Fatal Voyage (3 page)

“I’ve given that order,” Crowe said. “This location is pretty inaccessible,
but I’ll post extra security. Animals will probably be the biggest problem. Especially when these
bodies start to go.”

 The lieutenant governor made an odd sound, spun, and lurched off. I
watched him brace against a mountain laurel, bend, and vomit.

 Larke fixed us with a sincere Sheriff of Mayberry gaze, shifting his
eyes from Crowe to me.

 “You ladies are making a very difficult job infinitely easier. Words
can’t express how much I appreciate your professionalism.”

 Shift.

 “Sheriff, you keep things squared away here.”

 Shift.

 “Tempe, you go on and give your lecture inKnoxville . Then pick up
whatever supplies you’ll need and report back tomorrow. You’re going to be here awhile, so inform
the university. We’ll secure a bunk for you.”

 Fifteen minutes later a deputy was dropping me at my car. I’d been
right about a better route. A quarter mile up from where I’d parked, a dirt track cut off from
the Forest Service road. Once used for hauling timber, the tiny trail meandered around the
mountain, allowing access to within a hundred yards of the main crash site.

 Vehicles now lined both sides of the logging trail, and we’d passed
newcomers on our way downhill. By sunrise both the Forest Service and county roads would be
jammed.

 As soon as I was behind the wheel I grabbed my cell phone. Dead.

 I did a three-point turn and headed down toward the county road. Once
on Highway 74,1 tried again. The signal was back, so I punched in Katy’s number. A machine picked
up after four rings.

 Uneasy, I left a message, then set the tape in my head to play the don‘
the-an-idiot-mother“ lecture. For the next hour I tried to focus on my upcoming presentation,
pushing away thoughts of the carnage I’d left behind and the horror I’d face the following day.
It was no go. Images of floating faces and severed limbs shattered my concentration.

 I tried the radio. Every station carried accounts of the crash.

 Broadcasters reverently talked of the death of young athletes and
solemnly hypothesized as to cause. Since weather did not seem to be a factor, sabotage and
mechanical failure were the favored theories.

 Hiking out behind Crowe’s deputy, I’d spotted a line of sheared-off
trees oriented opposite my point of entrance. Though I knew the damage marked the plane’s final
descent path, I refused to join in the speculation.

 I entered 1-40, switched stations for the hundredth time, and caught a
journalist reporting from overhead a warehouse fire. Chopper sounds reminded me of Larke, and I
realized I hadn’t asked where he and the lieutenant governor had landed. I stored the question in
the back of my brain.

 At nine, I redialed Katy.

 Still no answer. I rewound the mind tape.

 Arriving inKnoxville , I checked in, contacted my host, then ate the
Bojangles’ chicken I’d picked up on the outskirts of town. I phoned my estranged husband
inCharlotte to request care for Birdie. Pete agreed, saying I’d be billed for cat transport and
feeding. He hadn’t talked to Katy for several days. After delivering a mini-version of my own
lecture, he promised to try to reach her.

 Next, I phoned Pierre Lamanche, my boss at the Laboratoire de Sciences
Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale, to report that I would not be inMontreal the following week.
He’d heard reports of the crash and was expecting my call. Last, I rang my department chair at
UNC-Charlotte.

 Responsibilities covered, I spent an hour selecting slides and placing
them into carousel trays, then showered and tried Katy again. No go.

 I glanced at the clock. Eleven-forty.

 She’s fine. She’s gone out for pizza. Or she’s at the library. Yes.

 The library. I’d used that one many times when I was in school. It took
a very long time to fall asleep.

 By morning, Katy hadn’t called and was still not picking up. I tried
Lija’s number inAthens . Another robotic voice requested a message.

 I drove to the only anthropology department inAmerica located in a
football stadium, and gave one of the more disjointed talks of my career. The host of the guest
lecture series listed my DMORT affiliation in his introduction and mentioned that I would be
working the Air Trans South recovery. Though I could supply little information, follow-up queries
largely ignored my presentation and focused on the crash. The question-and-answer period lasted
forever.

 As the crowd finally milled toward the exits, a scarecrow man in a bow
tie and cardigan made straight for the podium, half-moon glasses swinging across his chest. Being
in a profession with relatively few members, most anthropologists know one another, and our paths
cross and recross at meetings, seminars, and conferences. I’d met Simon Midkiff on several
occasions, and knew it would be a long session if I wasn’t firm. Looking pointedly at my
watch, I gathered my notes, stuffed my briefcase, and descended from the platform.

 “How are you, Simon?”

 “Excellent.” His lips were cracked, his skin dry and flaky, like that
of a dead fish lying in the sun. Tiny veins laced the whites of eyes overshadowed by bushy
brows.

 “How is the archaeology business?”

 “Excellent, as well. Since one must eat, I am engaged in several
projects for the cultural resources department inRaleigh . But mainly I spend my days organizing
data.” He gave a high-pitched laugh and tapped a hand to one cheek. “It seems I’ve collected an
extraordinary amount of data throughout my career.”

 Simon Midkiff earned a doctorate atOxford in 1955, then came to
theUnited States to accept a position at Duke. But the archaeology superstar published nothing
and was denied tenure six years later.

 Midkiff was given a second chance by theUniversityofTennessee , again
failed to produce publications, and again was let go.

 Unable to obtain a permanent faculty position, for thirty years Midkiff
had hung around the periphery of academia, doing contract archaeology and teaching courses as
replacement instructors were needed at colleges and universities in the Carolinas andTennessee .
He was notorious for excavating sites, filing the requisite reports, then failing to publish his
findings.

 “I’d love to hear about it, Simon, but I’m afraid I have to run.”

 “Yes, indeed. Such a terrible tragedy. So many young lives.” His head
moved sadly from side to side. “Where exactly is the crash?”

 “SwainCounty. And I really must get back.” I started to move on, but
Midkiff made a subtle shift, blocking my path with a size-thirteen Hush Puppy.

 “Where inSwainCounty ?”

 “South ofBrysonCity .”

 “Perhaps you could be a bit more specific?”

 “I can’t give you coordinates.” I did not mask my irritation.

 “Please forgive my beastly rudeness. I’ve been excavating inSwainCounty
, and I was worried about damage to the site. How selfish of me.”

 Again the giggle. “I apologize.”

 At that moment my host joined us.

 “May I?” He waggled a small Nikon.

 “Sure.”

 I assumed the Kodak smile.

 “It’s for the departmental newsletter. Our students seem to enjoy
it.”

 He thanked me for the lecture and wished me well with the recovery. I
thanked him for the accommodations, excused myself to both men, collected my slide carousels, and
hurried from the auditorium.

 Before leavingKnoxville I located a sporting goods store and purchased
boots, socks, and three pairs of khakis, one of which I put on. At an adjoining pharmacy I
grabbed two packages of Hanes Her Way cotton bikinis. Not my brand, but they would do. Shoving
the panties and extra khakis into my overnighter, I pointed myself east. Born in the hills
ofNewfoundland , the Appalachians parallel the East Coast on their plunge from north to south,
splitting nearHarpers Ferry ,West Virginia , to form the Great Smoky andBlue Ridge chains. One of
the world’s oldest upland regions, the Great Smoky Mountains rise to over 6,600 feet atClingmans
Dome on the North Carolina-Tennessee border.

 Less than an hour out ofKnoxville , I’d traversed theTennessee towns of
Sevierville, Pigeon Forge, and Gatlinburg, and was passing east of the dome, awed, as always, by
the surreal beauty of the place. Molded by aeons of wind and rain, the Great Smokies roll across
the south as a series of gentle valleys and peaks. The forest cover is luxuriant, much of it
preserved as national land. The Nantahala. The Pis-gah. The Cherokee. TheGreat Smoky
MountainsNational Park . The soft, mohair greens and smoke like haze for which these highlands
are named create an unparalleled allure. The earth at its best.

 Death and destruction amid such dreamlike loveliness was a stark
contrast.

 Just outside Cherokee, on theNorth Carolina side, I made another call
to Katy. Bad idea. Again, her voice mail answered. Again I left a message: Phone your mother.

 I kept my mind miles from the task ahead. I thought about the pandas at
theAtlanta zoo, the fall lineup on NEC, luggage retrieval at theCharlotte airport. Why was it
always so slow?

 I thought about Simon Midkiff. What an odd duck. What were the chances
a plane would drop precisely on his dig?

 Avoiding the radio, I slipped in a CD of Kiri Te Kanawa, and listened
to the diva sing Irving Berlin.

 It was almost two when I approached the site. A pair of cruisers now
blocked the county road just below its junction with the Forest Service road. A National
Guardsman directed traffic, sending some motorists up the mountain, ordering others back down. I
produced ID, and the guardsman checked his clipboard.

 “Yes, ma’am. You’re on the list. Park on up at the holding area.” He
stepped aside, and I squeezed through a gap between the cruisers.

 A holding area had been created from an overlook built to accommodate a
fire tower and a small field on the other side of the road. The cliff face had been stripped back
to increase the size of the inside tract, and gravel had been spread as a precaution against
rain. It was at this location that briefings would take place and relatives counseled until a
family assistance center could be established.

 Scores of people and vehicles filled both sides of the road. Red Cross
trailers. Television vans with satellite dishes. SUVs. Pickups. A hazardous-materials truck. I
squeezed my Mazda between a Dodge Durango and a Ford Bronco on the uphill side, grabbed my
overnighter, and wove toward the blacktop.

 Emerging opposite the overlook, I could see a collapsible school table
at the base of the tower, outside one of the Red Cross trailers. A convention-sized coffeemaker
gleamed in the sun. Family members huddled around it, hugging and leaning on one another, some
crying, others stiffly silent. Many clutched Styrofoam cups, a few spoke into cell phones.

 A priest circulated among the mourners, stroking shoulders and
squeezing hands. I watched him bend to speak to an elderly woman. With his hunched posture, bald
head, and hooked nose he resembled the carrion-eating birds I’d seen on the plains ofEast Africa
, an unfair comparison.

 I remembered another priest. Another death watch. That man’s
sympathetic hovering had extinguished any hope I’d sustained that my grandmother would recover. I
recalled the agony of that vigil, and my heart went out to those gathering to claim their
dead.

 Reporters, cameramen, and sound men jockeyed for position along the low
stone wall bordering the overlook, each team seeking the choicest backdrop for its coverage. As
with the 1999 Swissair crash in Peggy’s Cove,Nova Scotia , I was certain that scenic panoramas
would feature prominently in every broadcast.

 Shouldering my bag, I headed downhill. Another guardsman allowed me
onto the logging trail, which had been converted overnight to a two-lane gravel road. An access
route now led from the expanded trail into the crash site. Gravel crunched underfoot as I walked
through the freshly cut tunnel of trees, the scent of pine tainted by the faint odor of early
stage putrefaction.

 Decontamination trailers and Porta-Johns lined barricades blocking
access to the primary site, and anIncidentCommandCenter had been set up inside the restricted
area. I could see the familiar NTSB trailer, with its satellite dish and generator shed.
Refrigerated trucks were parked beside it, and stacks of body bags lay on the ground.

 This temporary morgue would be the staging site for transfer of remains
to a more permanent incident morgue.

 Backhoes, cherry pickers, dump trucks, fire engines, and squad cars
were scattered here and there. The solitary ambulance told me that the operation had officially
changed from “search and rescue” to “search and recovery.” Its vigil was now for injured
workers.

 Lucy Crowe stood inside the barricades talking with Larke Tyrell.

 “How’s it going?” I asked.

 “My phone never stops.” Crowe sounded exhausted. “Almost turned the
damn thing off last night.”

 Over her shoulder I could see the debris field where searchers in masks
and Tyvek jumpsuits moved in straight lines, eyes to the ground.

 Occasionally someone squatted, inspected an item, then marked the
spot.

 Behind the team, red, blue, and yellow flags dotted the landscape like
colored pins on a city map.

 Other white-suited workers milled around the fuselage, wing tip, and
engine, taking pictures, jotting notes, and speaking into tiny Dictaphones. Blue caps identified
them as NTSB.

 “The gang’s all here,” I said.

 “NTSB, FBI, SBI, FAA, atf., CBS, ABC. And, of course, the CEO. If
they’ve got letters, they’re here.”

 “This is nothing,” said Larke. “Give it a day or two.” He peeled back a
latex glove and checked his watch.

 “Most of the DMORTs are at a briefing at the incident morgue,Tempe , so
there’s no sense you suiting up now. Let’s head in.”