James Huston: Marine One

Rachel shook her head. "Nothing like a foreign company killing the president. Particularly a French one. This is going to be something."

"It's officially an American company, but I hear you." I handed her my BlackBerry. "Take a look at the e-mail Kathryn sent me. It has the names of the company reps that will be out there. Most are French, but they all speak English. They've got a power-plant guy, an airframe guy, an accident investigator…"

"Will the NTSB let them get involved?"

"Sure. They always do. They have company reps in all the groups. They need to know what the manufacturer knows. They have their best investigator on it already. I heard the name on the television."

"Who is he?"

"It's a she. Her name is Rose Lisenko." I looked at the GPS screen as Rachel copied the names from my BlackBerry to her pad. "One mile. Start looking for the fire road to our left."

The rain had picked up again. It pounded on the moonroof and ran down the sides of the windshield after the wipers tried to throw it out of the way. I leaned forward to see through the distorted images. My cell phone, which was also my BlackBerry, rang. Rachel was still holding it. "Answer it."

Rachel pushed the button. "Rachel Long." She waited and looked at me. "Hi, Kathryn, yes, he's right here." She handed me the BlackBerry.

"Hi, Kathryn."

"I wanted to let you know about a development." Her voice sounded wearier than the last time we had spoken.

"Sure."

"Where are you?"

"About a mile from the fire road."

"Still raining?"

"It slowed, but now it's pouring again."

"Hope you can get there."

"Me too. What is it?"

"The attorney general just went on the television. Justice is beginning an investigation."

"What kind of investigation?" I asked as I slowed. I pointed toward where I expected the fire road to be. Rachel nodded and started looking.

"Unrelated to the NTSB and Secret Service. He said he's looking into the bid process and how WorldCopter was selected for the presidential helicopter. And how this helicopter got into use when some of the people who worked on it didn't have clearances."

"Picked right up where the senator left off."

"He called for a meeting with the president of WorldCopter for tomorrow. We've talked to the president. He wants you to be there."

"Me? When?"

"Tomorrow. In D.C."

"Don't they have their own in-house guys?"

"Yes, but they want you to be there."

"Absolutely. Is it at Justice?"

"Two o'clock."

"We've got to prepare for that, Kathryn. You can't just walk into that buzz saw."

"You're set to have lunch at noon tomorrow at the Capital Grille. There's a room reserved in the back."

"Okay. I'll be there-There it is!" I said to Rachel as I pulled off the road. "Sorry, Kathryn, we're at the fire road. I've got to go."

"Call me later."

I never would have found the fire road if I hadn't had GPS. It was raining so hard I could barely see the Maryland highway. I turned sharply off the pavement onto the dirt and felt the wheels settle sickeningly into the mud. I selected mandatory four-wheel drive and pressed gently on the accelerator. The tires gripped enough to keep us moving, and we drifted through the water-filled shoulder onto a slightly firmer surface that led us into the woods. I accelerated cautiously knowing if we stopped, we'd never get moving again. We headed deeper into the woods following the now obvious ruts and tracks. The windshield wipers hurled the rain off the windshield just fast enough for me to see my way. I glanced down at the GPS screen. Fire roads aren't on the nav system so it wasn't of much help. It showed us gliding over a green forest with no road in sight.

We rounded a gentle curve and came upon an FBI roadblock. Several agents had set up a crude but intimidating barrier where the road narrowed. They motioned me to stop. "No visitors," one of the agents said. Others were standing in the woods with firearms protruding from their parkas.

"I'm Mike Nolan. I'm with WorldCopter. I'm their attorney."

He looked at a list on his PalmPilot. "ID?"

I handed him my driver's license. He examined it closely, then handed it back. "About a mile ahead. Watch out for the hill."

I nodded, accelerated gently, and pulled away. We regained our momentum and were making good progress. Suddenly the road made a sharp turn to the right and I found myself hurtling down a steep hill. I turned the wheel quickly to stay straight, but not fast enough. The Volvo slid sideways down the hill. I continued to try to compensate for the drift. Finally the wheels gripped and we headed straight downhill, only to see what had to be twenty-five trucks and cars parked at the bottom. I put on my brakes, which tried to help, but even with antiskid the tires couldn't grip the slushy mud. Rachel grabbed the handle on the side of the door as she braced herself for the impact and prepared to be punched in the face by the air bag. I could hear the word "Shit" forming in her mouth.

I was completely out of control as we plummeted down the muddy bank. As we careened to the bottom of the hill, I saw an area to the right of the parked vehicles that looked like mush. It was the only hope I had. I gently turned the wheels to the right, praying for some traction or at least steerage; the car moved sluggishly off the fire road into the high grass just shy of the trees. Rachel recoiled from the door, waiting for me to hit one of the massive trees on the right, now inches from her door. I gently braked, hoping to take off some speed. There was just enough room on the right of the parked vehicles and to the left of the trees for me to pass through and head up the other hill. I flashed past an international-yellow fire truck and slowed quickly in the mud beyond. I braked, came to a halt, turned the wheels sharply back toward the trees, and stopped. We both took a deep breath, and I said, "Let's go."

Rachel slowly removed her white hand from the door handle. I grabbed my parka from the back and pulled it over my head, got out, and opened the hatch. Rachel joined me underneath it, out of the rain. She looked for the location of the wreck and saw the tracks headed past the parked vehicles. She pointed toward the hill. I looked at my handheld GPS, which had the coordinates of the wreck, and nodded.

WE CROSSED TWO hills and ravines. At the top of the third hill we looked down and could see the crash site. A flame was angrily burning in the pouring rain right in the middle of the wreckage. It hissed and sputtered like the eternal flame on another president's grave in Arlington.

The firemen and investigators at the accident scene must already have determined the flame was no threat. Extinguishing it would probably destroy more evidence than would be justified by the effort.

The site was full of people in blue nylon jackets with NTSB or FBI or SECRET SERVICE letters you could see from two hundred yards away. Some firemen were clearly debating whether the NTSB was right to let the flame burn.

I tried to see under the massive green tarp. From where we stood our view was partially blocked, but we could see a lot more than the helicopters circling overhead. I could see three bodies lying next to the wreckage. They were badly burned. I got a sick, brassy feeling in my mouth as I wondered whether I was looking at the burned body of the president of the United States. It was a disturbing image and a disturbing thought. Rachel saw me looking at the bodies. "Is that all of them?"

"I don't think so. I think there were seven people on the helicopter."

As we got closer, we could see that the damage to the dead was even more horrific. I wondered if they'd suffered, if they'd survived the crash and simply burned to death. In many helicopter accidents the occupants had only minor injuries but died in the fire. What a horrible way to go.