“Okay. You’ve got me very curious.”
He looked around carefully and checked the rearview mirrors before continuing.
“You are concerned, aren’t you?” April asked, immediately chiding herself for needling him, then feeling a flash of unfocused apprehension herself.
“I have a lot at stake,” he replied. “Okay, this is what I can tell you. I’ve seen the raw radar data from the air traffic control radar station nearest to where your father went down. I have a copy of it on a CD, but it’s only for you to see, because you can’t use it in court or even admit you have it. If you can obtain the same thing directly from them, you’ll see that your father’s aircraft crossed the path of a jet Monday night just before his aircraft disappeared from radar and crashed. The jet aircraft can be seen clearly continuing on. He doesn’t.”
“Does the tape show the altitudes as well?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. But I know for a fact that the jet was at precisely fifty feet above the water until just before its course change, and then he began climbing.”
“My dad was flying under a hundred feet.”
“I thought so.”
“What was a jet doing that low?”
“It’s … a long story, and one I absolutely cannot tell you.”
“Was this a private aircraft?”
“Uh, yes and no. It’s … a civilian aircraft, but it’s involved in some, ah, government research.”
“It’s a modified business jet, right?”
She could see the color draining from his face. “What?”
“It has a T-tail, like a Beachjet, or a Gulfstream?”
“How … I mean … maybe.”
“But I’m not supposed to know that?”
He nodded. “Look, what’s been keeping me awake at night is your father’s plight. I read the newspaper story. I know your dad said he didn’t know why his propeller broke, but that the accident stemmed from that. And I know the FAA is trying to hang him and is discounting his version.”
“They sure are. Among other things, they’re saying he was reckless and just flew it into the water, which is absurd.”
“That’s why I called. That’s why I had to call. The story I read indicated that they didn’t believe the propeller broke. But, even though I can’t prove it did, I can tell you a midair collision is a real possibility because there absolutely was another aircraft right there that night.”
April shook her head and sighed. “I went to the FAA two days later, and they told me the tapes would show nothing because their radar wouldn’t be able to see an aircraft that low. So I didn’t push.”
“Not being a pilot or a controller, Miss Rosen, I don’t know whether that was a lie or an uninformed statement.”
“April.”
“Okay, April. Frankly, the FAA may not even know what they have.”
“Tell me how you got to look at this information.”
A trapped look clouded his face and he turned away.
“Are you protecting the FAA?” April challenged.
“No.”
“Then who?”
“Me, primarily, since I can be … arrested if I say too much.”
“Arrested? How could anyone arrest you?”
“Well … when your company works for the military, there are certain projects that require a higher level of secrecy.”
“So, it’s your company or whatever government agency they’re working for that’s hiding this computer record?”
“No, no, no. They’re not hiding it. They don’t even have possession of it. It’s just that the computer record I looked at and copied for you is still in the FAA facility. I had a friend show me how to electronically sneak in the back door of their computer and get the file so I could look at it. Not change or damage it, but just … just view it, right from the database.”
“And that’s illegal, even though it’s public record?”
“Probably.”
She looked away and nibbled her lower lip for a moment. “All right, so what you’ve seen tends to establish that the planes crossed, number one, and number two, you know the jet was at my dad’s altitude, as bizarre as that seems.”
“I know that for a fact.”
“At first, we thought he might have clipped the antennas of a passing ship,” April said. “Now, I’m not so sure.”
“Hitting a ship is possible, I suppose, but if the radar target on that computer record was your dad’s plane, the most likely scenario is that he clipped the jet.”
“That could certainly break a propeller blade.”
“I would think so.”
April turned sideways in the seat to look him in the eye. “I don’t understand something, though, Ben. You say there was no data block or altitude information, and yet you know for a fact that the jet was fifty feet above the water. How?”
“I can’t—”
“Yes you can! You’ve come this far, you’ve told me this much, and I need to know. My father’s coming apart with worry down there in Washington state.”
“Look, April, please listen. My purpose was to give you and your dad the best lead I could. You have to take it from here. I can’t stand to see someone railroaded, but I’m also in serious jeopardy here if I say much more.”
“But how can I use what you’ve told me?”
“Now you know what information you need to get from them. Maybe you need a lawyer.”
“We have one, and we’re filing actions. Can you come testify if we sue the FAA?”
“Good grief, no!”
“What if we sue your company? What was the name?”
“Uniwave. They’d deny everything, and the FAA would back them up.”
“Why?”
“Well …”
“It’s some sort of secret government test, isn’t it?”
“I can’t tell you! I’ve said all I can, and … I’m beginning to think this was a dumb Boy Scout mistake.”
She reached out and touched his arm. “Okay, look. I’m sorry. I appreciate what you’ve done, and we’re not going to get you in trouble. I promise you that. I’m just very frustrated.”
“I can completely understand.”
“But, Ben … I should tell you something as well. I should tell you why I know it was a Beechjet.”
“Gulfstream,” Ben said flatly.
“Okay. A Gulfstream.”
“How can you know about the aircraft? I mean, I know it takes off in the clear from Elmendorf, but where it goes is not supposed to be public knowledge.”
She watched him in silence for a few seconds as the tumblers fell into place. She inhaled sharply. “You were aboard Monday night, weren’t you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“No, Ben, you heard me. That’s how you know the airplane was at exactly fifty feet, because you were there, right?”
He licked his lips and looked down in thought, taking a ragged breath before meeting her eyes again and nodding. “You’re spooky, lady. You know that? I’ve got a friend here who’s just about as frightening with his insights.”
“Oh?”
“Native Alaskan.” His right hand went out, palm up. “Okay, yes. I was aboard. But don’t ask! Do not ask me what I was doing on board that airplane, except my job.”
“All right. What’s important to me is that you know what you’re talking about when you say the jet was at fifty feet. Did you hear a collision?”
“Absolutely not,” he said. “I heard nothing. That does not mean we didn’t hit the prop, but I just didn’t hear anything or feel anything. In fact …”
“Sorry?”
He waved it away. “No, I can’t get into that.”
“I understand that I can’t ask what you were doing, but I do happen to know it’s some sort of low-altitude, high-speed test, and a secret government, or military, test of some sort.”
“Well, you can speculate.”
“Yes, I can. For instance, were you aboard last night’s flight,
too?”
She could see his eyes flare again in surprise as he started to speak, then closed his mouth and studied her.
“How do I know that, right?” April asked.
Ben nodded.
“Because that same Gulfstream almost collided with the airplane I was in last night at about two thousand feet out over the water when it came screaming out of the restricted area.”
“I had no idea there was a near miss.”
“There was. But what I want to know is, why are they covering this up? Is the FAA responsible for keeping all this secret? Is this somehow a vendetta to get my dad, or was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
Ben shifted around in the seat to see her better. “The latter, as far as I know. April, secret flights that officially don’t exist cannot be allowed to surface publicly. Therefore, if there really was an interaction between a civilian aircraft and a secret flight, the incident itself has to be officially nonexistent. I think that’s what you’re up against.”
April started to tell him about the missing wreckage, but decided to hold back for no reason she could discern.
Ben dropped her at Anchorage International’s terminal a few minutes later, bidding her goodbye with a short list of phone numbers she could use to reach him.
“You can call me anytime, but please don’t expect anything more than I’ve already told you,” he said.
April thanked him and melded into the crowd as she pulled out her cell phone and called Gracie, catching her on the way to the judge’s house.
“So, this guy was aboard the plane Monday night?” Gracie asked.
“Yes,” April replied, repeating what Cole had revealed. “But he was trying to point us to the telltale radar information. The copy he gave me is unusable as evidence.”
“Damn. April, I’m still having a lot of trouble with this. We needed a picture of a broken prop, but when you got the shots, the Coast Guard took the tape. Then you found the wreck itself, but now they’ve snatched it away, taking our best evidence with them. You said we can’t use this guy as a witness?”
“No, we’ll kill him professionally if we try.”
“Okay, but we know the FAA is withholding evidence, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then that becomes the focus, and maybe a trade. They can keep their damn little secrets if they let the captain off the hook.”
FORTY ONE
SATURDAY, DAY 6 SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
The drive from downtown Seattle to the well-heeled neighborhoods of Mercer Island took less than fifteen minutes, and Gracie found the judge’s waterfront home with ease. She left her Corvette in the upper driveway of the multistoried home, momentarily concerned what the judge might think.
There were few windows on the rear of the home, however, and his wife answered the door, showing her into a den with a sweeping view of Lake Washington.
“This is beautiful!” Gracie exclaimed, taking in the buildings of downtown Seattle rising above the ridge in the distance across the deep blue of the lake.
“Are you a native Washingtonian, dear?” Mrs. Chasen asked.
Gracie turned and smiled at her as a cascade of cautions clicked into place.
“I was born in Idaho, but … I’ve lived here all my life.”
“I believe we knew an O’Brien family in Bellevue with a parcel of beautiful daughters like you. Would that be your family?”
“No, afraid not. But thank you for the compliment.” She left it at that, as she usually did. There was no one who really needed to hear of the ravages an alcoholic mother could visit on the concept of family.
“Counselor?” a masculine voice asked from behind her, and she turned to find the second most senior federal district judge in Seattle standing with his hand outstretched. She smiled and took it.
“Your Honor. Again, I apologize for the intrusion.”
“It does go with the job at times. Would you care to come into the dining room, where we can spread out the papers if necessary?”
She followed him in, expecting pleasantries in the wake of his wife’s hospitality, but the judge sat down heavily at the head of the table and nodded to her.
“I’ve reviewed the brief from yesterday’s filing. Why are we here today?”
“Your Honor, I offer the court two additional petitions. The first is a petition for a new temporary restraining order that combines an order to show cause and an order for production. The defendant is, in a broad stroke, the United States government, due to our inability to discover at this point which agency of the government—military or civil—has committed the act complained of, which specifically is the unauthorized tortious interference with the non-abandoned wreckage of Grumman Albatross November Thirty-four Delta Delta.” She narrated the inability of the owner to find anything but a debris field where the wreckage had been forty-eight hours before. “We are seeking your order to force whichever agency has removed that wreckage to first and foremost safeguard it, to report to the court its location, and to make it available for our inspection and removal to the plaintiff’s physical possession and control. We also petition the court for a show-cause hearing why the applicable agency should not be held in contempt for having removed the wreckage despite your order of Friday.”
“That order, Ms. O’Brien, was against the Coast Guard.”
“Yes sir, but I had also expanded the caption to include the entirety of the United States government.”
He nodded. “Very well. I missed that.”
“Your Honor, the problem here is that some agency of the government is attempting to cover up what may be perfectly legitimate military or civilian governmental tests of certain aircraft in the area, and they have apparently decided that the wreckage of my client’s aircraft may somehow lead to exposure of whatever they’re doing. In their pursuit of secrecy, they are causing great harm to the career, the reputation, the financial health, and the mental health of Captain Rosen, and if their actions have not already damaged or destroyed physical evidence that would vindicate him of the career-ending FAA charges against him, the actions they are about to take almost surely will. Specifically, I’m referring to the broken propeller and evidence that Captain Rosen had a monstrous mechanical problem that caused the crash, rather than the crash resulting from negligent operation. This is why I’m also filing a complaint against the FAA—”
“Hold it, Ms. O’Brien. Don’t hand that to me yet.”
“Sir?”
“I’ll accept the first filing, and I’ll issue the restraining order just as you’ve drawn it. But I don’t think you want to file against the FAA here in Seattle.”
The rarity of dealing with a federal judge without an opposing lawyer present was strange enough, but to get legal advice from such a man was all but scary. Gracie felt herself wobble off-center, as though a spinning gyro had suddenly become unbalanced. She fought herself back to center and cocked her head.
“Your Honor, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. This action necessitates a TRO as well against the FAA for essentially collusive activity with other federal agencies in attempting to suppress, secrete, or destroy exculpatory evidence that would clear Captain Rosen immediately, thus preventing massive continuing harm.”
“Oh, I expected you were going to do that.”
“Yes, sir—”
“But who in the FAA are you planning to serve these papers on, if I accept them?”
“Well, the FAA has a large presence here, sir, especially in Renton.”
He nodded. “I know. The Northwestern Mountain Region.” He sighed. “Let me suggest to you that a better forum would be Washington, D.C. All the major players are there, including the FAA administrator. Chasing the proper officials all over the local region can lead to heartfelt pleas to the court from government attorneys for schedule relief and reset hearings and other delays your client obviously does not need.”
“So … I should, perhaps, go to a federal district court for the District of Colu
mbia?”
“Doesn’t that sound more reasonable? You’ve got the basic TRO, show-cause, and order for protection and production. I’ll sign those, postpone the show-cause hearing set for Monday, and stand by to transfer it all to D.C. Now, I will accept your suit against the FAA if you insist, but if you elect to file that in D.C. and request consolidation with a D.C. court, the cases could be transferred immediately.”
“Yes, sir. I see what you mean. I had not considered that. Okay, I’ll hang onto the FAA action.”
The judge began signing the various orders Gracie had prepared, checking the verbiage as he went and separating the small pile. She took back the pleadings against the FAA as he handed over the signed copies. “These will be stamped with the case number Monday morning,” he said, getting to his feet and nodding toward the door. She thanked him and took her leave, slipping behind the wheel of her Corvette in a minor daze, the logistics of moving the fight to the nation’s capital running roughshod over the need to reexamine the best way to proceed.
I really need to get Ted Greene on the phone!
Her irritation had built to the threshold of anger that the Beltway lawyer who was supposed to be so helpful had failed to return her calls for two days.
She reached in her purse for her PDA and found Ted Greene’s home number in Alexandria, Virginia. She’d given up leaving messages on his beeper and voice mails on his office phone. Maybe, she thought, she’d catch him at home on a weekend.
Gracie entered the number but held off punching the send button, remembering she was still in the judge’s driveway. She backed out and maneuvered a half block down the street before pulling to the side.
Greene answered on the third ring.
“Ted? Gracie O’Brien. Thank heavens.”
“Yes.”
“In Seattle? Remember, the Rosen case?”
“Yes, Ms. O’Brien. What can I do for you so … late on a Saturday evening?”
She caught the unfriendly edge in his voice and glanced at her watch, realizing it was past nine P.M. in Alexandria and she hadn’t considered the time zones.
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