Marine One (5 page)

I HAD ONLY actually met Chuck Collins once, or maybe twice, but I remembered his voice. It was one of the first things we heard from the cockpit voice recorder, and I recognized his resonant sound immediately. Collins had been one of the best helicopter pilots in the Marine Corps. He had flown off carriers, desert pads, and roads. He had mastered every helicopter the Marine Corps owned, from the biggest cargo carrier to the smallest, fastest gunship. He had flown off steep, snow-covered mountains and floating platforms while working with special operations. He had even graduated from Navy Test Pilot School in Patuxent River, Maryland. He had flown several tours in Iraq and begged to go back for more, but he had gotten too senior to go blow things up. During his last tour as a helicopter squadron commanding officer, much of which was spent on a carrier in the Pacific, he was told he would be the first pilot to fly the president in the new presidential helicopters, the WorldCopter 5, now known as the VH-80.

The CVR had captured the last thirty minutes of that evening's flight. It started with Marine One approaching the South Lawn of the White House through a torrential downpour. Collins was all business. Full of comments on the weather. His copilot was doing his job perfectly, monitoring the altitude, the air speed, and radios. They were talking to Washington control and the White House. It all sounded normal. Collins was a good pilot, and it showed through the recording.

I put myself in his seat and visualized what he was seeing, the instruments, the lightning, the rain hitting the rotor blades, and watching the White House grow bigger in the dark night as he approached. I'd never flown in Marine One, and I'd certainly never put a helicopter down on the South Lawn of the White House; but I had several hundred hours in this WorldCopter model and knew every switch that Collins was throwing and everything he was touching. I could do it in my sleep.

As they landed, everything continued normally until, just as they touched down, Collins said,
"Whoa."

I focused intently. His copilot, Rudd said, "What was that?"

"I don't know. Might have been a wheel settling into the mud, but it felt like more of a thump. Maybe the strut bottomed out. We'll check it when we get out."

"Roger that."

We listened intently to the pilots' small talk while they waited for the president, listening for any indication of what we knew was about to happen, to see if just maybe they had a hint of what was coming. We listened for slurred speech, depression, anger, all the things anyone would listen for. But as the recording went on, it built its own story.

"This is an unbelievably shitty night to fly. Why we doing this?" Collins asked.

Lieutenant Colonel Rudd replied, "You've got the final say. Just say the word. Ground us." He waited for Collins to ground them, but he knew it wouldn't happen. They did what the president wanted, and the president wanted to go to Camp David.

"We're doing this because El Jefe says so," Collins said.

Rudd said, "Plus we're just dumb-ass Marines who always do what we're told."

"You're a dumb-ass, but I'm a smart-ass. So why am I doing this?"

Rudd replied, "Because you've been trained since your earliest waking moments to follow stupid orders in shitty conditions. We're trained to love it. The stupider the order and the worse the conditions, the more faithful the Marine is for obeying it. Semper fi.
You know that."

Collins laughed into the ICS microphone. Probably only Rudd could hear him, but the crew chief might have been on the ICS line too. On a night like that, he would probably be outside checking the soggy ground in the pouring rain to make sure they wouldn't be pulling the earth toward the moon when they tried to take off, stuck in mud up to their axles. He was probably looking for the origin of the thump as well.

"At least we're in here and dry."

"Here comes the president," Rudd said.

I looked over at Rachel, who was listening with her mouth open.

"You've got the airplane. I'm going to talk to Secret Service." You could hear Collins moving out of his seat. I waited for the sound to cut off, but then remembered that they were using the new, encrypted wireless headsets. You could hear Collins belching as he made his way to the back of the helicopter. He was walking or moving, it was unclear, then he said,
"Hey, Greg."
Greg Marshall no doubt, the head of the Secret Service detail on the flight.

"Chuck," Marshall replied perfunctorily. We could barely hear the other voice, since it was coming through Collins's mike. If they hadn't had the speakers turned up so loud, we wouldn't have heard it at all.

"What the hell are we doing?" Collins asked. "Can't you drive the president to Camp David?" I could hear the noise of the helicopter engines in the background; they had kept the engines running and the rotors spinning as they waited for the president to board.

"No comment," Marshall said.

"You know what this is about, don't you?"

"Yes. One of many important meetings of the president of the United States."

"Meeting. Right. Just a meeting. And who's he going to meet? Do you know everything you need to know about them?"

"You know something I don't know?"

I found myself trying to see their faces in the speakers, wishing I could see their expressions and body language.

"I've forgotten more about Adams than you'll ever know."

"Right. Adams scholar. I forgot." Marshall waited a short time, then asked Collins in a tone that was half-annoyed and half-concerned, "So what you got? Anything I should know about?"

"If you don't know by now, I'm sure not going to tell you. Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it. It's nothing you can do anything about."

"You got something I need to hear, you know where to find me. Just don't kill us on the way."

"No guarantees tonight," Collins said. "Your life will be in my very capable hands, but there are other forces at work."

Collins's words were strange. Everyone in the room could feel it.

Marshall felt it too. "You saying it's unsafe? Say the magic words, Chuckie, say it isn't safe, and we're headed straight for the limo."

"Can't do it. I serve at the pleasure of the president. I do what I'm told."

"You can override any flight request."

"Never going to happen. How could it be unsafe when I'm the one flying? I could land this helicopter on the top of a flagpole." Collins chuckled. "But you wouldn't mind if I flew ten feet above the ground to avoid the weather, would you?"

"You know the minimum altitude." Marshall spoke to others we couldn't hear, then said,
"President's coming aboard."

Collins sounded as if he had returned to the cockpit, and you could hear some background noise. Rudd exchanged comments on the weather and the instruments with Collins, then warned him that the president was coming into the cockpit. A chill came over the room as we heard President Adams's unmistakable voice: "Shit, Colonel-it's blacker than a witch's heart out there! Can you get us out of here?"

There was a long, long pause while no one spoke.

Rudd filled in the gap: "I believe so, sir. It isn't the best night for flying, though. Sure you wouldn't rather drive? You can borrow my car if you need one. Could be real bumpy, sir."

The president laughed with a nervous, strained sound, then the voices faded. The cockpit was quiet.

Rudd's voice was loud: "What the hell you doing, Chuck? You can't just ignore the president! He was talking directly to you!"

"I don't really give a shit what he was doing."

"Don't let your politics get into this. They'll fire your ass. Show respect for the office if not for him."

"I don't have any respect for the office while he's in it. You see his face? He looked like he's about to crack."

"He always does. RPM?" Rudd replied as they talked about the president and completed their checklist at the same time.

"Not like this. One hundred percent."

"Pretty close. Engine temps?"

"This is different. Engines are good."

They finished the checklist and were ready to take off. Collins said on the ICS, "Ready in the cabin, Sergeant Olson?"

"Ready, sir."

You could hear the rotor blades bite into the air as they pulled the helicopter off the ground. Rudd called out their departure on the radio: "Washington Control, Romeo Uniform One Zero One airborne, northwest departure." They were using an innocuous call sign. If some sniper or missile shooter was waiting for them to take off, he wouldn't know by the call sign, different even from the one they had used during landing.

"Roger, One Zero One, climb and maintain thirty-five hundred feet. Take heading three two seven. Squawk three five six five and ident."

"Roger. Passing two hundred for three point five. Squawking."

"Radar contact. You're cleared direct destination."

"Roger. Turning… Washington Center, Romeo One Zero One. You have any PIREPs on the tops for this storm?" A PIREP was a pilot report about the weather or conditions. It was highly regarded by other pilots. Real-time information, instead of some weatherman reading a scope or satellite picture.

"Stand by, One Zero One."

But Collins couldn't wait. "One Zero One requesting seven thousand feet. The turbulence is too severe here."

"Roger, Zero One. You're cleared to seven thousand or anywhere in between at your discretion. Report when level. Latest PIREP shows tops at twenty-five thousand."

"Roger. Leaving thirty-five hundred for seven thousand. Will report level. Thanks for the PIREP."

"No problem, Zero One. Wish we had better news for you."

Rudd laughed and said to Collins on the ICS, "Maybe we should just stay at this altitude and see if we can get A3 to hurl."

"Not a good idea. And knock off that A3 bit. He's not related to the other Adams presidents and you know it."

"Come on, Chuck; you got to get off that. One guy in his line like a hundred years ago was illegitimate or adopted or something. Doesn't mean he isn't a descendant."

"I'm surprised he doesn't claim to be the illegitimate son of Thomas Jefferson too. He's obviously comfortable with being a bastard."

The room was in disbelief that Collins could have such hostility for the president and was discussing what a fraud he was while flying him through a thunderstorm.

"Get over it, man. Why do you overthink this stuff? It just doesn't matter."

"I've looked into everything about him. I'm fascinated by him."

"Fascinated. But not in a good way."

They were talking over some radio conversation that would have to be separated out later by a technician. It was impossible for me to tell whether it was significant. The NTSB had the Air Traffic Control Center tapes too, so it wouldn't be hard to reconstruct what was said.

"You're just still dazzled by him. You'll get over it."

"You're right about that. I'm absolutely not ready to hear whatever it is you're talking about. There's seven thousand feet."

After a few minutes of silence, Collins said, "Not much better here."

"I think we're just stuck in this crap until Camp David. Thirty-seven miles. Look at the winds. They're westerly at thirty-five knots. If those are the winds at Camp David, we'll never get this thing on the ground."

Collins didn't respond for a long period, then transmitted, "Center, Romeo Uniform One Zero One. No better here. We're going to head down to twenty-five hundred to find some smoother air."

"Roger, Zero One. Cleared. Take whatever altitude is best. No other traffic."

A series of rapid, unidentifiable noises followed. Something was happening, but no one could tell what, at least not without analysis of the sounds. The next thing we heard was a strained Collins saying, "We've hit severe turbulence."

He was fighting something.

Rudd asked,
"You need any help?"

"No. I've got it." Noises… struggle… grunting.
"Shit! This thing is out of control!"

"You got it?" Rudd screamed.

"No!" Collins yelled.

"What's going on?" the sergeant screamed from the back.
"The president's panicking!"

The violence increased. The engines suddenly seemed loud in the usually quiet background of cabin noise. I thought I heard the blades. They sounded strained, as if they were working against each other instead of creating a smooth-spinning disk to keep the helicopter off the ground.

"… out of control!" Collins said. "Check… hydraulics!"

"No light. Pressure's good!" Rudd said in what sounded like a mighty attempt to sound calm.

The noise built to a crescendo. It sounded as if things were floating in the cockpit, hitting other things. I breathed harder just from listening. I tried to visualize what was happening, creating images that were surely only partly right. I didn't have enough information to complete the images, but my mind filled in the gaps.

"Pull up!" Rudd cried.

"I'm trying!" Collins yelled. "Shit!"

"The vibration…" Rudd reported

There was no response. Grunting, pulling, noises, small collisions, and metal doing what it wasn't designed to do. Then silence.

AS SOON AS the NTSB finished playing the cockpit voice recorder, they played it again. The second time was even more riveting. As Collins's voice filled the room again, my mind jumped from one scenario to another as one small noise replaced another, each demanding immediate attention as the key to the puzzle.

I tried to listen to every single detail, but it was impossible. Too much was going on. I gave up taking good notes and just jotted down some of the things that were screaming at me. Ten things that might help explain what had happened. Some implicated my client, some the pilot, and some pointed to things outside the helicopter, which could be, as my law professor at American University used to say, either benign or malignant.

After the second playing, another NTSB technician entered the room with CDs for each of the party members of the investigation teams. The NTSB had loaded the data from the flight data recorder, the FDR, onto each disk. He gave them to Rose. Each CD box had the name of one of the principals on it. Rose looked down at the boxes, counted them mentally, then looked at the audience. "I have here the flight data recorder information. We thought that the FDR was damaged, but it was just the external box. The hard drive was fine and we had no problem getting the data out of the recorder. Since I know you are just as capable as we are of utilizing the software necessary to read the FDR, we're going to provide each of you with a copy of the data. Please do not duplicate it except for internal purposes, and please do not release it outside of your investigation team." She looked around the room. "Do I need to remind you that releasing information to people outside the investigation is punishable?

"In this room, tomorrow morning, at the same time as we met today, we will have the computerized animation of the data from the flight data recorder so you can see exactly what happened to the helicopter; many of you will be doing the same thing yourselves and need not attend. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to the crash site. Please come up here after we're done and each of you can take your copy of the FDR data. That's all for now."

Those members of the teams that had been designated to pick up the FDR data made their way up front. Everyone else took the chance to discuss what they had just heard. Marcel approached me. He said quietly as Rachel joined us, "Are you going back out to the site?"

"No, I have to go to that lunch, then to Justice."

"Yes, of course, I had forgotten. You know who's coming to the lunch, don't you?"

"Yeah, David Tripp. He's the general counsel, right?"

"Yes, he is the general counsel, but he won't be the only one there."

This was news to me. In the e-mail I had gotten confirming the luncheon appointment, it only mentioned Tripp and the president of WorldCopter U.S.

Marcel leaned in a little closer. "No, as you might think, this has gotten the attention at the highest levels. They are very concerned about this accident and this investigation. The president of WorldCopter U.S. will be there, and the president of WorldCopter Europe."

I was shocked. He was the man in charge of the entire multibillion-dollar corporation. There had been much speculation on the news about his whereabouts as he had not commented on the accident. Several senators were calling for him to make a statement, but he had not responded. Now he was here in Washington.

"Does anyone else know he's coming?"

"Only those who will be at the meeting."

I had never met either of the presidents of these two companies, and the Frenchman was legendary.

As Rachel and I left the NTSB building, I handed her my keys. "You drive."

She frowned, took the keys, and climbed into the driver's seat. I pulled out my black notebook and studied my notes from the CVR. I circled numbers next to the top ten things in the order I thought we should think about them. Listening to the CVR had caused me to rethink everything I had assumed about this flight. I didn't want to deny that this could still be my client's fault, but after listening to the recording, all I could think about were the malignant scenarios. And much of what I'd heard pointed to Collins.

The Capital Grille was on Pennsylvania Avenue in the Northwest section of D.C. It was routine to see politicians, lobbyists, high-powered attorneys, and diplomats lunching there. I'd only eaten there a couple times. It was way out of my price range.

We walked up to the beautiful hostess. Rachel said, "We're here to meet with some people from Michelin."

As we headed toward the Fabric Room, a private dining room reserved for us, I saw the television over the bar in the back of the restaurant. It was a replay of the swearing in of the vice president, now president, Cunningham. I had watched it in detail the night before on my new high-definition television. I could see every bead of sweat on the vice president's neck being absorbed by his cotton shirt as he took the oath of office. I had wanted to see his face, and that television allowed me to see it better than I could have seen it if I were there in person. I could see into his soul. I looked for fear, excitement, anything that shouldn't be there. When he had been selected to be A3's vice-presidential candidate, the entire country knew the only reason he had been picked was his unmatched fund-raising ability. His agenda was to get power, and keep it. Pretty simple. But I wondered how far he would be willing to go. At this point I wasn't about to rule anything out. I had long operated by the idea that the more outrageous an explanation was, the more complex, the more it required a vast conspiracy, the less likely it was to be true. But like the saying about paranoia, the fact that most conspiracy theories were ridiculous didn't mean there weren't any conspiracies.

When I had first watched Cunningham's face during the oath, and later when he'd expressed his deep sympathy and personal grief, and the usual stuff about "moving on" and honoring the legacy of his predecessor, I didn't see much that looked out of the ordinary. But when I'd watched it again after my wife had gone to bed, I thought I saw fear.

Who wouldn't be scared to step out of the shadows of obscurity-from the job that wasn't worth a warm pitcher of spit according to Cactus Jack Garner, FDR's first vice president-into the infinitely bright scrutiny and endless hatred that goes with being the president? But as I now watched his face yet again on the television in the bar of the Capital Grille and saw that fear, the chord of recognition that it struck within me was far different from what I expected. Something was going on in his head that I needed to understand. It could be as simple as if this was an assassination, he could be next.

Rachel slowed, and I caught up with her as she reached the private room. Two doors separated it from the main area of the restaurant, and the only indication of its presence was a small bronze plaque that said FABRIC ROOM. I followed Rachel as she pushed through the first door and then the second. She stopped as soon as she'd entered the room. It wasn't just private, it was secretive.

The large room had a table for ten set for lunch. Several men, none of whom I recognized, were speaking with each other in quiet tones. They stopped talking when we entered, which caused a rather awkward moment.

"Hello, I'm Mike Nolan, and this is my associate Rachel Long."

One of the men broke away and walked over toward me with his hand extended. A small man, perhaps five foot six, he looked pale and exhausted. "Hello, Mike, I'm David Tripp, general counsel for WorldCopter U.S."

We walked over to where three men were conversing. Tripp said, "May I introduce Mr. Jean Claude Martin, president of WorldCopter, and Dan Lake, president of WorldCopter U.S." I shook hands with both of them, as did Rachel, after which Tripp said, "Mike and Rachel are the attorneys our insurance company has hired." Martin was listening carefully and evaluating us. He had a serious look on his face.

I glanced at the third man who was standing nearby. Tripp hadn't introduced him, and I couldn't tell why. Finally Tripp could sense my curiosity and turned to extend his arm to invite the other man closer. "Mike, let me also introduce William Morton."

"Nice to meet you," I said as we shook hands. I recognized him. I'd seen him at criminal law seminars and on television. He routinely represented people in major political investigations.

I sat down at the table with Tripp to my left, and the two presidents to my right. Morton sat directly across from me. "Thanks for asking us to be here," I said to Tripp quietly, as the others at the table conversed by themselves. "I think you should just let Morton do the criminal side by himself. You're in good hands. Send me back out to the wreckage."

"No, for two reasons," Tripp said as he placed his napkin on his lap. "If the investigation results in criminal charges of any kind against WorldCopter, or a fraud case by the government, it might actually go to trial. He has lots of trial experience"-Tripp covered his mouth discreetly so no one could hear him except me-"but all of it on the other side of the table." He glanced at Morton to make sure he wasn't listening. "He has an amazing reputation, but he's never tried a criminal case where he actually defended someone. Usually when he shows up, the government tries to resolve it. That's what we're hoping for here, but if they don't? That's where you come in."

"So he prepares the criminal case and I try it?"

"Probably together."

I didn't like the sound of that at all. Trial work was all about setting a tone and selling your personal credibility. You can't have two lead trial attorneys. "I'm not sure that would work, but we can talk about that later."

As the food was served by an army of waiters, the French president of WorldCopter spoke directly to Morton and me. He spoke softly but with intensity. His English was excellent. "This obviously is a catastrophe for my company, and for the United States. One thing I can say with certainty. This was not our fault-"

I interrupted, "I'm not sure we can say that yet. We'd better find out what happened first."

"You do not understand." He leaned toward me. "No WorldCopter helicopter has
ever
crashed like this. There is no chance that this helicopter came apart in the storm. It is stressed to withstand ten times whatever this storm could produce. That simply did not happen. As far as the blade coming off"-he noticed my surprise-"I spoke with Marcel. That did not happen either. It has never happened, our balancing procedure is flawless, and we will not be held for the scapegoat for that. If this was our fault, they must prove it, but they will not. I promise you."

His promise was ominous. I had represented clients before who offered to "find" anything you wanted, and "unfind" anything you didn't want, and "promised" how things would come out, because they felt so strongly. Sometimes they'd give you a knowing wink at some appropriate time, just enough for you to know they'd taken care of it, and for them to deny it if you had an unexpected flare-up of your fading ethics. But his promise didn't change anything and wouldn't determine the outcome of the investigation. "We really don't know enough to say too much right now-"

"Yes, we do! That is my whole point! Our helicopters don't fail like this! I am telling you that, and I will tell the U.S. government that."

"That's fine," I said, glancing at the others at the table, not at all sure how to handle his intensity. "There's just a lot we don't know yet, and if we say that now, it will just sound like a denial, not a conclusion. And you're right about one thing: we can't just rely on the NTSB. They're good, but we cannot assume they'll get this right. You've already got your own in-house team on it, but you need to retain an outside accident reconstructionist and others. Metallurgists, aerodynamicists, lots. I'm sure the insurance carrier will help with that."

He waved his hand and nodded. "Yes, of course. Whatever you need. But the reason we're here right now is because of the meeting at your Justice Department this afternoon. This is where they start preparing the noose for me and my company."

Morton spoke before I had a chance even to prepare a thought. "Yes, sir, we will take care of you. I'm sure they will press on two things primarily: contract fraud-in other words, you delivered a helicopter that was not what they bought, i.e., defective-and breach of national security. The first one is simply going to be determined by what the investigation finds. The second one though is pretty scary. It's my understanding that…"

Morton said exactly what everybody needed to hear, that even though the lack of security clearances was probably caused by a lack of diligence on the part of the FBI, it left open the possibility that WorldCopter had an employee who was out to get the president and had placed something into the helicopter or otherwise sabotaged it so that at just the wrong moment, the helicopter would come apart.

"But what do we do
now
?" Dan Lake, the American president of WorldCopter U.S. asked. "What do we need to know going into this ambush?"

I answered while glancing at Morton. "Everything you say will be twisted. Every step you take will be scrutinized. They already think you're a criminal. They would love nothing more than to find an employee of WorldCopter who is responsible for this accident and put him, and you by the way, in prison and WorldCopter out of business. But they're a little torn. They have to consider an actual assassination, or terrorism, so they can't focus on you exclusively. They'll have a team of lawyers looking at you, and others looking elsewhere. I don't want to overstate it, but this could go very badly in a lot of directions."

Jean Claude nearly came out of his chair. "Prison? What do you mean?"

Morton jumped in. "The CEO of a company can be criminally liable for criminal acts of the company."

"Criminally liable?"

"You can go to jail. Literally. Just like a murderer."

"I can go to jail if the Justice Department decides? Me personally?" Jean Claude asked, furious.

"Yes, it's possible. Look, they'd have to issue an indictment, and if they couldn't get you to plea, they'd have to go to a trial. We're a long way from that, but Mike is right to let you know. Justice doesn't want to meet with you as your friend. They want to burn down your village. They can do real damage. They can ruin your reputation as a company, they can force you into bankruptcy, and they can put you in prison. And there are
hundreds
of young, ambitious attorneys at Justice who would like nothing better than to bring you down and hang this whole thing on a foreign corporation that stole business from an American-"