Free Fall at Angel Creek, page 2
She fought back the fear that churned in her stomach. As every minute passed without news, the dread inside her grew. She had to work off some nervous energy or she would explode. She walked to the end of the D concourse, turned around, then headed back to the E concourse, where she saw a Jetway door open and arriving passengers stream into a gate area.
She looked at their faces as they disembarked, searching for the one she needed to see more than any other, Naomi’s. Maybe she missed her flight. She might be on another airplane. She held on to that thought to keep herself together, or she was sure she’d fly into a thousand pieces.
Everyone appeared perfectly normal leaving the plane except for one woman. She stood out as soon as Dee laid eyes on her. This woman walked off the plane with purpose, like she had somewhere important to go. Something was different about her, and she decided to observe her. She watched her go into the ladies’ restroom, followed her, and saw her step into a stall.
The woman left her large bag outside the stall door, and Dee had her chance to get some intel. She looked around to make sure no one was watching her, then went over to the woman’s bag. It was well worn, with a rainbow luggage tag and a US Air Force sticker on it. She flipped the luggage tag over to see the name: Dr. River Dawson, Aviation Accident Solutions Inc., Denver, Colorado.
Then the stall door opened, and Dee stood face-to-face with the woman she was stalking.
“Oh, sorry. My bag is in the way.”
“No problem,” Dee answered, then ducked into the next stall, where she continued to observe her, looking through a gap in the stall doorway. She wore hiking boots, heavy-duty blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and a green military flight jacket. At first glance, she could be a lesbian, or just another outdoorsy Oregon straight girl who loved to hike. Dee couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about this woman was compelling. She certainly wasn’t a typical traveler. Dee needed more information and continued to observe her.
She followed the woman down another concourse, then watched her enter a conference room filled with people. The room had a glass wall on one side with vertical blinds drawn, but Dee could see people moving around. She couldn’t see clearly, but maps hung on the walls.
She observed her subject enter the room like she owned it, then shake hands with several of the men present. She needed a better look at what they were doing. Dee found a discarded newspaper, picked it up, then strolled toward the room. Then she leaned against a nearby column where she could peek into the room and pretend to read her newspaper.
As people entered and left, she caught bits of a briefing—“requested an altitude change to flight level three-two-zero,” “reported turbulence,” and “vector heading.” She didn’t know what these terms meant, but they sounded important. The woman she’d been observing raised her hand to say something, and all the men in the room turned to listen to her. She was someone important, maybe a leader or an expert of some sort. This woman knew something, and Dee had to find out what it was.
* * *
River found a seat in the crowded conference room and looked around at everyone present. She recognized several faces from other aircraft accident investigations, guys from the Federal Aviation Administration, the National Transportation Safety Board, and representatives from the airplane builder, McDonnell Douglas. The rest of the room was filled with local airport managers, state Department of Emergency Management officials, airline reps, Oregon State Police, and the Portland Airport Fire Department.
A few other Feds that River didn’t know were present, but she recognized their ID badges: FBI, Homeland Security, and ATF, Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. A chill ran down her spine. Why are these guys here? What, or who, was on that jet to require these people show up? This case had just become very interesting or very bad.
River took out her leather notebook and wrote down the flight details as the air traffic control briefer spoke.
“At 8:15 p.m. local time, they reported moderate turbulence at flight level three-six-zero to Salt Lake Center. They requested ride reports, then asked for a descent to three-two-zero. Salt Lake Center cleared Relax Air flight 402 to descend to flight level three-two-zero, then directed them to contact Seattle Center on one-two-six-point-eight. Flight 402 acknowledged the altitude assignment and the frequency change. They never checked in with Seattle Center. We called them back on the last assigned frequency, the new frequency, and on Guard, with no response to any calls. ATC officially notified Relax Air management that they had lost contact with flight 402 at 8:45 p.m. The company then reported the aircraft missing at 9:15 p.m. Are there any questions?”
River had several, but she waited for someone else to speak first. When the men in the room just sat there, she raised her hand and asked, “Did ATC try to contact other aircraft in the area to relay an air-to-air message due to the high terrain in the vicinity?”
“Yes. We did. Two other aircraft were nearby, and we asked them to relay a message to flight 402, with no success.”
River went on. “Did you have any pilot reports about convective weather activity on their route of flight? Were they on any vector headings for weather, or were they on their flight’s planned route?”
“Yes. Other aircraft reported scattered thunderstorms in a line from Boise to Yakima. Prior to their descent, they’d requested vectors around a storm cell. Their last assigned heading was two-seven-zero degrees, with instructions to proceed direct to the JOTBA fix when clear of the weather, then the Hood4 arrival into Portland. So, no, flight 402 was not on its filed route when we lost contact with it.”
A collective groan rose from the group. Because the plane had been flying on a heading for weather avoidance instead of its planned route, it could be anywhere. River’s job had just become much more difficult. She opened her terrain map to the area east of Portland—a vast area of mountains and national forests. If the aircraft had gone down in those deep woods, it could be very difficult to find.
River recognized another man who came up to the podium to speak, Ronald Moore, the chief investigator for the National Transportation Safety Board. River knew him, had worked with him on other cases, and didn’t like him. He was a self-serving publicity hound who cared more about being in front of the cameras than finding answers.
“Gentlemen, and lady,” he added as he looked at River, “we will depart for the Redmond, Oregon, airport in fifteen minutes. We calculated this is the most likely airport they may have diverted to, so it will be our base of operations. Bring all your gear with you, and we’ll leave out of gate E1. Remember, no talking to the press. We don’t officially know anything yet.”
River gathered her maps and notes. She was ready to go but needed to grab some food to take with her for the very long day ahead. They would be searching for a needle in a haystack to find this jet.
As she left the briefing room, a woman came over to intercept her and grabbed her arm.
“You know about the missing plane, don’t you?”
River turned to her and saw the worry etched into her young face. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk to you about flight 402. I have to go. I have a plane to catch.”
“So you are working on this.”
Obviously she was the family member of a passenger and desperately wanted answers. A wave of pity rolled over River. “Please excuse me, but I do have to go. You can talk to the customer service supervisor over there. He may have more information for you.” She tried to walk away, but the woman blocked her path.
“Hey. You don’t understand. My sister’s on that plane. I’ve been waiting for information all night.” She took out her badge and shoved it in River’s face. “You just got out of a meeting about flight 402, and I want answers.”
Ordinarily, River would have bristled at her demands, but the compassion she felt made her pause. “Detective, has the Portland Police Bureau assigned you to this case?”
“Well, um, no, not exactly. But I have to know what’s going on. Tell me.” River heard a slight catch in her voice. “Please.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” River stepped around her.
“They’re all dead, aren’t they?” the woman shouted after her.
Frozen in place by her words, River turned to face her. “We don’t know anything yet. It does no good to speculate at this point.” She took a few steps toward the stranger and looked into her pleading eyes. “I know what you’re going through.”
“How can you possibly know what I’m going through? I’ve said those same bullshit words to crime victims. We’ve had no word for over ten hours. The plane crashed somewhere, and you’re trying to find it, aren’t you?”
River could speak in front of a thousand people to deliver a report, but now, looking into the woman’s face, she couldn’t think of anything to say.
After a long pause, she spoke. “Detective, you’re right. It’s not good. And, yes, I am trying to find that airplane. But I promise you, I will do my very best to get you answers. I need to go now.”
“Please call me if you find out anything.” The woman handed River her card.
River took it and hurried toward her gate.
Chapter Three
The young female detective’s face stayed in River’s mind. As an aircraft accident investigator, she’d seen that look before. It was the look of a bewildered, surviving family member. Disbelief, confusion, then anger were the usual reactions to a crash. She’d seen family members wander around in a daze, unable to comprehend what had happened. River knew these feelings intimately.
She forced those emotions from her mind. She didn’t have time to think about any victims right now. There was an investigation to focus on, one with lots of questions and no answers. The detective’s anguished expression conjured up so many old ghosts. Unwelcome spirits, they distracted her with unwanted memories. She refused to succumb to them.
As the plane accelerated down the runway for takeoff, River took a moment to look out her window. She loved the takeoff, the familiar tingle of excitement in her belly. Being lifted into the air always made her happy. Flying above the wide Columbia River, with forest-covered banks and green mountains, centered her. She felt comfortable in the sky, even if she wasn’t flying the plane. It was a beautiful morning in Portland, and she allowed herself a moment to enjoy the view. Soon enough, she and the rest of the team would be searching to find that plane, and the chaos would begin.
The aircraft turned to the southeast toward Redmond. It was only a thirty-minute flight, so River pulled out her notes to study the weather charts from last night. Light from the morning sun reflected on the snow-covered peak of Mount Hood. She looked up from her notes to admire it.
It was a magnificent volcano rising to over eleven thousand feet. Standing out on its own, a lone sentinel guarding the Columbia River Valley, Mount Hood was breathtaking but also dangerous. The sharply rising terrain was only thirty miles from the Portland airport and in a direct line with the runways. She remembered flying out of Portland one dark, stormy night.
The memory from ten years ago was still as sharp as if it had happened yesterday. She’d been a US Air Force pilot flying as a new copilot on the KC-10 air refueling tanker and had been at the Portland airport for a weekend air show. The whole crew was exhausted from talking to visitors all weekend and ready to get home. The aircraft commander, Bob Marks, was flying the jet back to their home base at March Air Force Base in Riverside, California, and he’d been in a big hurry to get back before the weather moved over the airport.
River had been flying the KC-10 for only two months and remembered feeling very annoyed at Bob because he rushed her through the flight planning process for the two-hour flight home. Bob took off heading east into the dark night, and they entered the clouds almost immediately. River received no answer when she called departure control after they were airborne. As the plane climbed, when she was looking up the alternate radio frequency, something told her to check their distance from the Portland airport. The display read twenty-seven miles. River shouted at Bob, “Turn right. Turn right now!” When he hesitated, she took control of the jet from him, abruptly turned the yoke full right, and yelled, “My jet.”
She pulled the nose of the giant plane through the turn with the mechanical warning voice of the ground-proximity warning system yelling, “Whoop, whoop, pull up. Whoop, whoop, pull up. Caution, terrain. Caution, terrain.” It was the most terrifying sound she’d ever heard because it activated only when the airplane was close to the ground. She still remembered the sickening, helpless feeling of waiting for impact.
She had looked out the front window, hoping it wouldn’t be her last sight on earth, and saw a break in the clouds. A moonbeam illuminated the very close, snow-covered peak of Mount Hood, directly in front of her. She pulled back hard on the yoke as far as it would go, the automatic stall warning system shaking the yoke within her tight grip, and prayed she wouldn’t hit the mountain. No one on the flight deck said a word. The only sound was the rush of air noise and the mechanical warning voices yelling at her. River remembered holding her breath, waiting for the crash.
When she was safely away from Mount Hood headed south, she vowed she would never again let anyone rush her flight planning, and she would never blindly trust her life to another person. Almost joining the carcasses of several aircraft littering the deep forests around Mount Hood had a profound impact on her. She shivered at the memory of this near-death experience. Like many things in aviation, Mount Hood was beautiful but also deadly.
* * *
After Dee watched the woman investigator board the aircraft and push back from the gate, she fell into a gate-area seat and put her head in her hands. How could this possibly be happening? Everything had been perfect until they announced the plane was missing. How had the most amazing day of her life changed to a catastrophe in an instant? She was overwhelmed, but she couldn’t let herself be immobilized by fear. She had to do something.
She walked over to the gate agent. “Where is that plane going? The one that just left.”
“It’s a private charter flight to Redmond. Were you supposed to be on it?” the gate agent asked.
“No.”
“Another flight to Redmond leaves from gate E2. Would you like me to see if any seats are available?”
Dee had a choice to make. She could continue to wait here at the airport for any word from the airline, or she could follow the woman investigator, her only lead so far. She was going crazy waiting, and this was a chance to at least do something. “Yes. I’d like to buy a ticket for that flight to Redmond.”
“You’re in luck. Two seats are left, and it departs in three hours.”
“Three hours? I can’t wait that long. Never mind. I’ll drive.”
Dee had no idea what she would do once she reached the Redmond airport. She knew that she had to follow her only lead, Dr. River Dawson. She rushed out of the airport carrying only the wilted flowers for her sister Naomi.
* * *
Instead of studying her notes on the flight to Redmond, River kept thinking about why the pilot hadn’t called “Mayday” or declared an emergency.
After they replied with their assigned heading, they didn’t say another word to air traffic control, either Salt Lake or Seattle Center. When ATC tried to call them repeatedly, they gave no reply, and then they disappeared from radar. Only one possibility could account for this type of scenario, and she dreaded the thought of it.
She reached for a tissue in her pocket and felt the business card the detective gave her. She pulled it out and read, “Detective Deborah Rawlings, Major Crimes Division, Portland Police Bureau.” She was impressed such a young officer had already risen to the rank of detective in a major police department. She must be very good at her job, and good at guessing, because she was correct about the fate of the passengers. Most likely, they were all dead, or some survivor would have found a way to call home by now. This would not be a rescue mission. Instead, it would be a recovery operation.
She ran her finger along the edge of the detective’s business card. The image of her troubled face returned to River’s mind. In another time, in a different place, maybe they would have met under better circumstances. Maybe a friend would have introduced them at a cocktail party, or maybe they would have sat next to each other on a plane and struck up a conversation. She had a beautiful face, with a strong jaw, full lips, fair skin, and very intense dark-green eyes. They were the same height when they looked at each other, but the detective was leaner, wiry, with a body built for action. With her unruly, shoulder-length brown hair, she was just the type of woman River was attracted to. But they hadn’t met at a fun cocktail party or been introduced by a caring friend. They’d met on the worst day of Detective Deborah Rawlings’s entire life. She just didn’t know it yet.
The Fasten Seat Belt sign came on with a “ding,” interrupting her thoughts. They started their descent into the Redmond airport. River looked out the window one more time, hoping to see something, anything, resembling an airplane. All she saw were dense woods, steep mountains, and a giant puzzle before her. She never allowed herself to speculate on the cause of an accident until all the evidence came in. She’d seen other investigators jump on a theory, go on a wild-goose chase, then end up disgraced when the evidence proved them wrong. That would not happen to her.
