Aside from the time involved, there were other differences. Since 1947, the business of investigating civil aircraft accidents had been regulated by an agreement known as the Chicago Convention, or more specifically, an obscure subsection called Annex 13. Among the more important provisions was the tricky terrain of jurisdiction. Aircraft, by nature, were transient beasts — they could crash in one country, be registered in another, and owned by a party in a third. Annex 13 declared that the "state of occurrence" governed the authority to investigate a crash, falling back on registration should an airplane go down in international waters. So it was, the investigation of World Express 801 would be administered by France. More specifically, the Bureau Enquetes-Accidents, or BEA.
Davis would have preferred that World Express 801 had gone down elsewhere. England, Ireland. Or Lichtenstein, for that matter. France was peculiar, one of the few countries that always ran dual investigations— the traditional safety side that he would help guide, but also a parallel criminal version where prosecutors tried to make names for themselves, tried to tie someone to a post for cobblestone target practice. In the case of World Express 801, they might go after individuals who worked for the manufacturer, CargoAir; or the operator, World Express. Captain Earl Moore and First Officer Melinda Hendricks, posthumously, would at least be spared that indignity.
Davis dozed for the last hour of the trip. The TGV dropped him right at Lyon s Saint Exupery International Airport. He exited through the rail terminal's high, fan-shaped arches. From there he could have walked to the investigation command center. Instead, Davis found a cab.
It was late morning when he arrived at the crash site.
Chapter SEVEN
The weather was hard winter, a gunmetal gray sky blurred by darker veils of rain in the distance. Light drizzle swirled on an arbitrary breeze that blustered back and forth, never seeming to settle on a direction. A French breeze, Davis mused.
He knew he wasn't going by the book. He should have checked in first at the investigation's headquarters. Signed off paperwork, gotten somebody's approval. But he always liked one initial look at a crash without distraction, without people pulling him by the elbow to places he didn't want to go.
The cab was at least a half mile from the crash site when an array of barricades and police cordoned off the road. A fleet of forklifts and sturdy flatbed trucks were parked nearby, lying in wait for the awkward task of moving the wreckage to a secure location. It was a difficult undertaking, as the pieces were often huge, some weighing tons. Through all the shifting and manhandling, evidence was invariably lost, damaged, and altered. There should have been a more delicate, clinical way to do it. There wasn't.
A helicopter was hovering beneath the overcast clouds. The craft was almost stationary, side slipping now and again to give the men inside new lines of sight. The aerial photographers had likely been shooting since first light. There would be more photographers on the ground, and nothing on the site would be moved until every angle had been recorded, documented. Davis noticed a line of reporters and civilians standing at the best vantage point, the top of a nearby ridge.
They were all pointing and exchanging comments. Vulture's row. Something like it materialized at all aircraft crashes, onlookers drawn by the same morbid allure, Davis supposed, that made automobile wrecks so interesting.
He paid the cab and sent it away, figuring he wouldn't have any trouble getting a ride later — there had to be a constant flow of vehicles between the crash site and the center of operations. Following a rise in the road, Davis reached a perimeter that was marked with police tape. Probably four miles of it. Five men and two women, all wearing yellow vests marked policier stood firm at the entry point. When they saw him coming, two of the men moved to stand in his path. That's how things worked when you were a wide six foot four.
One of the policemen held up an arm.
Davis came to a halt.
"This area is closed to the public," the gatekeeper said in French.
Davis pulled out his NTSB identification, said nothing.
The lead man eyed him critically, but stepped away to reference a clipboard. Next he got out his mobile phone. It took two minutes. When he spoke again it was in English. "Very well, monsieur. But you must soon find your proper credentials."
Davis nodded. "Merci beaucoupy."
He started walking again. Fifty steps later he crested the hill.
And there it was.
Davis stood still.
It always hit him this way. The first time he saw any accident site he could only stare. Even now, two days after the crash, a few thin currents of smoke drifted up from the charred earth, like the last wisps of steam escaping a once-boiling pot. Everywhere he looked, the colors and textures were those of death. Brown earth, slick and damp from the rain. Blackened, jagged clumps of wreckage strewn in a seemingly random pattern. He had seen the aerial photos, but from ground level the crash site looked different. It always did. The individual pieces of debris seemed incredibly still, an impression at odds with what the sum implied to the contrary — noise, fire, turmoil.
He shifted his gaze to the horizon. In the midwinter distance, dormant grass and leafless trees gave a dismal frame to the apocalyptic scene. A few broken clumps of mist hovered in the valleys, soft pools to cradle the chaos. Davis began walking again, steering toward the main debris field. A large downed tree was lying prone amid the wreckage, testament to the physical forces that had engaged in one cataclysmic moment. He navigated through a minefield of metal, composite, wire, glass, and fabric. Most was from World Express 801, but a few things had probably already been lying around. An old car tire, beer bottles, a discarded compact disc. That much more for the investigators to sift through.
It was the smell that hit him next, the stinging odor of jet fuel and soot grating on his respiratory tract. At least it wasn't mixed with that other smell, he thought. If there was any good news here, it was that the human element of the tragedy had been minimal. Two pilots. No passengers.
He stopped first at the largest section of wreckage — just like everyone would — and tried to place it. It was a central section, an arrangement of thick beams and bulkheads. Probably rectangular to begin with, it was now slightly askew. The attached skin and fittings were a mix — some clean with jagged edges, other parts drooping and charred where the heat had done its work. Davis scanned all around and saw it everywhere — fire. World Express 801 had probably been carrying a hundred tons of Jet A fuel. A lot of potential energy.
He began walking again. The ground was crisscrossed with deep ruts. These were not a direct result of the crash, Davis knew. Emergency vehicles always dominated the first few hours, and they did a lot of damage, running over debris, indiscriminately spraying water and fire retardant on the whole mess. Nobody could blame them. It was a tough job, and sometimes lives were at stake. But it only added to the forensic nightmare, made the investigators job that much harder.
Davis stepped over a large metal tube that had one end ripped apart in three sections — it formed a perfect fleur-de-lis. He found a cockpit instrument panel, a twelve-inch square liquid-crystal display.