Rick Mofina - Free Fall

Cashill stared at him. “Which are?”

“His denial of disabling the safety features of the flight-management system, which is backed up by the first officer. And now this claim that some outside force interfered with the aircraft.”

Cashill waved Hooper’s counterpoint off as if it were an annoyance.

“That threat is from a nut job,” Cashill said. “First, there’s no evidence to support it. Second, the FBI hasn’t found anything of substance to it. Third, unlike what you see on TV or in movies and books, the flight-management system is secure against hacking, or cyber hijacking.”

“Are we absolutely certain of that?” Hooper asked.

A knock sounded and Len Stelmach, a senior manager from the Major Investigations Division, entered.

“Bill, we’ve just received word of a crash at Heathrow. A Starglide Blue Wing 250, with two hundred eight people aboard, slammed into the ground just short of the runway. The Air Accidents Investigation Branch is requesting technical support from us. The chief recommends you go, Bill, along with Hooper and a few others. I’ll send you the list.”

Cashill made notes.

“Okay, Len, thanks.” Cashill closed his binder, indicating the meeting had concluded. “Okay, people, we’re done here. Keep going on Forty-nine Ninety and we’ll reconvene when we get back.”

“Excuse me, Len,” Hooper said, “but do we know if there are fatalities?”

“At least nine, maybe more.”

At his desk, Hooper sent his wife a text, letting her know that he had to get home, collect his bag and fly to London. As he set up his out-of-office email and voice mail, he accidentally heard the beginning of the message Robert Cole had left him.

“Jake, Jake, lishen, Jake, it’s Cole zin in North Dakota. You hafta lishen…”

Hooper hung up. The sound of Cole’s intoxicated voice filled him with sorrow, compounding the sadness over what awaited him in London.

As Hooper drove to Glover Park, he was haunted by what had happened to Robert Cole.

Bob had been a brilliant, legendary engineer who’d worked on Richlon-Titan’s RTs, and had taken part in NTSB investigations over the years. Then there’d been the tragedy-that terrible accident, for which he blamed himself. He never overcame his guilt over the death of his wife.

It had broken him.

He’d lost his job, and had been reduced to being a delusional alcoholic who called the NTSB every time there was a crash or major incident with his views on the cause. He’d become a sad joke in aviation circles.

Hooper knew the man was trying to redeem himself.

It seemed like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

London, England

The British Airways 747 lifted off from JFK and the lights of greater New York City twinkled below.

As the big jet blasted upward, Kate’s stomach fluttered, and she pressed her head back into her seat and blinked at the ceiling.

How long can I keep doing this?

It felt like her life was moving as fast as the jet. It was not that long ago when she’d overheard Flight 4990’s dispatches on the emergency scanner and now she was bound for London at five hundred and fifty miles per hour. She’d already been working long days on this story but the look on Grace’s face when she’d told her she had to leave had broken her heart.

Oh no, Mom, we’re supposed to go to the zoo and the park.

I know, sweetie, but it’s only for a few days. We’ll go when I get back. I promise.

And then can we shop for my shoes?

Grace knew how to negotiate, especially since she had leverage, given that Kate had been a preoccupied, absent parent.

We’ll see when I get back.

The jet climbed as Kate looked at her phone and traced her fingers over Grace’s photo. In her years with Newslead, Kate had traveled on assignments across the United States, to Canada, Africa, Australia, the Caribbean and Europe. Being a reporter was in her DNA; it was who she was and how she’d made a life for herself. She was good at it. But the leaving part never got easier. In fact, it was getting harder and harder for her to take these trips. Kate was fortunate to have a friend like Nancy Clark, a retired nurse who lived alone on the floor above them. Nancy was like family, always ready and happy to look after Grace whenever she could. And now Kate had Vanessa.

I’m truly blessed to have them all in my life .

The jet leveled. Kate lowered her tray, switched on her laptop and reviewed her files. She began making notes on what she needed to do. One person she counted on for help was her friend Betty Yang. They’d worked together at the San Francisco Star before Betty had taken a job at the Chronicle , then moved to Kuwait, where she’d started a magazine for American expats living in the Gulf. Betty’s father had been a diplomat. She’d grown up in the region and had a network of connections. Kate had kept in touch with Betty, and had reached out to her for help on the crash of the Kuwaiti jet at Heathrow.

But so far, she’d heard nothing.

Somewhere over Nova Scotia, Kate grew drowsy and yawned. The only available seat Newslead had been able to secure was on this later, overnight flight, which was due to land the next morning at 8:00 a.m. local time in London. Most passengers slept through it, and before they’d lifted off, Kate had swallowed two sleeping pills to ensure she’d be rested when she arrived.

The pills were working.

She shut off her laptop, snuggled under her blanket, gazed at the stars and fell asleep.

Kate was shaken awake.

The plane bumped like a pickup truck crossing a farmer’s field. As wisps of memory assembled in her brain, a chime sounded.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. Our apologies for this rough patch-we’ve come upon some turbulence in our descent into Heathrow. Please remain in your seats with your belts secure, and we’ll endeavor to get around it. We should have you at the gate in thirty minutes’ time.”

Loud plastic creaking and crackling sounded from the overhead storage bins. The plane continued shaking and thudding. Some passengers gasped. Kate had no fear of flying but when she raised her window blind to the morning sun bathing the outskirts of London, she thought of the irony of her situation: a rough ride on a jetliner landing at the airport where one had crashed below-the very tragedy she was covering.

The turbulence ended some twenty minutes from landing and Kate watched the great city flow under her. As they began their approach for Heathrow’s northern runway, which had remained open, the passengers became silent, almost reverent.

Runway 27L, the southern runway, was dotted with emergency vehicles; their lights flashed, and tarps covered the pieces of the Starglide Blue Wing 250 where Shikra Airlines Flight 418 had crashed. The impact tracks at the runway’s threshold looked as if monstrous talons had clawed savagely into the earth to mark the tragedy.

Kate took a breath, let it out slowly and sat back in her seat as the 747 touched down to light applause for its soft, easy landing.

At Heathrow, a young British customs officer allowed Kate smooth entry into the country. She collected her bag and freshened up in a restroom. On her way to the transportation area, she passed a newsstand and the headlines of some of Britain’s major national papers. The Telegraph : “Death Toll Rises to 15. What Caused Heathrow Tragedy?” The Times : “Heathrow Toll Now at 15 Dead. Investigation Searches for Answers.” And the Daily Mail : “Why Did They Die? 15 Killed in Kuwait Air Disaster at Heathrow.”