Chapter 4
Outside Blacksburg, Virginia
As a weak autumn sun rose over the mountains, the recovery team combed through what was left of Flight 1667. It was only October, but a hard frost blanketed the ground.
The men and women who had started out as a rescue team late the night before were chilled through and exhausted. Once they had wheeled out the bright work lights and seen the crash site, they’d known there’d be no rescuing, and the adrenaline that had propelled them out of their warm beds had drained away.
Now—under the supervision of a cluster of glum and mostly silent TSA and NTSB officials—the volunteer firefighters, EMTs, and local police officers worked shoulder to shoulder, bagging and cataloguing charred body parts, twisted curls of metal, shards of cell phones and laptops, and scraps of rollerboard bags.
Marty Kowalski spotted a piece of polka dotted fabric and bent, knees cracking, to inspect it. It was roughly the size of a sheet of loose-leaf paper and had once been a cream color, dotted gaily with light pink, mocha brown, and soft blue circles. It looked somehow familiar, but Marty couldn’t put his finger on why.
Where had he seen fabric like this before? His tired brain searched his memory but came up empty. He turned the fabric over and it stuck; the backing was some kind of plastic that had partially melted into the ground. As Marty pulled it free, the plastic liner jarred something in his memory, and he realized he was looking at what remained of a diaper bag: a cheerful pastel pattern, lined with a protective plastic covering.
A mother had carefully counted out the diapers she’d need for the flight, adding a few extras just in case. Then, she’d folded in a case of wipes and a travel-size tube of soothing diaper cream, tossed in a soft toy or board book to keep the baby entertained on the plane, and probably shoved a well-worn blanket or stuffed animal on top.
Now, all that was left was this torn scrap of the bag, and mother and baby were scattered among the ashes blowing across the smoky field. Marty’s stomach seized. He hurried over to the tree line in case he was going to be sick.
Marty leaned over, bracing his stiff hands on his thighs, right above his knees. He heaved, but nothing came up, so he spat a few times and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. As he straightened up, he spotted bright metal glinting in the brush. He kicked the growth aside with a steel-toed boot and stared. A badly dented, stainless steel box roughly the size of his toolbox at home lay on its side. It had been painted bright orange. The words “FLIGHT DATA RECORDER DO NOT OPEN” were stenciled on in large black letters.
“Hey!” he shouted, “I found it—I found the black box.”
People started running toward his voice from all directions.
Irreparable Harm (A Legal Thriller) Page 5
