From Ashes to Honor (26 page)

T
he beams of high-powered flashlights crisscrossed the sleety fog and shimmered from herringbone ripples on the river's surface. The eerie wail of a lone coyote hung in the wintry air, and overhead, trees creaked as the wind whistled through the woods, intensifying the gloom of the night. Shivering, Honor tightened the string that cinched her parka's hood tight around her face, praying they'd find the secondary crash site soon, and that when they did, they'd send more people to the hospital than to the morgue.

Heavy boots crunched over frosty moss as Elton, her boss, jogged up beside her. "Hey, Mackenzie . . . is it just me," he puffed, "or is that gas I smell?"

Grinning slightly, Honor Mackenzie took care not to aim her light too near her boss's eyes. "Either that or you've sneaked a gulp of whiskey to take the chill off—"

Up ahead, a voice she didn't recognize bellowed, "Over here!"

"Watch for the flare," hollered another.

As they followed the red flash, the scent of jet fuel grew stronger. Honor thanked God for the icy rain. Yes, it added to the ten-man team's discomfort, but if it doused embers, hidden by the wreckage, well, small price to pay.

And then, in a small clearing a few yards to her left, Honor spotted the tail section of the airliner that had plummeted onto I-95 at the height of rush hour. Emergency personnel had shut down all lanes in both directions to enable Medi-vac copters to airlift passengers of the airliner—and those it had crushed on the highway—to Shock Trauma, but not before eyewitnesses reported seeing fiery bits of the plane falling a few miles north of the explosion. Moments later, Honor got the call to round up a team and head for Patapsco State Park.

Like a beached whale, what was left of the plane teetered belly up on the Patapsco's bank, one mangled wing pointing skyward and twin witch-finger pillars of smoke spiraling upward, as if reaching for the treetops in a last feeble attempt to free itself of the muck.

A small pink palm slapped against a window, and beside it, the bloody and frightened face of a boy appeared, startling Elton so badly that he lost his footing in the slimy sludge. Arms windmilling, he staggered backward a step or two. The instant he regained his balance, Elton roared, "Donaldson!"

From somewhere to their right, that same powerful baritone repeated, "Over here!"

"Fire up that radio of yours. We need fire equipment. And ambos, on the double!"

Honor climbed onto the tail fin and pressed her own palm to the boy's. She could almost feel his panic, pulsing through the glass. "Help is coming," she told the boy, doing her best to look and sound like she believed it. Not an easy feat while peering over his shoulder to do a quick head count. If he'd survived, maybe others had, too.

"Mackenzie, get down from there."

Usually, Honor would have obeyed instantly. But the poor kid's terrified, teary eyes had locked with hers, seeking reassurance and hope, and she couldn't bring herself to look away, let alone walk away.

In the reflection of the window, she saw Elton, pointing toward the biggest column of smoke. "I'm dead serious, Mack.
Get down from there,"
he repeated. She didn't have to look over her shoulder to know he'd said it through clenched teeth.

Then, as if on cue, glimmers of yellow and orange flickered to her right. The boy saw it, too, and cut loose with a weak, trembly wail. "I know you're afraid," she told him, "but don't cry, OK? Help is coming."

The fire's heat penetrated her down-stuffed jacket and warmed her cheek. Please God, she prayed, squinting into the choking smoke,
let it come soon.