plane had fallen out of the skies. They had no eyewitnesses, because the crash occurred in the early morning and the cloud cover was low. It would have only been seconds between the time the plane exited the clouds and when it struck the earth.
Where the plane had penetrated the ground, nose first, there now existed a crater that later excavation would determine to be approximately thirty feet deep, or about one-fifth as long as the aircraft itself.
That fact alone was a terrifying testament to the force that had catapulted everyone on board into the hereafter with frightening ease. The entire fuselage, Kaplan figured, had collapsed like an accordion, fore and aft, and its fragments now rested in the depths of the impact crater. Not even the empennage, or tail assembly, was visible. To compound the problem, tons of dirt and rock were lying on top of the aircraft's remains.
The field and surrounding areas were peppered with bits of debris, but most of it was palm-sized, having been thrown off in the explosion when the aircraft hit the earth. Much of the plane and the passengers strapped inside would have disintegrated from the terrible weight and velocity of the impact and the igniting of the jet fuel, which would have caused another explosion bare seconds later, before thirty feet of dirt and rubble combined for an airtight mass grave.
What was left on the surface was unrecognizable as a jet aircraft.
It reminded Kaplan of the inexplicable 1991 Colorado Springs crash of a United Boeing 737. He had worked that disaster too as the aviation systems specialist. For the first time in the history of the NTSB, from its inception in 1967 as an independent federal agency, it had not been able to find probable cause for a plane crash. The "tin-kickers," as the NTSB investigators referred to themselves, had never gotten over that one. The similarity of the Pittsburgh crash of a USAir Boeing 737 in 1994 had only heightened their feelings of guilt. If they had solved Colorado, many of them felt, Pittsburgh might have been prevented. And now this.
George Kaplan looked at the now clear sky and his bewilderment grew. He was convinced the Colorado Springs crash had been caused, at least in part, by a freakish rotor cloud that had hit the aircraft on its final approach, a vulnerable moment for any jetliner. A rotor was a vortex of air generated about a horizontal axis by high winds over irregular terrain. In the case of United Airlines Flight 585, the irregular terrain was supplied by the mighty Rocky Mountains. But this was the East Coast. There were no Rocky Mountains here. While an abnormally severe rotor could conceivably have knocked a plane as large as an L500 out of the sky, Kaplan could not believe that was what had befallen Flight 3223. According to air traffic control, the L500 had started falling from its cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet and never looked back. No mountains in the United States were capable of throwing off the formation of a rotor that high. Indeed, the only mountains nearby were in the Shenandoah National Forest and were part of the relatively smallish Blue Ridge Mountain chain. They were all in the three- to four-thousand-foot range, more hills than mountains.
Then there was the altitude factor. Normally, the roll experienced by planes flying into a rotor or other freakish atmospheric condition is controlled by aileron application. At six miles up, the Western Airlines pilots would have had time to reestablish control. Kaplan was sure the dark side of Mother Nature had not torn the jet from the peaceful confines of the sky. But something else clearly had.
His team would shortly return to their hotel, where an organizational meeting would be held. Initially, on-scene investigative groups would be formed for structures, systems, survival factors, power plants, weather and air-traffic control. Later, units would be assembled to evaluate aircraft performance, to analyze the cockpit voice recorder and the flight data recorder, crew performance, sound spectrum, maintenance records and metallurgical examinations. It was a slow, tedious and oftentimes heart-wrenching process, but Kaplan would not leave until he had examined every atom of what had recently been a state-of-the-art jetliner and almost two hundred very much alive human beings. He swore to himself that probable cause would not escape him this time.
Kaplan slowly walked toward his rental car. An early spring would come to the dirt field: soon, red flags would bloom everywhere, tiny beacons signifying the location of remnants of the flight.
Darkness was settling in rapidly. He blew into his frigid hands to warm them. A hot thermos of coffee waited in the car. He hoped the FDR, the flight data recorder--known popularly as the "black box,"
although it was actually blazing orange--would live up to its reputation of indestructibility. An updated version had just been installed in the plane and the 121 parameters measured by the FDR would tell them one hell of a lot about what had happened to doom Flight 3223. On the L500 the FDR and the cockpit voice recorder (CVR) were located in the overhead hull between the aft galleys. An L500 had never experienced a hull loss before; this crash would certainly test the flight data recorder's invulnerability.
Too bad human beings weren't invulnerable.
As he climbed a small rise in the earth, George Kaplan froze. In the rapidly failing light a tall image stood a bare five feet from him.
Sunglasses hid a pair of slate-gray eyes; the six-foot-three-inch frame supported naturally bulky shoulders; meaty arms and a thickening waistline, and featured a pair of telephone-pole-sized legs; an aging middle linebacker was the description that would probably jump to mind. The man's hands were in his pants pockets, the unmistakable silver shield pinned to the belt.
Kaplan squinted in the gathering dusk. "Lee?"
FBI Special Agent Lee Sawyer stepped forward.
"Hello, George."
The men shook hands.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Sawyer looked around at the crash site and then back at Kaplan.
His angular face carried expressive, full lips. Sawyer had thinning black hair heavily laced with silver. His long forehead and slender nose that veered slightly to the right, a relic from a past case, combined with his impressive size to give him a very intense and commanding presence. "When an American plane is downed over American soil by what looks to be sabotage, the FBI gets a little excited, George." The FBI agent looked at Kaplan pointedly.
"Sabotage?" Kaplan said warily.
Sawyer looked over the expanse of the disaster again. "I checked the meteorological reports. Nothing up there that would have caused this. And the aircraft was almost brand-new."
"That doesn't mean it was sabotage, Lee. It's too early to tell. You know that. Hell, even though the odds are probably a billion to one, we could be looking at the in-flight deployment of a reverse thruster that could've knocked the plane right out of the sky."
"There's a part of the aircraft I'm particularly interested in, George. I'd like you to take a very close look at it."
Kaplan snorted. "Well, that crater's going to take some time for us to dig out. And when we do, you'll be able to hold most of the pieces in your hand."
Sawyer's response almost made Kaplan's knees buckle.
"This part isn't in the crater. And it's fairly large: the starboard wing and engine. We found it about thirty minutes ago."
Kaplan stood stock-still for a full minute as his wide eyes took in Sawyer's expressionless features. Then Sawyer hustled him toward the agent's vehicle.
Sawyer's rented Buick sped away as the last flames from Flight 3223 were extinguished. The darkness would soon be gathering around a thirty-foot-deep pit that represented a crude monument to the abrupt termination of 181 lives.
CHAPTER TEN
The Gulfstream jet streaked through the sky. The luxurious cabin resembled an upscale hotel lounge complete with wood paneling, brown leather captain's chairs and a well-stocked bar, bartender and all. Sidney Archer was curled up in one of the oversized chairs, eyes firmly closed. A cold compress curved over her forehead. When she finally opened her eyes and removed the compress, she looked as though she were sedated, so heavy were her eyelids, so sluggish her movements. In fact, she had neithe
r taken medication nor availed herself of the bar's inventory. Her mind had shut down: Today her husband had died in a plane crash.
She looked around the cabin. It had been Quentin Rowe's suggestion that she take Triton's corporate jet home with him. At the last minute, and adding to Sidney's pain, Gamble had accompanied them. He was now in his private cabin in the rear of the aircraft. She hoped to God he would remain there for the duration. She looked up to see Richard Lucas, Triton's in-house security chief, watching her closely.
"Relax, Rich." Quentin Rowe passed in front of the security man and headed over to Sidney. He sat down next to her. "So, how're you doing?" he asked gently. "We have some Valium on board. Carry a constant supply because of Nathan."
"He uses Valium?" Sidney looked surprised.
Rowe shrugged. "Actually, it's for the people traveling with Nathan."
Sidney managed a weak smile in return, a smile that abruptly vanished. "Oh, God, I can't believe it." She looked out the window with reddened eyes. Her hands flew to her face. She spoke without looking at Rowe. "I know this looks bad, Quentin." Her voice was trembling.
"Hey, no law against someone traveling on his own time," Rowe said quickly.
"I don't know what to say--"
Rowe held up a hand. "Look, this isn't the time or place. I've got some things to do. You need anything, just let me know."
Sidney looked at him gratefully. After he disappeared into another part of the cabin, Sidney leaned back in her chair and once again closed her eyes. The waves of tears slid down her puffy cheeks.
From the front of the cabin, Richard Lucas continued his solitary watch.
Sidney would sob anew each time she recalled her last exchange with Jason. In anger, she had hung up the phone on him. Here was a stupid little episode that didn't mean anything, an act replicated a thousand times over the life of many successful marriages, and yet was that to be his last memory of their lives together? She shuddered and gripped the armrest. All her suspicions over the last few months. God! He had been working so hard trying to land a terrific new job, and she could only see the absurd image of him bedding more attractive women. Her guilt was numbing. The rest of her life would be forever tainted by that single, terrible misjudgment of the man she loved.
When she opened her eyes, she received another shock. Nathan Gamble was sitting next to her. She was startled to see tenderness in his face, an emotion she had certainly never witnessed in him before.
He offered her the glass in his hand.
"Brandy," he said gruffly, looking past her out the porthole at the dark sky. When she hesitated, he took her hand and wrapped it around the glass. "Right now you don't want to be thinking too clearly," he said. "Drink."
She put the glass to her lips and the warm liquid cascaded, down her throat. Gamble sat back in the leather and motioned Lucas to leave. The Triton CEO absently rubbed the armrest as he surveyed the cabin. He had removed his suit jacket and his rolled-up shirt-sleeves revealed surprisingly muscular forearms. The plane's engines droned deep in the background. Sidney could almost feel the electrical currents running amok through her as she waited for Gamble to speak. She had seen him completely devastate people at all levels of authority with his relentless disregard for personal feelings. Now, even through the veil of utter grief, she sensed the presence of a different, more caring man next to her.
"I'm very sorry about your husband." Sidney was dimly conscious of how in at ease Gamble seemed. His hands were constantly in motion, as though matching the maneuvers of his very active mind.
Sidney glanced at him as she took another swallow of brandy.
"Thank you," she managed to say.
"I really didn't know him personally. Company as big as Triton, hell, I'm lucky if I meet even ten percent of the management-level people." Gamble sighed and, as if suddenly noticing the ceaseless dance of his hands, folded them across his lap. "Of course, I knew him by reputation and he was moving up quickly. By most accounts he would've made very good executive material."
Sidney winced at the words. She thought back to Jason's news that very morning. A new job, a vice presidency, a new life for them all.
And now? She quickly finished the brandy and managed to forestall a sob before it broke the surface. When she glanced again at Gamble, he was looking directly at her. "I might as well get this out now, although it's a rotten time to do it, I know." He paused and studied her face. Sidney braced herself again; her fingers instinctively gripped the armrest as she tried hard not to shake. She swallowed an enormous lump in her throat. The chairman's eyes were no longer tender.
"Your husband was on a plane to Los Angeles." He licked his lips nervously and leaned toward her. "Not at home." Sidney unconsciously nodded, as she knew exactly what the next question would be.
"You were aware of this?"
For one brief moment Sidney felt as if she were floating through the dense clouds without the benefit of a $25 million jet. Time seemed suspended, but actually only a few seconds had passed before she uttered her response. "No." She had never lied to a client before; the word had escaped her lips before she knew it. She was certain he didn't believe her. But it was too late to go back now. Gamble searched her features for a few more seconds, then sat back in his seat. For the moment he was motionless, as if satisfied he had made his point. Abruptly, he patted Sidney's arm and stood up. "When we land, I'll have my limo take you home. You have kids?"
"One daughter." Sidney stared up at him, bewildered that the interrogation had ended so suddenly.
"Just tell the driver where to go and he'll pick her up too. She in day care?" Sidney nodded. Gamble shook his head. "Every kid's in damned day care these days."
Sidney thought of her plans to stay home to raise Amy. She was a single parent now. The revelation made her almost dizzy. If Gamble hadn't been there, she would have slumped to the floor in agony. She looked up to find Gamble eyeing her, one hand gingerly rubbing his forehead. "You need anything else?"
She managed to hold up the empty glass. "Thanks, this helped quite a bit."
He took the glass. "Booze usually does." He started to leave, then paused. "Triton takes good care of its employees, Sidney. You need anything--money, funeral arrangements, help with the house or kid, stuff like that--we have people to handle it. Don't be afraid to give us a call."
"I won't. Thank you."
"And if you want to talk anymore about... things"--his eyebrows shot up suggestively--"you know where to find me."
He walked off and Richard Lucas quietly resumed his sentry post.
Shaking slightly, Sidney once again closed her eyes. The plane raced on. All she wanted to do was hold her daughter.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sitting on the side of the bed, the man stripped down to his boxers.
Outside, the sun was not yet up. His body was heavily muscled.
A tattoo of a coiled snake rode on his left biceps. Three packed bags stood ready by the bedroom door. A U.S. passport, a batch of airline tickets, cash and identification documents had been waiting for him as promised. They were in a small leather pouch on top of one of the travel bags. His name would change once again, not for the first time in his crime-laden life.
He wouldn't be fueling any more planes. Not that he would ever need to work again. The electronic deposit of funds into the offshore account had been confirmed. He now had the kind of wealth that had eluded him his entire life despite all his past efforts. Even with his long experience in criminal matters, his hands still shook as he pulled the hairpiece, oval turquoise-colored eyeglasses and tinted contacts from a small bag. Although probably weeks would pass before anyone could figure out what had happened, in his line of work you always planned for worst-case scenario. That dictated running immediately and running far. He was well prepared to do both.
He thought back to recent events. He had tossed the plastic container into the Potomac River after he had rid it of its contents; it would never be found. There were no prints to pick
up, no other physical evidence left behind. If they found anything tying him to the plane sabotage, he would be long gone anyway. Moreover, the name he had been living under for the last two months would lead them to a complete dead end.
He had killed before, but certainly not on such a vast and impersonal scale. He had always had a reason to kill--if not a personal one, then one supplied by whoever had hired him. This time the sheer number and complete anonymity of the murdered people managed to prick even his hardened conscience. He had not stayed around to see who had boarded the aircraft. He had been paid to do a job and he had done it. He would use the vast sums now at his disposal to forget how he had earned that money. He figured it would not take him all that long.
He sat down in front of the small mirror resting on the table in the bedroom. The wig changed his curly dark hair to a wavy blond.
A new suit, far removed in its sleek elegance from the clothing he had just discarded, was hanging on the door. He cupped his hand and bent his head low as he concentrated on inserting the contact lenses that would change his low-key brown eyes to a startling blue.
He rose back up to check the effect in the mirror and felt the elongated muzzle of the Sig P229 placed directly against the base of his skull. With the sharpened perception that accompanies panic, he noticed how the attached suppressor almost doubled the barrel length of the compact 9mm.
His absolute shock lasted barely a second as he felt the cold metal against his skin, saw the dark eyes staring at him in the mirror's reflection, the mouth set in a firm line. His own countenance often held a similar look right before a kill. Taking the life of another human being had always been a serious business to him. Now, in the mirror he watched, mesmerized, as another face went through his very own signature ritual. Then he watched with growing surprise as the features of the person about to kill him next turned to anger and then moved to unadulterated loathing, emotions he had never felt in the midst of an execution. The victim's eyes grew wide as he focused on the finger tightening on the trigger. His mouth moved to say something, probably an expletive; however, the words were not formed in time, as the round exploded into his brain. He jerked backward from the impact and then collapsed forward onto the little table. The killer tossed his
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