Final Approach by John J. Nance Read Free Book Online Page A

moving slowly toward a small clump of debris at the edge of the taxiway. There were two people there, one kneeling and a fireman helping, a flashlight in the kneeling man’s hand. Pete came up to them and followed their gaze to the limp hand and arm protruding from the wreckage. He looked in the man’s tearful eyes—staring into an abyss of hollowness and pain—and recognized him as the fellow pilot whose family he had promised to protect. As the fireman grabbed for him, the bleeding captain sank to his knees, struggling to speak, the enormity of it washing over him.
    â€œI’m … I’m so … sorry. I’m so sorry! I tried … I …”
    Mark Weiss looked up at Pete with an expression beyond description—beyond anguish—the broken remains of something small and plastic in his hands, a scarred and twisted model of the F-15 fighter bearing a hand-printed name on the side which was still barely readable: “Millennium Falcon.”

3
    Friday, October 12 Washington, D.C.
    A flowing river of colored leaves surged across the divided roadway in front of him on a wave of autumn wind, the late-evening landscape painted by the soft brush of greenish streetlamps and the glare of incandescent headlights as Joe Wallingford turned onto the Suitland Parkway, headed for home. It was 11:25 P.M. and he was mentally exhausted. Fridays at the National Transportation Safety Board tended to do that to him—the usual last-minute rush punctuated by a thousand unplanned interruptions. He supposed it was the same in any business.
    Joe accelerated and headed east, his mind chewing over the raging battle among the staff. He would have to convince the Board members to use some incendiary testimony from a New England commuter crash, and he hated the process—and hated politics. Nineteen years of such nonsense was making him cynical. He knew the symptoms.
    Joe reached over and switched on the radio, tuning it to an easy-listening station. The window should be down, he told himself. Can’t enjoy a night like this with the window up. He worked the crank, feeling the cool breeze flood the car, breathing the aroma of fall and forests along the tree-lined suburban motorway. It was a beautiful evening, and surprisingly so. The city looked magnificent. He had noted that as he pulled out of the garage at 800 Independence ten minutes ago and turned toward the stark white facade of the U.S. Capitol bathed in spotlights, the sound of wind-blown leaves scraping lightly over concrete filling his ears as he paused at the curb, waiting for traffic that wasn’t there—luxuriating in the empty streets.
    Joe took the exit ramp to Branch Avenue, mentally reminding himself of the comforting fact that his packed bag was in the trunk behind him. He had “the duty” for the next few days. If there was an aviation accident significant enough to require a Washington-based investigation, Joe would lead the “Go Team” as the IIC—the investigator-in-charge. And as always, if he needed the bag, it was ready to go in an instant, packed with duplicates of almost everything he had in his bathroom at home. He had adopted the habit of acquiring two of everything many years ago when he first joined the NTSB. It had been a family joke: don’t ever give Joe just one tie or one shaver. Give him two of everything—one for home, one for the infamous bag. Before their divorce, Brenda had done just that. In fact, he corrected himself, she still did, sending him two little electronic alarm clocks for his birthday back in June.
    The inviting thought of a crackling fire, the leaves blowing across his patio, and a Moselle wine he had been saving caused him to smile. That was an evening to look forward to—but the beeping noise that began coursing through his consciousness at that exact moment was not.
    Joe shook his head, sighing disgustedly before launching an emphatic “Damn!” at the