Final Approach

by John J. Nance

  Her sentence froze his stomach, confirming what he had already not wanted to admit: he was climbing around inside a primed firebomb.

  “There’re big puddles everywhere in here. It’s burning my skin and some got in my eyes. Please don’t light anything. We’re soaked.”

  The fireman carefully pulled his two-way radio from a coat pocket, taking pains not to strike metal against metal, wondering if he even dared hit the transmit button to call for help. This was going to be a dangerous race … and a nightmare.

  Joe Wallingford arrived at the FAA hangar on the north end of Washington National Airport at 2:45 A.M., only to find it dark, unoccupied, and locked, the FAA’s Gulfstreams unmanned inside and members of the NTSB Go Team standing around in confusion. Infuriated but controlled, Joe found a pay phone and dialed the FAA command post back in the city, knowing instinctively what had happened the second a sheepish and apologetic Wally came on the line.

  “Joe, I’m terribly sorry, but Caldwell said you can’t use either airplane. He wouldn’t tell me why.”

  “Thanks a hell of a lot for letting me know.”

  Joe half slammed the receiver back in its cradle as Andy Wallace, one of his investigators and a human-factors expert, approached the booth.

  “What’s wrong, Joe?”

  “We’re orphaned, that’s what. Damned duty officer assured me we’d get the Gulfstream for a three A.M. departure, and Bill Caldwell has refused the request. We’ve gotta go commercial.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Yeah. Wonderful start.” Joe shook his head in disgust, his mind already racing over plan B. “Let’s round up everyone. I’ll run over to the terminal and get us booked and ticketed on whatever’s first out to Kansas City. You get the bags all loaded into one vehicle, if someone has a pickup or camper?”

  “One of us does.”

  “Good. After I get the tickets, I’ll come back here and get you and we’ll go get the bags checked. Maybe you should send everyone to a restaurant to wait it out while you wait for me here. We can’t get out of here till six A.M. at the earliest.”

  “They’re gonna be thrilled.”

  “Aren’t we all.”

  Joe drove the half mile to the main terminal, working to control his temper. Caldwell had been uncooperative before, but this was too much. Yet Bill Caldwell was a powerful man. Any protesting Joe could do would have to be done carefully through NTSB Chairman Dean Farris, who was friendly with Caldwell. Not only would they be at least three hours late getting to Kansas City now, but the trip would also cost the NTSB budget several thousand dollars. The public just assumed the NTSB’s job was important enough to justify adequate funds and interagency governmental cooperation. The public would be shocked to know the truth, he muttered to himself.

  Joe flipped his NTSB badge at an airport police officer to explain the presence of his car at the curb and dashed inside, startled by the relative silence of the deserted terminal in the wee hours of morning—National by day was a familiar swarm of human activity and noise. The earliest flight to Kansas City was on North America at 6 A.M., and Joe booked the nine seats he needed in coach with the lone ticket agent on duty, using his own American Express card. By 5:30 A.M. the team had assembled in the departure lounge, boarding the empty Boeing 727 early with the help of a solicitous gate agent, the pilots coming back before departure to share worried assessments of the holocaust in Kansas City. The captain, a younger pilot in his late thirties, lingered until the last minute, pumping Joe for information he didn’t have, until his flight engineer found them. “Captain, is this gentleman the NTSB team leader?”

  “Yeah, he is.” The captain, looking puzzled, introduced Joe to his second officer.

  “I just got a call from our operations, and they wanted me to relay a message from the FAA command center to the Go Team leader. Uh …” The pilot consulted a hastily scribbled note in his hand. “Two items: a Rich Carloni will meet you on arrival in Kansas City, and six passengers have been found alive but trapped in the wreckage of the 737, and rescue efforts are underway. The message also said to relay to Joe … is that you?” Joe nodded. “Relay to Joe that Wally apologizes again.”

  “Thanks,” Joe said simply, offering no further explanation to the curious second officer, who obviously would have liked to hear one.

  “Mr. Wallingford, as an NTSB man, you’re welcome to ride on the flight deck in my jump seat if you’d like.”

  “Thanks, but not this morning. Too much to do.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind.” The captain turned to go, then stopped himself, leaning back over the seat in Joe’s direction. “You did know that the captain on the Airbus was our chief pilot, didn’t you?”

  Joe Wallingford was startled, as was Andy Wallace, who had overheard. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Dick Timson. Had to fly the trip yesterday because, just before departure, he suspended the captain who was scheduled to fly it out of Dallas to D.C. and Kansas City.”

  With that, the captain moved quickly up the aisle, dodging and greeting passengers before disappearing into the cockpit of the Boeing 727.

  The noise of footsteps on the wooden parquet tiles of the Kansas City terminal had been a constant din all night long. Now it was 5 A.M. central daylight time according to his watch, and once more the door to the room swung open.

  Mark felt strangely calm now, more aware of the plush surroundings each time another grim-faced airline representative entered or left the North America Club, trying to speak in hushed tones while escorting clergymen and physicians to the various collections of pitiful humans within.

  Mark Weiss had dealt with grief before, personally, clinically, and distantly. He was trained, but the training was worthless to him now. He longed for some form of unconsciousness, but had fought every attempt by well-meaning doctors to sedate him. He had let them bandage his cut hands, but no more. Crash or no crash, Kim’s father still hung near death in Dallas, other family members now insulating him against any word of the horror in Kansas City. Kim’s mother was stronger than Mark had expected, taking the news of her daughter’s and grandsons’ deaths in stride and staying at her husband’s bedside. Mark’s brother-in-law had relayed that report an hour ago. No one knew what to do. Should Mark fly to them, or vice versa? What kept yanking his mind around was the continuous thought that he must ask Kim, and the jolting realization of where she was, where he was, and what had happened. Like a computer caught in an endless loop, the nightmare continued.

  “Mr. Weiss?”

  Yet another sad-eyed man had knelt beside him, this one probably a minister. He didn’t want to be rude, but he didn’t want strangers around him right now. “I’m … okay. Please. Leave … leave me alone a while.”

  The man disappeared as quickly as he had come, dissolving somewhere in the crowd of grieving relatives and friends, some of them sobbing uncontrollably, others in various states of agitation and shock. It had been mass confusion for hours.

  Mark found himself memorizing the boardroomlike features of the club room, the polished chrome chair rails and oak tables, the soft colors and fabrics, a leather-covered couch and silent television in one corner, and the galaxy of small ceiling spotlights someone had turned down to their lowest setting.

  Through the numbness and the mental pain that kept ricocheting back and forth in his head like lightning strikes through a black night, Mark remembered the captain of Kim’s flight … the big fellow he had talked to in the cockpit and who had approached him in tears on the bloody taxiway. They were all victims. But of what? He would have to know. He couldn’t accept this. He had to know.

  It was 6:12 A.M. eastern standard time and still dark when the Washington Monument passed Joe’s window on the right-hand side of the Boeing 727 as they lifted off to the north from Washington National. He glanced down at the infamous Fourteenth Street Bridge as the powerful engines boosted them safely over the structure, remembering with excessive clarity the snowy day in 1982 when a brightly
colored Boeing 737 belonging to a now-defunct carrier called Air Florida had limped off the same runway with only 75 percent power and ice on its wings—a flight that ended on impact with the Fourteenth Street Bridge. That had been a brutal accident to investigate in many ways.

  The thought jolted him back to reality and what lay ahead. The bridge was behind them now. On any normal takeoff it disappeared hundreds of feet below within seconds, as it had with this takeoff, and as soon as they achieved a safe altitude, Joe resolved to turn his fatigued mind to organizing their actions on arrival in Kansas City. The problems they’d encountered getting out of D.C.—an aggravation he didn’t need—were merely a distraction from the main event. The world in Kansas City was effectively in flames, and that was a reality with which they would have to deal instantly on arrival.

  One member of the Go Team had been glued to a pocket radio. There was, he reported, an allegation of sabotage floating around, and apparently the job of removing the people trapped in the 737 was developing into a major problem. Memories of the 1987 Continental crash in Denver and half-frozen survivors hanging upside down for hours awaiting rescue crossed Joe’s mind. Those images and others began to blend into a fuzz as the sound of the slipstream of high-speed air on the other side of the 727’s metal skin set up a lulling white noise, a mental anesthetic, blotting out consciousness.

  Joe opened his eyes suddenly and realized with disgust that he had fallen asleep, his watch confirming the passage of forty-five minutes, a vague memory of a voice calling his name.

  “Joe, are you awake?”

  The confusing sight of a beautiful female face framed by a soft cascade of auburn hair loomed before him, an alluring image of softness with a concerned look, and for a few seconds he failed to recognize Dr. Susan Kelly, the newest member of the NTSB, who had come aboard at the last minute.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Susan Kelly, remember?”

  “Oh, lord. Sorry, Doctor.” Joe lurched forward in the aisle seat, formulating apologies for losing control and falling asleep.

  Joe had seen her take a seat in first class and figured she had booked the flight by herself, paying for the extra luxury. Not even Board members could get reimbursement for the extra first-class fare.

  “When you get a few minutes, I want to compare notes. I’ll come back in a little while.” She smiled thinly and stood up, her neatly pressed skirt brushing his arm as she turned and headed back to the forward cabin, followed by Joe’s eyes, absently appreciating how attractive and well proportioned she was.

  And untouchable. She was a Board member; Joe was staff.

  He got to his feet and headed back to the rear lavatories, determined to resurrect himself. It was embarrassing to be caught napping, literally and figuratively, by one of the members, though he was glad she wanted to talk. He had been curious about her ever since the appointment was announced, though technically oriented nuts-and-bolts investigators like Joe were supposed to be unimpressed with anyone from squishy scientific areas such as psychology.

  In many respects, Dr. Kelly’s appointment was a lucky break for the staffers—a highly qualified aviation psychologist with a reservoir of respect among the airlines themselves and a foundation of political support which made her dangerous to cross, even for Chairman Farris. To Joe, she had seemed excessively standoffish in their few meetings around the Board offices, and her first-class ticket and patrician demeanor did nothing to dilute the image. In any event, he thought, it was a relief to have anyone along other than Farris.

  Joe dried off his face, combed his hair again, and straightened his tie before leaving the lavatory, making his way forward through the cabin as the flight attendants struggled to serve a plastic breakfast.

  He pulled out a notebook and tried to organize his thoughts while wolfing down the food, finishing just as Dr. Kelly returned to the cabin, taking an empty aisle seat across from him.

  “Do you have any more details?”

  A flight attendant passed between them, interrupting his response.

  “All we have, Doctor—”

  “Susan, please,” she said, smiling slightly. An assessment of what was and was not proper flashed through his fatigued cerebral cortex, balancing the risks of accepting her invitation to call her by her first name. What the hell, he concluded.

  “Okay, Susan. All we know is that the Airbus 320 was making a turning final approach, and for some reason he lost altitude prematurely and slammed into a 737 waiting for takeoff at the end of the runway. We have over a hundred fatalities, but some survivors, including, possibly, some of the crew members, and there are reports of some passengers still trapped in the wreckage. The captain of the Airbus, I’m told, was the chief pilot of this airline, and he apparently reported windshear on his first attempt to land, broke off the approach, and was coming back to try it again.”

  She nodded. “This is my first field investigation, as you probably know. I’m going to have a lot of questions.”

  They discussed what lay ahead, and what each of them would be doing on arrival. There were five NTSB members, and one of them almost always accompanied the Go Team to the crash site. It was true that the investigator-in-charge (who was always a professional staff member, not a Board member) was fully in charge of everything the NTSB team did in the field, and it was also true that even Board members were supposed to take orders from the IIC during such trips. But a Board member was still a presidentially appointed, 2,000-pound gorilla compared to a professional staffer. Although, Joe mused, that was a terrible simile in Susan’s case. With clear blue, wide-set eyes and a disarmingly direct gaze, a cultured and soothing voice, and a professional and businesslike manner, she was really quite attractive. Fewer than thirty-five of her forty-six years could be read in the slight crinkles around her eyes. At the office she wore her hair back, favoring understated glasses and conservative outfits, all of which failed to defuse what had struck Joe as an incongruous smoldering femininity just below the surface. Brenda, his ex-wife, had been like that. She could undo her hair, take off her glasses, and transform herself like a butterfly from the very image of a cool businesswoman into a very sexy lady. It always fascinated him how women could do that. Men, by contrast, were always the same old shoe, whether stuffed into overalls or a tuxedo.

  4

  Saturday morning, October 13

  “Yes sir, I’m quite sure. No one by the name of Cynthia Collins has been admitted. I have the entire list right here.” It had been a long shot, and it was the last hospital. Kell Martinson thanked her and broke the connection, looking up at last from the open phone booth in the darkened highway rest area where he had been standing for the better part of an hour—his cellular car phone out of range and useless so far from an urban area. A radio newscast had mentioned survivors from both airliners, and suddenly he had felt hope, but now it was gone. If Cindy wasn’t in a hospital, she wasn’t alive. He had been right all along.

  Senator Martinson reentered the interstate with a growing knot of guilt in his stomach. He had run like a coward, and it was tearing him apart.

  It was nearly two hours before he negotiated the cloverleaf ramp at the interchange of 1-70 and 1-135 near Salina, heading south and then west in pitch blackness over the familiar country roads which led to the farm. Finally his headlights illuminated the arched entryway his grandfather had built so many years ago, the half mile to the house littered with leaves and grass and puddles of wind-whipped water which told a tale of the thunderstorms that had passed within the previous hour.

  It was good to see the house again. For all his eight years in Washington the farm had remained his home, though he could spend less than two months a year there. Their long-time family friends on the farm next door, the Carmichaels, had become his housekeepers and caretakers in his absence, keeping the farm perpetually ready for him. The grand old two-story structure loomed in front of him now, the solitary porch light spilling over the veranda.

  He switched off the engine and
got out, stepping into a different world of crisp rural silence. The stars were showing to the west and the north, the storm front having moved on to the east. A formation of cumulus clouds, backlighted by the moon, was soaring across the sky. He could hear the windmill in the distance churning the darkness, caught in the teeth of the same stiff breeze that had been his boyhood companion in this place. The wind seemed mournful, now, though—reminiscent of the sad night in 1983 when his mother had passed away in a Salina hospital, a year after his father’s fatal heart attack. He had returned to the house alone that night in the wee hours, feeling her loss very deeply. There had been thunderstorms then, too, booming and rumbling away in the background as he sat until dawn in her old rocking chair near the front window, listening to her laughter echo through his mind, and feeling secure in the warmth of his memory of her. It was all still there—she was still there—but just out of reach. Like an electric light whose switch you can’t quite locate in the dark.

  He took a deep breath at last and climbed the front steps, turned the key, and snapped on the living room light, noticing the blinking message indicator on the answering machine by the telephone as he headed to the back room to crank up the central heat. Only a few local people and his staff had the number, but tonight the messages could wait.

  Kell’s great-grandfather had been a successful St. Louis merchant, a self-made man who had followed the railroads west a decade after the Civil War, following the well-worn Oregon Trail from St. Joseph, Missouri, with high hopes of reaching Oregon, but settling instead on the dusty great plains near Salina. His son—Kell’s grandfather—had also stayed, building this house in 1905 at the age of twenty-three, all of it by his own talented hands. The house had risen from the flat Kansas prairie like a small palace, a two-story, Victorian-style home with a curved stairway, a gabled and turreted roofline, some gingerbread trim under the eaves, and a sparkling coat of white paint, which had been maintained by the family even during the dust bowl-days of the depression. The interior had been renovated numerous times in the decades since, and the old house and the surrounding land were thoroughly up-to-date now, with a satellite dish antenna in the back and an added metal chimney showing through the roof (the result of adding a small freestanding fireplace to the upstairs study). Yet the image of the Martinson homestead was still that of a grand old turn-of-the-century rural mansion, with its history firmly rooted in the early days of central Kansas and the Martinson clan.