Most of the world’s business jets flew as showcase items, a manifestation of their owners’ egos. Irrespective of whether that owner was an individual, a family, or a corporation, private jets were polished to a gleam and emblazoned with logos. The principal’s initials could be incorporated into their tail numbers like an overpriced monogram. This aircraft displayed none of that. In fact, it was quite the opposite, as if the owner wanted the jet tobe the dowdiest entry in the flying beauty pageant. That was unusual. Even the most shadowy oligarchs and arms merchants put their marks on their toys.
Katie could think of only one entity that would run a jet like that.
She walked out to get a better angle, until she could see the registration number. As required by law, it was painted clearly on the aft fuselage. N490BS. Katie committed it to memory and then walked back to the car, a slight grin creasing her lips.
Bravo Sierra, she thought. And how perfect is that?
—
The stop at the hotel, as promised, was brief.
It took thirty minutes to reach the crash site, half of the time a trek across unimproved gravel roads. Bouncing around the final hill, and with a cloud of dust trailing behind them, the scene of the tragedy appeared with jarring suddenness. The SUVs jerked to a stop amid a dozen Turkish military vehicles.
Katie got out and was transfixed by the scene. She had been in the thick of combat before. She’d stood on the conn of the USSBlackfishduring a torpedo battle, and watched a missile engagement from the combat information center of the USSJason Dunham. The hillside before her was an entirely different manner of chaos. It was raw and devastating, the aftermath of a tragedy. A two-acre apocalypse on the side of a minor mountain.
The wreckage was strewn over a relatively small area, and a giant scar in the brown earth marked the primary point of impact. From there, the aircraft had tumbled and shattered, its remains careening in all directions. Scorch marks from secondary fires pocked the terrain like spent campfires, and even after half a day smoke trickled skyward. The acrid stench of scorched jet fuel tainted the morning breeze.
Some sections of the wreckage were identifiable. The tail was most prominent, its three fins intact. A painted American flag on the vertical stabilizer took on the bleak aura of an epitaph on a headstone. The main fuselage was shattered, broken into three segments, and the wings lay detached on either side. All around those reference points were unidentifiable shards of debris. A dozen men in colored vests roamed the area, mostly planting reference flags and taking pictures.
“Damn,” said Conza, pulling up beside her.
“Yeah. I didn’t know quite what to expect, but this…this is surreal.”
“The first one can be a little overwhelming,” said Colonel Carter, approaching from behind. “It’s not as bad when you get up close and narrow your focus.”
Katie said, “What about the…loss of life?”
“I’ve been told most of the human remains have been recovered.” He pointed to a team in red vests. “The Turks have been working on that since before daybreak. Come on, I’ll walk you through.”
They hiked a makeshift path rutted by fresh tire tracks.
“Were these caused by the first responders?” she asked, pointing down.
“Very good,” Carter replied. “The ground was pretty wet when they showed up.”
And with that, something clicked in Katie’s head. It occurred to her that, despite the obvious disarray, she could process this scene logically. It would be detective work, pure and simple. And she was good at that.
Carter veered toward the tail section, where two of his men had joined up with a pair of Turks. They were working on the vertical tail and had removed a panel to dig around inside.
“Stay here for a minute,” Carter said. He broke off, climbed the mound of debris, and spoke to one of his lieutenants. The young woman pointed inside the cavity and the colonel leaned in for a look. He then rejoined Katie and Conza.
“They’re trying to recover the black boxes. I got a look, and they appear to be in pretty good shape. Hopefully the first read will give us an idea of what went wrong.”
“How long will that take?” Katie asked.
“If no damage was done, we might have something tomorrow.”
Staring across the devastation, Conza asked, “Do you have any theories yet, Colonel?”
He tipped his head noncommittally. “This early in an inquiry you can never close doors…but I do see some inconsistencies.”
“It hit this mountain at the bottom,” Katie said. “They weren’t even close to clearing it.”
“A good observation. That doesn’t compute to me, either. This happened at night, and the weather was lousy, so the pilots would have been flying on instruments. But this aircraft was equipped with what we call GPWS. It’s a worldwide terrain database that ties into the aircraft’s GPS navigation. That system should have given a terrain warning long before the situation turned critical, with enough time to initiate a recovery.”
“Will the black boxes tell you if the crew got that warning?”
“They will. I’m also looking at the way the airplane hit.” He held out an arm that aligned with the wreckage pattern.
