The Savannah Project (Jake Pendleton series) Page 11

  “Send someone to Savannah to positively identify O’Rourke,” the man said.

  “I have already dispatched a man. Dental records for all the occupants have been sent so the Americans can make positive matches.”

  The man turned to the Commander, his aging eyes glaring. “I presume we never acquired the location from O’Rourke?”

  “No, sir, but we still have another chance—if we can find Michael Sullivan.”

  “I wasn’t aware that Mr. Sullivan wasn’t on board the aircraft when it crashed.”

  “We believe Sullivan went to Savannah a day early,” the Commander explained. “But as of now, his whereabouts remain unknown. All those on board have been tentatively identified and Sullivan was not among them.”

  “He could be a problem. You need to find him, extract the information we need from him and then have him eliminated. Those documents O’Rourke possesses could ruin everything we’ve worked on the last several years. Might I remind you that those documents could also land us both behind bars—or worse?”

  “I have already made arrangements for someone to handle Sullivan.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The woman listened to the man on the phone. “I’m telling you for the last time, we had nothing to do with the plane crash. It was either an accident or someone else sabotaged that airplane. What would I have to gain? If anything, I would rather have O’Rourke alive. We had nothing to do with this.”

  The man was the “unofficial” chief of staff of the Provisional IRA.

  Mairéad Brady, newly elected president of Sinn Fein, the first woman ever elected, was sure of one thing, the man did have information about the crash of Laurence O’Rourke’s airplane. She also knew the band of members known as the Provos had a lot to lose with the death of O’Rourke.

  Sinn Fein, founded in 1905, is the oldest political movement in Ireland. Representing Irish Republicans, Sinn Fein works for Irish people as a whole to attain national self-determination.

  Brady, a determined woman, worked her way to the top of the Irish Republican food chain by her aggressive nature and the backing of her political ally at the time, Laurence O’Rourke.

  When the news had leaked that O’Rourke was a British spy—a sleeper who had infiltrated the IRA—the Provos initially wanted to have O’Rourke killed. Not a pretty, clean death but a long, slow, agonizing, and above all public death. A message sent to the world of his betrayal. Several unsuccessful attempts had already been made on his life. But the existence of a secret location containing mysterious evidence against Sinn Fein had surfaced. Evidence of extreme significance to all of Northern Ireland. The site and its contents were sought after, but known only to O’Rourke.

  Mairéad Brady also wanted to know the location. She needed the contents destroyed. The hidden information, if revealed, threatened all the work and progress Sinn Fein had accomplished over the last several years. It threatened the sanctity of the New Northern Ireland Assembly.

  O’Rourke’s demise was good news for her.

  Good news for Sinn Fein.

  Good news for the future of Northern Ireland.

  She hung up the phone and punched the speed dial button and hoped for an answer on the other end. After the third ring a familiar voice answered. It wasn’t the voice of the man she was calling, though, but that of a man she despised.

  “Commander, is the Secretary in?” she asked.

  “Hold the line.” She heard a click, followed by recorded music. She counted to three before the music ended.

  “Mairéad Brady, how may I be of assistance to you on such a dreary evening?” the Secretary asked.

  “I called to express my condolences about O’Rourke and to inform you that certain parties to whom I have spoken have disavowed any involvement in his death.”

  “I’m certain they have,” he said. “They would no doubt prefer Mr. O’Rourke alive. It is you, madam, I am concerned with. You have everything to lose and nothing to gain with O’Rourke alive. What is your involvement with O’Rourke’s death?”

  “Mr. Secretary, I assure you we had nothing to do with this incident and I resent your implications to that effect.”

  “Be that as it may, it does lead one to wonder, with his death arising at such an opportune moment for Sinn Fein. Maybe, though, it was just a stroke of good fortune on your behalf.”

  She bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood. Her face flushed with rising emotion. “I don’t consider anyone’s death to be fortunate. I called as a matter of respect and decorum. Good night, Mr. Secretary.” She hung up without affording the man a reply.

  He was right, though, and she knew it. That’s why she was so upset. She regretted making the call. She had wanted O’Rourke dead. Sinn Fein, unofficially, wanted O’Rourke dead. He was a threat. A threat that could only be dealt with in one way. That’s why she had commissioned the assassination of Laurence O’Rourke.

  CHAPTER 24

  Farid Nasiri reached up and removed his headdress, and heard the familiar buzzing of his Blackberry announcing the arrival of another message. He read his messages. The one that caught his attention was the email from the Iranian singles web site announcing a personal message awaiting him on the web site.

  He put down his Blackberry and turned on his laptop computer. After it booted, he opened the web browser and logged onto the singles site.

  Circumstances not as grave as they seem—rendezvous still on. Will contact with place and time. Michael Sullivan, Personal Assistant to Laurence O’Rourke

  The Persian felt a burden lift from his shoulders and he rejoiced in the good news. His euphoria was short lived as he wondered who Michael Sullivan was and, more importantly, how he knew about the deal and the method of contact. Could this be a trap? The CIA had been after him for years, but he’d managed to avoid their trickery. He decided he would proceed with caution and expect the unexpected.

  He picked up his cell phone and called Salim Malik.

  The Persian explained the fortunate turn of events and the anticipation of successful completion of his assignment.

  Malik’s only response was, “For your sake, I hope you don’t fail us again.”

  The phone line went dead.

  CHAPTER 25

  Kaplan and Annie rode down Broughton Street on their way to the crash site. Motorcycle riding became a passion for Kaplan after he bought his first motorcycle in college—a Honda 250 street bike. Since then he had owned several motorcycles.

  He bought his first Harley Davidson when he was in the Army, a Sportster 1200. His previous bike was a Dyna Wide Glide—very sporty but lacking the comfort he wanted for longer road trips. Then two years ago, he’d bought a Fat Boy.

  Annie had pulled her auburn hair into a ponytail before sliding on her half-shell motorcycle helmet. She wore blue jeans, a black fitted Hard Rock Café t-shirt and a black leather Harley jacket.

  As they reached the apex of the Talmadge Bridge, he held out his left hand, pointing in the distance to the commotion associated with the crash site.

  “I see it.” She said. “Now, both hands on the handlebars, please.”

  After they picked up the NTSB observer passes from Carol Martin at the Westin, they drove toward the accident site.

  A Georgia state trooper waved them through the first checkpoint when they produced their FAA identification badges and NTSB observer’s passes. The second check point was closer to the crash site. The trooper stopped them and would not let them proceed on the motorcycle, demanding they park and walk the remaining distance to the crash site.

  He and Annie walked down the dusty gravel road a hundred yards until they reached the access point to the wreckage. They carefully stepped on and over the broken limbs and branches the bulldozers had knocked down while clearing a path for the cranes.

  When they reached the marsh clearing, they saw several people scurrying around performing their duties. Two men were strapping silver duct tape on two strange looking chests. One man, with combover hair f
lying wildly in the wind and a pocket protector full of mechanical pencils, was measuring debris from the wreckage, and then logging it on a sketch pad.

  Several men were helping move huge planks. The creosote planks were being laid side by side in a long row, creating a mat for the heavy equipment to traverse the marsh without bogging down in the soft muck.

  Kaplan pointed to two men arguing and said, “That’s the guy that interviewed me, the younger one. His name is Jake Pendleton.”

  With a sly grin Annie said, “He’s cute.”

  “He’s not your type.” He pointed at the marsh. “Watch your step, it gets kind of mucky in the marsh.”

  * * * Jake and McGill noticed them at the same time. Kaplan was pointing at the ring of sandbags and probably explaining their purpose to the woman standing next to him.

  Kaplan lifted his hand in a waving gesture at Jake.

  McGill shook his head and frowned. “Who are they and what the hell are they doing here?”

  “He’s the controller who was working this aircraft when it crashed. I didn’t see any harm in letting him and his girlfriend see the site from a safe distance. She is also a controller,” Jake explained, while giving Kaplan and the girl a “stay there, I’ll be right over” return wave.

  “I’m up to my ass in shit and you invite two observers out here without my approval. I don’t need any more problems.”

  “I didn’t think it would be a problem. I couldn’t get hold of you and besides, he’s been very cooperative.”

  McGill’s face turned beet red, veins bulging on his face. He raised his index finger and shook it in Jake’s face, “That’s the problem, Jake, you’re not thinking. You know you must run this by me first. I make the call—not you. Get them out of here.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll give them a quick overview and then send them on their way.”

  McGill didn’t say a word, just turned and motioned for the crane operator to start lifting the main fuselage slowly out of the clinging muck.

  He walked over to Kaplan. “Hey, Gregg—not a pretty sight, is it?”

  Before Kaplan could answer, Annie held out her right hand and said, “Annie Bulloch.”

  “Jake Pendleton, nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “We didn’t cause you any problem, did we?” Kaplan asked.

  “No. Don’t worry about it. My boss is under a lot of stress and has been on edge ever since this investigation started.

  Jake explained what they were doing. “As you can see, we’re trying to ease the fuselage out without compromising any evidence that may lead to a probable cause indication. Plus, we still have two bodies that haven’t been recovered yet—the two pilots. If we rush the debris removal, we could compromise the remains. Under these conditions, the extraction is slow and laborious.

  “The sandbags help a little but the tide is coming through anyway and the marsh is getting softer by the minute. We already located and removed the black boxes, both the cockpit voice recorder and the flight data recorder. They’re in those chests over there, ready to ship to D.C.”

  The wind shifted and smoke from the smoldering wreckage drifted over them.

  Jake stopped when he noticed the grimace come across Annie’s face. Looking into her big green eyes, he said, “The smell?”

  “Eww.” She nodded. “What is it?”

  “A combination—burnt electrical wiring, jet fuel, fabric from the seats and insulation in the cabin. And then, of course, the burnt flesh … that’s the worst.”

  Kaplan noticed some commotion and a gathering of NTSB investigators at a certain spot under the fuselage. He pointed. “It looks like they found something important.”

  Jake turned around and saw the gaping hole in the bottom of the fuselage’s forward portion, directly behind and below where the cockpit door would have been.

  * * * Jake told Kaplan and Annie to stay outside the stakedown tape. They could stay for a few more minutes and observe, but he had to get back to work.

  He walked over to the fuselage, leaned in and pointed toward the hole. “Looks like some sort of explosion did that.”

  McGill jerked around and glared at him. “Just how did you make that determination, Einstein?”

  Jake said nothing.

  “You see these blue streaks. Look. Blue paint inside this dented area here, and here.” McGill patted another dent. “And here. I’ve seen this before. This is paint transfer, not an explosion. Someone bring me my handheld radio. Dave, can you get to the 91A?”

  “Yeah, give me a couple of minutes,” Dave said. “I gotta crawl back to it.”

  McGill ordered, “Someone get Kowalski over here.”

  Dave squeezed into the aircraft’s tail section and searched for the emergency locator transmitter.

  Ben Lewis walked up at the same time as the FAA accident investigator, Aaron Kowalski. Ben handed McGill the handheld VHF radio.

  McGill asked Kowalski, “Has an aircraft been reported missing?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, an ALNOT was issued yesterday for a vintage Cessna Skyhawk overdue in Augusta from Hilton Head. The Civil Air Patrol was dispatched this morning. They have two aircraft in the air right now, one in Augusta working south and the other in Hilton Head working north. The aircraft got a late start this morning due to the fog. They’re running search grids along the river.”

  An ALNOT was an FAA search and rescue Alert Notice, issued when an aircraft was overdue at its destination by thirty minutes or more.

  Looking at Jake, McGill said to Kowalski, “Is the aircraft blue?”

  “Actually royal blue with white trim, no electrical system to speak of, no transponder and only a handheld VHF radio, VFR daylight only restricted,” Kowalski said. “The seventy-year-old owner uses it to travel back and forth to his beach house in Hilton Head. According to his wife, he is intimidated by Air Traffic Control and follows the Savannah River from Augusta to the coast, then the coastline over to Hilton Head and back, giving Savannah a little wider berth and staying below thirteen hundred feet in order to avoid the Savannah Class C airspace.

  “The wife said when the weather is bad he will scud run down the river, duck under the first shelf of the Augusta Terminal Radar Service Area and get a Special VFR clearance into Augusta Bush Field,” Kowalski said. “He called her before he left yesterday but never showed up in Augusta and never called back.”

  Dave stuck his head out of a gash near the tail of the aircraft and yelled, “Ready when you are, Pat.”

  McGill looked down at his handheld and dialed in 121.5 MHz, the emergency frequency used in aviation, and the same frequency the emergency locator transmitter, or ELT, sends out after a predetermined impact triggers the device to operate. McGill turned up the volume and they heard the familiar whooup, whooup, whooup sound that the ELT transmits.

  McGill called Jake over. “According to the equipment list for N319CB, the Challenger was equipped with a TSO C126 ELT transmitting digitally information on 406 MHz and the older TSO 91A ELT transmitting on 121.5 MHz.”

  “That’s right, so?” Jake asked.

  “Well, Jake, the satellite already identified the Challenger’s C126, so the ELT was ignored … an assumption was made that it was this crash. If I’m right, when Dave turns off the Challenger’s 91A, we’ll still hear another ELT transmitting in the area.”

  “If there was a midair,” Jake said.

  “That’s right.”

  McGill looked at Dave. “All right, turn off the 91A.”

  When Dave disengaged the ELT, the volume level dropped on the handheld but another ELT transmission was still heard, although not as clear and distinct.

  McGill turned to Kowalski. “Have CAP come up here ASAP. I think we found your missing aircraft and may have just stumbled on probable cause.”

  Jake shook his head, he was dumbfounded.

  Then he noticed McGill marching toward Kaplan, yelling something to him at the same time.

  McGill put his face
inches from Kaplan’s face and barked, “You have quite a lot of explaining to do now. It looks like you ran two airplanes together. You need to go back over to the tower and we’ll be there in a couple of hours. This ‘accident’ is now a midair.”

  Before Kaplan could respond, Annie pointed toward the FAA investigator and said, “Hey, wait a minute. Didn’t that man just say the Skyhawk didn‘t have a transponder?”

  “Yeah, so what?” McGill said.

  “Well, our primary radar was down yesterday morning, so there is no way Gregg would have seen a non-transponder-equipped aircraft flying along the river.”