Drone Games (30 page)

The animal losses were difficult to tally. The loss of trees was not. The sight of huge sections of disease-tolerant American elm raised by countless hours of nurturing now flattened or burned by Airbus debris, was especially sad. Most of Flight 605’s wreckage was scattered in a quadrant just beyond the Missouri River in an area framed by the Chickadee, Hickory, and Linden Trails on the northwestern edge of the forest. The plants that managed to avoid the initial heat and flames ultimately died from the residual chloride left by six thousand gallons of diluted, aqueous, film-forming foam.

NTSB investigator Scott Hoover, a member of the debris recovery team specializing in hydraulic and power systems, waded through a creek in Childs Hollow. He stopped to examine a piece of round metal tubing half-buried in muck. Using a small shovel, he carved away a top layer and exposed what appeared to be a piece of nose landing gear. He spotted the charred remains of the piston shaft covered in black melted rubber, presumably from one of the tires. Something caught his eye.

He could barely see it, but it was there: color. Like a skilled archaeologist, he scraped further with his hand and stared at the red featherlike object. He used a pair of padded tongs to grip an exposed corner. Remarkably, whatever it was peeled away from the rubber intact. He laid it into his gloved palm.

There was a rigid, notched t-stem at one end that appeared to be made from some sort of hardened plastic. The other end was flexible. The curved, thin object was six inches long, with an intricate design of leaf-like filaments. It reminded him of an elongated ear or some type of insect wing.

He drew out an evidence bag from his jacket kit and placed the object inside.

Mitchell International Airport

Delta Airlines Maintenance Hangar

PATRICIA CREED lifted her briefcase onto the conference room table. She opened her laptop and reviewed her notes on Flight 771’s captain and first officer, including their licenses, ratings, experience, and any indicated limitations. She also completed a brief picture, using the best available witnesses and associates, of each man’s actions seventy-two hours prior to departure, including drug, alcohol, or prescription usage.

Both pilots checked out beautifully.

Creed checked her appointment calendar. She glanced through the doorway at a man pacing in the outer hall, and she waved him in.

Matt Driesen closed the door and took a seat.

Thin and fit in his mid-thirties, he wore a set of deep blue coveralls with a pair of airman’s wings sewn on his chest. The palms of his hands were clean. His fingers were lightly crackled in something black.

“Mr. Driesen, I’m Tricia Creed. I understand that you just had a company service anniversary. Congratulations.”

“Fifteen years,” he acknowledged warily. “I don’t even know why I’m here, ma’am. I worked my shift on the eighteenth, but I never went near that plane. I don’t want anyone blaming me for something I didn’t work on.”

“Matt, just relax. We’re not here to blame anyone.” She casually touched a button on a small tape recorder. “I’m with the NTSB, and I’m assisting the FBI’s investigation of the Delta 771 incident. We’re interviewing everyone who was on shift that day.

“I’m going to ask you some questions related to your work responsibilities. This is nothing more than a general interview. It’s routine, and I want you to feel comfortable. You won’t need any Union representation because this is just an investigative inquiry. You’re not being accused of anything.”

That was a complete—albeit legal—untruth by omission. NTSB interviews were evidentiary interrogations. Interviewers never advised subjects to have an attorney present even though statements were absolutely presentable, binding, and often damaging in court.

Driesen’s face was taut, but he managed a nod.

“What’s your official title and primary responsibility at Delta?” Creed asked.

“Technical Line Maintenance. I do everything from routine turnaround and overnight checks to nonroutine aircraft log entries. I can also handle complex in-service repairs. I do whatever it takes to keep an aircraft flying.”

“How long have you been assigned to aviation maintenance?”

“All fifteen years.”

“Have you ever received a warning for improper procedures on maintenance that you performed?”

“Never.”

“Ever receive a security reprimand?”

Driesen folded his arms. His leg started bouncing repeatedly. “I got my first one last month. I walked outside through one of our hangar exit doors and didn’t close it tight enough. The wind was blowing hard that day. One of those TSA guys was sitting in the parking lot over at UPS, eating his lunch. He saw the whole thing and wrote me up on the spot. It cost me one hundred fifty dollars.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“Take a wild guess,” he snapped. “Especially when he gave me this big lecture on how we all need to watch out for terrorists and everything. We started shouting at each other. The guy was a real jerk.”

“Did you feel the fine was justified?”

Driesen shifted uneasily and then looked over his shoulder. “Between you and me, most of those federal guys just walk around thinking that they’re better than everyone else. Just because they work for the government, they think they can stop you anytime and ask if you’ve seen anyone or anything suspicious. I guess it’s their job or something, but it’s a joke.

“And I’m not the only one who thinks that. They check some workers over and over, and forget about others. I mean, they’ll look to see if the person is wearing a badge but never real close. One of my buddies cut out the president’s face and taped it over his ID. He wore that for a whole month, and nobody ever noticed. They just get used to seeing the same people. But the worst thing is that no one checks us when we come in and out of the building at shift change.”

Creed sat forward. “Can you be more specific?”

“Sure, I can be
really
specific, but not while that’s on.” He nodded to the recorder. Creed clicked it off. “Over three hundred people work in this building on two shifts, mostly mechanics and their supervisors. Nobody ever checks us when we come in. I could bring a thermos full of gasoline in my lunch pail and stick it any place on any aircraft, and nobody would ever know. Nobody.

“I know these planes inside and out, and I have access to every inch of every system. Sometimes, during routine maintenance, I get into places that hardly anybody has ever been to or even knows about.

“One time, I accidentally left an extension drill next to the hydraulic pump shafts. If that drill rolled, we’d be talking serious damage to rotating parts with the potential for a complete loss of fluid and pressure. That plane left Milwaukee and was gone for a whole weekend. Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep, because guess who was on it? The St. Louis Cardinals baseball team. Luckily, they were playing the Brewers again, and it came back around. I found my drill and got it out of there.

“But you see what I mean? That could easily have been a bomb. Nobody checks us for anything. It’s really scary to think that there might be mechanics or techs on other airlines all over the country or even the world who could hide something in a hundred different places.” Creed closed her folder and handed Matt a business card. “Thank you, Mr. Driesen. I think we’re finished. If you think of anything else that might be relevant, please call.”

Creed studied him as he left. She remembered what Jack Riley had said at that NTSB conference center presentation about critical thinking and raising a brief terrorism eyebrow. It certainly applied to this witness.

She found it fascinating that the FBI’s seventeen-year search for Theodore Kaczynski, a domestic terrorist-bomber who killed three people and injured twenty-three others, actually had a connection to Driesen. In that investigation, the FBI’s Behavioral Sciences Unit issued a psychological profile of the suspect, describing him as someone with above-average intelligence and connections to academia. The profile later said he was a technology-hater with a science degree. A third and final revision said that the infamous Unabomber was most likely a blue-collar airplane mechanic.

—

American Legion Post 154

Milwaukee, WI

THE FIRST thing Agent Cheng noticed as he entered the unfamiliar bar was that at 11:00 a.m., every seat was filled. The second thing he noticed was the reason why.

The only bartender, twenty-eight-year-old Marianne Alby, had a model’s physique, and a dangerously short skirt. She always made good tips.

“I’ll need to see a membership card,” Marianne said matter-of-factly, setting two mugs on the rail and pulling a draft spigot. Cheng produced his ID. She glanced at it briefly, topping off the second mug. “What can I get for you, sir?”

Cheng didn’t drink. He searched around for an option. “How about a bowl of that?” Cheng said, nodding to a sign on the wall.

“One turkey and dumpling soup. Anything else?”

“Thank you, but I just have a few questions about a Mr. Jerry Watts.” Cheng fingered his notes. “I understand he worked here and passed away on the morning of the Delta crash. He was also known as ‘Chief.’ ”

Conversation throughout the bar stopped.

Marianne pressed a towel into her eyes. She quickly composed herself.

“You feds already came through here the day after that plane went down,” a long-haired patron in a metal neck brace shouted from across the room. “They interviewed everybody. The government’s got no respect for people in mourning. We all know it was a suicide passenger whacked both those planes, so why are you hassling us?”

“Sir, I’m not hassling anyone,” Cheng calmly responded. “I’m simply revisiting the area. I have a few more questions. Is this a private post for military veterans only?”

“You got a problem with that?” the man hissed.

“No problem at all,” Cheng said calmly, stirring his meal. “Thanks for your service. I guess you probably see a lot of friends and strangers come and go.”

“If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, then hang on.” The man stood up from his barstool. “Anybody seen any terrorists in the neighborhood?”

“Yeah, there’s one down at the 7-Eleven,” a man sang out.

“Go get ’em, Stan,” someone else shouted.

“That’s Stanley Wosniak,” Marianne whispered to Cheng. “Wisconsin’s most decorated Vietnam vet. He had 380 confirmed kills. He doesn’t like too many outsiders. Sorry.”

“I can see that,” Cheng whispered back. “So, no new faces or suspicious people hanging around? No new war buddies that just happened to show up? Nobody asking questions about airport security or badmouthing the US government?”

“Nope. Nobody new around here except Mikey.” She gave a distant look. “Chief said he was related to Sean Penn the actor, but that was probably a lie.”

Cheng pushed his soup aside and opened his notebook.

“Don’t bother about him,” she assured. “He just rented the apartment upstairs for the summer. Nice college kid. He’s supposed to start bartending: we need the help.”

“Which school?”

“Beats me,” Marianne answered. “I think he’s trying to be a dentist.”

“Is he here?”

“He’s never here. He’s always running back and forth to Minnesota to see his girlfriend. He seems pretty whipped.”

“What’s her name?”

Marianne pursed her lips. “Good question. I’ve only met him a couple of times myself. He never talked much about anything.”

“You said he lives in back?”

“Upstairs. I suppose I could let you see the place, but your people already did that. They searched every building on the block.”

She plucked a key from the register. They walked upstairs.

Cheng saw an unmade sofa-bed, fast food wrappers, a sink full of dishes and a floor strewn with empty soda cans. Video games were piled inside cardboard boxes along with several textbooks:

Journal of Craniomandibular Practice

Contemporary Dental Practice

Effects of Mechanical Vibration on Orthodontic Tooth Movement

A typical college student.

Cheng opened the refrigerator. It was empty.

US No-Fly Zone, Day 6

San Diego, CA