The Savannah Project (Jake Pendleton series)

by Chuck Barrett

  “No. We don’t work mid-watches at Savannah so fatigue isn’t an issue—not for me anyway.” Kaplan said. “With all due respect, Mr. Pendleton, what does any of this have to do with the accident?”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.” Jake said. “I was just trying to ease any apprehension you might have before we get into the specifics of the accident.”

  “The only thing bothering me is that I was supposed to be on leave today but got ordered in here to talk to you.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that.” Jake said. “Then let’s get down to business so I can get you out of here.”

  “I appreciate that.” Kaplan smiled.

  “When you were working N319CB, did you read him the weather?”

  “Yes, I did. I make it a habit to read them the weather on initial call or very soon thereafter.”

  “Why is that?”

  “So the pilot has plenty of time to get set up for the approach and isn’t rushed at the last minute finding charts and setting up his equipment.”

  “Did you issue SIGMETs or AIRMETs?

  “No, none were given to me.”

  “Were there any active for this area?

  “None that I was aware of.”

  “When you plugged in to relieve the controller before you, did you use the checklist?”

  Kaplan nodded. “Yes.”

  “Was the position relief briefing complete?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you record the briefing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the previous controller tell you about any equipment outages?”

  “Yes, she did. The primary radar was out.”

  Jake flipped to the next page of his notepad, then leaned back in his chair. “Take your time and give us a brief rundown of what you remember. A sequence of events, if you will.”

  “When the aircraft checked on frequency, I issued a turn and descent clearance to get him away from my departures. Do you want to know what I did with the other aircraft on frequency also?”

  “No, just the aircraft in question will be fine,” Jake said.

  “I read him the weather sequence and told him which approach to expect, and cleared him direct SINBY, the initial approach fix. I later gave him an altitude to maintain until the initial approach fix and cleared him for the approach. I also asked him to report over SINBY—”

  Jake said, “Why did you need to do that?”

  The question puzzled Kaplan. Surely he’s seen this done dozens of time. He gave Jake an almost unnoticeable shrug. “Don’t guess I needed to. But that’s a good time to switch him over to the tower frequency. And the pilots are generally used to it. It’s just a good reminder. In case I get busy or get sidetracked with something else. A good work habit.”

  Jake nodded.

  Kaplan fidgeted in his chair. “When he reported over SINBY, I switched him to the tower frequency. He acknowledged and read back the frequency. Then within a few seconds I heard a mayday on my frequency that sounded like him. I called for him a couple of times with no response. I noticed the aircraft veered slightly off course, then his transponder disappeared, so I called local to see if he was talking to him. He wasn’t, so I reported it to my supervisor.”

  “How busy do you think you were at the time of the accident?”

  “Not busy at all. I had just finished a little push, but I never really got very busy.”

  “Over the years, different controllers have told me that they can usually sense things about certain pilots—you know, good vibes, bad vibes. Did you sense anything about this aircraft and its crew?”

  “No, actually he was quite professional from beginning to end … I really had no concerns with him at all.”

  “How do you feel about losing an aircraft?”

  Kaplan stood and leaned over the table. “How the hell do you think I feel? It sucks. No one likes losing an aircraft. But I know I didn’t do anything wrong or contribute to it. The whole thing, you know, whatever happened to the aircraft was out of my control.”

  “You’re that confident about your performance?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Cook pulled Kaplan back into his chair.

  “I do have a question that may not be related. I noticed on the tape a pilot said something about a ‘graveyard tour.’ What’s that?” Jake asked.

  Kaplan explained, “When the east/west runway was built, there was a cemetery in the way. All the families chose to have their family members’ graves relocated to another cemetery at the airport’s expense, except for one family. They refused to allow their family members to be moved. So, near the middle of the runway about fifty feet north of centerline are two headstones inlaid in the asphalt. Actually, they’re really plaques, not true headstones, but they’re on top of the gravesites.

  “When traffic at the airport permits, we allow the aircraft to taxi down the runway past the graves so the captain can give the passengers a unique glimpse, gravestones in a runway.” Kaplan grinned. “Thus the name, ‘Graveyard Tour.’ I’ll bet you’ve never heard of that before. Where else but Savannah, huh?”

  “You’re right, I haven’t heard of anything like that before.”

  Jake asked questions for another ten minutes, then looked around the room. “That’s all I have for now. Do any of you have questions for Mr. Kaplan?”

  Some of the other air traffic control group members had a few questions, which Kaplan answered in the same commanding self-assured manner he answered Jake’s questions.

  * * * Jake dismissed the group members and all the participants with the disclaimer that they might have to return for a follow-up as the investigation continued.

  The room emptied and as Kaplan was getting out of his chair, Jake stood and shook his hand. He glanced down and noticed Kaplan’s riding boots. “That your Harley outside?”

  Kaplan smiled. “Yeah. You ride?”

  “Never have. But I saw the fly rod on the pack. Do you fly-fish?”

  “Oh yeah. My favorite pastime. Been fly-fishing ever since I moved here.”

  “What do you fish for?”

  “This time of year, usually trout.”

  “There are trout streams around here?” Jake asked with a puzzled look.

  “No, all my fishing here is salt water fly fishing. I fish for speckled trout and redfish mostly.”

  “I’ve never fly fished in salt water ... How is it?”

  “When you get a redfish to swallow a fly, there’s no experience like it. The first thing he’ll do is run you into your backing. He’ll make three or four runs before he tires, then just reel him into the leader.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “What about you? What kind of fly fishing do you do?”

  “I usually go up to north Georgia. I have a cabin on a creek and fish for brookies or rainbows. Sometimes I’ll drive on up into Tennessee or North Carolina. I have a few favorite spots on some smaller rivers and creeks. My father owns a place outside of Atlanta that has a lake stocked with bass and bream. I fish there too. My father taught me to fly fish when I was a kid. He said it was the only ‘real fishing.’ He got me hooked, so to speak. It’s relaxing. I could do it all the time.”

  “I know what you mean. I feel the same way,” Kaplan said.

  “Someday I’ll have to give salt water a try.”

  “I’m telling you it’s a blast, Mr. Pendleton.”

  “Please, call me Jake.”

  “Okay, Jake. What are the chances you’d let me come out to the crash site? You know, just to check it out. I’ve never seen one up close.”

  “It’s really not procedural since you’re somewhat involved, but I might be able to arrange an observer’s pass. You’ll have to keep a good distance though.”

  “My girlfriend might like to come along, if that’s okay. She’s a controller here too.”

  Jake pulled out his cell phone and dialed Carol. He talked to Carol for a couple of minutes, then snapped his phone closed and looked over at Kaplan
.

  “Gregg, you and your friend go to the Westin and ask for Carol Martin. She’ll give you two observer passes. Those will get you onto the site. You’ll have to show Carol your FAA badges to get your pass. You’ll have to stay outside the perimeter tape, okay?”

  “No problem. Thanks, Jake, I really appreciate it. Hey, maybe sometime after this investigation is over, you can come back down and I’ll take you on a redfish adventure and show you what real fly fishing is all about.”

  “It’s a deal.” Jake’s cell phone rang. It was his employer, but a number he didn’t recognize. He held up a finger to Kaplan, flipped open the phone. “Jake Pendleton.”

  “Jake, this is Donna Greene from the Arlington NTSB office.”

  “Yes, Ms. Greene, I was told you would call—”

  “This is a very strange case you have here, Mr. Pendleton.”

  Jake felt his jaw tighten. “How so?”

  “You have something to write on?”

  He slid his binder closer and reached for his pen, then said, “Yes, go ahead.” He motioned to Kaplan that he must excuse himself to take this call.

  “About three weeks ago, on a Monday, a man named Ian McDonald came in, looking for a mechanic’s job at the FBO that operates the aircraft that crashed. The FBO manager said it was an impressive resume, quite a list of references, but the manager didn’t need any more mechanics just then. Just stuck the resume in the file cabinet and forgot about it.”

  Jake listened, clicking his pen. “With all due respect, that doesn’t sound too strange—”

  “It’s about to. A few days later, one of the mechanics is in a car wreck. Ends up in a coma. The manager called some of Ian McDonald’s references. Glowing praises all around, so he hires him. The guy works hard and does a great job all week. Before the aircraft departed yesterday, McDonald worked on a couple of squawk sheet items, then left, saying he was headed home.”

  “What kind of squawk sheet items?”

  “Just minor things, a couple of panel light bulbs, a rattle or two. Nothing to ground an aircraft over.”

  “We need to talk to him.”

  “Sure, but here’s where it gets weird. He didn’t show up for work today. When the manager tried to call, the phone number had been disconnected. The address he gave doesn’t exist either. When he called the reference numbers back, they were disconnected too.”

  “Yep, definitely weird. What about the other mechanic?”

  “It’s his day off. The manager’s tried to get him all day. So far, no answer. Figures he’s off with his girlfriend somewhere.”

  “Do we have a physical description of the new guy he hired? What’s his name, Ian McDonald?”

  “Yes, that’s his name. The manager says he was a big guy. Real tall, he guessed six-five or six-six, maybe two-fifty, muscular, brown eyes and reddish-brown hair with a white streak running down the middle of his head and a heavy accent—”

  “What?”

  “He had a white streak running through his hair and a heavy accent. Thinks maybe Irish or something like that—”

  “No, no, I heard you fine. I saw a guy that fits that description. Here, last night. He didn’t have brown eyes. He had one brown and one blue, but everything else fits him to a tee.”

  “That’s a strange coincidence.”

  “Alright, Donna, fax all that stuff over here, you have the number, right?”

  “Yes, I have it.”

  “Fax all maintenance records and personnel data including that man’s resume.”

  Jake hung up his cell phone and tried desperately to absorb the information Donna Greene just gave him. For the first time feeling the sweat that had formed on the back of his neck. It all led him back to the man who was in his room the night before. The man was right. Maybe this “crash” wasn’t an accident at all. Could it be that sabotage was what caused the crash?

  The man in the pub, is that the same man from Dallas? What was the involvement of the man that came to the room? Could he be trusted? Who could be trusted? The man said trust no one. What was it he said? “The enemy is closer than you think.” What the hell did that mean?

  As the questions chased each other through his mind, he wondered if his chance to finally make a name for himself might have arrived. No more living in the shadow of his father.

  Not an accident, in spite of the evidence so far. Sabotage. His mind told him this could be the case.

  His gut feeling told him this was the case.

  But how could he prove it?

  CHAPTER 21

  Jake arrived at the crash scene at the same time the cockpit voice recorder and the flight data recorder were being pulled from the debris. He noticed Dave Morris carrying the flight data recorder toward one of two ice chests located by the perimeter tape.

  Dave had already located the “black boxes” submerged in salt water and muck. The boxes weren’t located the night before due to rising tides, darkness and the amount of mud covering the units. The impact of the crash had forced the “black boxes” several feet into the muck. The rising tide hampered recovery efforts until the marsh drained itself during low tide.

  The name “black boxes” was something of a misnomer since both boxes were actually painted Day-Glo orange. The boxes contained the cockpit voice recorder and the flight data recorder. Each unit recorded different data and comprised completely different and independent systems. The recorders primarily used solid-state technology, much more reliable than the older magnetic tape models and were able to store more data in less space.

  The recorders used stacked arrays of memory chips with no moving parts. No moving parts meant fewer maintenance problems and less chance for breakage during a crash. These stacked memory chips were housed in a “crash-survivable memory unit.”

  The cockpit voice recorder was located in the rear of the aircraft. Several microphones were built into the cockpit to track and record all conversations of the flight crew. All microphones in the cockpit were connected to the recorder. These microphones recorded all ambient noise in the cockpit as well as the pilot’s headset, the copilot’s headset and the headsets of any other crew members for a duration of two hours.

  Both boxes had sustained heavy damages during the crash and would be packed and sent to Washington, D.C., for examination and data extraction. Dave brought along two large special purpose chests for storing the recorders once they were located. Because the recorders were submerged in salt water, they would be rinsed off, stored and shipped in fresh water.

  While Dave and Ben were busy preparing the recorders for shipping, Jake started telling McGill about the briefing he had received from Donna Greene. When Jake reached the part of the briefing about the missing mechanic, a furrow in McGill’s brow deepened.

  McGill said, “Call Donna back and tell her to get local authorities involved in locating the whereabouts of both mechanics.”

  Jake nodded. He then revealed his theory to McGill.

  Dave and Ben stopped working on securing the recorders at the sound of McGill yelling obscenities while waving his hands in the air.

  CHAPTER 22

  Due to heavy gray rain clouds, darkness settled early upon Northern Ireland. In the Stormont Parliament Building in Belfast, the Commander stared out the window at the rows of street lights reflecting off the wet pavement that lined Prince of Wales Avenue. The bronze statue of Sir Edward Carson, the man touted as the “uncrowned King of Ulster” for his successful resistance against the British Government’s attempts to introduce Home Rule for all of Ireland, was barely visible through the mist gently falling across the Stormont grounds.

  A voice called out from behind him, “Is O’Rourke dead, do we know for sure?

  With as much confidence as he could muster, he replied, “It would appear that is the case. There were no survivors. All the dead have been identified … including Laurence O’Rourke.”

  “Do the authorities think this was an accident or sabotage?”

  “The Americans ar
e investigating it as an accident. There has been no mention of sabotage from my source. The Washington investigators are not available to conduct the investigations because of the weather in the D.C. area, so the Atlanta office is in charge. Oddly enough, the lead investigator is an Irishman from Londonderry.”

  “Is he your source?”

  “No, sir, I don’t know anything about the man.”

  The room went silent while he peered out across the lawn in front of the Stormont Parliament building. The death of O’Rourke was unexpected but could prove beneficial. The Commander had worked arduously to train O’Rourke with tremendous successes and very few failures. O’Rourke’s ultimate betrayal had left him in a compromising position.