The Savannah Project (Jake Pendleton series)

by Chuck Barrett

  A red-tailed hawk flew down from his nest across the creek, swooping toward the water in search of food. The hawk screeched, protesting the man’s presence, and then soared upward on a wind current and back into the trees.

  He couldn’t see her, but he knew Beth was swinging in the rope hammock on the porch of the log cabin he’d built high above the creek. That’s where he’d left her when he started down the serpentine walkway from the cabin to the creek.

  Thirty-three years old and a former Naval Intelligence Officer, Jake worked as an accident investigator at the Atlanta Field Office of the National Transportation Safety Board. Raised in the small Georgia town of Newnan, Jake had lived his life, and certainly his career, overshadowed by his father’s legacy.

  Jake knew his coworkers at the Atlanta NTSB respected his intelligence. After all, he did graduate number one in his class at the United States Naval Academy with a bachelor of science in aerospace engineering and a minor in political science. But he also carried the stigma that his father, a former NTSB chairman, not only had secured him the job with the NTSB but also was instrumental in his placement at the Atlanta Field Office. It was a stigma Jake desperately wanted to destroy. No matter how good he was at his job, he wondered if he would ever be seen as anything besides “JP’s boy.”

  He waded fifteen feet from the creek bank and cast a gold bead head pheasant tail fly toward some rocks to entice the elusive rainbow trout. His Sage fly rod and Tibor reel gleamed as he cast upstream past some rocks along the far shoreline. As the fly floated past him, he mended his line to ensure a clean presentation. Then, with repeated strips—slow ten-inch pulls of the line—he began retrieving the fly.

  On the fourth strip, the water roiled when the trout swallowed the fly. He raised the rod tip to set the hook and the trout broke the surface of the water, trying to free itself from the hook. It was the big one, the one he’d been chasing for days.

  His pager vibrated. He ignored it as he kept working the fish. The trout was only ten feet from him when it made another run for the rocks, but not before Jake caught a glimpse of the size of this fish, an easy four pounder.

  The pager vibrated again. He glanced down and saw the number. It was Patrick McGill, his boss, manager of the Atlanta Field Office and a good friend. The pager was only used for official NTSB business. Any personal contact was always done via cell phone.

  ”I’m on vacation,” Jake grumbled. “What the hell does he want?” He ignored the pager.

  He worked the trout closer to him—almost within netting distance. He patted his chest pocket, an unconscious reflex, ensuring his camera was in his pocket. This was a picture he had to have. Proof of his conquest. Lifting the rod high with his right hand, he reached behind his back for his net. As he brought the net around, the trout made a leap into the air, thrashed in the water, spitting the fly free from its mouth.

  As if taunting him, the fish rolled away and slapped the surface of the water with its tail before disappearing out of sight beneath a rock. Jake stood still, staring at the water in disbelief. Robbed of his trophy trout. “Son of a bitch.”

  He waded backwards toward shore, searching for any sign the trout had returned. After putting down his rod, he fumbled in his bag for his cell phone, never taking his eyes off the creek.

  He pressed #3, speed dial for McGill, then pressed dial. The phone rang only once.

  “Pat, it’s Jake.”

  “Jake, hey buddy. I really hate to bother you while you’re on vacation, but there’s been an accident in Savannah and I really need you on this one”

  “Savannah? What kind of accident?”

  “A Challenger 604,” McGill said. “Carrying an Irish high-profile who was supposed to speak and marshal the parade. It crashed while shooting an approach. The weather on the Eastern seaboard has closed most of the airports so the Go Team in DC can’t get out for a few days, if at all. Our office is the Go Team, and the Director named me as IIC.”

  “Well, Mr. Investigator in Charge, what’s the plan?”

  “The plan is,” McGill said, “for you to get your butt down here as fast as you can so we can get mobile.”

  “Pat, it’ll take me a good two hours to get there,” Jake said. “I’ve got to secure the cabin, pack a bag, and drop Beth off at her apartment. You should get on the road. I’ll be a good hour behind you to Savannah. There’s no way in hell you can wait on me and meet your two hour response time.”

  “No, I need you with us on the ride down, so we’ll just wait for you.” McGill said.

  “Okay, but I can’t make any promises on the time.”

  “Don’t worry about the time, we’re only going to get in an initial walk-through today because of weather and tides, then kick it off full bore tomorrow morning.”

  “Weather and tides? What do you mean, tides?” Jake asked. “Where did it crash?”

  “In a tidal marsh,” Pat said. “But I’m told it’s easily accessible. You might want to bring those fishing waders you’re no doubt wearing right now. You know, just in case.”

  “Pat, I still think you should just go on to Savannah without me. You can just brief me when I get there.”

  “Jake, you’re not listening. The time doesn’t matter, just get here ASAP.”

  “Fine, I’m on my way.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Jake stored his fishing equipment in his bag and started up the incline to his cabin.

  He wondered about the crash. A Challenger 604. He’d never before worked an accident involving a Challenger. He’d investigated several business jet accidents, a couple of Learjets and Falcons, a Westwind, and a lot of business class turboprop accidents, but no Challengers yet. And this Challenger crashed in the marsh—a tidal marsh. That should be interesting.

  He recalled some accident sites in the woods, along river banks, one actually in a river. Two small single engine piston powered aircraft, a Cessna and an experimental in the Okefenokee Swamp and countless numbers in open fields and hillsides.

  As he approached his cabin, he thought about how disappointed Beth would be about canceling their plans. Hiking Amicalola Falls, walking around Dahlonega’s town square, and her shopping trip to the outlet stores in Dawsonville would all have to wait again. How will he explain that his job has cancelled another one of their trips?

  Jake walked to the side entrance of the cabin and onto the screened porch. He removed his boots and waders, then hung the waders on a rack to dry.

  Beth was not where he’d left her, reading in the hammock. She’d been barefoot, wearing blue denim jeans, rolled up to mid-calf. She was wearing his long-sleeved cotton flannel shirt, the red and black plaid one, unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up, and the shirt tail pulled up and tied into a knot at her navel. He smiled when he remembered her parting shot as he left with his fishing gear.

  As he was walking away she said, “You know I’m not wearing any underwear.”

  He turned to see her with shirt pulled open and her breasts exposed. “Tease.”

  He hurried upstairs to the master bedroom looking for her. No Beth. He grabbed his traveling toiletries and shoved them into his suitcase. He packed several changes of clothes, then hauled his suitcase downstairs and placed it by the door. He checked the guest room. No Beth.

  Damn, where is she. I got to move it.

  Jake hauled his bags outside to the driveway and placed his suitcase in the trunk. “Beth? Beth, are you out here?”

  Where the hell is she?

  He reset the thermostats and made sure the windows were latched.

  “Dammit Beth, where the hell are you? I’ve been called in.”

  Then he knew. A smile crept across his face as he headed for the back porch.

  She was naked in the hot tub on the back porch with the jets whirling the steamy water around her body. Her clothes piled in a chair next to the tub. She was stretched in the corner of the tub, her tanned arms resting on the edge. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair was pinned up. Her brown eyes turn
ed a sparkling hazel in the sunlight. He looked at her scarlet nail polish and knew her sexy toes were painted to match.

  Catherine Elizabeth McAllister didn’t fit the traditional mold of a Southern belle, despite coming from a family with extremely conservative values. She worked at her father’s bank in Newnan, a mundane nine-to-five job, but it paid the bills and offered her plenty of time off, an extra benefit of being the owner’s daughter. Jake knew Beth’s father still thought of her as Daddy’s little girl, something he saw her exploit every chance she got.

  “Babe, I’ve got some bad news,” he said. He squatted down next to her and ran his fingers along her wet shoulder. “I’ve been called back to work and have to go to Savannah to investigate an accident.”

  “Old news, Jake. Pat called me when you didn’t answer the page. He apologized for ruining our vacation, again. This is becoming a pattern, Jake. We hardly get away and you get called back to work.”

  “I know you’re upset, but I promise to make it up to you.”

  “Upset? You have no freaking idea how upset I am. Do you realize the wedding is in less than three months and I still don’t have a dress? I’ve got so much to do to get ready.”

  He smiled. “I know. I’m sorry, but right now you need to get packed, so we can get on the road.”

  A teasing glint in her eyes caught his attention. She raised her toes out of the water, tempting his foot fetish.

  Beth had the advantage and he knew she was about to exploit it.

  “I’m already packed, bag’s in the car and ready to go, but first we have to have one last dip in the hot tub, so you better move it and get your ass in here!” She raised her body just enough to let her breasts break the surface of the water.

  He tried to stay focused. “Hey, that’s not fair. I need to get on the road. Quit fooling around. This is important. I don’t have time.”

  “Jake, you owe me this one. I’m not going anywhere until you join me.”

  “Dammit, Beth. It’ll have to wait, I have go. We have to go, now get dressed”

  She slowly stood up. Steaming water droplets raced down her smooth skin. She turned her backside to him, teasingly bent over and shook her tight round ass at him. “You see something you like, big boy?”

  He grabbed his shirt and ripped it off. As he tossed his clothes on the deck, he said, “All right, you win. I lost my fish this morning and it waved its tail at me in mockery, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let this tail get away.”

  Laughing, she turned around just in time to see him jump into the tub with his socks still on.

  He pulled her naked body against his. “Pat is going to be pissed.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Four men sat in the conference room at the Savannah air traffic control facility, listening to a tape recording. It was the recording of the actual transmissions during the time frame when the aircraft accident occurred. Kaplan was saddened by the accident. He figured whatever happened to cause the accident probably happened inside the aircraft.

  He’d been involved in two other accidents in his career as an air traffic controller, but this was his first involving a fatality. Kaplan felt sure he did everything by the book and would not be held liable in the accident. But the NTSB has been known to make issues out of procedures and working habits that controllers take for granted as safe operating practices.

  The first accident for Kaplan occurred when a Piper Cherokee he was working ran out of gas. The pilot landed in a nearby field and tore up his airplane, but he walked away with only minor injuries. His second involvement was as a tower cab controller—local controller—when a pilot of a light twin-engine aircraft landed gear up. The only injury in that accident was the pilot’s pride.

  The other men at the table were the Air Traffic Manager of the Savannah facility and the front line manager on duty at the time of the accident, and Kaplan’s good friend, David Cook, the facility representative for the National Air Traffic Controllers Association (NATCA), the air traffic controllers union at the Savannah facility.

  Kaplan trained Cook when he was hired fifteen years earlier, the best trainee Kaplan had ever had. They were both ex-military with similar exercise regimens and Kaplan quickly formed a lasting friendship with the forty-five year old Cook.

  They sat on one side of the table while the air traffic manager and supervisor sat across from them in classic labor-versusmanagement style.

  Cook and the supervisor took notes as the recording blared through the speaker.

  Cook glanced at Kaplan, “You’ve been through this before, it’s all standard protocol for accident investigations. Besides we want to listen to the recording before you write your official statement. Sometimes you hear things that you may not have remembered without listening.”

  “Thanks Cookie,” a nickname affectionately given to Cook by his fellow controller. “I thought I did everything by the book—so far it sounds good.”

  Cook twirled his pen. “Gregg, everything I’ve heard so far is by the book. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  At the end of the tape, the air traffic manager said to Kaplan, “I didn’t hear you read any of the weather strips. You know, the NTSB is going to bust our asses on that one.”

  “None were given to me so I never saw any,” replied Kaplan. “I did read the local weather shortly after he checked on.”

  The manager rapped his fingers on the table, turned to Cook and said, “Cookie, the Region informed me this is a covered event for drug and alcohol testing, so Gregg will be required to remain here until they show up and administer the tests. They should be here in an hour or so.”

  Cook gave the manager an irritated look. “Gregg was clearly by the book. There’s no reason for testing of any kind.”

  “The Region made the call. I have no choice in the matter,” he replied and then paused. “You’ll just have to deal with it. And by the way, Gregg, the NTSB will be in here tomorrow and you will be interviewed. Whether or not Cookie is invited is entirely up to the NTSB investigator.”

  Cook pushed his chair back abruptly and stood. “Might I remind you that Article 6 Section 1 entitles the union to be present at meetings with the NTSB?”

  The manager said nothing.

  Kaplan looked over to see a slight smirk on the supervisor’s face. “I’m on annual leave tomorrow. I won’t be back until next week.”

  “I’m canceling it. Part of it anyway. Be here no later than nine o’clock in the morning. You’ll meet with an FAA attorney at nine, then with the NTSB at ten.”

  Cook shook his finger at the manager. “You can’t cancel annual leave that’s already been approved. Gregg may very well have made plans by now.”

  “Well, I am—file a grievance if you want to.” The manager turned to Kaplan. “Be here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock and that’s an order. And Gregg, one more thing, you’re relieved of air traffic control duties until the NTSB gives you the green light.”

  “You can’t do that, you have no cause,” Cook said. “You heard the tapes, Gregg was by the book.”

  “I just did. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing, the newspapers, TV stations. I’m not taking any chances. That’s the way it’s going to be.”

  The manager turned and left the room.

  “I’ll talk to him, maybe I can change his mind.” The supervisor handed Kaplan an accident statement form. “I’ll need this before you go home, okay, Gregg?”

  Kaplan nodded. “Yeah, no problem.”

  He started writing his statement for the accident, recalling the events of the morning. His mind replayed the scene.

  He’d plugged his headset into the slot next to Annie’s and joked with her a few minutes before she briefed him. He’d sat down and taken over as she left. It had seemed like a busy morning with the heavy inbound push but quickly turned into a routine day. Nothing had occurred to raise unusual tension in the room, until he heard that “Mayday” from the corporate jet making its approach to the airport.
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  Kaplan finished writing his statement, omitting only the personal byplay between him and Annie, and then handed to Cook to proofread.

  “Thanks, Gregg. I trust you, just give it to Mac. I’m going to talk to that asshole in the front office and see about getting you back to work.”

  “Good luck with that, Cookie. I wouldn’t worry with it too much. I’m on leave for the next few days anyway.”

  “I know, Gregg. It’s just the principal of the matter. The prick stepped over the line, and in my eyes, that’s tantamount to starting a fight. I don’t like it when he picks on one of my troops.”

  Cook left the union office.

  Kaplan found the supervisor in the hall and handed him the statement. “Here you go, Mac, all done.”

  “I talked to the son of a bitch but he won’t budge. I left when Cookie showed up. He’s in there yelling at him now. The drug and alcohol testers are already here,” the supervisor told him. “Check in with them and when you’re done you’re excused for the rest of the day. I’ll take care of the CRU-ART,” making reference to the automated sign-on/sign-off program used by the FAA, similar to punching a time clock.