“What are you saying?” Ghami asked sharply.
Moon knew that Libya’s handling of this crisis would have an impact on their relations with the United States and the Western powers far beyond the Tripoli Accords. Jewison’s revelation doubtless put both Ghami and his government in a difficult position. If there was any evidence of tampering, then an accusation of a cover-up wouldn’t be too far behind.
“From what we can tell, a group of nomads has been over the site. They left behind hundreds of footprints, as well as cooking fires, camp detritus consistent with their lifestyle, and the body of a camel that had been shot in the head. Our local guide said the camel appeared to be near the end of its life, judging by the wear on its teeth, and was probably put down because it no longer had value.
“Parts of the wreckage have been disturbed, some possibly removed. The passengers’ remains have also been moved. I believe Muslim custom is to bury people within twenty-four hours of their deaths. My Libyan counterpart here says it’s likely the nomads did just that. I have no reason to doubt his assessment, but we won’t know for sure until we get some cadaver dogs up here.”
“Do you have any preliminary ideas what happened to the plane?”
“From what we can tell—and this is very, very early—the aircraft lost part of its tail section sometime during the flight. We don’t know why, because it has not been recovered here at the scene. We’re sending out our chopper in a few minutes to visually search what we know to be the flight path. This damage could have caused a loss of hydraulic fluid as well as the failure of its rudder and elevators. Without the hydraulic system, the flaps, ailerons, slats, and spoilers on the main wings would have also failed. Had this been the case, the plane would have been difficult, if not impossible, to control.”
Ghami asked, “Is there any indication why part of the tail was lost?”
“Nothing yet,” Jewison replied. “We’ll get an idea once we find it.”
“And if you don’t?” This was from Moon. The question wasn’t a deliberate provocation, but he was curious about Ghami’s reaction. Just because he personally liked the man didn’t mean he had forgotten his role here.
“Barring some other evidence, it would officially be classified as reasons unknown.”
Ghami looked to the Ambassador. “Charles, I promise you that it will be located and the reason for this tragedy explained.”
“No offense, Minister,” Jewison interrupted, “but that may not be a promise you can keep. I’ve been a crash investigator for eighteen years. I’ve seen everything there is to see, including an airliner that exploded in midair and was pulled out of the ocean off Long Island. That was a relatively straightforward investigation compared to this. We can’t tell what damage was done by the crash and what was done by your people.” Ghami made to protest, and Jewison staved him off with a gesture. “I mean the nomads. They’re Libyan so they’re your people, is all I mean.”
“The nomads are citizens of no country but the desert.”
“Either way, they messed with this scene so badly I don’t know if even finding the tail will give us a definitive answer.”
Ghami held the aviation expert’s stare. “Ambassador Moon and other representatives of your government have explained to me that you are the best in the world at what you do, Mr. Jewison. I have their assurance and thus their confidence that you will find an answer. I am certain that you treat each and every airline disaster with your utmost efforts, but you must surely know the gravity of this situation and the importance of what you find.”
Jewison looked from one man to the other. His expression was even more dour as he came to understand that politics was going to play as large a part in his search as forensic science.
“How long until the conference?” he asked.
“Forty-eight hours,” Moon answered.
He shook his head with weary resignation. “ Ifwe can find the tail and ifit hasn’t been further damaged by nomads, I might have a preliminary report for you by then.”
Ghami held out his hand, which Jewison took. “That’s all any of us ask for.”
THE OREGON HAD BEEN rigged for ultraquiet. There was little that could be done about the sound of waves lapping against the hull except to keep her bow into the wind. Other than that, nothing about the ship’s position was left to chance. Max Hanley had surrounded the vessel at a distance of thirty miles with passive buoys that collected incoming radar energy and relayed that information via secure burst transmitters to the onboard computer. This gave them ample warning if another ship was in the area without the use of their own active radar suite. If a target appeared to be headed in their direction, the ship’s dynamic positioning system would move the Oregonusing power supplied by her massed banks of silver-zinc deep-cycle batteries, so she crept along with the barest whisper of water forced through her pump jets. With her hull and superstructure doped with radar-absorbent material, a passing ship would almost need to be in visual range to detect her.
A passive-sonar array dangled from the moon pool down at her keel. Capable of listening three hundred and sixty degrees, the acoustical microphones covered any threats lurking below the surface. Other sensors were vacuuming up electronic data and radio chatter from shipping, aircraft, and shore-based facilities along Libya’s coast. This ability of drift and lift, or as Murph called it “lurk and work,” was the exact type of mission Juan had designed the Oregonto perform. Her stealth capabilities allowed the crew to station the ship off a hostile coast for days—or weeks, if necessary—gathering intelligence on fleet movements, electronics signaling, or anything else her clients demanded.
They had lain off the coast of Cuba for twenty-eight days during the time that Fidel Castro’s illness made it necessary for him to transfer power to his brother, Raul, listening in on everything taking place behind the closed doors of the communist dictator’s private retreat. They had provided the American intelligence services unprecedented knowledge of the inner workings of the secretive regime and eliminated any uncertainty as to what was taking place.
Rigging the Oregonfor ultraquiet also meant suspending all routine maintenance, which no one on the crew minded. However, the ship’s fitness facility was closed to prevent weights from accidentally clanging together, and meals were reduced to prepackaged pouches boiled in a pot clamped to the stove in the galley. The culinary staff had outdone themselves in preparing the meals, but they remained a poor substitute for the gourmet dishes to which the men and women of the Corporation had grown accustomed. The normal silverware and fine china were replaced with paper plates and plastic knives and forks, and any television or radio had to be enjoyed with headphones.
Max Hanley was in his cabin working on a scratch-built model of a Swift boat, one of the fast riverine crafts he had commanded during Vietnam. Hanley wasn’t a man who dwelled much on his past or gave in to the siren song of nostalgia. He stored the medals he’d won in a Los Angeles safe-deposit he hadn’t visited in years and met up with former shipmates only at funerals. He was building the model simply because he could do it from memory and it kept his mind occupied with something other than his responsibilities.
Doc Huxley had suggested the hobby as a way of reducing stress and keeping his blood pressure in check. So far, he’d managed to stick to it longer than the yoga she’d prescribed before. He’d already built and presented a beautiful replica of the Oregonto Juan, which now sat under a plastic case in the executive conference room, and had plans for a Mississippi paddle wheeler when he was finished with the Swift boat.
The knock on his door was so soft that he knew it was Eric Stone taking the whole silent-rigging thing to the limit.