Drone Games (19 page)

—

THE JET’S low velocity and angled descent prevented it from exploding into the usual millions of pieces typical of a high-altitude crash. The tail’s vertical stabilizer skimmed the water first, and then the left-side horizontal. The drag of a twenty-foot wide sea anchor split the tail cone’s roof in a gaping crack. The plane briefly skipped back into the air high enough for a one-quarter turn. The right wing sliced the water and the enormous stress broke it away. Weakened by the underside blast, the nose section bent backwards like play dough. Moving in what had appeared to be slow motion, the aircraft now flailed wildly like some out-of-control gymnast, one arm extended, off balance and spinning on a great tumbling mat, somehow attempting to regain control via a clumsy maneuver, trying to make the best out of an awkward position. Completely out of its element, the jet did a final awesome cartwheel, coming to rest standing on end like a rocket preparing for liftoff. With both ends of the fuselage torn away, all buoyancy was lost, and the craft started to sink. The right engine, still roaring like some dying beast, finally choked out on massive amounts of water. The last sound waves raced to the shoreline in a deafening roar and were gone.

—

6:32 a.m.

NEELA GRIFFIN was half-asleep sitting up, a pen in one hand, a cordless mouse in the other. Papers were strewn everywhere. Each time her hand moved, the laptop’s screen saver retreated into its secret hideaway and a Microsoft Word document appeared.

You’re So Vain

Alternate Title: Who are you, Mr. Vain?

By: Neela Griffin

Pointer #1: “Son of a gun”

The whispering introduction of “You’re So Vain” was a tribute to Joey Bishop, your close friend, fellow gang member, and opening act. Joey had this trademark phrase sewn onto his bathrobe.

Pointer #2: Your name has an “e” in it

And also an “a” and “r.” These are Carly Simon’s only public hints. She revealed your first, middle, and last name to just one person, NBC executive Dick Ebersol. He paid $50,000 at a charity function in August 2003. He signed a confidentiality agreement never to tell.

Pointer #3: “Your hat strategically dipped below one eye”

Your classic look. You loved your short-brimmed fedoras and wore them everywhere. Like your song lyrics, you and your hats went together like love and marriage. Or perhaps a horse and carriage. “This I tell ya, brother, you can’t have one without the other.”

Pointer #4: “Your scarf, it was apricot”

So was your world-class Lamborghini Muira. Your favorite color was arancio (Italian orange). You had an excellent eye for those tones in your collection of French impressionist paintings.

Pointer #5: “You had one eye in the mirror as you watched yourself gavotte”

Gavotte
—a lively French dance. You started your career as a fifteen-year-old singer/dancer. You learned to “swing” with the best.

Pointer #6: “And all the girls dreamed that they’d be your partner”

Perhaps your most (in)famous attribute. Crooning to throngs of adoring teenagers. Embarking on your solo career, you were once welcomed by five thousand swooning and screaming teenage girls at New York’s Paramount Theater, shattering the previous attendance record.

Pointer #7: “You had me several years ago when I was still quite naïve”

A collective lament for all those immature, adolescent, and inexperienced virgins that you had “under your skin.”

Pointer #8: “You said that we made such a pretty pair, and that you would never leave”

When you were young, you plastered walls during the day and sang at Irish political rallies and Democratic Party meetings at night. You jilted and betrayed many people by your shocking political shift from left-wing liberal Democrat to staunch conservative Republican.

Pointer #9: “Well, I hear you went up to Saratoga, and your horse naturally won”

Gambling was in your vain veins. You were appointed director of the Berkshire Downs Racetrack in Massachusetts and regularly performed at Saratoga. You were forever indebted to Las Vegas for resurrecting your failing career.

Pointer #10 You flew your Learjet up to Nova Scotia to see the total eclipse of the sun

It was actually
over
Nova Scotia—twice. You named your jet after your daughter Christina, and it was really a Grumman Gulfstream equipped with a bed and bar. In the summer of 1972, you left America in a political huff and flew round trip across the North Atlantic for England. The flight path followed the precise track of the famous July 10 solar eclipse.

Pointer #11: “You’re with some underworld spy or the wife of a close friend”

The FBI developed thousands of pages of testimony on, from, and about you. You chummed with mobsters Lucky Luciano, Sam Giancana, and Carlo Gambino. You even shared women with your personal friend, President John F. Kennedy.

Griffin’s phone startled her. Early morning calls were always ominous and usually involved family.

“Neela, it’s Marty. There’s been a crash at Mitchell. A passenger jet.”

“Oh no,” she said, putting her hand on her chest. “Bad? Which airline?”

“We’re not sure. We’re hearing either American or Delta. Gillespie just called and said he wants you there ASAP. They’ve shut down the airport and . . . hang on. Someone’s on the other line.”

She closed her laptop and flew into the bathroom.

“Neela, that was Terry,” Marty’s voice returned. “It’s Delta, and it’s bad. It went into the lake right over Grant Park. He’s on his way and said you should take Lake Shore Boulevard to 5th Avenue. He’ll meet you at that yacht club across from the water filtration plant. Don’t forget your phone. He’ll call you.”

“Thanks,” she sighed but she didn’t mean it.
Thanks for what? Turning the rest of my day into one filled with horrific sorrow?
She’d covered just one plane crash before—a small, single-engine type. A pilot had taken his neighbor’s kids for a ride in his Cessna. At three thousand feet, the propeller shaft literally disintegrated, sending the blade twirling through the air. Oil covered the windshield. Luckily, he had enough skill to safely land in a hayfield, but that wasn’t where his good fortune came from—it was the fact that the whole propeller had spun off. Otherwise, steering would have become aerodynamically impossible.

Griffin clicked the TV remote. There was breaking news of a Metra train derailment in Chicago.

Arlington, VA

EIGHT HUNDRED miles away, Tom Ross stepped out of the shower. He dried himself and turned on the TV. The screen showed Chicago emergency personnel. He managed to catch the end of the scrolling text that said something about a five-car, two-engine commuter train on fire with 125 injured.
What a way to start Monday rush hour
, he thought. Thankfully, no one had been killed.

His cordless phone chirped. He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up.

“Tom, this is John DeLane. How are you this morning?”

“Fine,” Ross answered suspiciously. He knew immediately that something was up. He’d bet money it was a special assignment and that DeLane needed a volunteer. Dotted-line projects never flowed through the management chain. It made it virtually impossible for the victim to say no. In this case, the requestor was the department’s director himself.

“Tom, are you aware that a major incident just happened in Central?”

“Uh-huh. It’s all over the news.”

“Good. I’d like you to handle it. Nothing against Chief Bowling, but his plate is full. And, frankly, you have the experience with crashes like this. I need someone with a good profile. Get your team on board and get out there, okay?”

Ross figured DeLane meant Central Chicago. Assuming there was no tampering with the rails themselves, the first point of concentration should be on area crossing switches and Chicago satellite photos.
But why is he considering this a major incident?
Ross wondered. He figured senior NTSB managers were so out of touch with the operational team members and skill sets that they often pulled in the wrong people. DeLane had to be stopped tactfully.

“Since there are no fatalities, I think Joe Scott over in Railroads should log in on this one.”

DeLane paused. “What do you mean?”

“The train derailment. I’ll be glad to speak to Joe about protocol and handling national media.”

“Mr. Ross, we have a downed passenger plane. Delta Airlines in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The Learjet is standing by at Dulles. I suggest you get cracking.”
Click
.

Ross tore open a bag of pumpkin seeds and filled his mouth. His cell phone chirped. The ID said “Unknown Caller.” There was a muffled hum in the background.

“Hello?”

“This is Jack Riley. Are you eating that salt again?”

Ross shifted the mouthful. “Sorry about that. What’s up?”

“You tell me. I assume you know that a plane went down, so advise me. Who’s in charge? The NTSB has a Central Region Chief, right?”

“Normally, yes.”

“Who is it?”

“Me.”

Riley digested that. “I need answers.”

Ross put his phone on speaker and pulled on his socks. “What are the questions?”

“I need to brief Secretary Bridge ten minutes from now. Sorry, but that’s his personal rule. He’s real funny about airplane crashes. He’ll want to know the number of casualties, how it happened, and if there’s any possible terrorism connection.”

“Jack, that’s impossible,” Ross said, the salty juice burning his throat as he swallowed. “That’s the FBI. As far as cause, there’s no way to tell anything at this point—”

“Mr. NTSB, I’m telling you that I need answers, and I need them now. If you don’t know, just say so. As a precautionary measure, the FBI is already setting up HQ at a local hotel. I just left Cincinnati. I’ll be on the ground in Milwaukee in . . . fifteen minutes. My job is to gather information from their case agent and the NTSB’s investigator-in-charge. You just told me that’s you. Three answers, please.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, and I don’t know.”

The line went silent. “When will you?”

Ross glanced at the time. “My team should be in Milwaukee in two hours and ten minutes. I’ll call you. What hotel?”

“We’re on approach into Mitchell, and I’m losing you. North end of the airport. It’s the Courtyard Marriott.”

The engine noise crackled out. The connection went dead.

Ross pulled a shirt over his head.
Riley, you are a pain in the neck
.

South Milwaukee, WI

THE WEATHER was unseasonably cool. Intermittent sun punched through heavy but fast-moving clouds. Light rain dusted Griffin’s windshield. She made better time than she figured and noted that the other news stations and even the local authorities had the crash site wrong. They were too far south, almost to Racine.

Terry Lee had somehow managed to sneak himself and his camera equipment into the South Milwaukee Yacht Club’s empty parking lot. When Griffin’s Volkswagen Beetle pulled up, he kicked his leg in front of the remote sensor, and the electric gate drew open.

“There’s a roadway that juts out into the lake about a quarter mile offshore,” Lee shouted. “I can’t believe the luck. There’s no one here. The view from this harbor is totally open.”

Griffin counted eighteen concrete block courses on the restaurant. She spied a rickety wooden stepladder and propped it onto a nearby picnic table. From the top step, she could just reach the edge of the building’s flat roof.

Lee stared incredulously. “You’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do, are you?”

“Get your gear up here,” she shouted over her shoulder. “We’re going live.”

The view was panoramic. Griffin stood mesmerized by the horrific scene of burning debris on the water. It looked like some flaming asteroid had exploded. Her hunch that there was no easy way for land rescue teams to access the shoreline except through this parking lot proved true. They’d have to come right past Fox’s camera.

Advancing sirens confirmed that fact as the first official emergency vehicles appeared on Marshall Avenue. Authorities immediately established a perimeter and began diverting nonessential people and traffic. Shielding her eyes from the reflective glare of the now cloud-free sun, she saw that there was no sign of an aircraft—at least, in one piece.