Final Approach

by John J. Nance

  “Not at this moment, though that could change. I mean, if it’s sabotage, why ground it?”

  “Well, until we know more, tell him to back off, that no grounds exist. And when you do, you tell him—if he asks—that you and I have not discussed this. Make him believe that his little extracurricular contact is safe.”

  “I can’t—”

  “What, lie? You can’t tell him that?”

  “I’d prefer not to.”

  Farris looked Joe in the eye for perhaps the first time in their conversation. “I’m not going to order you to lie, Joe. But try not to let on that I know he called you.”

  “Why?”

  “Intelligence, man. Draw him out. What the hell is he up to? Is it what I think? Is he trying to draw a smoke screen around the FAA’s role in all this? And if so, why is he so frantic? I’ve got to know—fast—and you’re the guy who can find out.”

  Bill Caldwell took the phone call in the den, at his wife’s small Chippendale desk. She had answered the call, a surprised look crossing her face as she informed him that North America’s CEO wanted to talk with him immediately and sounded upset.

  “Hello.”

  “Bill Caldwell?”

  “Yes.”

  “David Bayne. Sorry to call you at home, but I’ve had a disturbing phone call from one of my vice-presidents in Kansas City.”

  “Oh?”

  “Look, I’ll be brutally frank with you, Bill.” The uninvited use of his first name put Caldwell instantly on guard as Bayne continued. “My man overheard one of your FAA people in a restaurant booth behind him this evening talking about his orders from Washington, supposedly from your office, and that they were to take the position that North America was at fault in this crash because our pilots knowingly flew into windshear. He also said you’ve issued a press release announcing that you’ve asked the FBI to investigate several things, including the possibility of radio sabotage, even though no one has any evidence of sabotage, including Congressman Wilkins’s staff.”

  Bill Caldwell could feel his temperature rising and cautioned himself to tread with care.

  Bayne continued, his voice betraying anger. “Now, because I believe neither you nor the administrator would ever tilt an investigation, I discounted it. I still discount it, though you have some personnel in Kansas City who need straightening out. I’d appreciate some assurance from you, and I ask this apologetically, but also as the man responsible for the welfare of this company, for your personal assurance that the FAA is not in any way trying to push or shove the NTSB to prejudge this accident against our people just to protect the FAA’s interests.”

  Bill Caldwell mentally counted to ten, absolutely enraged at the gall of Bayne to make such an accusation, directly or obliquely. “David, in no way do you need such assurance, because you already have it. You know, someone leaked that control-tower tape yesterday, and we were mightily embarrassed about that. Naturally, we can’t help but wonder. I have to assume that whoever did that was trying to put our people in a bad light with technical conversations the public will misinterpret. You see, I could ask you similar questions about that one, considering it’s no secret North America would be well served by a finding of air-traffic-control error—which we do not think occurred.”

  “Now you’re accusing my people, Bill? Hah.” There was a brief pause before Bayne continued. “Well, actually, I suppose that’s fair, considering I suspect your people.”

  “Nice of you to recognize the mutual problem,” Caldwell said acidly, “but what do you propose we do about it?”

  There was a protracted silence from Dallas before Bayne replied, “I just want to make sure we leave this investigating team alone to make their own decisions without pressure. Your people start coming to windshear conclusions, its going to beg the question of who did or did not tell our crew about the presence of windshear, okay? Nothing will be accomplished by that type of fight.” Clever, Caldwell thought, very clever. Bayne obviously wanted to start a public fight over exactly that: windshear. Which meant he already knew windshear wasn’t the cause. It was a classic diversionary tactic, but this time the FAA wasn’t going to fall for it. “David, let’s both look into this and keep in touch.”

  “Fair enough.” They ended the call with the same correct and feigned friendliness. Bill Caldwell hesitated less than a second before raising the phone again and punching in the number of his lieutenant in Kansas City, instinctively aware that from Dallas, David Bayne was doing the same thing with his people—the opening shots of what could become a war between the airline and the Agency.

  “Johnson? This is Bill Caldwell. I want you to get the entire FAA team together, and also the tower chief, and tell them from here out to keep their damn mouths shut and understand that North America is going to do everything they can to argue about windshear in the media, so they can then pin this crash on us for not giving them enough information. I want everyone on their guard, you understand? And I want to know by sundown who leaked that fucking tape!”

  It was a very sheepish and embarrassed Andy Wallace who relayed the news to Joe Wallingford around 5:30 P.M. Washington time on Wednesday. They had been right on one count: the mystery box they had found was definitely not from the A320. But it wasn’t the tool of any saboteur, either. It was, instead, a garden variety antenna coupler from the upper fuselage of the Boeing 737 which had been smashed and mixed with other stray wires as the A320 plowed through the 737’s fuselage, dragging the little box along and depositing it in the tangled remains of the Airbus’s flight controls. “We saw it and pounced on it at once, Joe. We didn’t think it through. There’s so much pressure on sabotage with this one, it seemed like an answer. None of us thought it might have come from the Boeing.”

  “Andy, it’s okay. I’ve been pushing all of you too hard.”

  “Joe, one other problem. So many of the non-NTSB members know about the box by now, the media may seize on it as the cause of the crash. Someone’s bound to leak it.”

  12

  Thursday, October 18

  Senator Kell Martinson had slept poorly Wednesday night, his mind occupied with Cindy’s warnings that he had to defuse the search for his car, and fast.

  Kell got up at 5 A.M. and stood in the shower for nearly thirty minutes, unable to decide what to do, a dilemma finally resolved by the Washington Post’s Thursday installment of the Larry Wilkins saga. The NTSB, it reported, had asked the FBI for help, admitting that the possibility of sabotage was real. Kell assumed the “mystery car” was the only thing keeping the sabotage theory alive. That meant he had to confess. There seemed no alternative.

  Kell got off the elevators on the eighth floor of the FAA building at 8 A.M. and headed straight for Joe Wallingford’s office.

  Joe Wallingford, meanwhile, had plopped his overstuffed briefcase behind his desk as he came through the door at 7:30, eyeing his desk chair like a long-lost friend. That was a satisfying habit, tossing his briefcase down with feigned resignation and disgust, registering a resounding start to each day (though the habit had taken a toll on his overused brown leather case).

  His office was a refuge of sorts, and he sorely needed it. The circus of confusion and upset and professional peril that had characterized the last few days had followed him back from Kansas City, tumbling along at his heels like an overly exuberant, homeless mutt, eager to come in and muddy up the carpets. At least his office was familiar territory, and he would need that touchstone in the next few weeks.

  Wallingford leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head, regarding the government-issue office with the critical eye of a neutral observer. His standard-issue bookshelves lined the exterior wall to the left of the door, stuffed with folders and books and cardboard file boxes. It was all organized and neat, yet it gave the impression of frantic overburdening of mind and matter with an avalanche of details carried on a snowstorm of paper.

  “Joe Wallingford?”

  The sharply dressed man had materialized in
the doorway. Joe hadn’t heard him approaching.

  “Yes?” The man seemed vaguely familiar as he entered with his hand outstretched, wearing a serious expression. Joe almost missed the little pin in his lapel—the identifying symbol of a member of Congress.

  “I’m Senator Kell Martinson of Kansas. Wonder if we could talk in private a few minutes.”

  “Of course. Come in.” Joe left his chair and walked around his desk toward Kell with his hand extended. “Sit down, please. What on earth brings the chairman of the aviation subcommittee of the Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation to my humble abode?”

  Martinson was smiling at the recognition, Joe noticed, but it was a strained smile. Something was really bothering the man. Kell Martinson quietly closed the door as Joe walked back around the desk to sit down.

  “Joe, what I’m going to discuss with you could end my political career. I’m asking for no special favors, and there are no restrictions on what I’m about to say. But I am going to ask something of you when I’m finished.” Martinson sat down carefully, resting his arm on the desk.

  Joe Wallingford looked the senator straight in the eye. “Go on, please,” he said.

  “The so-called mystery car in Kansas City was mine.” Martinson let that sink in for a second before continuing. “I was driving it. That was me who sped out of the cargo area after the crash last Friday.”

  He said nothing else for a few seconds, watching Joe’s face before continuing. Joe was working hard to show no reaction, though he was profoundly startled. “I was there on purely personal business. Nothing illegal or unethical, just there to meet a particular individual at a point in time when I was supposed to be in Wichita, three hundred miles away. I got there early; my friend was coming in on Flight 255; I’m a pilot, so I decided to get close to the runway and watch them land.”

  “That’s a restricted area, you know.”

  “They need to tighten their security, Joe. I just killed my headlights and rolled through the security gate behind a crew bus. No trouble at all. I knew the gate opens automatically on the way out.”

  “But why, uh …”

  “Why come tell you this? Why now?”

  “I guess that was what I was trying to ask.”

  “Okay. I had no way of knowing there had been a missed flight in Washington. I thought my friend had been killed. I mean, I saw the damn thing crash right in front of me. I was convinced no one could have come out of that Airbus alive. I was wrong on that score, of course. But out of sheer panic I decided to get the hell out of there. I was in a very agitated state, and I knew I’d be identified and politically embarrassed if I stayed—I had no idea how much. It wasn’t until Saturday that I heard the media getting excited about this so-called mystery car, which was my Riviera.”

  “A maintenance worker claims you nearly ran him down.”

  “It wasn’t that close, but I scared both of us, yeah.” Martinson dropped his gaze for a moment, examining the edge of the desk as he shifted slightly in his chair and thought for a second about how to phrase the rest of it. The man has an intense way of looking you in the eye, Joe thought to himself. Direct, firm, giving the impression of sincerity.

  Martinson’s head came up again, his eyes locking onto Joe once more. “Point one, I should not have been in the restricted area. Point two, I was not there for any nefarious purpose, and I certainly had nothing to do with the crash, or any radio gear, or any of the other nonsense the press has been putting out. Point three, I should have come to you or called you on Saturday, or sometime before now. I have no good excuse for waiting. Frankly, like anyone in political life, whenever I focused on it, it became a political problem. It was a Nixonian response, of course, but I fell into it. No one saw the license plate or the driver, so that was that. Monday I did some probing. I’ve got some friends at the FBI, and one of them reported that the lab had failed in its attempt to read the license on that videotape, and that meant I was safe. So I decided I’d let it blow over.” He paused again, still looking Joe in the eye.

  “Why are you here, then, Senator?”

  “Because it isn’t blowing over, and I have to assume you and the FBI and God knows who else are wasting a lot of valuable time looking for a car and driver that had virtually nothing to do with bringing those two airliners together.”

  “What are you asking, Senator? You know I have to act on this.”

  “Joe, this is going to be difficult, and frankly I can’t think of a single reason why you should do it for me. I have no political favors I can grant you, and it would be inappropriate to dangle such a carrot anyway. But I must ask you if you could see your way clear to keeping my name out of this. I ask this because my presence there really was a fluke, and my career stands in the balance.”

  Joe sat back in his chair and looked at Martinson. The request was nothing if not direct. No strings, no blustering, just a plea for help from a rather powerful fellow whose career, according to him, had just been placed in Joe Wallingford’s care. A powerful fellow, he reminded himself, who was also on the subcommittee that controlled NTSB funding and oversight.

  “One question, sir.”

  “Kell.”

  “Okay, Kell. One question. Why would your presence in Kansas City be politically fatal?”

  Kell looked at him for the longest time before answering. “Are you married, Joe?”

  “Uh, yes. I mean, I was. I’m divorced now.”

  “Well, I’m about 95 percent there, Joe. I’m in the process of getting divorced. My wife hated being a senator’s wife and hates Washington. It’s been hopeless for some time.”

  “So your friend in Kansas City was an inbound lady love.”

  “That is correct. And I’m not single as yet, and my state can be devastatingly straitlaced. But now, after my waiting around like a coward, it would all blow up in my face.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Well, that’s point one.” Kell hesitated, wondering how much to tell.

  “And point two?” Joe prompted.

  “Did you know I’m considered Larry Wilkins’s number-one enemy in Washington? And there I sat, watching him die. His people are already claiming foul play.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Right. You can imagine what his fanatical mob would make of it if they knew I had been right there, even though I hadn’t the slightest idea Wilkins would be on that plane.” Kell filled him in on the background of his opposition to Wilkins, but stopped short of bringing in the Star Wars problem. There was too much classified information involved.

  Joe nodded and drummed his fingers lightly on the arm of his chair.

  “Senator, the FBI and the FAA are involved, and under pressure. Congressman Wilkins’s people are calling this an assassination. I can’t just say, ‘Hey! We found the mystery car, and don’t worry about a thing, the driver didn’t do it.’”

  Kell was nodding resolutely. “I understand, Joe. My telling you was not predicated, by the way, on your helping keep this quiet. I can’t in good conscience let this mystery continue, whatever happens to me.”

  Joe came forward in his chair, a pained expression on his face. “Dammit, Senator, if you just hadn’t been in the restricted area …”

  “I know. I know. Hindsight, Joe. I was feeling cocky and bold. Senators should never feel cocky and bold, I guess.”

  Both men sat in silence for twenty seconds or so before trying to talk at once.

  “No, go ahead Joe.”

  “Look, you … you need to get over to the FBI quickly. Right now, in fact. I can tell you who to see, and I’ll call him—tell him we’re satisfied. But they’re controlling the criminal side of this investigation, and it is top priority.”

  Kell nodded again. “Okay, I guess they need to know. I had heard they couldn’t read the license plate.” Kell said it again, hopefully, knowing it was immaterial now. He saw Joe lean over and open his briefcase in response, pull out a manila envelope with a NASA logo in the upper left-hand
corner, place it on the desk and slide something out from within, turning it around and pushing it across the desktop toward him. It was a black-and-white photograph done by some sort of computer scanner, a side-view shot of the left front bumper of a late-model car, the license plate hidden behind something in the foreground. But clearly visible was the sticker on the edge of the bumper, a monthly parking sticker with a registration number and the name of the city: Wichita.

  “You’re right. The FBI lab couldn’t read the license plate. But they didn’t look any further. After the FBI returned the tape, I decided to look at it myself, and I saw something on the left side of the bumper. A friend of mine at NASA computer enhanced it for me. He brought this by the house last night after I returned from Kansas City.”

  “And,” Kell finished the thought, “you were going to call the garage in Wichita this morning to find who spot 344 was registered to.”

  “You bet I was! I couldn’t quite believe I’d found something the mighty FBI couldn’t find, but there it is.”

  Kell studied the photograph, then sat back. “If you’ll give me the agent’s name, I’ll go right over there.”

  Joe pulled the FBI card from his pocket and called the man’s office, setting up an appointment for the senator within the hour without explaining why.

  “Senator, I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll talk to him by phone later and let him know we’re satisfied. I’m just glad you didn’t wait any longer to come in. If you’d waited until I handed them this …” He gestured to the NASA photo.

  “Joe, what do you think caused the crash? Is sabotage really a viable possibility? Or is that just Wilkins’s people spinning paranoid conspiracy stories?”

  “Two nights ago I thought we had ironclad evidence of sabotage. My people found an electronic box in the wreckage we thought might have manipulated the controls on the Airbus, but it turned out to be nothing. Now the only remaining possibility, I’m told, is if some extremely powerful microwave or radar source was very close to the airplane. If someone used a transmitter like that—either on purpose or accidentally—it’s theoretically possible it could have interfered with the electronic flight controls. It’s happened before, to the Army’s Blackhawk helicopter. The damn things would fly by a microwave transmission tower and the fly-by-wire controls would go full nose down, diving them into the ground. It took several losses before anyone figured out what was happening. But, you see, here that’s just not possible. There’s no transmitter that powerful anywhere close to Kansas City.”