Final Approach (31 page)

Mustn't panic, she told herself. Remember, girl, these are fanatics. No one believes fanatics when responsible, believable people are around to set the record straight.

At the moment the Larry Wilkins press conference was ending a mile away on Capitol Hill, an FAA public information officer was talking in low tones to two foreign dignitaries as the three of them stood outside the main NTSB hearing room. “Now, what's in progress here is what we call a ‘sunshine hearing,' about a railroad accident. The NTSB has investigated all rail, water, air, highway, and even pipeline accidents since 1974, when their functions were expanded from just aviation.”

Joe stood nearby in a quandary, mental images of military radars and North America's A320 richocheting around his head, completely changing the possibilities—and the priorities—of the investigation. He was half listening to the guide's statements about the NTSB, and wondered if the man had any inkling how much the expansion of the Board's responsibilities in 1974 had damaged its ability to do the job in aviation. Rails were as foreign to Joe Wallingford's discipline as aviation had originally been to Dean Farris, and he kept as far away from nonaviation matters as he could.

Joe had been looking for Farris, forgetting about the hearing. He paused at the entrance to the hearing room, listening to Farris verbally dismembering one of the rail investigators. It was the professor in Farris coming out at such times, and he could be witheringly arrogant to his own people.

Susan Kelly sat two places to Farris's right. She had returned to Washington a few hours before. He watched her now for a second, noting with masculine pleasure how feminine and yet in command and self-assured she looked sitting there, peering at the staff over half-lens reading glasses. Joe was well aware of how much she had helped him personally in Kansas City, and he was mightily impressed by her sophistication and intellect—as well as respectful of her temper.

She caught sight of Joe finally, her mouth brightening into a small smile of recognition targeted just at him, and he responded, somewhat embarrassed, feeling like a schoolboy caught ogling the disturbingly attractive schoolmarm.

Someone else had spotted the IIC of the Kansas City crash as well. Joe had not seen the reporter as he approached and did not recognize him, but suddenly the journalist was standing in the hall beside him, speaking in a very low voice. “Mr. Wallingford, I'd like to ask you a few things about the progress of the Kansas City investigation, if I could?”

Joe Wallingford looked toward the doorway of the hearing room and realized the TV reporter had called his cameraman to bring the camera equipment and follow him out. Quietly but rapidly, the word was passing at the media table that Wallingford was within camera range, and the room was emptying of media, all stampeding toward Joe.

“No comment. Take it up with the public information people.”

Joe retreated down the hallway with the reporter trailing, a procession of other newsmen and cameramen trundling after him.

“This crash was radio sabotage, wasn't it, Mr. Wallingford?”

Joe looked over his shoulder at the man with an overly startled expression, wondering what he knew. I'm getting spooked, he thought. “We're looking at every aspect of it … uh … excuse me …”

Joe continued walking as the reporter made one last attempt, motioning to his portable phone to explain his next question. “Mr. Wallingford, did you know Wilkins's people have just accused the Air Force of murdering their man and crashing the airplane last Friday?”

Joe stopped and turned toward the reporter with a startled expression. Kell Martinson's galvanizing revelation about the radar tracking unit had come only twenty minutes ago. Was this the same thing? “What,” Joe began, as calmly and condescendingly as he could manage, “are you talking about?”

The reporter relayed the conclusions from the Wilkins news conference. “Did you know there was radar equipment aimed at that airplane? Could that cause it to crash?”

That did it. Joe held up his hand and began retreating. “I'm making no statements until we have some idea what's being said.” He pushed past them, rounding the corner and disappearing at flank speed down the hallway toward his office, the sound of disgusted voices behind him, the reflection of bright TV lights dimming as the crews turned them off one at a time—momentarily absent anyone to interview.

Dean Farris had ignored the first camera crew to leave the hearing room. A bit of coming and going by the media in the midst of a sunshine hearing was quite typical, but when the entire group began stampeding out the door, Farris had looked at the staff, who were looking right back at him with equal puzzlement. Susan Kelly had seen them take off after Joe, and she was working hard to keep from laughing at Farris and his increasingly desperate glances around the room. When the last TV crew had left the hearing, Farris called a recess. Dean Farris didn't exactly live for the media, but he looked forward to open hearings where he could look chairmanlike and build his face-recognition factor with the American electorate.

Joe had already rounded the corner, heading for his own office, when he heard the chairman bustle down the hall behind him and accost the few cameramen who were moving their equipment, asking what had been going on and who had they been talking to. Joe knew the chairman would be pounced on by questions arising from the Wilkins media show down the street, and he'd probably wade right into them, after which he'd be looking for his IIC.

Susan Kelly found Joe first, calculating that he might have headed back down to his office. She was still suppressing giggles when she appeared suddenly in his path.

“You're a bad boy, Joseph Wallingford. You took the media toy away from the chairman, didn't you?”

“I didn't intend to … you noticed, huh?”

“Noticed? The American departure from Saigon was more subtle. What are you up to?”

“That's not my fault, Susan. I just looked in and they followed me. But … they … this thing is coming apart, Susan. We need to talk—quickly.”

She fell in step and they walked briskly toward Farris's office, Joe relating Martinson's visit, the presence of the radar unit, and the little he knew of the Wilkins news conference. He was glad of her company, and increasingly worried about Farris's reaction.

She stopped Joe suddenly, pausing for a second while looking at him full in the face, surprised at her own reaction—at how good it felt to be around him. “Joe, remember what I said about Dean, how political he is? We can't react to this like we're prejudging the accident. Remember, he doesn't understand the technology, so he'll take his cues from you—and he'll try hard not to let you know it.”

“I'll be careful, Susan. But, I really don't know
what
the hell we've got here. The radar thing is suddenly a very real possibility. Too real. It would answer a lot of questions.”

“True,” she replied, “but in the meantime, can we avoid being shoved into conclusions? The pressure is going to get unbelievable now, Joe. The entire U.S. government will become involved, including the White House, and they'll all be looking to us as the technology experts to make a decision on who did what to whom. They'll need that to counter Wilkins's mob.”

“Well, the FBI is involved also,” Joe reminded her.

“Right. But ask yourself: are they competent to analyze the flight-control-system interference potential from a Department of Defense radar?”

“I see your point.”

“Joe, this is going to be an acid test of the NTSB in every way.”

13

Friday, October 19

The endless electronic beeps which had marked each heavily monitored heartbeat for nearly a week changed without warning to a steady tone—an alteration in the routine which brought sudden sound and motion to the quiet corridors of Truman Hospital as nurses and an on-duty physician materialized from nowhere, rushing into the room. The first officer of North America Airlines Flight 255, Don Leyhe, had entered the twilight zone of coronary arrest.

With the urgent efficiency of a well-choreographed dance routine at twice the speed, the medical people arrayed themselves on both sides of the bed, taking the proper precautions and pushing the proper voltages into the quiet chest, trying to coax his heart back into motion. As they worked, the copilot's wife—numb with fatigue and grief and uncertainty—was summoned from a nearby family room. She entered within a minute, watching in detached fashion as they labored over her husband.

But Don Leyhe was not there and would not return, and after twenty minutes of intense effort, the formal pronouncement was made. Mrs. Leyhe turned and walked slowly to the corridor, a widow now, followed by a concerned nurse. There were no tears—she had cried more than her quota in the previous days and nights. But there was an extreme sadness, principally for him. Whatever had happened out there the previous Friday night, she knew the system he had trusted so implicitly had failed him, just as North America had failed to be the secure, happy, professional home for which he had left the Navy. Whatever had happened, North America had betrayed their trust.

Kell Martinson awoke with a start in the darkness of Cindy's bedroom, the fact that it was her bedroom evident from the familiar scent of her perfume and the luxurious feel of her warm and silky body molded to the contours of his as they lay beneath the covers, his arm around her as she slept. Small sounds of contentment marked her breathing—small movements betraying her dreaming state. Their lovemaking was usually the best sleeping medicine, and it had worked well for her.

But not for him. He had tried to concentrate on the fullness of satisfying her and on losing himself in the quest, hoping she wouldn't notice his preoccupation with other matters. But the kaleidoscope of his problems distracted him, and the two of them had been slightly out of phase.

The FBI agent had listened very carefully during their brief meeting at 9:00
A.M.
Thursday. But then the agent had taken on the role of prosecutor, doing as so many prosecutors seemed to love to do in such a case: scare a potential defendant half to death. No, the agent had said, he would not guarantee that the investigation would be wrapped up with what amounted to Kell's “confession.” Yes, he would promise not to call in the media, but he would make no special efforts on behalf of a U.S. senator. After all, the man had said with a tinge too much sanctimony, a public official must be treated like any other citizen. What next? Kell had asked, and the agent was noncommittal. There were “other aspects” he wanted to investigate before they decided that Kell's presence in a restricted area at Kansas City Airport did not warrant some sort of prosecution. “Prosecution for what?” Kell had asked, and the answer had been vague, though he knew that the only real potential liability was a state charge for breaching the security area. A possible misdemeanor charge, however, was the least of his concerns.

Kell had entered the FBI building at the same moment the incendiary Wilkins press conference was breaking up in the Longworth House Office Building, with no inkling that the Wilkins staff had picked that moment to declare war on the United States government.

But Cindy had heard and was waiting for him in an advanced state of agitation when he returned to the office, and within minutes they were calling their own war counsel, Cindy pushing hard for a press conference of their own. He agreed only to call a quick meeting of the other Pebbles supporters on the Armed Services Committee. They would have to answer the Wilkins charges on behalf of the Air Force.

Kell closed the door to his office to return a missed call from General Roach. The head of the Brilliant Pebbles program had called back Monday as promised after their meeting that morning, but he had relayed only more assurances that there had been no attempt to test the radar unit without explaining why it was being moved. Kell had made no secret of his dissatisfaction, and the general promised to seek approval to tell him more, then call later in the week. Apparently he was keeping the promise. General Roach came on the line abruptly.

“Okay Senator, I am now authorized to tell you that MAC was flying it to a more secure location than the factory where it was built. The factory is full of civilians. The unit was vulnerable. There was no testing involved.”

“You weren't shipping it to the Pacific test range, were you?”

There was a lengthy silence before the general answered. “Where it was going is classified.
Why
it was going isn't. Testing wasn't involved.”

“But why the Kansas City Airport, General? You might as well have entered it in the Rose Bowl parade. That's hardly secure.”

“It's the closest airport to the factory that can handle a C-5B. Simple as that.”

“I sure as hell hope that's the straight story.”

A tired sigh was audible over the line. “Senator, everything I have told you is true.”

By noon eleven angry committeemen and -women sat in Kell's office, listening to his paraphrase of the general's explanation and considering a political counterattack on Wilkins's people. In the midst of it, Kell briefly considered confessing his presence at the airport. But they had staff members, and if just one leaked to the Wilkins camp, it would blow up in all their faces.

Kell caught Cindy's eye at one point and shook his head ever so slightly. Now was not the time to tell them. She understood his message, but scowled at him in return.

When his office had emptied, they argued—professionally at first, then somewhat personally. She thought silence was a great mistake, a ticking bomb wired to his career. He was convinced they needed to choose the right moment, and that perhaps it wouldn't come.

“You're trying a cover-up, Kell. That always backfires.”

“No, I'm not. I'm thinking politically.”