“I see it.” Jake said. “But at this rate it’ll take us an hour just to get to it. Damned at the cars.”
McGill looked at Jake, “Since we seem to have time, you ready for a history lesson on Hutchinson Island?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“The first settlers of Savannah used this island as a place for duels before it was turned into a communal farm. Slaves planted hay and rice as well as built the Savannah waterfront and warehouses. As the population started getting sick from fever, the mosquitoes from the rice fields were linked to the illnesses, so the rice fields were destroyed.
"After that, the island was turned into an industrial center with the arrival of the Seaboard Railroad in 1896. Then in 1919, a fire destroyed most of the cotton and turpentine warehouses.”
Jake interrupted, “Good, we’re moving again. Thanks for the history lesson. Am I going to be tested on it later?”
“Maybe.” McGill laughed at Jake’s sarcasm. “Learn from history, Jake. That way you don’t make the same mistakes.”
At the bottom of the north end of the bridge, law enforcement officers directed traffic. A Georgia state trooper feverishly waved his arm demanding travelers to South Carolina keep moving. Another trooper directed all cars exiting onto Hutchinson Island toward the resort end of the island or toward the scene of the accident. A staging area near the exit ramp had been designated for the press. No press was allowed closer than the bridge to view and report on the accident.
The highways in the Savannah area were already jammed with travelers making their way into town for St. Patrick’s Day. Savannah, rich in its Southern heritage and claiming a larger than average population of Irish and Catholic descent, boasted the second largest St. Patrick’s Day parade in the United States.
Jake looked at the sky, noticed how the overcast had reduced their available light, then glanced at his watch and calculated the Go Team had only about two and a half hours of daylight left at best. The long line of rescue vehicles looked like an arrow pointing the way to the accident with their flashing lights. The visibility had fallen to less than five miles and dropping, and the cloud ceiling had lowered below one thousand feet. Low, transparent white wisps of clouds scudded quickly across a darkened overcast sky.
The Suburbans exited the bridge and followed the police blockades to an unpaved access road, then followed the road until they reached a large sweeping left turn, where a Georgia State Patrol officer stopped them.
After showing their credentials, the Go Team was directed off the access road onto a two-rut road. Within fifty feet they reached an impasse of vehicles of every type, rescue, fire and police, and were directed to park in an area just cleared by a bulldozer. A Georgia trooper was arguing with a reporter and his cameraman, apparently disgruntled about being told to move the TV station’s van back to the media staging area. A truck was hauling a small trailer into the clearing to serve as the NTSB’s temporary on-site command center.
Team members put on their standard issue NTSB coveralls and cap, donned their gloves, face masks and goggles, then sealed their gloves and boots to their coveralls with duct tape. Grabbing their cameras, markers, tape, and an assortment of other necessities, they strapped on their accident packs and made their way down a muddy path.
The first person to meet them was FAA Accident Investigator Aaron Kowalski, who oversaw the initial site security. After introductions, Kowalski explained his earlier actions at the site and issues involving the tides and the marsh. “We cordoned off the area as instructed. The fire burned pretty hot and several hotspots reignited and had to be extinguished again. All those on board perished so the bodies or what’s left of them were left the way we found them. We’re hauling in sand bags to place around a wide perimeter to help with the water intrusion. The first truckload should arrive any minute now.” He pointed and led them toward the still smoldering wreckage. “If you’re ready.”
As they reached the clearing, they could see the twisted airframe and other debris resting in a salt flat about the size of a football field, a small area for an aircraft accident Jake noted as he stepped over the yellow police tape marking the perimeter of the crash site.
It was low tide so the site was relatively easy to navigate, but Jake knew at high tide it would be much more difficult.
* * * The smell of burnt metal, fabric, wiring, and jet fuel filled his nostrils. A smell all too familiar to McGill. The tang brought a flood of memories back of the first time he inhaled it. When he found his calling.
In 1988, while studying at Georgia Tech for a degree in Aerospace Engineering, McGill learned his aunt in Savannah had died of a stroke. He and his cousin took her remains to Scotland, her birthplace, to be buried. The cemetery was at a church on the outskirts of the small village of Tundergarth. Almost on cue with the closing “amen” of the ceremony, flaming debris rained down from the sky littering across the open expanse next to the church. Suitcases, clothes, twisted metal of all shapes and sizes, showered across the rolling fields. Mourners scattered about, running for cover, but McGill stood there staring into the debris field.
As if in a trance, he slowly started walking into the field until a thunderous crash stopped him dead in his tracks. The ground shook. He turned to see the right half of a Boeing 747’s cockpit lying on the ground only thirty feet from where he stood.
He walked toward the wreckage. It groaned as it settled onto the ground. He stood back from the cockpit and noticed the words “Maid of the Seas” painted on the side of the aircraft shell. Looking around the area, he noticed no other large debris. He felt a sense of urgency to know where the remainder of the airliner went and what caused such a large, sturdy aircraft to destruct in mid air.
McGill and his cousin left Tundergarth and headed back toward Lockerbie. They saw more debris in fields and on the roads. Civilians and authorities pitched in to move debris out of the roads to make them passable. In Lockerbie, they saw the largest devastation. The bulk of the Pan Am Boeing 747 had plowed through the town, destroying more than twenty homes and forming a linear crater. Lockerbie lay in shambles.
Looking at the huge hulks of twisted metal that were once a fuselage, he had an epiphany, his destiny called him. Most people would have nightmares at seeing such horror and destruction, McGill was excited and charged with passion.
Immediately upon arriving back in the States, he started taking the first steps towards a career as an aircraft accident investigator.
* * * McGill cleared the stakedown area of all personnel except for his team. The Go Team would walk the perimeter of the main wreckage taking notes and discussing anything peculiar that might be observed.
After the perimeter walk, McGill would assign duties and responsibilities to each member, and the site would be secured, this time for the evening. The team would leave the site en route to the organizational meeting, and if necessary, McGill would conduct a press briefing.
It had been several hours since the accident occurred. Rescue personnel had been advised to remove only those who might still be alive. The remains of the dead were to be left undisturbed, orders of the NTSB Command Center and the FAA. The site was treated by the police as a crime scene—necessary to avoid compromising an investigation by inadvertently tainting evidence. The fire department was allowed to put out and contain any fires. Six red body bags lay empty on the marsh, one for each reported person on board.
The team made their way across the tidal marsh. Low tide had been more than thirty minutes prior and the smell of exposed mud and sea life still hung in the air. The tide had turned and the waters rose. Tiny crabs and spiders worked their way to the tops of the saw grass blades and jumped on the pants legs of the team members in hopes of hitch-hiking a ride to dry ground.
Across the marsh beyond the wreckage McGill saw Back River, the river that constituted the state line between Georgia and South Carolina.
Most of the wreckage was situated on the hard-packed sandy portion of the salt flat, although
some debris lay in the softer muck. The muck made walking difficult, and McGill told them it would be increasingly harder to work as the tide came in.
The sawgrass, brown as winter approached its end, stood tall, sometimes as high as four feet. With each gust of wind the dense grass did “the wave” around the accident—bowing down and rising again. Thousands of tiny holes dotted the harder packed marsh flats, little mounds of dirt piled next to each hole. Fiddler crabs scurried in and out hauling food to and from their homes.
A great blue heron swooped in low across the wreckage and landed near Back River. Several white ibis worked their way through the marsh in search of food. A diesel bulldozer revved its engine and moved across the marshlands, startling the birds. They flew off, only to circle and land in a different section of the same flat.
McGill pulled out his compass and turned until it aligned with the aircraft’s direction of impact. “The aircraft was headed almost due south. That’s almost ninety degrees off from the final approach course.”
The nose of the Challenger faced directly toward them as they squished through the marsh.
Dave Morris pointed at the aircraft’s nose cone. “Look at that lateral tear across the nose cone. The damn thing’s grinning at us.”
Dave was a short, rotund man, only five-foot-six and carrying two hundred ten pounds, best known for his uncanny resemblance to the comedian Danny DeVito, especially when he walked. The forty-four-year-old was the prankster of the Atlanta office. He and Jake had teamed up several times on aircraft accidents.
“I’m really surprised the debris field isn’t more expansive. It’s really just confined to this small area.” McGill motioned circles with his hand.
“Well, you gotta figure the aircraft had slowed down to approach speed and then hit here at high tide which abated the impact substantially. I mean, look at the impact crater.” Ben Lewis pointed at the crater. “It’s relatively shallow—all things considered. That also explains why the wreckage is still basically intact.”
The only black team member at the Atlanta Field Office, Ben stood six-foot-four, just over two hundred sixty pounds. Ben had played nose tackle in college at the University of Michigan. For the last ten years, he’d kept his head shaved and sported a graying goatee. Jake nicknamed him “Mr. Clean.” Friendly, docile and jovial, Ben was known for his smile, showing a mouthful of large white teeth.
The salt marsh was unfamiliar territory for McGill as well as the rest of the team. He was intrigued by the fiddler crabs skittering away from his feet.
The Go Team surveyed what remained of the aircraft. Larry Kirkland, clipboard in hand, sketched out a rough diagram of the crash site with the approximate location of the larger sections of wreckage. Later, measurements would be taken and all the data entered in a computer program.
Kirkland was the oldest of the Go Team members at fifty-nine. A slide rule geek, he wore black plastic rimmed glasses and a pocket protector with his usual three pens and one mechanical pencil. All business—no play—he had difficulty with the constant bantering between the other members of the team. Kirkland was best known amongst the team members for his hair. As it thinned on the top of his head, he let it grow long on one side and then combed it over with the help of a little styling gel. When in the field, the wind would lift his comb-over, causing it to flap on his head. The other members, not allowing the moment to pass, teased him by mimicking his comb-over with their hands on their heads.
McGill looked at Jake. “Okay, hotshot, what do you see?”
“Okay. Three main sections to deal with here. Starting from the rear, a shear across the fuselage separating the tail section from the main cabin area. It tore immediately behind the wings, obviously after the wings were sheared off. Then a second tear between the cockpit and the main cabin, immediately behind the cabin door and bulkhead.”
Jake pointed to the two wings in the marsh. “Both wings were ripped off, rupturing the fuel tanks and causing an inferno that engulfed the cabin section. Destruction of the aircraft occurred so quickly that the occupants were probably killed on impact. In all likelihood, everyone on board realized their impending fate as the aircraft plummeted from the sky”
McGill looked at the other team members. “Does everybody concur with that?” The others nodded. “Okay, let’s move on.”
Dave Morris pointed at the nose of the aircraft. “It looks like when the floor of the cockpit fell free, the forward momentum jammed the pilots, seats and all, underneath the nose section. That probably lifted the shell of the nose section upward from the rear and buried the pilots under the rubble. They’ll be a mess to remove.”
McGill said, “Since the tides are rising and fog is rolling in, we’ll recover the pilots’ remains first thing in the morning. Besides, we’ll need the crane and it can’t get here until morning anyway.”
They moved toward the second section of debris, the main cabin compartment. Jake whistled and pointed to something in the tall marsh grass.
“Whoa, what have we here?”
The team moved forward to see. An Uzi machine gun lying next to a white IPod and a gray laptop computer.
“Bodyguards.” McGill placed a yellow flag next the gun. “He had his bodyguards with him all the time.”
Jake marked the other items with yellow flags.
Dave stuck his head inside the main cabin, then leaned back out. “From the outside, the main cabin section appears by and large intact, although somewhat charred, but the inside—holy crap, it’s a scene from hell. The fire burned hottest here.”
The cabin configuration had two sets of facing leather seats on the left side of the aircraft and two individual seats plus a couch on the right side. A wood partition in the front of the cabin that separated the galley from the seating area had been ripped free and hurled toward the rear of the aircraft with enough force to sever two seats just above the armrests. On impact, the floor buckled and collapsed, breaking free the couch, which smashed into the seated flight attendant, crushing her. Her body was still strapped to her seat, charred stumps sticking out where her knees should have been.
The breeze shifted slightly, blowing ash and smoke from the smoldering cabin toward the team. The smell of the muck and the marsh mixed with the odors of jet fuel, burnt plastic and leather was tolerable. But the pungent stench of charred flesh was too much for Larry Kirkland—he doubled over and vomited in the marsh.
Ben reached in his pocket and pulled out a ten dollar bill. “Here, Dave. You win again.”
Dave grabbed the bill. “Like taking candy from a baby.”
In the split second before the fireball consumed the cabin, the passengers had suffered blunt traumas as projectiles flew through the cabin at speeds faster than any human can react.
Ben pointed to a body with no head. “Another decap.” He moved closer and saw the head dangling from the back of the seat by the burnt sinews in the man’s neck. It would later be determined that the older red-haired bodyguard died when the seat in front of him broke free and hit him in the face, knocking his head over the back of his headrest and snapping his neck on impact.
Pat McGill pointed to the lower half of a body still strapped in a seat. The second of the two O’Rourke bodyguards had died when, with the twisting of the metal fuselage, cabin spars tore into the cabin and impaled him, then with a secondary impact ripped free, leaving him disemboweled and dismembered—scattering pieces of his upper body out onto the debris field.
The remains of the passenger identified as Laurence O’Rourke had no discernable blunt trauma. His charred blackened body sat upright in his seat, his scorched briefcase still on his lap.
The rear section of the Challenger lay in the muck turned slightly upward. The engines were still attached but mangled, several turbine blades in each engine were missing. The rear bulkhead had burned through, exposing several metal strips that were ripped and twisted upward.
The team located the left wing alongside and slightly behind the main wreckage by ne
arly fifty feet. It had been sheared off and lay flat on the marsh with the left main gear protruding, tires upward, through the wing.
The right wing was about one hundred feet north of the main wreckage, indicating the aircraft first struck the ground in a slight right-wing low configuration, ripping it free on impact. McGill noted this would have pulled the aircraft slightly toward the right, and when the aircraft hit the ground, the left wing had sheared off as the Challenger plowed into the marsh.
The marsh, normally filled with a variety of aquatic and insect species, was now littered with mechanized death. Aircraft debris and body parts were strewn in every direction from the impact.
Ben Lewis tripped on something and fell face-down onto the marsh flat. “Shit.” He rolled over—coveralls coated in muck.
He had tripped on a mud-covered shoulder and a right arm.
He stuck a red flag in the ground. “God, sometimes I really hate this job.”
CHAPTER 16
He stood on the balcony of his sixteenth floor room looking into the foggy evening. The lights below him accented the Savannah Westin’s pool—barely visible. A hint of the Savannah River glinted below as the fog rolled across the water.
The Savannah Project (Jake Pendleton series) Page 7