Total Control (11 page)

George Kaplan shook his head in disgust. "You're right, Lee. The changes in the metallurgy I'm seeing could only have been caused by a shock wave exerting immense but short-lived overpressure.

Something exploded here, all right. It's the damnedest thing. We put detectors in airports so some crazy assholes with an agenda can't smuggle a gun or bomb on board, and now this. Jesus!"

Lee Sawyer moved forward and knelt down next to the edge of the wing. Here he was, nearly fifty years old, half of those years spent with the bureau, and again he was sifting through the catastrophic results of human pollution.

He had worked on the Lockerbie disaster, an investigation of mammoth proportion that had brought together a damned near airtight case culled from what bordered on microscopic evidence unearthed from the shattered remains of Pan Am Flight 103. With plane bombings there were usually never any "big" clues. At least Special Agent Sawyer had thought so up until now.

His observant eyes swept over the wreckage before they came to rest on the NTSB man. "What's your best list of possible scenarios right now, George?"

Kaplan rubbed his chin, scratching absently at the stubble.

"We'll know a lot more when we recover the black boxes, but we do have a clear result: The wing came off a jetliner. However, those things don't just happen. We're not exactly sure when it happened, but radar indicates that a large part of the plane--now we know it was the wing--came off in-flight. When that occurred, of course, there was no possibility of recovery. The first thought is some type of catastrophic structural failure based on a faulty design. But the L500 is a state-of-the-art model from a top manufacturer, so the chances of that kind of structural failure are so remote that I wouldn't waste much time on that angle. So maybe you think it's metal fatigue.

But this plane barely had two thousand cycles--takeoffs and landings--it's practically brand-new. Besides that, the metal fatigue accidents we've seen in the past all involved the fuselage because the constant contraction-expansion of cabin pressurization and depressurization seems to contribute to the problem. Aircraft wings are not pressurized. So you rule out metal fatigue. Next, you look at the environment. Lightning strike? Planes get hit by lightning more often than people think. However, planes are equipped to deal with that and because lightning needs to be grounded to do real damage, a plane up in the sky may suffer, at worst, some burning of the skin.

Besides, there were no reports of lightning in the area on the morning of the crash. Birds? Show me a bird that flies at thirty-five thousand feet and is large enough to take off an L500's wing and then maybe we'll discuss it. It sure as hell didn't collide with another plane. It sure as hell didn't."

Kaplan's voice was rising with each word. He paused to catch his breath and to look once more at the metal remains.

"So where does that leave us, George?" Sawyer calmly asked.

Kaplan looked back up. He sighed. "Next we look at possible mechanical or nondesign structural failure. Catastrophic results on an aircraft usually stem from two or more failures happening almost simultaneously.

I listened to the transmission record between the pilot and the tower. The captain radioed in a Mayday several minutes before the crash, although it was clear from what little she said that they were unsure what had happened. The plane's transponder was still kicking the radar signals back until impact, so at least some of the electrical systems were working up until then. But let's say we had an engine catch on fire at the same time a fuel leak occurred.

Most people might assume fuel leak, flames from the engine--wham, you got yourself an explosion and there goes the wing. Or there might not have been an actual explosion, although it sure as hell looks like there was. The fire could've weakened and finally collapsed the spar and the wing gets torn off. That could explain what we think happened to Flight 3223, at least at this early stage." Kaplan did not sound convinced.

"But?" Sawyer looked at him.

Kaplan rubbed at his eyes, the frustration clear in his troubled features. "There's no evidence that anything was wrong with the damned engine. Except for the obvious damage caused from its impact with the terrain and ingesting debris from the initial explosion, nothing leads me to believe that an engine problem played a role in the crash. If there was an engine fire, standard procedure would dictate cutting off the fuel flow to that engine and then turning off the power. The L500's engines are equipped with automatic fire detection and extinguisher systems. And, more importantly, they're mounted low, so no flames would fly toward the wings or the fuselage.

So even if you have twin catastrophes--a flaming engine and a fuel leak--the design features of the aircraft and the environmental conditions prevailing at thirty-five thousand feet and an airspeed of over five hundred miles per hour would pretty much ensure that the two shall not meet." He rubbed his foot against the wing. "I guess what I'm saying is I wouldn't bet the farm on a bad engine having crashed this bird." He paused. "There's something else."

Kaplan once again knelt beside the jagged edge of the wing.

"Like I said, there is clear evidence of an explosion. When I first checked the wing, I was thinking some type of improvised explosive device. You know, like Semtex wired to a timer or altimeter device.

Plane hits a certain altitude, the bomb goes off. The blast fractures the skin, you got almost immediate rivet failure. Hundreds-of miles-per-hour winds hitting it, that wing's gonna open right up at the weakest point, like unzipping your fly. Spar gives way, and barn.

Hell, the weight of the engine on this section of the wing would have guaranteed that result." He paused, apparently to study ,the interior of the wing more closely. "The twist is I don't think a typical explosive device was involved."

"Why's that?" Sawyer asked.

Kaplan pointed inside the wing to the exposed section of the fuel tank near the fuel panel. He held his light over the spot. "Look at this."

A large hole was clearly visible. All around the perforation were light brown stains and the metal was warped and bubbled. "I noticed those earlier," Sawyer said.

"There is no way in the world a hole like this could have been naturally generated. In any event, it would've been caught on routine inspection before the plane took off," Kaplan said.

Sawyer put on his gloves before touching the area. "Maybe it happened during the explosion."

"If it did, it was the only ?pot it happened to. There are no other markings like this on this section of the wing, although you got fuel everywhere. That pretty much rules out the explosion having caused it. But I do believe something was put on the fuel tank wall." Kaplan paused and nervously rubbed his fingers together. "I think some thing was put on it deliberately to cause that hole."

"Like a corrosive acid?" Sawyer asked.

Kaplan nodded. "I'll bet you a dinner that's what we find, Lee.

The fuel tanks are of an aluminum alloy structure consisting of the front and rear spars and the top and bottom of the wings. The thickness of the walls varies around the structure. A number of acids will eat right through a soft alloy metal like that."

"Okay, acid; but, depending on when it was applied, it was probably slow-acting, to let the plane get up in the air, right?"

Kaplan answered immediately. "Right. The transponder continually sends the plane's altitude to air traffic control, so we know the plane had reached its cruising altitude shortly before the explosion."

Sawyer continued his line of thought. "Tank gets pierced at some point during the flight. You got jet fuel spilling out. Highly flammable, highly explosive. So what ignited it? Maybe the engine wasn't on fire, but how about just the standard hear thrown off from the engine?"

"No way. You know how cold it is at thirty-five thousand feet?

It'd make Alaska feel like the Sahara. Besides, the engine housing and coolant systems pretty much dissipate the heat thrown off from the engine. And any heat it does generate sure as hell ain't gonna end up inside the wing. Remember you got a damn fuel tank in there. It's pretty well insulated. On top of that, if you got a fuel leak, because of the plane's airspeed, the fuel will flow backward and not toward the front of the wing and below, where the engine is located.

No, if I were inclined to take down a plane this way, no way would I count on engine heat being my detonator. I'd want something a lot more reliable."

Sawyer had a sudden thought. "If there was a leak, wouldn't it be contained?"

"In some sections of the fuel tank the answer to that would be yes.

In other areas, including where we got this hole, the answer is no."

"Well, if it went down like you say--and right now i'm inclined to think you're right, George--we're going to have to focus on everybody who had access to that aircraft at least twenty-four hours before its final flight. We're going to need to go easy. It looks to be an insider, so the last thing we need is to spook him. If anybody else is involved in this, I want every last sonofabitch."

Sawyer and Kaplan walked back to their cars. Kaplan looked over at the FBI agent. "You seemed to accept my sabotage theory pretty readily, Lee."

Sawyer was aware of one fact that made the bombing theory infinitely more plausible. "It'll need to be substantiated," he replied without looking at the NTSB man. "But, yeah, I think you're right.

I was pretty sure it was that as soon as the wing was found."

"Why the hell would someone do that? I mean, I can understand terrorists taking out an international flight, but this was a plain-vanilla domestic. I just don't get it."

As Kaplan was about to get into his car, Sawyer leaned on the door. "It might make sense if you wanted to kill someone in. particular, in a spectacular fashion."

Kaplan stared at the agent. "Down an entire plane to get to one guy? Who the hell was on that thing?"

"Does the name Arthur Lieberman ring any bells?" the FBI agent asked quietly.

Kaplan searched his brain but came up empty. "Sounds damn familiar, but I can't place it."

"Well, if you were an investment banker or stockbroker, or a congressman on the Joint Economic Committee, you'd know. Actually, he's the most powerful person in America, maybe the entire world."

"I thought the most powerful person in America was the president."

Sawyer smiled grimly. "No. It's Arthur Lieberman with the big S on his chest."

"Who the hell was he?"

"Arthur Lieberman was 'the chairman of the Federal Reserve Board. Now he's a homicide victim along with a hundred and eighty others. And my hunch is, he's the only one they wanted to kill."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

JASOn Archer had no idea where he was. The limo had seemed to drive around for hours, he couldn't be sure, and DePazza, or whoever the hell he really was, had blindfolded him. The room he was now in was small and bare. Water dripped in one corner and the air was thick with the odor of mold. He sat on a rickety chair across from the one door. There were no windows. The only light came from a naked overhead bulb. He could hear someone on the other side of the door. They had taken his watch, so he had no idea what time it was. His captors brought him food at very irregular intervals, which made it difficult to ascertain how much time had passed.

Once, when food was brought to him, Jason had noticed his lap-top computer and cellular phone resting on a small table just on the other side of the door. Other than that the outer room was much like the one he was in. The silver case had been taken from him. There had been nothing in it, he was now reasonably certain. What was going on was beginning to become clear to him. Christ, what a sucker! He thought of his wife and child, and how desperately he wanted to be with them again. What Sidney must be thinking had happened to him. He could barely comprehend the emotions she must be feeling right now. If only he had told her the truth. She would be in a position to help him. He sighed. But the bottom line was that telling her anything would have put her in danger. That was something he would never do, not even if it meant never seeing her again. He wiped the tears from his eyes as the image of eternal separation fixed itself in his head. He stood up and shook himself.

He wasn't dead yet, although the grimness of his captors was far from reassuring. However, they had made one mistake despite their obvious care. Jason took off his glasses, placed them on the concrete floor and carefully scrunched them with his foot. He picked up one jagged piece of glass, positioned it carefully in his hand, then walked over to the door and pounded on it.

"Hey, can I get something to drink.?"

"Shut up in there." The voice sounded annoyed. It wasn't De-Pazza, probably the other man.

"Listen, dammit, I've got medication to take and I need something to take it with."

"Try your own spit." It was the same man's voice. Jason could hear a chuckle.

"The pills are too big," jason shouted, hoping someone else might hear him.

"Too bad."

Jason could hear the pages of a magazine being leisurely turned.

"Great, I won't take them and I'll just keel over dead right here. It's for high blood pressure and right now mine's clear through the roof."

Now Jason could hear a chair scraping the floor, keys jangling.

"Step back from the door."

Jason did so, but only a short distance. The door swung open. The man held the keys in one hand, his gun in the other.

"Where are the pills?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

"In my hand."

"Show 'em to me."

Jason shook his head in disgust. "I don't believe this." As he stepped forward, he opened his hand and held it out. The man glanced at it. Jason swung his leg up, connected with the man's hand and sent the gun flying.

"Shit," the man yelled. He hurtled toward Jason, who met him with a perfect uppercut. The jagged glass caught the man right across the cheek. He howled in pain and staggered back, blood streaming down from the grisly wound.