by Rick Mofina
“We’ve conducted more interviews. Roger Anderson, the first officer, is adamant he never saw Captain Matson disable the safety features and never commanded him to do so.”
“Yet the record shows they were disabled,” Cashill said. “Anything else?”
“In keeping with procedure, we reviewed crew phone records, conducted more interviews and studied crew activity seventy-two hours before the flight. One of the subjects we interviewed was Captain Matson’s former wife. She indicated that less than twenty-four hours before the Buffalo–to–New York flight, she and Matson had several telephone conversations that she characterized as confrontational—that Matson was aggressive, agitated and despondent over their divorce, being separated from his children and the need to sell their house in New Jersey.”
“This definitely puts his emotional state of mind into question,” Cashill said. “I think we should consider Matson’s psychological frame of mind a serious factor that warrants further investigation. What if, for a moment, Matson had decided to end his life, then changed his mind?”
“Hey.” Gus Vitalley of the pilots’ union pointed a finger at Cashill. “That’s wild speculation. Our mandate is to consider only the facts.”
“That’s what we’re doing, Gus. One by one we’re ruling out what doesn’t fit and compiling factors that do. It’s a fact Matson’s life was in crisis. It’s a fact he was taking an antidepressant. It’s a fact his divorce was being finalized. It’s a fact he was not happy at that moment of his life.”
“I think we’re forgetting other factors,” Hooper said.
Cashill stared at him. “Which are?”
“His denial of disabling the safety features of the flight-management system, which is backed up by the first officer. And now this claim that some outside force interfered with the aircraft.”
Cashill waved Hooper’s counterpoint off as if it were an annoyance.
“That threat is from a nut job,” Cashill said. “First, there’s no evidence to support it. Second, the FBI hasn’t found anything of substance to it. Third, unlike what you see on TV or in movies and books, the flight-management system is secure against hacking, or cyber hijacking.”
“Are we absolutely certain of that?” Hooper asked.
A knock sounded and Len Stelmach, a senior manager from the Major Investigations Division, entered.
“Bill, we’ve just received word of a crash at Heathrow. A Starglide Blue Wing 250, with two hundred eight people aboard, slammed into the ground just short of the runway. The Air Accidents Investigation Branch is requesting technical support from us. The chief recommends you go, Bill, along with Hooper and a few others. I’ll send you the list.”
Cashill made notes.
“Okay, Len, thanks.” Cashill closed his binder, indicating the meeting had concluded. “Okay, people, we’re done here. Keep going on Forty-nine Ninety and we’ll reconvene when we get back.”
“Excuse me, Len,” Hooper said, “but do we know if there are fatalities?”
“At least nine, maybe more.”
* * *
At his desk, Hooper sent his wife a text, letting her know that he had to get home, collect his bag and fly to London. As he set up his out-of-office email and voice mail, he accidentally heard the beginning of the message Robert Cole had left him.
“Jake, Jake, lishen, Jake, it’s Cole zin in North Dakota. You hafta lishen...”
Hooper hung up. The sound of Cole’s intoxicated voice filled him with sorrow, compounding the sadness over what awaited him in London.
As Hooper drove to Glover Park, he was haunted by what had happened to Robert Cole.
Bob had been a brilliant, legendary engineer who’d worked on Richlon-Titan’s RTs, and had taken part in NTSB investigations over the years. Then there’d been the tragedy—that terrible accident, for which he blamed himself. He never overcame his guilt over the death of his wife.
It had broken him.
He’d lost his job, and had been reduced to being a delusional alcoholic who called the NTSB every time there was a crash or major incident with his views on the cause. He’d become a sad joke in aviation circles.
Hooper knew the man was trying to redeem himself.
It seemed like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Twenty-Three
London, England
The British Airways 747 lifted off from JFK and the lights of greater New York City twinkled below.
As the big jet blasted upward, Kate’s stomach fluttered, and she pressed her head back into her seat and blinked at the ceiling.
How long can I keep doing this?
It felt like her life was moving as fast as the jet. It was not that long ago when she’d overheard Flight 4990’s dispatches on the emergency scanner and now she was bound for London at five hundred and fifty miles per hour. She’d already been working long days on this story but the look on Grace’s face when she’d told her she had to leave had broken her heart.
Oh no, Mom, we’re supposed to go to the zoo and the park.
I know, sweetie, but it’s only for a few days. We’ll go when I get back. I promise.
And then can we shop for my shoes?
Grace knew how to negotiate, especially since she had leverage, given that Kate had been a preoccupied, absent parent.
We’ll see when I get back.
The jet climbed as Kate looked at her phone and traced her fingers over Grace’s photo. In her years with Newslead, Kate had traveled on assignments across the United States, to Canada, Africa, Australia, the Caribbean and Europe. Being a reporter was in her DNA; it was who she was and how she’d made a life for herself. She was good at it. But the leaving part never got easier. In fact, it was getting harder and harder for her to take these trips. Kate was fortunate to have a friend like Nancy Clark, a retired nurse who lived alone on the floor above them. Nancy was like family, always ready and happy to look after Grace whenever she could. And now Kate had Vanessa.
I’m truly blessed to have them all in my life.
The jet leveled. Kate lowered her tray, switched on her laptop and reviewed her files. She began making notes on what she needed to do. One person she counted on for help was her friend Betty Yang. They’d worked together at the San Francisco Star before Betty had taken a job at the Chronicle, then moved to Kuwait, where she’d started a magazine for American expats living in the Gulf. Betty’s father had been a diplomat. She’d grown up in the region and had a network of connections. Kate had kept in touch with Betty, and had reached out to her for help on the crash of the Kuwaiti jet at Heathrow.
But so far, she’d heard nothing.
Somewhere over Nova Scotia, Kate grew drowsy and yawned. The only available seat Newslead had been able to secure was on this later, overnight flight, which was due to land the next morning at 8:00 a.m. local time in London. Most passengers slept through it, and before they’d lifted off, Kate had swallowed two sleeping pills to ensure she’d be rested when she arrived.
The pills were working.
She shut off her laptop, snuggled under her blanket, gazed at the stars and fell asleep.
* * *
Kate was shaken awake.
The plane bumped like a pickup truck crossing a farmer’s field. As wisps of memory assembled in her brain, a chime sounded.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. Our apologies for this rough patch—we’ve come upon some turbulence in our descent into Heathrow. Please remain in your seats with your belts secure, and we’ll endeavor to get around it. We should have you at the gate in thirty minutes’ time.”
Loud plastic creaking and crackling sounded from the overhead storage bins. The plane continued shaking and thudding. Some passengers gasped. Kate had no fear of flying but when she raised her window blind to the morning sun ba
thing the outskirts of London, she thought of the irony of her situation: a rough ride on a jetliner landing at the airport where one had crashed below—the very tragedy she was covering.
The turbulence ended some twenty minutes from landing and Kate watched the great city flow under her. As they began their approach for Heathrow’s northern runway, which had remained open, the passengers became silent, almost reverent.
Runway 27L, the southern runway, was dotted with emergency vehicles; their lights flashed, and tarps covered the pieces of the Starglide Blue Wing 250 where Shikra Airlines Flight 418 had crashed. The impact tracks at the runway’s threshold looked as if monstrous talons had clawed savagely into the earth to mark the tragedy.
Kate took a breath, let it out slowly and sat back in her seat as the 747 touched down to light applause for its soft, easy landing.
At Heathrow, a young British customs officer allowed Kate smooth entry into the country. She collected her bag and freshened up in a restroom. On her way to the transportation area, she passed a newsstand and the headlines of some of Britain’s major national papers. The Telegraph: “Death Toll Rises to 15. What Caused Heathrow Tragedy?” The Times: “Heathrow Toll Now at 15 Dead. Investigation Searches for Answers.” And the Daily Mail: “Why Did They Die? 15 Killed in Kuwait Air Disaster at Heathrow.”
The dire reports conveyed the magnitude of the story, and once Kate was in a taxi bound for downtown, she began working. She got on her phone, but was disappointed that she’d received no new messages of any significance.
Nothing yet from Betty.
A couple months ago, Kate had helped Betty on a big United Nations scandal involving a Kuwaiti diplomat by tracking him down and privately sharing information with her.
Come on, girl. I need your help, you owe me.
As London rolled by, her stomach knotted from the pressure she was under. She had to go beyond what was already known, to answer the most serious question.
Is the crash at Heathrow tied to the Buffalo flight and the threatening email?
The assignment was not easy.
How am I going to get inside the investigation?
Kate would need help and getting it would be a challenge. As was the case with foreign assignments, journalists at local bureaus were protective of their turf. While they may help, they considered intrusions by people like Kate, parachuted in from headquarters, an affront to their expertise and performance.
Kate sent out more messages, including one to Clive Dromey, a British security consultant and former airline pilot she’d met at a conference in Washington, DC. She’d been in touch with Dromey before she’d left New York. He’d responded to her with the promise that he had solid sources inside the investigation.
Contact me when you get to London, Kate. I’ll help you.
But Dromey still hadn’t gotten back to her. She began following up on other messages and calls she’d placed to other contacts before she’d departed New York.
It took a little under an hour to slice through London’s morning traffic and get to Newslead’s London bureau on Norwich Street.
It was situated in a granite building constructed on the site of a hat factory that had been destroyed by Nazi bombs during the Second World War. It was a short walk from Fleet Street, now the address of more financial, business and law offices than news organizations. But Bloomberg, the Associated Press and other foreign wire services were close to Newslead’s bureau, reminding Kate that the competition was always near and that the risk of losing the story increased as time ticked by.
Newslead’s fourth-floor office was classic newsroom décor, largely open with eight desks, each with a monitor and keyboard. It looked empty. Each station was in disarray, with files, newspapers and empty coffee and tea cups. Three large flat-screen TVs were anchored to the far wall and tuned to news channels.
The wall near the reception desk featured enlarged news photos of London during World War Two, royal weddings, Princess Diana’s funeral, Beatlemania, the London subway bombings and others.
The woman at reception was tapping her pen and talking on the phone. She halted her conversation when Kate stood before her.
“Yes, how may I assist you?”
“Kate Page from headquarters in New York. I’m here to see the bureau chief, Noah Heatley, or the deputy, Ethan Clancy.”
“Oh yes, just one moment, please.”
The woman left for a small office and Kate set her bags aside. A moment later a man in his forties, not very tall, average build, stepped forward and shook her hand.
“Noah Heatley. Welcome to London, Kate. Howard Kehoe and Chuck Laneer advised us that you were coming. I trust you had a good flight?”
“A bit of turbulence, but otherwise fine. Have there been any developments?”
“Not much I’m afraid, though we’re expecting official statements of condolences from the prime minister and from the State of Kuwait.”
Kate nodded. “Noah, I was told that you’d have a hotel room, cash and other things for me?”
“All arranged, but let me be clear, Kate. We didn’t request help, and we have things covered on all fronts. As you know, the Air Accidents Investigation Branch, Scotland Yard, the anti-terrorism branch, the International Civil Aviation Organization, the airline, and foreign investigators from Kuwait and the US are all extremely tight-lipped.”
“I know.”
“But most major UK national news outlets are based here in London, making this one of the most competitive cities for news on the planet, and everyone has their sources.”
“I’m aware.”
“Yet you’re here from New York. Chuck Laneer was not entirely clear what it is you’re going to do that we can’t.”
“I’m following a lead we have based on extremely confidential information.”
“Is this the so-called Zarathustra email you’d received?”
Kate hesitated and stared at Heatley.
“Yes, but headquarters had wanted this kept quiet.”
“Reeka Beck told me—let it slip on a call, actually,” Heatley said. “I have to say, that New York would attempt to keep us in the dark about information related to one of the biggest air tragedies in the world is confounding.”
“I’m sorry, Noah.”
“It makes no sense at all. If we’re unaware, we could miss key facts that relate to the story. I’m puzzled by management’s thinking. These internecine wars don’t help morale.”
“I know, but that’s how Graham Lincoln wanted it.”
“Graham Lincoln.” Heatley shook his head. “Most of Newslead’s executives have never been journalists, a fact I find troubling. I think our news agency is due for an overhaul, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, so be it. We’ll still help you in any way we can, Kate.”
“Thank you.”
Heatley searched the top of the reception desk, found an envelope with Kate’s name on it and passed it to her.
“My apologies. Your hotel is not as close to the bureau as we’d hoped, but they have us watching expenses.”
“Thank you.” Kate put the envelope into her bag.
“Call us if there’s anything we can do,” Heatley said. “Good luck.”
* * *
Kate caught a taxi at the street corner.
She was frustrated that no one had responded to her messages and continued making calls until her taxi reached her stop. The Regal Oakmont Inn was a townhome hotel, a four-level building attached to other four-level buildings that, together, resembled pretty wedding-cake layers where Penywern Road led to the gentle curves of Eardley Crescent.
Kate’s room was no bigger than a closet. It was on the third floor, overlooking the street. She turned on her laptop and sent out more messages. Then she sh
owered. Afterward, as she unpacked, her anxiety began to grow with her exhaustion, just as her phone chimed with a message. Her spirits rose. It was from Clive Dromey.
This could be the break I need.
Kate. Welcome to London. Hope your flight was uneventful. Unfortunately I must apologize. Everyone involved in the Heathrow crash is understandably silent. None of my people will talk to me. I’m so dreadfully sorry but I’m unable to help you.
Kate’s stomach tightened.
She refused to give up.
Again, she called the Air Accidents Investigation Branch, and this time she was put through to a recording at the press office. She called Scotland Yard and got through to the anti-terrorism branch, but they had nothing to share. She called Shikra Airlines and was read a statement she already had. She called the International Civil Aviation Organization to no avail.
Three hours had passed.
Exhaustion was taking hold and the trip began to smell like failure. Struggling to think of anything she’d overlooked, Kate drifted off. She didn’t know for how long she’d slept when her phone rang and she answered.
“Kate, it’s Betty in Kuwait City.”
“Oh my God! I’m so happy to hear your voice! Betty, can you help me?”
“I think so.”
Twenty-Four
London, England
The graceful curved-glass facade of the St. Rose’s Gate Hotel reflected the sky and a jetliner lifting off when Kate’s taxi stopped at the entrance.
St. Rose’s was among the new airport hotels clustered around Heathrow. The front driveway was hectic with shuttles, taxis and buses for travelers coming and going. Kate scanned the parking lot, relieved she didn’t see any news vehicles.
I need this to work. This is my only shot.
Betty had told her that engineers from Shikra Airlines and experts from Kuwait’s Aviation Safety Department, the ASD, who were part of the investigation into the crash, were staying at St. Rose’s. Betty, apologetic for taking so long to get back to Kate, had arranged for one of ASD’s investigators to meet Kate privately.
