Final Approach (9 page)

Kell's great-grandfather had been a successful St. Louis merchant, a self-made man who had followed the railroads west a decade after the Civil War, following the well-worn Oregon Trail from St. Joseph, Missouri, with high hopes of reaching Oregon, but settling instead on the dusty great plains near Salina. His son—Kell's grandfather—had also stayed, building this house in 1905 at the age of twenty-three, all of it by his own talented hands. The house had risen from the flat Kansas prairie like a small palace, a two-story, Victorian-style home with a curved stairway, a gabled and turreted roofline, some gingerbread trim under the eaves, and a sparkling coat of white paint, which had been maintained by the family even during the dust bowl-days of the depression. The interior had been renovated numerous times in the decades since, and the old house and the surrounding land were thoroughly up-to-date now, with a satellite dish antenna in the back and an added metal chimney showing through the roof (the result of adding a small freestanding fireplace to the upstairs study). Yet the image of the Martinson homestead was still that of a grand old turn-of-the-century rural mansion, with its history firmly rooted in the early days of central Kansas and the Martinson clan.

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.”