I didn't know why I was running, but something in my head said, "Run!" So I ran, feeling that little pencil-shaped scar area in my lung giving me a problem.
Kate and I did some broken-field running around the vehicles and within a minute we were inside this huge enclosure, filled with vehicles, people, and one 747. It looked like something out of Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Maybe the X-Files.
People who run attract attention, and we were stopped by a uniformed Port Authority cop, who was joined quickly by his sergeant. The sergeant said, "Where's the fire, folks?"
I tried to catch my breath and say, "FBI," but only managed a sort of whistle that came out of my bad lung.
Kate held up her Fed creds and said, without any huffing or puffing, "FBI. We have a fugitive and escorts aboard that aircraft."
I got my creds out and stuck the case in my outside breast pocket, still trying to catch my breath.
The Port Authority sergeant said, "Well, there's no rush." He added, "All dead."
Kate said, "We have to board the aircraft to take charge of… the bodies."
"We have people to do that, miss."
"Sergeant, our escorts are carrying guns as well as sensitive documents. This is a matter of national security."
"Hold on." He put his hand out, and the police officer beside him laid a radio in his palm. The sergeant transmitted and waited. He said to us, "Lots of radio traffic."
I was tempted to get uppity, but I waited.
The sergeant said, while we waited, "This bird came in total NO-RAD-"
"We know that," I said, happy that I'd picked up this jargon recently.
I looked at the 747, which had stopped in the center of the enclosure. Mobile staircases were being driven up to the doors, and soon there would be people on board.
The sergeant wasn't getting a reply to his call, so he said to us, "You see that Mobile Incident Command vehicle over there? Go talk to somebody in there. They're in direct contact with the FBI and my bosses."
Before he changed his mind, we hurried off toward the Mobile Command vehicle.
I was still breathing hard, and Kate asked me, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
We both glanced over our shoulders and saw that the Port Authority sergeant was busy with something else. We changed course and headed toward the aircraft.
One mobile staircase was now in place at the rear of the aircraft, and a few Emergency Service guys were heading up the stairs followed by men and women in white, plus some guys in blue jumpsuits, and a guy in a business suit.
A gentleman never climbs a staircase behind a lady with a short skirt, but I gave it a try and motioned for Kate to go first. She said, "After you."
So we got on the stairs and went through the door of the aircraft and into the huge cabin. The only lights were emergency floor lights, probably powered by batteries. There was some illumination from the late afternoon sunlight through the port side windows. But you didn't need a lot of light to see that the cabin was about three-quarters full and that no one in the seats was moving.
The people who had entered with us stood motionless and quiet, and the only sounds came through the open doors.
The guy with the suit looked at Kate and me, and I saw he had a photo ID on his breast pocket. It was actually a Trans-Continental ID, and the guy looked awful. In fact, he said to us, "This is awful… oh, my God…"
I thought he was going to cry, but he got himself under control and said, "I'm Joe Hurley… Trans-Continental baggage supervisor…"
I said to him, "FBI. Look, Joe, keep your people out of the aircraft. This may be a crime scene."
His eyes opened wide.
I really didn't think at that point that this was a crime scene, but I wasn't totally buying the toxic fumes accident thing either. The best way to get control of a situation is to say, "Crime Scene," then everyone has to do what you say.
One of the Port Authority Emergency Service guys came over and said, "Crime scene?"
"Yeah. Why don't you all go to a door and hold up the traffic awhile until we look around. Okay? There's no rush collecting the carry-on baggage or the bodies."
The EMS guy nodded, and Kate and I moved quickly up the left aisle.
People were starting to come on board through the other open doors, and Kate and I held up our creds and called out, "FBI. Please stop where you are. Do not enter the aircraft. Please move back onto the staircases." And so forth.
This got the traffic slowed down, and people started to congregate at the doors. A Port Authority cop was on board, and he helped stop traffic as we made our way to the front of the aircraft.
Every now and then, I glanced over my shoulder and saw these faces staring into nowhere. Some had their eyes shut, some had their eyes open. Toxic fumes. But what kind of toxic fumes?
We got to this open area where there were two exit doors, a galley, two lavatories, and a spiral staircase. A bunch of people were jamming into the area, and we did our routine again, but it's hard to stop a tide of people at a disaster site, especially if they think they have business there. I said, "Folks, this is a possible crime scene. Get off the aircraft. You can wait on the stairs outside."
A guy in a blue jumpsuit was on the spiral staircase, and I called up to him, "Hey, pal. Get down from there."
People were moving back toward the exit doors, and the guy on the spiral staircase was able to get down to the last step. Kate and I squeezed our way past him, and we went up the staircase, me first.
I took the spiral stairs two at a time, and stopped as soon as I was able to see into the dome cabin. I didn't think I needed a gun, but when in doubt, pull it out. I drew my Clock and stuck it in my belt.
I stood in the dome cabin, which was brighter than downstairs. I wondered if the Emergency Service guy who had gone on board and discovered this was still on board. I called out, "Hey! Anybody home?"
I moved to the side to let Kate up. She came up and moved a few feet away from me, and I saw she hadn't drawn her piece. In fact, there seemed to be no reason to suspect that there was any danger on board. The Port Authority Emergency Service guy had reported that everyone was dead. But where was the guy?
We stood there and scoped the scene out. First things first, and the first thing was to make sure there wasn't any danger to us, and you have to check out closed doors first. A lot of bright detectives have had their clever deductions blown out of their brains while they were poking around a crime scene with their heads in a cloud.
In the rear of the dome was the lavatory to the left, and the galley to the right. I motioned to Kate, and she drew her piece from under her blazer as I moved toward the lav. The little sign said VACANT, and I pushed on the folding door and stood aside.
She said, "Clear."
In the galley, a stewardess lay on the floor on her side, and out of habit, I knelt down and felt her ankle for a pulse. Not only was there no pulse, she was cold.
Between the galley and the lav was a closet, so I covered while Kate opened the door. Inside were passengers' coats, jackets, hanging garment bags, and odds and ends on the floor. It's nice to travel Business Class. Kate poked around a few seconds, and we almost missed it but there it was. On the floor, under a trench coat, were two green oxygen bottles strapped to a wheeled cart. I checked both valves, and they were open. It took about three seconds for me to suspect that one bottle had held oxygen, and the other had held something not so good for you. Things were starting to come together.
Kate said, "These are medical oxygen bottles."
"Right." I could see she was also putting things together, but neither of us said anything.
Kate and I moved quickly up the aisle and stood at the cockpit door, which I could see had its lock smashed. I pulled on the door and it swung open. I stepped inside and saw that both pilots were slumped forward in their seats. I felt for a pulse in both their necks, but all I got was cold, clammy skin.