“Impossible to determine,” Ross said flatly. “The wreckage was scattered over thirty-five kilometers. That was nothing but a guess.”
“Who needs wreckage?” Riley asked smugly. “You’ve got to give the Russians credit. Their Federal Security Service — formerly the KGB — made that call based on a single circumstantial fact, but it’s one great fact: a RESURS-DK-R imagery satellite owned by Sovinformsputnik Company in Leningrad detected dual heat fluxes from the Tula and Rostov-on-Don crash regions at precisely the same instant. That, my friend, was coordinated.”
“Are you thinking that our terrorist is Chechnyen?”
“I’m not sure what to think, other than that there’s a timing element involved.”
“You seem pretty confident,” Ross observed.
“I’m confident of two things in life: I’m going to catch that mystery cell-phone terrorist, and I’m also going to catch my fish.”
“You and that fish,” Ross chided, removing an evidence bag from his briefcase. “What did he ever do to you? Speaking of confidence, we found traces of potassium in the burn residue off of Flight 605’s gear piston.”
“Potassium? Did you do a lab test?” Riley asked.
“There was no need. Our portable scanner took accurate measurements at the scene. It uses an ion spectrometer to spot TNT, Semtex, PETN, and a whole range of nitrates. Potassium is one of the major flags for unstable explosives not common to the elements you’d expect to find on or near jet fuel burns.”
Riley lifted the evidence bag.
“We also found some type of a wing,” Ross noted. “One of our techs picked it up from the Fontenelle crash site. It’s made from a molded composite. Nothing unusuaclass="underline" it’s probably from a kid’s toy. The configuration doesn’t fit with any known explosive model because it’s too thin. These are sketches of what it might look like if it were whole.”
Riley frowned at the drawings. They ranged from an oversized ear to a six-inch bat wing. He set the bag down. “Excluding the passengers, a total of twenty people had contact with Flight 771. One fueler, three baggage handlers, two mechanics, two caterers, two maintenance workers, two rampers, three agents, and, of course, the crew. None fit any obvious profile. One technician replaced a brake temperature fuse, and we’ve got a copy of his log. Do you have anything else?”
Ross produced a set of colored computer drawings. One showed remarkable detail of Flight 771’s fuselage cut away to expose the cockpit section.
“My team has concluded that both planes crashed due to a dramatic loss of power, hydraulics, and pilot controls. The Delta flight data recorder showed evidence of a shutdown that originated here.”
He used a pencil-thin marker to connect the nose landing gear with the vertical tail fin. He fingered through the drawings.
“Here’s a closer look at a potential point of impact. It was in our preliminary opinion, by an explosive. Notice the direction of the outward burns. This was further evidenced by the distortions in the hinges and riveting on the gear bay doors. Everything was forced outward.”
“What’s your conclusion?” Riley wondered. “How did it happ—?”
Ross cut him off.
“You can conclude whatever you want. In this case, an aviation action. I’ve just told you what we believe happened. The facts support damage caused by an internal explosion. Unfortunately, that opens an even bigger box of unanswered questions.”
“Such as?”
“I’m sure you know that people are screaming ‘cover-up’ on TWA Flight 800 and the NTSB’s theory of sparks or electrical shorts igniting fumes. There’s a truckload of speculation and witnesses in that case, especially with regard to missiles. I simply can’t afford to go into why it happened. And I won’t cross the line between pure investigation and criminal intent. That’s your job. But I do have my own theory.”
“Fine, it’s not a missile.” Riley was frustrated. “So give me your opinion.”
Ross lifted a bag of pumpkin seeds to his mouth. “This was criminal. On the Delta flight, someone planted a bomb inside or underneath that cockpit, a radio-controlled or a timed device with enough power to rupture the flight control cables. The airborne debris got sucked into the engine. I didn’t mention it in my public interview with Neela, but the United flight was even worse in that the voice and data recorders showed that things were running smoothly and operating normally. Three seconds later, everything was gone — controls, hydraulics, voice, electrical, and all backups. It had to have been a massive in-flight explosion. Things simply don’t go from normal to dead in three seconds.”
“Aren’t modern jets supposed to be able to handle foreign material being pulled into the engines?” Riley asked. “Didn’t Boeing prove that by heaving a bunch of frozen turkeys into the fan blades?”
Ross wanted to laugh. “Jet engines are machined so perfectly that their tolerances are measured in thousandths of millimeters. A couple of seagulls can ruin a pilot’s day. Those turkey tests were done to prove that the engine cowling itself could withstand an explosion and not damage the fuselage in-flight. Trust me, the engines would lose power. My opinion on this is that it was criminal. It’s your job to find out how.”
Chapter 36
Named Punta de los Muertos for early Spanish scurvy victims, Seaport Village consisted of seventy shops, galleries, and restaurants set on a ninety thousand square-foot landfill. The Point of the Dead had four miles of tourist walkways.
Kevin Jones set his guitar case on a tiled bench seat across from a seawall that overlooked San Diego Harbor. He lifted the guitar to his lap and strummed through C, D, and G chords — his favorite way to verify tuning. The air smelled deliciously of fresh-baked pretzels. He set the guitar down and pulled one pretzel apart. He thought he could eat, but he was simply too nervous so he tossed the piece onto the sidewalk. In a scene straight from Hitchcock’s The Birds, wings and beaks instantly appeared. The seagulls were remarkably bold and fought angrily over the morsels. One bird hopped onto the guitar case. When Jones tried to pet the seemingly friendly visitor, he was given a nasty warning. It was all about the dough — literally.
Behind him, a crowd gathered in the open food court. Music pumped through two amplifiers. The musician at the microphone had a smooth voice, and his guitar playing was crisp. Jones froze. He instantly recognized the classic Travis-style, finger-picking chord bounce from C to G. The song’s melody and lyrics were especially familiar.
“Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go, looking for the places only they would know. Lie la lie… lie la la la lie la lie… lie la lie… lie la la la lie la lie la la la la lie.”
He’s singing Simon & Garfunkel, Jones thought. “The Boxer.” Why can’t I do that? I can. I know I can. He eased closer, checking his watch. He was next.
“This guy’s good, hey?” a bystander commented to Jones. “I dig that song.”
“Me too,” Jones remarked. “Paul Simon wrote it way back in 1968. He recorded it with four guitars and a piccolo trumpet. It took six weeks. It’s amazing that it’s still so musically pleasing after all these years.”
“I’ve always wanted to play the guitar,” the young man admitted, noticing Jones’s case. “But I’d be totally freaked if I had to sing in front of anyone.”
“Playing is the easy part,” Jones noted, checking his watch again. “Unfortunately, not everyone can sing.”