Final Approach (32 page)

“
I'm
the one who's thinking politically,” she snapped as she hesitated on the way out the door. “I'm also thinking about what's honorable and what's not.”

Kell left the Hart Building in deep despair. He had stolen no money, nor violated any congressional ethics nor taken any bribes, but he was apprehensive that Cindy was right, and that his career—which had been without blemish—was about to unravel. More important at that moment was the fact that she wasn't happy with him. Running back to her clandestinely after hours, then, had been an instinctive reaction, though they had made no arrangements for the evening. If nothing else, he owed her an apology. Their professional arguments were never supposed to spill over to the personal.

She had returned to the office on Tuesday playing her same cheerful and efficient role for public consumption, and then Tuesday night—and Wednesday night—she had wrapped herself around him, closing out the real world, and taking perhaps too much of a chance of discovery in the process. Though he had parked each of those nights a discreet distance away, he was becoming progressively bolder, parking closer and closer to her apartment.

Thursday evening, however, Kell had been anxious to make amends. He purchased a dozen roses and parked in front of her apartment in broad daylight, waiting for her when she drove up, hoping they could shut out the worries together again, though he knew instinctively it would be another fitful night for him. Now, in the predawn darkness of Friday morning, with Cindy blissfully asleep beside him, it seemed ridiculous that he couldn't sleep as well. He certainly needed it.

Kell pulled his arm away from Cindy carefully, trying not to wake her, punching the button on his digital watch to activate a tiny light. The display showed 4:01
A.M.

At exactly 4:02
A.M.
some 14 miles to the south, on the far side of Andrews Air Force Base, Joe Wallingford had snapped wide awake from a deep sleep. His subconscious mind had been searching for the missing voice recorder like a computer dutifully churning through mountains of data looking for a single fact.

He got up immediately and padded into his den, turning on the ceiling light and retrieving small plastic models of the Boeing 757 and 737 aircraft. He sat at the kitchen table then and began flying one at the other, checking the theory that had popped into his head.

What had eluded them was how the force of the collision could have propelled the A320's voice recorder into some netherworld where none of his people could find it. It was too strong to be pulverized. Such high-impact boxes were designed to hit a mountain at cruise airspeed and still be identifiable and recoverable. So it had to have survived the crash and been thrown
somewhere
they hadn't considered.

“The voice recorder simply isn't there,” Barbara had said. “We sifted every molecule of the A320 wreckage.”

Joe pulled the 757 model to eye level and looked at the tail. The 757 was somewhat similar in appearance to the Airbus A320, but what caught his attention was the angle of the tail cone at impact, together with a mental image of the place where the CVR should have been in the ruined tail section, a missing, gouged area Barbara had pointed to last Saturday with consternation.

The memory of twisted aerospace rubble departing the Kansas City Airport on the back of several flatbed trucks played in his mind's eye.

That was
it!
They couldn't find the damn cockpit voice recorder because they had indeed spent all their time looking in the wrong place.

Joe noticed the time was 4:20
A.M.
as he moved to the phone, grabbing his list of NTSB numbers and dialing Barbara's home in Silver Springs, Maryland. She took five rings to answer, her sleepy voice asking who it was twice. But suddenly she too came awake.

“Barbara, if you feel up to it, get packed. I want you to take one of your people and get back to Kansas City this morning. I know where the cockpit voice recorder is.”

It was Friday afternoon in Dallas, and Jerry Harris was glancing at his rearview mirror for the umpteenth time, fully expecting a Dallas police cruiser to be on his tail. The light at Northwest Highway and Hillcrest obliged with a solid green, and he sped through, the spray of flowers on the right seat falling over again through the bumpy intersection. He knew his watch was showing ten minutes past two. He'd been checking that constantly as well. Going to funerals was not his style, but when senior management parcels out an assignment—even at the last minute—management trainees hesitate at their peril.

“How the hell did I end up doing this?” he muttered out loud as the entrance to Hillcrest Memorial Park came into view on his left. “Weiss. Weiss. Must remember the name.” North America had been dispatching its employees to attend the funerals of victims killed in the Kansas City crash which had occurred nine days before, and this was yet another. Having him buy and carry flowers that should have been sent ahead of time was a bit tawdry, though. He dreaded carrying them in.

Jerry pulled open the chapel door just as one of the funeral directors stepped out. “The Weiss funeral?”

The man looked surprised. “You've missed it. It was at one.”

“They told me two, they …”

“I'm sorry. You might catch them at the grave site, though. Far western end of the park. Only service in progress. Down at the Temple Emanuel end of the park.”

“Is this—was this—a Jewish service?”

“No sir. Methodist.” He thanked the man and dashed back to the car, shivering in the chilly breeze on what had become a clear, cold north Texas Friday. “Wonderful! They couldn't even give me the goddamn time correctly.” He was muttering again and he knew it, but the tension was getting to him. Good grief, what a way to express condolences. Here, have some flowers, and sorry we killed your wife or husband. Next time we'll show up for the funeral.

The black limousine was visible ahead amidst a sea of cars, and he parked as quickly and unobtrusively as possible, gripping the flowers and walking quickly toward the tent, noticing with a sinking feeling that it was over—everyone was standing and talking quietly, several people holding on to a man standing beside what appeared to be three graves. No one had told him this was a triple funeral.

Jerry Harris squared his shoulders and moved toward the man, facing him finally, pressing the flowers forward with the words he had practiced. “Sir, North America Airlines would like you to know how deeply sorry we all are for your loss.”

The man looked him straight in the eye, his face motionless. Jerry could hear the leaves on the adjacent trees rustling in the teeth of a sudden wind gust. All activity on either side seemed to stop as what he feared most happened: he had become the instant focus of everyone's attention as they watched Weiss for a reaction.

Finally Weiss moved, his face softening just a bit, but his hand did not reach for the flowers, and Jerry wondered what to do.

The voice was soft and low and very controlled, and for a split second, Jerry didn't realize who was speaking. “How old are you?”

“Uh, twenty-five, sir.”

“I know you mean no harm, but I don't want your flowers.”

Jerry didn't mean to stutter or stumble, but he couldn't help it. “I … ah …”

“I saw you come rushing up here at the last second. Too little too late, just like your airline's management. Too little, too late.”

“Well, sir …,” he began, trying to keep a steady tone.

Weiss's right hand found his shoulder, his eyes boring into Jerry's. “I don't want your meaningless tribute. I want answers. Do you know what I've lost here?”

Jerry glanced to his right at the graves.

“That's right, take a look, you didn't even know, did you?” Weiss shook him slightly. “
DID
you?”

“No sir.”

“My wife Kim, my son Aaron and my son Greg. That's what I've lost … because I trusted your airline with their lives.”

“I'm very sorry, sir. I'm …”

Weiss dropped his hand. “Please go. Please get out of here.”

Jerry began to turn, but Weiss caught him by the shoulder again.

“Tell your boss I will remember their display of concern. I will remember.…” He dropped his arm.

Weiss dropped his eyes to the ground, and Jerry turned with a crimson face and beat a hasty retreat, his stomach knotted and a lump in his throat, tossing the flowers in the backseat as he got behind the wheel in utter dismay.

Mark Weiss watched the young man go as his mother-in-law clung to him, sobbing softly. Kim's father was recovering from his heart attack, but the shock of his daughter's and grandsons' deaths had been too great, and his doctors refused to let him leave the hospital.

The tears and pain of friends and relatives, the human togetherness in grief, was what they all needed now. Since Mark and Kim had come from Dallas—grown up in Dallas—there had been no hesitation regarding the burial site. Missouri had been their home for only a few years, and there were few attachments there, except for the house. The bitter loneliness of facing that empty dwelling lay ahead, and it was something Mark dreaded. It had been a home. Now it was just a house, and one he could never live in again without them. He would have to pack and store their possessions and put the house on the market as soon as possible. Exactly where he would go was an open question, but in the meantime, he intended to use the time in Dallas to advantage to look into North America's operations and its people, starting with the captain.

A large man at the back of the crowd suddenly caught his eye as the fellow turned to move away, apparently trying to be unobtrusive. Mark was startled, but recognized him instantly, and gently handed over his mother-in-law to a friend as he moved toward the departing figure, catching up with him at the curb.

“Captain Kaminsky?”

Pete Kaminsky turned slowly, embarrassed, his head bowed and his face glistening.

“I … didn't want you to see me,” he said slowly, “I just needed to come. To be with you folks.” With his shoulders hunched over and a pair of worn leather gloves kneaded slowly by his fingers, Mark thought him the saddest man he had ever seen. As deeply in pain as he.

“You didn't need to come, Captain, but I appreciate it more than you know.” Mark spoke the words softly, matching Kaminsky's tones. “How are
you?
How are
you
doing?”

Pete looked up, a hollowness to his eyes that Mark understood all too well. “Doesn't matter.”

“Yes it does.”

“No!” The word was a sharp report, his head shaking from side to side emphatically. “I've tried to go to as many as I could. All my passengers … their funerals. I owe everyone at least that.” He grimaced and shut his eyes, his teeth showing through drawn lips. “Although a lot of good that does them now.”

There was a cold, concrete bench a few feet away, and Mark guided Kaminsky to it, forcing him to sit.

“This was not your fault. My family's death was not
your
fault in any way. Don't you understand that?”

Those haunted eyes again. “I was in command, Dr. Weiss. I was responsible. I …” Pete dropped his head again, a grimace on his face, his eyes squinted shut, fighting for control, and finally looking up again.

Lord, Mark thought, the man is in real agony—and in need of help.

“I should be over there. Not them. I promised you,” Pete said. “I sat there, I sat there and said …” He waved his arm off toward the north, “‘Don't worry,' I said. ‘We'll take … very good care of them,' I said. I can't forget that.”

“Pete, are you married?”

He was looking down again. “I lost my wife to cancer over ten years ago. We never had kids.”

“Where is home?”

“Kansas City.”

“And you're all alone up there?”

Pete Kaminsky looked up at Mark Weiss and tried to smile. “Dr. Weiss, please don't worry about me. Please.” He got to his feet suddenly, readjusting his overcoat and hesitating for a second as Mark extended his hand, taking it finally, his handshake uncertain. “I've got to go. If there's anything I can do …” Pete's voice trailed off, and Mark filled the void.

“I'll be back up there next week. I'd like to get together.”

“That's all right, I …”

“No, I'm serious.” Mark handed him a piece of notepaper and a pen. “For your phone number.”

Pete Kaminsky hesitated, then took the paper and quickly wrote down the number before handing it back without a word.

“Pete, you mustn't take this on yourself.”

He nodded unconvincingly, turned, and left, making his way to what had to be a rental car as Mark moved back toward the graves and the family members. Kim and the boys had been in such a hurry to get to Dallas. And in the end, Dallas was where they would stay.

As he walked back toward the group, a sleek Boeing 737 soared overhead, climbing out of Love Field into the cold, blue Texas sky bound for some distant destination, filled with trusting passengers. But for the first time in years, Mark Weiss refused to notice.

14

Monday, October 22

Dr. Mark Weiss sat fulminating in a window seat aboard the 6
A.M.
nonstop from Dallas to Washington National, his eyes narrowed and hard, his attention riveted on two passengers in the first-class cabin ahead whose conversation he had overheard in the boarding lounge. He didn't know their names, but their words had told the story: they were defense attorneys for North America's insurance carrier, carelessly discussing their efforts to fight the growing number of damage suits being filed against North America, efforts that would involve investigations into the lives of any surviving family who became a plaintiff. Mark had not thought of filing a lawsuit as yet. It had seemed obscene. But ten minutes of listening to the two lawyers changed his mind.