investigation.”

  “Sir, that’s bullshit and with respect, you damn well know it!” Jack exploded into the microphone. “How dare those pencil-neck bureaucrats waste precious time arguing over who gets credit for stopping whatever else is in the works. They just want the win on their scorecard—”

  The President’s voice remained calm, “You, my godson, have the luxury of living outside the Whitehouse bubble. Inside that bubble, politics trumps everything else. Even matters of life and death. Glad I have you and Helen in my corner even if it is unofficial. Just keep on doing what you’re doing. Figure out if these crashes are somehow intentional. Keep me informed. Your creds will be there when you land. Whitehouse out.”

  “Sir, we’re about ten miles out.”

  It didn’t take long before Jack felt the jet accelerate as they flew over the end of the Reagan. Jack’s chest slammed forward against the restraints as the tail hook grabbed the number 3 arresting wire and yanked the jet back. Immediately, the pilot chopped the throttles and the engines wound down.

  Just ten minutes later, Jack was four stories above Reagan’s flight deck facing a keypad-controlled steel door labeled, PriFly—Primary Flight Operations. A civilian cracked open the secure doo
r and stuck his head out. “Mr. Schilling?” He wore the same navy blue NTSB jacket that Gallagher had back in Elkhart. “Bob Johnson. I’m Chief Investigator of this about to be crash. Come in. Tom Gallagher already briefed us on your mission. We’ll help you any way we can.”

  Johnson confirmed the InterTrans flight was an hour behind and that two chase planes saw the pilots either unconscious or dead on the flight deck. But the passengers were still alive.

  “They must be freaking out,” Jack said.

  “The news channels and every other media outlet are broadcasting the videos the passengers are posting, texting, and emailing.”

  “Can’t they break into the flight deck?” Jack asked.

  Johnson shook his head, “The doors are steel, reinforced with Kevlar. Strong men with fire axes and the room to swing them couldn’t break down that door.”

  “Any fire axes on board?”

  Johnson looked at Jack. “Of course not.”

  “What about the electronic key entry pad?”

  Johnson shook his head. “For some reason, the pilots disabled the outside keypad system just before they passed out.”

  “Why would the pilots pass out but not the passengers?” asked Jack.

  “Another security measure,” said Johnson. “Used to be that the entire plane was pressurized and controlled by the same system. Then some geniuses thought it would be safer to put the flight deck on a separate system from the passenger compartment. The flight deck’s pressurization system is computer controlled and tamper-proof. A drop in the passenger cabin’s pressurization would still allow the pilots to safely land the aircraft. The concept is in the test phase.”

  “Apparently it wasn’t so tamper-proof.”

  “Unknown at this point,” said Johnson. “We’re in constant touch with Gallagher in Elkhart. The pressurization system is high on his list of potential causes for the executive jet crash. Soon as he has something either way, he’ll let us know.”