Man of Honor

Man of Honor, begin the journey

Connect with Me Online

A Final Word From the Author

Other Fiction by Chris Malburg

Chapter 1

Getting colder, Jack said and shuffled his boots over the icy turf. By the time this is over, all these people will be half frozen.

Helen Kaito turned toward her husband and into the onslaught of wind and snow. Snatches of live broadcasts from breathless reporters floated on the wind and swirled around the crowd 200 strong. Just his way of preserving that stoic reserve, Helen thought. She pulled her scarf tight around her neck and stuffed both hands into her jacket pockets. Around them, people stamped their feet in the snowy field hard against the banks of Elkhart’s St. Joe River. How much longer?

She watched Jack look around the field. Police officers stood in small groups talking quietly among themselves. Firefighters stayed near their rigs waiting to put their exhaustive training to work. The silence spoke volumes. No celebration here.

They told me it should happen about 4:10 p.m.

My God, Jack...

Jack nodded slowly. I know, hon. It sucks.

Helen watched the crowd searching the northeastern sky. Some pointed. She checked her watch. Not yet. Too soon.

Jack unzipped his backpack and pulled out binoculars. Helen had given him the heaviest items when they geared up back home. She took water—frozen by now—energy bars, extra gloves, socks, and the knit cap she knew Jack probably wouldn’t wear. Summer or winter, he liked the feeling of the breeze on his shaven head. What?

Jack kept the binoculars raised, scanning the horizon. I have this feeling of total helplessness. It’s creepy, unfamiliar. And I do not like it. Another five minutes passed in silence.

Okay, we got us some action now. Jack passed the binoculars over.

Helen set the black rubber eyecups against her face.

See ‘em?

Helen turned the focus knob. Two nav lights. One red, the other green. They’re faint. Way out there. Maybe five minutes away.

Crowd’s buzzing, Jack said. They’re getting scared. Reality is setting in—190 new homes right in the crash path. And there’s nothing any of us can do.

It’s a Boeing Business Jet—the Dash-2, Helen said from behind the binoculars. It’s the largest biz jet they make.

Whitehouse said it was big.

You didn’t mention the Whitehouse when you got the call, Helen said. What gives?"

NTSB probably has their Go Team already in the air. They’ve had a few hours warning. Probably be on the ground shortly. Did I also forget to mention they emailed copies of our credentials to NTSB’s chief investigator?

There it is! someone in the crowd shouted. Every head in the snow-covered field turned north. People pointed. Binoculars snapped to.

Jack, presidents don’t get their close family members involved in aircraft crashes—

Got a text a few minutes ago. Jack scanned the northeastern sky. The four top people at the nation’s largest air transport company are aboard this plane. And the Whitehouse operator received a call.

Helen lowered the binoculars and stared at Jack. What did—

The caller warned that this is just the beginning. Then cut the connection.

Helen felt a chill colder than any Elkhart winter wind as the facts fell into place. So the President wants you to look into this for him. You’re family, former military, an SEC Enforcement investigator. And you live within a few miles of this soon to be crash site. All that makes sense for you to be here. But why me too?

I know the President, hon. He doesn’t spell out every little detail for me. I know he trusts you. You’re smart. And you’re the famous Helen Kaito. He wants your outsider’s credibility too. Just in case—

Of what?

That’s why we’re here. If the caller’s warning and this crash are linked—

Then this is no accident, Helen finished. It could be just the beginning of something far worse. Imagine the thousands of lives at stake if US airliners suddenly begin falling from the sky.

I hear you, Helen. The President has decisions to make that cannot wait. Not even for a few hours. He’s asking us both to get him out ahead of whatever is happening here. Right now, we are the sharp end of the spear. At least, until CIA, FBI, and Homeland get their feet under them.

Helen carefully scanned the skies back and forth across the thunderheads. She knew transportation―was steeped in the industry since she was a child. But why stop at airplanes? Why not cars, trucks, ships, trains, oil pipelines? Is this just the first strike? Then, Got him. She pointed a gloved hand toward the still tiny pair of red and green wingtip navigation lights way off in the angry, gray sky. She sorted through the possible reasons the Dash-2’s flight crew was not doing something, anything to avert this disaster. This isn’t the passengers’ fault. Are they pawns in something far worse? Here’s where my pilot’s license comes in handy.

Some people knew a little about a lot of things—a mile wide but barely an inch deep. Not Helen. She was an authority on so much; she dug into the minutiae until she owned it. Now, she was CEO of her family’s Kaito Automotive Light Truck Division, a small part of the world’s largest car manufacturer. It was a job her demanding, results-driven father made sure she earned.

Helen Kaito was born into privilege. Yet, those privileges came with a price. She earned everything herself. No family assistance or influence got her into Stanford Business School or kept her there. On graduation, she began working in Kaito Motors’ smallest division—Light Trucks there in Elkhart. She started as an accounts payable clerk. Her bosses knew if they gave her an unearned promotion, their own jobs would be forfeited. She moved up Kaito’s ladder solely on her own merit. That eventually led her straight into the corner office. A force of nature―that was Helen.

Looks like it’s heading straight for us, Jack said.

That’s just the angle we’re watching from, Helen corrected. See? Already, the nose is moving left a degree or two. By the time it crashes, the jet will miss this field by a mile, maybe more. The residents here are safe. Besides, there’s nowhere else to go. The roads are jammed and we can’t get any further away with the St. Joe River blocking the only other way out.

A sour taste seared the inside of Jack’s mouth. The red and green navigation lights were now clearly visible without binoculars against the gray sky. The white fuselage stood out against the dark gray clouds. No wobble in the wings. Altitude seemed constant. The storm’s icy fingers wormed their way inside his coat. Frosty tendrils picked through both layers, pushing them aside until they reached bare skin. He shivered. Indiana’s mid-December snowstorms are a bitch. Then the distant sound of jet engines went silent. Doesn’t look so bad yet.

It won’t until something knocks it out of aerodynamic balance, Helen said.

Maybe the plane will stay aloft long enough to overfly the residential development.

That would be the absolute best case, Jack. Two minutes since the engines cut out. That shallow glide slope has already steepened. Now the jet is feeling the irresistible force of gravity replacing aerodynamics.

Jack stiffened against the icy wind. It ran through his chest like a spike and clawed at his bare head. He wondered if Helen packed that knit cap she was always trying to get him to wear. Now would be a good time for it, he thought. The jet angled toward the westernmost corner of the Elkhart development. And downward. Ever downward.

The crowd screamed. Some whose homes were in the path shouted, No! No! Jack refused to bury his eyes in his sleeves like so many in the crowd. He would watch until the end. Again he felt the unfamiliar shroud of powerlessness. Unwelcome and not to be repeated. Ever.

Jack pulled Helen closer. Less than 300 feet above the ground and still gliding. Jack’s stomach knotted. Seconds now. Stay up there, Jack’s lips wordlessly pleaded.

Then the jet’s lower wing clipped the high-tension electrical lines providing power to the new homes. The lines jerked and stretched ribbon tight. They held. The two-inch diameter cables tore off the wing. The crowd screamed again. Suddenly, the jet’s orderly glide ceased. The tail separated from the fuselage. Both tumbled through the air in a catastrophic cartwheel. The jet hit like rolling thunder over the Indiana landscape. Metal, house fragments, dirt, and other debris exploded in all directions. Kinetic energy from the crash spread debris over the site. The oncoming wreckage cut a swath of destruction more than a hundred yards wide.

The wreckage plowed through two homes. Debris flattened trees and bushes. It uprooted newly planted grass, thundering deep into the park beyond. A huge dust cloud erupted as the debris finally came to rest. No immediate fire. The plane had long since run out of fuel.

Stunned silence settled over the residents standing in the field. The crowd around Jack remained totally untouched. A surge of gratitude flooded through him. The plume of dust continued rising into the darkening sky, marking the path of destruction. A breeze blew the smell of freshly plowed earth into the field where Jack stood. It assaulted his nose. His throat tried to close out the dust. The horrible sound of the gleaming machine crumpling into the ground at enormous speed faded into the landscape.

The crowd had already moved right to the edge of the yellow hazardous danger tape surrounding the crash site. Jack and Helen stayed behind until they were alone in the snowy field. Who is that guy? Jack asked Helen, turning his head toward the lone man walking away from the crash site and in their direction.

Looks like he belongs here. Check out the jacket.

The faded, navy blue windbreaker with the age-cracked gold letters of NTSB on its front and back was the first thing Jack noticed. His weathered face was tan and pleasant. Jack guessed whatever he did at NTSB, he did it outdoors. His thin, white hair blew in the cutting wind. The man didn’t say a word. Nor did he raise his head from staring at the ground beneath him as he approached. Jack dug his hands deeper into his jacket pockets. The man from NTSB stopped beside Jack. Both stared silently at the crushed and mutilated Boeing Business Jet amid the splintered wreckage of the two houses it hit.

Jack watched him draw cold air deep into his lungs. He held it there like a smoker, enjoying the feel of its icy freshness, not wanting to let it go. He took a final breath of fresh air, seemed to brace himself, and then blew it out.

Mr. Schilling, Jack, why don’t you and Helen come with me, get out of this cold.

Jack arched a questioning eyebrow at Helen. But before they could move, Jack’s cell phone vibrated. He fished it out of his jacket pocket then turned the screen toward Helen so she could see who was calling. He put it on speaker so she and the man from NTSB could hear.

Yes, sir. We’re at the crash site—

Good, came the voice familiar to millions. Tom Gallagher, NTSB’s chief investigator will meet you and show you around. All these NTSB guys are real pros—best in the business. Got something else though.

Jack looked at Helen.

We got us another flyer, Jack.

A business jet? asked Tom Gallagher.

This one’s an InterTrans LTS450 with 147 people aboard, Mr. Gallagher.

Sir, where’s this one going to crash?

Los Angeles, Jack. There’s fear that this thing may be escalating. We got another call. Same guy. More threats. FBI says he’s credible. Jack, I want you to continue your involvement for now. Report the facts in real time directly to me. FBI and Homeland are arguing now about communication channels. We’ve already spoken to the directors of the FAA and NTSB. They know the score. You and Helen are my eyes and ears in case I need to make a decision. At least, until the agencies whose job this is can get moving in the same direction. There’s transport on the way that will take Jack to LA. Helen, can you please remain at the Elkhart crash site with Chief Investigator Gallagher? Both of you keep me in the loop on your progress. Gotta go. Click.

Just like that? Gallagher asked. Who do you know with the power to order around civilians and whistle up transport just like that?

Jack hit the family jackpot, Helen answered. The President is his dad’s best friend. He is also Jack’s godfather. She shouted the last part as an Air Force Blackhawk helicopter landed on the road outside the yellow caution tape amidst swirling snow and rotor wash.

* * *

Chapter 2

After you, Gallagher offered, holding open the tent flap for Helen. The guys got here just an hour ago. The cred packs we received must belong to you. I have them over here.

Helen looked around inside the huge tent. Space heaters had raised the temperature. At least she couldn’t see her breath. Long tables with folding chairs and laptop computers took up most of the center space. No aircraft debris on the tables yet. The job was just getting started, though. One by one the team of aircraft incident investigators drifted in from the wreckage to get instructions from their chief.

Tom Gallagher, NTSB’s Chief Aircraft Accident Investigator, left Helen and walked over to huddle with his team.

Thank you for your service, said Gallagher, his voice clear and somber. He stood in the center with his crash investigation team forming a warm, respectful circle around him in the chilly tent. Our job is to find the cause of this crash so that others may live. Whatever it is, regardless of the reason, and no matter how long it takes, we will find the cause of this crash. Then he assigned sections of the investigation to his people and they left the tent.

Nice words, Chief, Helen said.

"I begin each accident investigation the same way. It’s a small reminder for a thankless job. But someone has to do it.

I was briefed about your involvement on the way to the crash site. You’ll work along side my team to see…whatever it is you’re looking for. If we see any evidence of criminal activity, we will bring in the FBI immediately.

Do you have an idea of what happened?

Gallagher shook his head, Way too early to focus on any one particular cause. Our job is to keep an open mind then let the evidence speak to us. What we find here could well prevent future accidents. He jerked his thumb toward the wreckage. These eight people gave their lives for this. We’ll make sure it was not in vain.

Helen looked over Gallagher’s shoulder and through the open tent flap at the five NTSB investigators already carefully walking the crash scene. Police stood around the perimeter keeping the onlookers back. The investigators were taking photos. One focused on an engine laying in the field; another stopped and knelt down on the snowy ground. She was looking into the cockpit broken away from the fuselage and laying open on its side some twenty yards south.

How much time for your investigation? Helen asked.

Any NTSB investigation takes as long as it takes. Can’t rush this sort of thing. That’s how mistakes are made. I’ve had investigations take less than six months and some as long as two years.

Seems like a gruesome job.

Parts of it certainly are. Who likes helping the medical personnel pull dead bodies from mangled wreckage then spend months puzzling together the cause of the crash? It’s a calling that sucks you in.

By now, you must dread the ring of your phone, Helen said. Probably happens at the worst times.

Gallagher appraised Helen up and down for a moment and then nodded his head. Once the calling has you, there’s no escape. Ever. Gallagher changed tact, It’s unusual to have the Whitehouse involved before the investigation even gets started.

You heard the same phone call I did, Helen said.

The President’s Chief of Staff called my boss at NTSB. You’re to shadow my team. I’m to afford you every courtesy and assistance.

Thank you, Mr. Gallagher. I’ll try to stay out of your way.

No need. We’re all after the same thing here. Let’s get you suited up, he said. Everyone on the crash site wears protective clothing. He reached into a cardboard box and handed Helen a white exposure suit. Put this on, please.

Gloves and booties too? Helen asked.

Gallagher peered out of the tent at his five investigators suited up head to toe and slowly walking the site. Yes. Everything. My people aren’t wearing their respirators right now. It’s probably unnecessary. But attach it to your belt anyway. If I tell you to put it on, it’s for a very good reason. He handed over the green plastic bag containing her respirator.

What’s there to be afraid of? Helen asked. She sat in a folding chair and pulled the booties over her boots.

Lots of nasty stuff. Bodily fluids for one—blood and tissue. Probably bodily waste too. It happens. There could also be hydrazine. It’s a clear, oily substance that smells like ammonia. A bioenvironmental nightmare. We’re contacting Boeing now to find out if they use hydrazine in the Dash-2 emergency power units. Their crash team should be here anytime.

Helen saw compassion in the NTSB chief’s eyes. Tough job, Chief.

Gallagher nodded. NTSB performs a service so that others may live. Gallagher inspected Helen’s protective suit. Okay. Follow me, please. He turned and led the way out of the tent, talking as he went. "If your eyes start itching, if you feel dizzy or your nose and throat feel irritated, let me know immediately then leave the crash site. Finally, if you just want to leave the scene, please do so. These are not nice places. You’ll see things you will never want to see again. No one will think any less of you. It happens to all of us.

One more thing, Gallagher grabbed a clipboard off the table nearest the tent flap, everyone entering the crash site signs in and out. You see all of our names on the top sheet. Please enter your name too. You’re one of us now.

Helen followed Gallagher out of the tent. He lifted the yellow hazardous danger tape for them. Not more than ten feet into the area, Helen stumbled over a twisted landing gear resting next to a smashed aluminum sink from the house that had been in the jet’s path. Gallagher nimbly stepped around it. Just another day at the office.

I always begin my initial assessment the same way, Gallagher said, "I walk the perimeter of the site counter clockwise. I want a clear picture of the scene. I look for the direction of the impact, the impact crater, and where the major pieces of wreckage came to rest. I catalog things I observe that