Several men were helping move huge planks. The creosote planks were being laid side by side in a long row, creating a mat for the heavy equipment to traverse the marsh without bogging down in the soft muck.
Kaplan pointed to two men arguing and said, “That’s the guy that interviewed me, the younger one. His name is Jake Pendleton.”
With a sly grin Annie said, “He’s cute.”
“He’s not your type.” He pointed at the marsh. “Watch your step, it gets kind of mucky in the marsh.”
Jake and McGill noticed them at the same time. Kaplan was pointing at the ring of sandbags and probably explaining their purpose to the woman standing next to him.
Kaplan lifted his hand in a waving gesture at Jake.
McGill shook his head and frowned. “Who are they and what the hell are they doing here?”
“He’s the controller who was working this aircraft when it crashed. I didn’t see any harm in letting him and his girlfriend see the site from a safe distance. She is also a controller,” Jake explained, while giving Kaplan and the girl a “stay there, I’ll be right over” return wave.
“I’m up to my ass in shit and you invite two observers out here without my approval. I don’t need any more problems.”
“I didn’t think it would be a problem. I couldn’t get hold of you and besides, he’s been very cooperative.”
McGill’s face turned beet red, veins bulging on his face. He raised his index finger and shook it in Jake’s face, “That’s the problem, Jake, you’re not thinking. You know you must run this by me first. I make the call — not you. Get them out of here.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll give them a quick overview and then send them on their way.”
McGill didn’t say a word, just turned and motioned for the crane operator to start lifting the main fuselage slowly out of the clinging muck.
He walked over to Kaplan. “Hey, Gregg — not a pretty sight, is it?”
Before Kaplan could answer, Annie held out her right hand and said, “Annie Bulloch.”
“Jake Pendleton, nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“We didn’t cause you any problem, did we?” Kaplan asked.
“No. Don’t worry about it. My boss is under a lot of stress and has been on edge ever since this investigation started.
Jake explained what they were doing. “As you can see, we’re trying to ease the fuselage out without compromising any evidence that may lead to a probable cause indication. Plus, we still have two bodies that haven’t been recovered yet — the two pilots. If we rush the debris removal, we could compromise the remains. Under these conditions, the extraction is slow and laborious.
“The sandbags help a little but the tide is coming through anyway and the marsh is getting softer by the minute. We already located and removed the black boxes, both the cockpit voice recorder and the flight data recorder. They’re in those chests over there, ready to ship to D.C.”
The wind shifted and smoke from the smoldering wreckage drifted over them.
Jake stopped when he noticed the grimace come across Annie’s face. Looking into her big green eyes, he said, “The smell?”
“Eww.” She nodded. “What is it?”
“A combination — burnt electrical wiring, jet fuel, fabric from the seats and insulation in the cabin. And then, of course, the burnt flesh … that’s the worst.”
Kaplan noticed some commotion and a gathering of NTSB investigators at a certain spot under the fuselage. He pointed. “It looks like they found something important.”
Jake turned around and saw the gaping hole in the bottom of the fuselage’s forward portion, directly behind and below where the cockpit door would have been.
Jake told Kaplan and Annie to stay outside the stakedown tape. They could stay for a few more minutes and observe, but he had to get back to work.
He walked over to the fuselage, leaned in and pointed toward the hole. “Looks like some sort of explosion did that.”
McGill jerked around and glared at him. “Just how did you make that determination, Einstein?”
Jake said nothing.
“You see these blue streaks. Look. Blue paint inside this dented area here, and here.” McGill patted another dent. “And here. I’ve seen this before. This is paint transfer, not an explosion. Someone bring me my handheld radio. Dave, can you get to the 91A?”
“Yeah, give me a couple of minutes,” Dave said. “I gotta crawl back to it.”
McGill ordered, “Someone get Kowalski over here.”
Dave squeezed into the aircraft’s tail section and searched for the emergency locator transmitter.
Ben Lewis walked up at the same time as the FAA accident investigator, Aaron Kowalski. Ben handed McGill the handheld VHF radio.
McGill asked Kowalski, “Has an aircraft been reported missing?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, an ALNOT was issued yesterday for a vintage Cessna Skyhawk overdue in Augusta from Hilton Head. The Civil Air Patrol was dispatched this morning. They have two aircraft in the air right now, one in Augusta working south and the other in Hilton Head working north. The aircraft got a late start this morning due to the fog. They’re running search grids along the river.”
An ALNOT was an FAA search and rescue Alert Notice, issued when an aircraft was overdue at its destination by thirty minutes or more.
Looking at Jake, McGill said to Kowalski, “Is the aircraft blue?”
“Actually royal blue with white trim, no electrical system to speak of, no transponder and only a handheld VHF radio, VFR daylight only restricted,” Kowalski said. “The seventy-year-old owner uses it to travel back and forth to his beach house in Hilton Head. According to his wife, he is intimidated by Air Traffic Control and follows the Savannah River from Augusta to the coast, then the coastline over to Hilton Head and back, giving Savannah a little wider berth and staying below thirteen hundred feet in order to avoid the Savannah Class C airspace.
“The wife said when the weather is bad he will scud run down the river, duck under the first shelf of the Augusta Terminal Radar Service Area and get a Special VFR clearance into Augusta Bush Field,” Kowalski said. “He called her before he left yesterday but never showed up in Augusta and never called back.”
Dave stuck his head out of a gash near the tail of the aircraft and yelled, “Ready when you are, Pat.”
McGill looked down at his handheld and dialed in 121.5 MHz, the emergency frequency used in aviation, and the same frequency the emergency locator transmitter, or ELT, sends out after a predetermined impact triggers the device to operate. McGill turned up the volume and they heard the familiar whooup, whooup, whooup sound that the ELT transmits.
McGill called Jake over. “According to the equipment list for N319CB, the Challenger was equipped with a TSO C126 ELT transmitting digitally information on 406 MHz and the older TSO 91A ELT transmitting on 121.5 MHz.”
“That’s right, so?” Jake asked.
“Well, Jake, the satellite already identified the Challenger’s C126, so the ELT was ignored … an assumption was made that it was this crash. If I’m right, when Dave turns off the Challenger’s 91A, we’ll still hear another ELT transmitting in the area.”
“If there was a midair,” Jake said.
“That’s right.”
McGill looked at Dave. “All right, turn off the 91A.”
When Dave disengaged the ELT, the volume level dropped on the handheld but another ELT transmission was still heard, although not as clear and distinct.
McGill turned to Kowalski. “Have CAP come up here ASAP. I think we found your missing aircraft and may have just stumbled on probable cause.”