“We’re on approach into Mitchell, and I’m losing you. North end of the airport. It’s the Courtyard Marriott.”
The engine noise crackled out. The connection went dead.
Ross pulled a shirt over his head. Riley, you are a pain in the neck.
Chapter 21
The weather was unseasonably cool. Intermittent sun punched through heavy but fast-moving clouds. Light rain dusted Griffin’s windshield. She made better time than she figured and noted that the other news stations and even the local authorities had the crash site wrong. They were too far south, almost to Racine.
Terry Lee had somehow managed to sneak himself and his camera equipment into the South Milwaukee Yacht Club’s empty parking lot. When Griffin’s Volkswagen Beetle pulled up, he kicked his leg in front of the remote sensor, and the electric gate drew open.
“There’s a roadway that juts out into the lake about a quarter mile offshore,” Lee shouted. “I can’t believe the luck. There’s no one here. The view from this harbor is totally open.”
Griffin counted eighteen concrete block courses on the restaurant. She spied a rickety wooden stepladder and propped it onto a nearby picnic table. From the top step, she could just reach the edge of the building’s flat roof.
Lee stared incredulously. “You’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do, are you?”
“Get your gear up here,” she shouted over her shoulder. “We’re going live.”
The view was panoramic. Griffin stood mesmerized by the horrific scene of burning debris on the water. It looked like some flaming asteroid had exploded. Her hunch that there was no easy way for land rescue teams to access the shoreline except through this parking lot proved true. They’d have to come right past Fox’s camera.
Advancing sirens confirmed that fact as the first official emergency vehicles appeared on Marshall Avenue. Authorities immediately established a perimeter and began diverting nonessential people and traffic. Shielding her eyes from the reflective glare of the now cloud-free sun, she saw that there was no sign of an aircraft — at least, in one piece.
“Twenty seconds,” a producer’s voice spoke through Griffin’s earpiece.
Lee raised the camera to his shoulder.
Griffin adjusted her microphone. After coordinating the break-in sequence, the station informed her that the feed was being picked up nationally. She straightened the logo on her company jacket and gave her hair a few fluffs. She was facing west. Lake Michigan was in the background.
“Less than an hour ago, a commercial passenger flight…” she paused and touched her earpiece. “… we’re confirming that it was Delta… crashed shortly after takeoff from Mitchell International Airport. What you’re seeing behind me is exclusive live video of the crash site, and a debris field that appears to stretch from west to east. We are just now receiving preliminary information that there may have been over one hundred passengers and crew on board. We don’t have any confirmation on that yet.”
The voice of Fox and Friends morning news coanchor, Elisabeth Colby, interrupted. “I want to repeat for viewers just tuning in that we’re speaking live with Neela Griffin from our local WITI Fox affiliate in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, at the scene of a Delta Airlines passenger jet that has just gone down in Lake Michigan after takeoff from Mitchell International Airport. Neela, has anyone given you any indication of the possible cause for the crash?”
“No, Elisabeth. It’s too early. I don’t see any of the federal officials who generally take charge of situations like this. Local emergency land and water rescue vehicles are just starting to enter the area.”
Griffin noticed two men climbing onto the rooftop. Both wore dark blue windbreakers with yellow block lettering. She instinctively clicked off the microphone.
The first FBI agent rudely swept a finger across his throat. “Ma’am, you’ve got exactly ten seconds to pack up and get off this building. That goes for Kid Rock over there too. Tell him to shut down and leave now.”
She walked briskly over to Lee. “Do what they say, and please don’t give them any hassle. See if you can set up on that hill to my right. The first house on the point. The one with the flagpole. Be sure to ask permission. I’ll try and get some statements. I’ll meet you as soon as I can.”
She’d had federal confrontations before and was experienced enough to know that their jurisdictional muscle-flexing was serious. Some agents even confiscated equipment and vehicles without warning or legal cause. The action rarely went to court, and the station always recovered its property, but only after bureaucratic delays that killed any chance of news exclusives.
A convoy of police-escorted vehicles appeared. The entire scene was quickly becoming federalized, which meant that media personnel would receive only limited information, usually from scheduled news conferences.
Griffin’s brief moment in the national spotlight had ended. She stepped back from the camera and turned on her microphone. “Elisabeth, we’ve lost our video, and it looks like we’re being asked to move to a safer location. I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to broadcast. We’ll try to check in later. Reporting live from a Delta Airlines crash site on the shore of Lake Michigan south of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, this is Neela Griffin, WITI Fox 6 News.”
Griffin talked with the agents until she saw her partner drive away. She straddled the edge of the roof and then lowered both feet onto the stepladder. When she started down, the ladder suddenly twisted, sending her flailing sideways off the picnic table toward the pavement. Her tailbone hit first, and then the back of her head bounced off the concrete with a hard thump.
Three identical Ford E350 vans moved through the parking lot. The lead van lurched to a stop. A man flew out of the passenger door.
“Lady, are you all right?” Tom Ross asked, noticing a circle of blood oozing from her hair. He stripped off his shirt and flashed his ID to an FBI agent. “Where’s medical?”
“Straight ahead and left to the shoreline about a quarter mile farther, sir. They’re setting up now.”
“Do me a favor and call ahead on this, okay?”
“But she’s a reporter.”
“What difference does that make?” Ross snapped angrily. “She’s injured.”
Ross gently parted Griffin’s hair and pressed his shirt onto her scalp. He raised his hand. “How many fingers?”
She stared at his blurred image incredulously and then tried to touch his cheek. Her eyes welled with moisture. “Daddy?”
“It’s all right, ma’am,” Ross assured. “Try and keep pressure on that, okay? We’ll get you some help.”
Griffin blinked her eyes repeatedly and noticed Ross’s ID. She tried to sit up. “N… TSB? Would you mind if I asked you some questions? I really would appreciate an interview. It’s the least you can do for trying to run me over.”
“What? Nobody ran you over. You fell off a ladder. It was an accident.”
“You asked me how many fing…” Her voice trailed off.
“Ma’am, it’s a good chance that we’ve got well over a hundred fatalities to deal with out here,” Ross said. “You’re not making much sense right now, and I’m afraid I don’t have time to try and figure it out. I’ll give you an interview for ten minutes after you get treatment and after our initial press conference.” He looked down and saw that she had fainted.
Ross noticed media gathering outside the fence and waved to his entourage. The vehicles moved on. He lifted Griffin and headed for his van. Her hair pressed against his bare chest and chin. It was mink-soft.
Ron Hollings helped Ross load Griffin into the middle seat, sliding a blanket under her head. The bleeding had slowed.