Richard Doetsch - The 13th Hour

The acrid smell of death hovered in the air, the odor of burned flesh, molten metal, and scorched earth enough to induce sickness if the images hadn’t already taken one down that path. With a full load of highly flammable jet fuel, the aircraft was a fireball as it hit the ground, the heat of the initial blast scorching trees and plants a quarter mile away. The fireball rose in a great mushroom cloud visible for miles, while the black smoke darkened the sky, blotting out the sun for hours, only to be replaced by the steaming white smoke of the flames’ watery defeat. Oddly, while much of the wreckage was burned beyond recognition, some had escaped untouched

Shards of aluminum skin lay twisted about the muddy earth, luggage was open and scattered. The sight of women’s blouses and children’s sneakers laid bare the magnitude and human devastation of what had happened.

And there were the bodies, over two hundred. Men, woman, and children. None recognizable, no one whole. Hundreds of white sheets, their edges muddy and wet, dotted the area, the grim reminder of the death that lay beneath them, the death that comes without warning.

Grieving family members were held back by townsfolk and family. Shrieks of agony, of loss echoed the air, the only sound besides the hissing, steaming ground. No one spoke. Eye contact was avoided.

Nothing was moved while the NTSB examined the wreckage and secured the black boxes, the recorders of life up until the moment of death.

Small yellow flags, bar coded and numbered, were placed next to every piece of debris, cataloguing the destruction so computer models could be formulated, enabling experts to analyze the cause of the incident. While the NTSB’s combing of the debris, their meticulous reconstruction of the moments leading up to the point of the crash, was intended to solve a mystery, their directive, as always, was to prevent future occurrences, to help with the implementation of new guidelines so the particular yet-to-be-determined cause would not lead to another such event.

AS NICK DROVE toward Sullivan Fields there was no way of avoiding the sight of the crash. The access road descended into the sunken, almost valleylike field, circling the perimeter and revealing the tragedy in all of its devastation. Over one hundred ambulances lay in wait, the EMTs’ and paramedics’ job now simply being the transportation of remains to the morgue.

Cars and trucks of volunteers lined the road, intermixed with army jeeps and several off-road vehicles. People walked by on their way out with hunched shoulders and tear-streaked faces.

Nick had rounded the bend of the final corner before the entrance to the field proper when he was abruptly stopped by a National Guardsman in full army greens, an M-16 rifle slung over his back. He circled his hand in the air, indicating Nick should turn around and leave, all of which Nick ignored as he rolled down his window.

“Sir,” the Guardsman said as he approached. “Got to get out of here.”

“I need to see the police,” Nick said, talking over the younger man.

“What seems to be the problem? Maybe I could help.”

Nick looked at the young blond reservist. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, surely educated with the help of government loans that required years of service to your country in return.

“I need to see the police and I need them now.”

“You’re going to have to explain it to me,” the young and eager soldier said, clearly enjoying his first taste of authority. “You’re not allowed in there.”

Nick stuck his finger out the window, curling it toward himself, bidding the solider to come close enough so he could read the name on the left side of his chest, and spoke in a soft, even tone, “Private McManus?”

“Yes, sir?”

“What’s your first name?”

“Neil.”

“I suppose you know how to use that weapon, Neil?”

“Top of my class in riflery.”

“Well, good for you.” Nick nodded. “Someone is trying to kill my wife, Neil, and I really need to see the police about it.”

Seeing the sincerity in his eyes, McManus quickly waved Nick into the crash site. “They’re stationed at the locker house.”

IF THE PREVAILING impression out on the access road was one of death, then what greeted him as he inched into the main parking lot past the scores of emergency vehicles was nothing short of hell.

Stepping from the car and looking about, Nick momentarily forgot his own situation. He had never been to war, but he now knew what it looked like as he stared at the charred remains that scattered the once-pristine playing fields.

Hundreds of people swarmed the crash site, looking like ants on the blackened landscape. Some hovered over bodies, pulling back the white sheets to examine the charred remains, trying to figure out if they were looking at an adult or a child, male or female. Others marked debris, looking for clues, while still others photographed and videotaped the devastation.

Nick walked through the sea of people, past the news trucks and the temporary generators that provided power to the response team, past the flatbeds containing enormous halogen lights that would illuminate the shattered earth as the night fell, allowing the nonstop operation to maintain its twenty-four-hour vigilance.

Nick finally arrived at the command post set up under a series of tents that adjoined the brick locker house building. Card tables and metal chairs were set in an orderly fashion along the wall, temporary phones and computers had been hastily assembled, brought in from businesses and the local school to supplement the desktop and notebook units brought by the National Guard.

Nick found the table where a hastily scribbled sign read Byram Hills Police. A broad-shouldered older man sat behind the table, his gray hair desperately trying to hold on to its last bit of original black color. Nick recognized him at once as the man who interrupted his interrogation six hours from now.

“Captain Delia?” Nick asked.

“Yes.” The captain looked up with weary eyes. “How can I help you?”

“I…” Nick paused, unsure how to start. “I know this a difficult day for you and everyone but I have a situation that requires immediate attention.”

The captain gave a half nod for him to continue.

“There was a robbery this morning, a pretty substantial robbery. Over $25 million in antiques and jewels were stolen, from Washington House over on Maple.”

“I heard nothing of this.” Delia tilted his head in surprise.

“My wife is one of the owner’s attorneys; she was notified of the robbery and has confirmed its occurrence.”

“Of all days. Dammit!” The captain stood up, looking around, the weariness falling from his eyes, to be replaced with frustration. “I don’t know who I can send over there. We’re already stretched thin. Has the place been secured?”

“Yes,” Nick said. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

“You here to confess?” He paused, wiping a sweaty strand of hair from his face, immediately regretting his statement. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

Nick looked away for a moment, debating crossing the point of no return before finally turning back. “Whoever committed this crime is after my wife.”

“What do you mean ‘after your wife’?” The captain grew suddenly serious.

“To kill her.”

“And how do you know that?”

“They’ve already destroyed her office.”

Delia took a moment. “Any idea who?”

Nick pulled out the printed picture. “This man is involved, but I’m not sure how, nor do I know who he is.”

“What’s this from?” the captain asked as he studied the picture.

“Security feed. The other faces didn’t show up before video interference obscured everything. And I do believe the security company may be involved.” Nick stopped, hoping the captain was convinced. “It’s a start, right?”