Final Approach

by John J. Nance

  The feeling of being at home and at peace was strongest here, Kell thought. Washington and Wichita were places he lived, but this was where he belonged. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the front hall reverberating off the oak floors or the creak of the timbers in the house as they gave slightly under the force of a rising wind were sounds that had remained the same all through his life. They were a constant, and a balm to the pain he was feeling now—pain mixed with fatigue as sleep overtook him at last.

  Kell awoke suddenly, realizing he had been dozing at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. He glanced at his watch, reading 6:03 A.M., and moved to the television set, snapping on the satellite dish translator and the TV, checking to see if it was tuned to CNN. Their logo flashed on the screen, followed by the introduction of a newsman visible in a box next to the anchor’s image in Atlanta, live from Kansas City Airport.

  His stomach was tightly clenched in an instant. The crash had seemed like a horrible nightmare, but here it was again in garish color, the aircraft wreckage illuminated by searchlights serving as a backdrop for the man’s report. There were 141 known dead, and 38 survivors so far, including the pilots from both aircraft. But there was a desperate rescue going on with as many as 6 survivors trapped in the wreckage of one airliner. Kell tensed at the news, until the reporter confirmed it was the departing flight—the 737—that held the trapped passengers. Cindy could not be among them.

  The bodies of victims had not been removed from the crash site pending arrival of the NTSB team, who were said to be on their way from Washington. They would, the correspondent promised, hold a preliminary news conference later in the day, and that would be reported on the evening news. Suddenly the image of grieving people covered the screen as a background to the reporter’s words. Apparently a camera crew in Dallas had caught the looks of utter disbelief and agony on the faces of friends and relatives who had come to Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport to pick up those who had never left the Kansas City taxiway. Kell winced at the camera’s voyeuristic intrusion. An airline representative was trying his best to move the people into a private room and away from the camera, but the camera followed them, and in the faces of the relatives who stood confused and uncertain before the lens, Kell recognized expressions of the same fear mixed with agonized hope he had felt several hours before as he had searched the Kansas City hospitals by phone, frantically trying to find Cindy listed as injured and alive rather than the alternative.

  The reporter in Kansas City was back on the screen, holding a microphone in his left hand, his hair whipped by a cold breeze, and wearing a black raincoat glistening with moisture from the gray skies overhead.

  “With the crash of North America 255 only hours old, there is only speculation this morning over whether thunderstorms, sabotage, an engine fire, or something else brought down this sophisticated new Airbus 320 as the captain made his second try at the runway last night. We do know his first landing attempt had to be aborted because of dangerous wind currents pilots call ‘windshear.’” The screen dissolved then to a prerecorded report on microbursts with graphic pictures of downward-moving columns of air striking the ground and radiating high-speed wind currents away from the center in all directions. A narrator explained how an airplane flying through the middle would travel from a headwind instantly into a tailwind, and how the resulting loss of forward wind speed over the wings could cause the airplane to stall, and drop.

  Kell ached for some coffee or something to drink, but he would not let himself move—as if hanging on to every word might somehow resurrect hope for Cindy, though he knew better.

  The reporter returned to the screen. “As for the report of an engine fire, at least one eyewitness has said he saw the aircraft on fire, or trailing sparks from the engines, just before impact. But there is another, more sinister possibility. Within hours of the crash, reports began circulating that controversial congressman Larry Wilkins, of Louisiana, was on board the flight from Washington, and that the crash was not an accident, but was the result of sabotage aimed at killing the congressman.”

  Kell Martinson’s mind snapped to attention. It wasn’t just the mention of a fellow member of Congress, it was which member of Congress. Wilkins! A new cascade of conflicting thoughts raced through Kell’s mind at high speed. Larry Wilkins was an embarrassment to the dignity of the Congress, and Kell had said so publicly, getting caught up in a controversy he hadn’t needed to create. Cindy had been furious.

  Cindy! The thought that she had perished on the same airplane—that he had watched that fascist bastard from Louisiana die in the same wreckage—infuriated him. It was as if Wilkins’s presence in the twisted rubble somehow desecrated her memory.

  The newsman was still talking, and Kell suppressed his shock to listen.

  “… from what we’ve learned. The NTSB’s first representative on the scene has refused comment, but we have learned that Kansas City Airport police are already investigating the presence of an unauthorized car in the vicinity of the crash site moments before the disaster. The car was described as a late-model luxury car with Kansas plates. It nearly ran down an airline employee as it left the cargo ramp area, as I say, moments after the crash. The man who had to jump out of its way could not get the license number, but he did see that it was a Kansas license plate, and he described the car as either a silver Pontiac Grand Am or a Buick Riviera.”

  Senator Kell Martinson was on the edge of his chair now, thoroughly rattled, remembering from some recess of his memory the image of a man leaping out of his way back at the airport. He strained to hear more from the announcer. What had he said? The man didn’t get the license plate? That was it. Thank God! But evidence of any unauthorized car would keep the rumor of sabotage going, and the FBI would go crazy until they found the car. His car. And him.

  “Jesus Christ!” Kell flung the words softly to the figure on the TV screen as the reporter resumed his report: “We’ve talked with officials of the airline, and now I have with me Mr. Bill Rustigan, who is station manager for North America Airlines here in Kansas City.” A tall, nearly bald man in a wrinkled business suit moved forward in response, a look of great uncertainty on his face.

  “Mr. Rustigan, I understand there were quite a few friends and relatives of both the inbound and outbound passengers here in the terminal when the crash occurred. What were you able to do for them? How do you handle this sort of thing?”

  Rustigan thought the question over slowly before answering. “Well, you can plan, but this has never happened to us before. We tried to get all the affected people into a conference room near Gate 14, and that was difficult because they were wandering all over the place in shock. One man even took one of our cargo tugs and dashed to the scene to look for his wife and kids.”

  “Once you got everyone in one place, what did you do?” the reporter, a young newsman named Dawson, asked.

  The station manager looked at Dawson in disbelief. “What can you do? We sit with them, we try to help them deal with this, call other relatives … make some effort to hand them off to friends or relatives. We try not to leave them by themselves. That would be totally inhumane. I mean, you do the best you can, right? It’s a horrible shock.” Rustigan gestured toward the runway, his right arm dropping loudly to his side again. “One second someone you love is leaving or arriving on a routine trip on the safest form of public transportation, and the next …” He gestured behind him again. “I’ll promise you this. We’ll stick with each and every one of them as long as they need us. I have a bunch of our people—agents, flight attendants, pilots, cargo handlers, and so on—sitting with the victims’ families. We’re all hurting. We lost some of our people, too.”

  North America’s morning flight from Washington nosed into Kansas City’s Gate 9 at 7:14 A.M. central time, the flight crew fighting knotted stomachs at the sight of burned airplane wreckage in the distance as they turned off the east-west runway. In the cabin, Joe Wallingford and the members of the NTSB Go Team
had looked out in silence as they passed, noses pressed to the frosty Plexiglas windows, their minds and metabolisms already gearing up for the challenges ahead.

  Out of habit, Joe positioned his NTSB identification badge on his suit-coat pocket before leaving his seat, filing out with the tidal wave of other passengers when the turn came for his row to leave. Dr. Kelly would already be out the door, he figured. He was wrong. She was waiting for him when he came through first class.

  “Joe, what’s first? The media?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. They may be there, but we can’t say anything yet.”

  “Isn’t that my job?” She asked the question with what sounded like an edge in her voice, or perhaps, Joe thought, I’m too tired to judge.

  “That’s your call, Doctor. It’s just that we don’t have anything to say officially right now.”

  “No, you didn’t understand me. When we decide to speak to them, shouldn’t I do the talking?”

  Joe smiled at her and nodded. “Yeah, when it’s time and you feel comfortable doing so.”

  Susan followed him into the jetway and up toward the terminal, both of them somewhat startled at the disheveled young man who caught them halfway.

  “Mr. Wallingford?” He inspected Joe’s badge, recognizing the name. “Ah, good. I’m Rich Carloni, your field man.”

  Joe put down his briefcase and shook Carloni’s hand, aware of other passengers beginning to push around them. Susan stayed in place behind him. “Rich, glad you’re here. This is Doctor Susan Kelly, one of the Board members.”

  Carloni reached out his hand, stretching past Joe and almost tripping on the down-slanted floor of the jetway. “Member Kelly? I’m glad to meet you.”

  “Why don’t we move on and you can brief us on the way,” Joe suggested.

  Carloni’s hand went up, motioning them to stay in place and to move to one side of the crowded passageway. “I need to tell you … the media’s all cranked up just outside the exit here waiting for you.”

  “How …?” Joe asked, only mildly concerned.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t tell them when you were coming, but they figured out you were on this flight. It is, as you might guess, a zoo around here. They’re everywhere, even clamoring to get cameras into the rescue scene at the end of the runway.”

  Joe looked at Carloni, taking in the deep blue-black crescents under his eyes, the smudges on his coat and face, his uncombed hair—all in contrast to his carefully tied necktie, which had not been loosened. He had obviously been working his tail off.

  “Recommendations?” Joe asked, looking him straight in the eye.

  “None. I just didn’t want you to get blindsided.”

  “We appreciate that.” Joe glanced at Susan Kelly, who was nodding.

  On Joe’s cue they resumed walking, emerging into the glare of a half dozen TV lights, squinting at the brightness, Joe shaking his head in the negative at the several offered microphones, yet nodding in as friendly a manner as he could while following Carloni. Carloni led them beyond a ticket counter to an unmarked wooden door, which opened into a small office with Spartan furnishings and the curious smell of stamp-pad ink.

  “I thought I’d better brief you here. The VIP lounge is in use for the, ah … victims’ families,” Carloni said.

  Joe motioned Susan to a chair, which she refused. He put down his briefcase then and leaned on the nearest desk as Rich Carloni took a deep breath.

  “Okay. First, the airport fire department rescue crews are having an awful time with the survivors in the 737. There were two rows toward the back … the structure just sort of folded around them, the floor cracked open, and they’re so tangled up in heavy, sharp metal, there’s no way to get them out without cutting in there piece by piece, or slowly pulling the pieces apart. Problem is, all of them are soaked in kerosene, and one mistake …”

  Joe nodded and glanced at Susan, who was expressionless.

  Carloni searched Joe’s face for a second before continuing.

  “It looks like of the six, only four may be alive, and they’re badly injured. We may be running out of time.”

  Joe raised his hand slightly and Carloni stopped. “Rich, don’t take this wrong, but since we have no authority over the rescue crews, unless there’s anything the Go Team needs to do in that rescue effort, let’s get the other matters out of the way.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Wallingford. I just came from there, and it’s … it’s very wrenching. There are children involved.”

  “What’s the status of wreckage security and distribution?” Joe asked, shifting the subject rapidly.

  “Most of the pieces, both large and small, are confined to the outer and inner taxiways alongside Runway 19, and the hammerhead area. Some pieces ended up on the runway. The front fuselage and cockpit section of the Airbus ended up in the grass halfway between the taxiways and the runway, and that, fortunately, didn’t burn. The pilot and copilot, two flight attendants, and twelve passengers came out of that section alive. I know we don’t have much time, but just so you know, the heroics of the two surviving flight attendants in getting the people away from the wreckage was something else! No one else on the Airbus made it. We have all the bodies that were thrown free marked and covered but not moved, waiting for you. My orders, in accordance with the handbook, were that the police not allow a single piece of wreckage to be moved except to pull out survivors. I think they’ve complied. The airport manager, by the way, wanted me to tell you he needs his runway open again as soon as possible.”

  Joe snorted. “It may be days. He has another runway, we just landed on it.”

  “There’s a big Air Force plane trapped down there, and I guess the crew is giving him a hard time, but I told him we couldn’t commit to when the wreckage could be moved.”

  “You told him right,” Joe confirmed. “Have you had time to make any ground arrangements?”

  “Yes. All done.” Carloni pulled a packet of papers from his coat pocket. “The manager of the Marriott here on the airport property came out hours ago and has helped set everything up. We have the main ballroom as the headquarters, and the phones will be in about now. I reserved fifteen rooms; I didn’t know who was coming, so there are no names attached. I’ve also got portable cellular phones for all of you rented from a rental-car counter. They’re expensive, but they’ll keep everyone on line and in touch. There are four rented minivans parked at the hotel and one parked at the curb here, and the airport police have already given me flight-line passes for them. Ah, I also rented one small conference room for interviews.”

  Carloni continued as Joe made notes, impressed with all the young investigator had accomplished.

  “How about passenger lists, survivor lists, hospitals, all that?” Joe asked.

  Carloni shook his head disgustedly. “North America’s command and control here is nonexistent. They’re in mass confusion. A fellow named Rustigan is their station manager, and he’s been so emotionally thwacked by all this, he makes promises but forgets them.”

  “The lists, then?”

  “Promised, but I haven’t seen anything yet.”

  The door to the office fairly burst open, revealing a disgusted Andy Wallace. “There you are! Joe, I’ve just come from baggage claim … these idiots have lost half our damn bags, including the field kit.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Yeah. They’re going back to the aircraft to check. The flight goes on to San Francisco. If they’re not there, they didn’t make it on in D.C.”

  Joe looked at Susan, who was shaking her head as well, then back at Andy. “File the reports, Andy, then get everyone over to the hotel and start rounding up the incoming team members from North America, Airbus, FAA, the Air Line Pilots Association—all of the parties who’re sending people. Stay in charge until I get there. Schedule an organizational meeting with just us staffers”—Joe stopped and glanced at Susan Kelly with a small grin—“plus the Board member at, say, nine A.M. Let’s tell the medi
a, if Dr. Kelly agrees, that we’ll do a conference for them around noon, and a briefing of all the parties at two P.M.”

  Andy reached for the doorknob, but Joe stopped him.

  “Andy, if you need to change any times, do it. Those are initial targets.”

  Andy Wallace smiled at Joe, appreciating the trust. His style of command under pressure had endeared Joe Wallingford to everyone. He was considerate, and that meant something.

  Joe wanted an initial tour of the wreckage, but for ten minutes more he and Carloni compared notes, Rich doing most of the talking, relating his actions and the problems that were already getting in the way of an orderly investigation.

  They left at Joe’s signal, getting into the rented minivan and entering the flight line, Carloni using a borrowed police radio to get clearance from ground control to enter the ramp area and taxiway.

  It was familiar, but it never became routine, looking in person at the immediate aftermath of a major air disaster. Susan was silent, her eyes intent on the scores of tarps covering the bodies of the dead, all of whom had been left in place.

  “My God,” she said softly.

  “The tail of the 320 is relatively intact,” Rich told them. “I imagine the voice and flight recorders will be found easily. Same for the 737 when the people are finally pulled out, though there won’t be a lot to read on those tapes, I suppose. They just were unfortunate to have been in the way.”

  They passed the separated forward section of the Airbus, which had been flung to the side as the aircraft disintegrated, and, weaving to avoid other clumps of wreckage, finally approached a confused mass of emergency vehicles, empty ambulances, cherry pickers, maintenance stands, and fire trucks surrounding a mass of jumbled aerospace metal with the remains of a 737 tail fin stabbing the murky air, the emblem of North America Airlines blaring its presence with the same incongruous impact of brightly colored plumage marking the fallen carcass of a dead bird.