Marine One (4 page)

Marcel leaned closer to me and said, "We are very concerned about this investigation. We are sure that at the end it will be shown to be pilot error… It is one of the reasons that I wanted you to come out here. I don't trust anyone." He looked around casually, then leaned toward me. "I am afraid the government will be listening to all my cell phones."

"Why do you think that?"

Marcel's face clouded. "Did you not see that senator?"

"Blankenship."

"Yes. His press conference at the Capitol.
He
is attacking WorldCopter. I think, as you Americans say, with a
vengeance
, a French word, which of course means the same thing in French, and we understand this. We
invented
this. And of course we have heard what you have heard, that the Justice Department also is beginning an investigation. As I recall, the Justice Department also includes the FBI, although I am not sure with Home Defense-"

"Homeland Security."

"Yes, but I am quite sure that they are investigating too. Many investigations, all with the purpose of making this our fault. So, if true, does that mean that they could listen in on our cell phones, Mr. Nolan? Hmm?"

This was already getting way more complex than the average aircraft case. It was the kind of case you long to have your whole professional life, yet also hope you never do. It's the kind of case that can make you and break you at the same time. "No, they won't be listening in on our calls. They know I'm an attorney. It would be privileged. I suppose they could claim they didn't know, so, yes, I guess it's possible they could be listening in, if they have a warrant. For other conversations, it wouldn't hurt to
assume
your calls were being monitored I suppose." If you want to be paranoid, I wanted to add, but thought better of it.

Marcel nodded. "Exactly. So you know about the Justice Department investigation? You will be there?"

"I'll be there. I'm taking Rachel too."

Marcel agreed. "Yes, it's good to have a woman there. Everything is different when a woman is there. They will be less aggressive."

"Don't bet on that. But she's going anyway."

A voice from behind us said, "Marcel." We turned and it was Rose. She was walking toward Marcel. We crossed to meet her. She spoke to him and ignored us.

"We found the CVR. Looks intact. We're getting it to the lab. If it's in as good a shape as it looks, we're going to play it tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. Just wanted you to know."

Marcel was shocked. "Where?"

"NTSB headquarters." She turned back to what she was doing to find the head of the engine manufacturer's investigation team.

Marcel almost smiled. "I am quite pleased we put these black boxes into the airplane. We should be able to find out what happened."

"It will certainly help."

He looked into my eyes to make sure I was listening. "I want you to be there too," he said, pointing at my chest. "At the playing of the tape. You're a pilot." Marcel returned to what he was doing, and Rachel and I were left alone. She was videotaping the NTSB inspectors doing their work. "Videotape everything, twice. I've got to look around."

I walked around the perimeter and just looked. I tried to absorb what it was telling me. An accident site speaks to you like a painting. You may not get it the first time, or even the second. And years later, when you look at it again, you'll see new things. That morning every blade of grass, every piece of metal, every pattern, had something to say, something about how this helicopter had ended up where it did and why it crashed. I wasn't an expert in accident reconstruction, but I had learned that when those experts did form their conclusions, I'd often notice something either by having been there or from a photograph that caused me to question their conclusions. And sometimes it made a difference.

I walked away from the tarp and found pieces of wreckage a hundred feet and more away from the impact point. I was sure the NTSB would find every piece and create a wreckage diagram. I'd had bad experiences where they had missed things, but this was Marine One. They wouldn't leave anything undone. And if they needed an army to find things, they had the entire FBI at their disposal.

I looked at the trees and the ravine and tried to visualize what had happened in the dark night. I imagined the helicopter with its lights flashing and its blades desperately trying to keep the helicopter in the air as it plummeted through these tall trees in the dark in its dying seconds, in a hail of shattered blades, screaming jet engines, breaking metal, and death. I began to wonder if it had been on fire
before
it hit. That might explain everything. And I couldn't forget that it might have been shot down.

WE GOT TOWED up the giant mud hill by a massive Marine Corps truck and drove back to my house in the dark. We arrived about eight, completely exhausted. Rachel went on her way, and I spent an hour explaining to Debbie what I had been doing all day. Later that night I typed the twenty-page to-do list that had been spinning in my head since the morning. It was more stressful
not
to write it down and run the risk of forgetting things than it was to stay up through my exhaustion and write it. At least I had the beginning of a plan, including responding to the investigations I knew about, and the others that were sure to come. The government investigations would be the heart of it. If they were able to hang this on WorldCopter, lawsuits and the collapse of the company would surely follow. We had to blunt the attack in the beginning. After finishing the list, I collapsed into bed.

The next morning I stood under my open garage door at 6 AM drinking hot coffee waiting for Rachel. The rain still poured down from the same massive storm that had been blowing on the South Lawn when President Adams had insisted on going to Camp David. Rachel pulled up and we climbed into my Volvo SUV. It was still coated with Maryland mud everywhere the rain couldn't reach. We headed off to D.C.

Neither of us spoke for the first fifteen minutes as we waited for the coffee to kick in. She looked tired and put her head back on the headrest.

I turned down NPR, which was covering the crash and the implications. "You okay?"

"Tired."

The rain slackened. "That's the first time you've ever been to a crash site, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"What'd you think?"

She rolled her head toward me against the headrest. "It's also the first time I've ever seen a dead body."

"Really?"

"I've seen pictures, but I've never seen a dead body. Outside of a casket."

"Sticks with you, doesn't it?"

Rachel slowly moved her hand up and down the shoulder harness across her chest. "I think I was up all night. I couldn't get the image of A3 out of my mind."

A3 was the nickname given to President James Adams, or maybe chosen by him. Although he was now simply known as "the deceased president," James Adams claimed to be descended from John Adams of colonial fame and his son John Quincy Adams. So he claimed to be the third Adams president, which everyone abbreviated as A3. Some in the political press claimed that one of the men in Adams 's line of descent had been adopted and he didn't therefore count. But none of that stopped the usually critical press from making endless jokes about the Adams Family as just an extension of the television show.

President Adams had loved the nickname A3. He loved the historical resonance he believed he got from being in the lineage of two of the first six presidents of the United States.

Rachel continued, "All I could see was A3 lying there on the ground with his lips burned back over his teeth." She stopped as she studied the image again. "Like a big shit-eating grin. One of those things you wish you had never seen, but you can't tear your eyes away." She glanced up at me in the morning dimness, probably wanting me to say something deep.

I nodded. "I've seen enough dead bodies that I don't notice so much. But it's always different when they're burned. It's just more… obscene. Like they've been defaced. I don't mean that literally… I mean that it's like it burned away their identity."

Rachel nodded. "I just hope I don't start snoring when they're playing the cockpit voice recorder."

"Not likely. There are few things more riveting than listening to the cockpit voice recorder of an airplane that
you
know is going to crash but the ones speaking don't." I turned onto the freeway heading west to D.C. "Plus, I want you to do more than just listen. I want you to watch the other people in the room. Sit in the back, see how they're reacting. See when the people glance at each other like they've heard something significant or noteworthy."

"Do you have any more coffee?" Rachel asked.

"On the floor behind my seat."

She didn't move. "Maybe I'll just get some sleep on the way down."

"No way. We've got lots to discuss. I'll talk, you write." I handed her my to-do list.

Like the naval officer she used to be, she sat up without protest and got out her notepad. I handed her my typed to-do list, and we went through everything, from understanding the manufacturing process, getting diagrams and the maintenance manuals for the helicopter, to checking newspaper and Internet materials on every wacky theory that was already being circulated. I knew how this investigation was going to be conducted. Not only would no stone be left unturned, but each stone would be smashed open and examined from the inside, regardless of whose stones they were. Of course what was on everyone's mind, and what the NTSB didn't yet deny, was that maybe terrorists had finally taken out the president. The thought sent chills through the government and the entire country. No one had seen any evidence of terrorism, or even foul play, but a lot of FBI experts could be talking to each other about that very thing and not WorldCopter, or me, or the press.

I felt my BlackBerry buzzing. I grabbed it, pushed the phone button, and answered, "Mike Nolan."

"Mike, Kathryn."

"Morning."

"Where are you? I called your office and they said you were on your way to D.C., but I didn't think your meeting with WorldCopter was until lunch."

"The NTSB is going to play the CVR this morning. Marcel wanted me to be there."

"Mike, you've got to keep me posted on what you're doing. I needed to know that. I might have liked to listen to the tape. What time are they playing it?"

"Sorry, I didn't think about that. Nine o'clock." I looked at the clock on the dash. "You might still make it if you left now."

"Too late." She sounded perturbed. "Look, I was talking to Richard in London, and he said he's glad you're aboard, but he may bring on some help."

Richard was the CEO of Aviation Insurers International, based in London. He was Kathryn's boss. I saw the car in front of me suddenly slow as the nose of the car dipped-he was braking hard. I hit the brakes and could feel the antilock brakes take effect as I tried to slow without hitting him. I tried not to fire off an expletive.

"What kind of help?"

"A couple of people, really. He mentioned Mark Brightman, on the civil side."

Everybody knew who Brightman was. The aggressive defense lawyer from New York City carried his New York attitude with him everywhere he went. "Seriously?"

"Yes, we're thinking about it."

"You said a couple."

"He was thinking of getting someone who has experience in Washington with these political witch hunts."

"Who?"

"Not sure yet. Some big names. I'm not sure what's going to happen."

I was annoyed but said nothing. "Just let me know."

I drove into downtown Washington with the familiar monuments pointing to the sky, which was beginning to clear from the lingering storm. The city now had a new president. Vice President Donald Cunningham had been sworn in as president of the United States the day before, while Rachel and I were out in the mud. All the news reports mentioned how his hand visibly shook on the Bible. Reporters were surprised by his nervousness. They took it as a reaction to the rumors that they had started and were now rampant that the vice president felt that he was in danger; he believed the president had been murdered. That was
really
helpful to us. Most of the talk was about "murder" by WorldCopter through their incompetence, their "uncleared" workers who undoubtedly sabotaged the helicopter, the dead rotor blade lying in the dirt, and the evil foreign corporations who had stolen this major contract from its rightful owner, the American manufacturer who had been making the presidential helicopters for the last fifty years. It was a classic example of what the press was so good at-taking a small piece of information, breaking it up into even smaller threads, and weaving a conspiracy. Really helpful.

We drove to NTSB headquarters and parked a couple of blocks away. We put on our suit coats and walked toward the building. The whole city felt different. It was hard to describe. It was as if the entire city were in a faint shadow of a massive object high above that was about to fall on it. The shadow would be there until the city knew what had happened to their president, or until the object landed on them.

The lobby was jammed with reporters and cameras. I said to Rachel, "Don't say anything."

The reporters looked at us, wondered who we were, and finally decided to ask. One reporter with a local Washington television station ran up to me and stuck a microphone in my face. Her cameraman had his Sony television camera on his shoulder with its red recording light illuminated. She asked me, "Are you here to listen to the cockpit voice recorder?"

"Yes, I am."

"And who are you?"

"I'm Mike Nolan."

"Who are you with?"

"I'm with her," I said, indicating. "Excuse us."

"Are you an attorney?" she asked to my back.

I didn't respond as I walked to the receptionist and gave her my driver's license. She looked at the list and checked my name off and handed me a visitor's badge. I passed through the turnstiles and took the elevator to the fourth floor, where I knew the large hearing room was. It was eight thirty and only ten other people were there, several from the NTSB, and several men who looked to me to be with the Secret Service. The room was government-stark. The paintings on the wall looked like photocopies of bad art in cheap metal frames. Two long metal tables were up front with fifty or so metal chairs placed like audience seats throughout the rest of the room with a narrow aisle in the middle. The only thing in the room that looked modern or new was a sophisticated PA system that had large speakers on stands at the ends of the two metal tables and a large amplifier in the middle of the table hooked up to the speakers. The charred CVR sat next to the amplifier. A technician was connecting its wires to the amp in preparation for playing the tape.

It wasn't actually a tape at all, of course, but a hard drive. The sound was recorded digitally. Tapes are too vulnerable to heat and pressure. The orange box that contained the cockpit voice recorder was designed to withstand one thousand G's-one thousand times the force of gravity-for at least five milliseconds, and eleven hundred degrees for thirty minutes. It had probably come close to reaching both of those in this crash. It was dented in one corner in particular and was more charred-black than orange.

Well before the clock actually reached nine, the room was full of parties to the investigation, from the engine manufacturer, to Marcel and his group, to numerous other component-part manufacturers who had been invited to participate. Rose came into the room with quite a flourish. Her braid was taut and long. Her face was humorless and full of determination. She waited until the crowd gave her their full attention, and the room finally grew silent.

She spoke to the group. "Good morning. For those of you I haven't met, my name is Rose Lisenko. I am the investigator in charge. Couple of ground rules. First, this investigation is ongoing. The press has not been invited because we don't know what's on the recording. We have checked to make sure that it is intact and will play. We have not listened to it. You will hear it at the same time we do. Because of that, we don't want the press taking this raw information and giving it to the general public, especially in a case as sensitive as this one. If we believe the recording should be released to the public, we will do so when that is appropriate. We therefore ask that everyone confirm to us that there are no recording devices in the room. Does anyone have a digital recorder or video recorder of any kind on their person?" She looked around the room and waited.

"Good. Second, after this recording is played, it will be transcribed later today, and each chairman of each working group will be given a copy of the transcript. If you are in a working group, you will also receive a copy of the recording. If you are not in a working group but believe you need a copy of the transcript or the recording, please let me know and I will determine whether you are entitled to a copy. We will also of course be playing the tape again later, and you can hear it at those later times. You will be given notice before the playing occurs. If you want to have the tape played after today, please let me know and we will determine whether we need to conduct a special playing of the tape."

She looked at one of the NTSB employees in the back and said in a fairly loud and commanding voice, "Secure the doors." He stood in front of the door as another NTSB employee exited the room. They took up posts on either side of the closed doors.

Rose continued, "I would ask everyone to refrain from making any noise whatsoever during the playing of this tape. Every little sound can be significant. We've cranked up the volume quite a lot, so that it may sound too loud to you in this room, but we, like you, are listening for background noises as well as the obvious information from the voices." She paused, looked around, and then said, "Play it."