eventually retrieved via a robotic arm on an unmanned mini-sub. Contrary to popular belief, information from the data recorders can be hit-or-miss, and in some cases the black boxes are worthless. In the crash of Egyptian Flight 990, the data was too good. All evidence pointed to a plane that was mechanically sound. There was no history of failed hydraulics or engine problems, and a recent scheduled maintenance showed a perfectly fit aircraft.
“The crux of the crash was the voice recordings from the cockpit, and it wasn’t until these were studied that real problems began. Two minutes of tape from some crazy-ass, co-pilot-in-training quoting the Koran and rambling on about Allah. There were all kinds of procedural inconsistencies, starting with the pilot leaving the co-pilot behind the controls in the first hour of flight. When the plane started dipping erratically, the pilot fought his way back to the cockpit and tried to regain control of the aircraft, battling the structural limitations of the airplane and the physics of an aircraft in a steep dive. All the evidence needed for the investigation was there, on the tape, in words.”
Jake looked at Al as he continued to tell the story, tears rolling down his cheeks, his voice quivering.
“Well the Egyptians start screaming foul, claiming the cockpit recordings were inconclusive and that by portraying the Egyptian Air pilots as kamikaze, suicidal maniacs, it would damage the mainstay of their economy— tourism. Given the political nature of the claims, a special Senate inquiry team was formed to gather additional, impartial information from a clusterfuck of agencies and individuals. The FBI Anti-Terrorist Task Force, the FAA, NTSB, the Airlines Pilot associations, Boeing, Airbus. Anyone and everyone who knew anything about aircraft, or the two million parts that go into one, was paraded through the Capitol in front of the Senate inquiry.”
“I think I see where this is heading.”
“I guess you can. The inquiry team was headed by one ‘harmless’ senator from Massachusetts. The plane had crashed in his backyard, and with that individual piece of luck, Senator Day was nominated as the Senate point man for the investigation. The whole affair was anything but a picnic. Surviving family members were going toe-to- toe with the airplane manufacturers, the airlines, and the Egyptian government. Senator Day, avoiding decision and repercussions that could come from making the wrong one, simply drowned the proceedings with testimony, knowing the longer he could stall the proceeding, the less public interest there would be. Twenty months later, with the Egyptian government still protesting loudly, the official initial finding of the NTSB was thrown out in favor of a much more politically-correct finding of ‘inconclusive.’ I’m sure Senator Day got honorary Egyptian citizenship and a free lifetime pass to the Pyramids.”
“I’m sorry, Al.”
“Yeah. Everyone is sorry,” Al responded with half the volume in his voice. “You know, I was able to pull a few strings and listen to an unedited version of the cockpit recording. The man plunged the plane into the ocean, pure and simple. And Senator Day sold out the Americans onboard that flight to appease the Egyptians.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“Senator Day? No, never met him face-to-face. He was too much of a coward.”
Jake tried to say something else, but the words failed him, inaudible breaths escaping his mouth.
Al wiped his cheeks and both men watched the water rush by. “If Senator Day is involved with this girl and your father, then you are in very deep indeed. He’s a powerful man, even among senators who are generally power heavyweights.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I hope you’re wrong about the guy in the photo.”
“Why? What does this have to do with me? This guy in the picture doesn’t know me from Adam. This news story is in every major paper between here and Boston, but it was filmed over a month ago. Six weeks ago I was burying my mother and I hadn’t seen my father in six years.”
Al had already done the math in his head. “Don’t bet on your anonymity. It’s a small world.” He leaned back and rested on his hands, his double-jointed elbows fully extended.
“Did Marilyn ever mention the senator?”
“No.” Jake thought about the question. “Why?”
“Those newspapers articles represent a second explanation for the current situation,” Al said, trying to draw Jake toward his own conclusion. “Your father, Marilyn, the senator, the Asian guy…a pregnant girl.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Two American men in Saipan, one pregnant girl,” Al hinted.
Jake choked up. “The girl is pregnant with the senator’s child,” he said, the air rushing from his lungs in a moment of self-enlightenment. His face felt flush, his head light.
“Congratulations, you are smarter than you look after all.”
Jake took a trip into the same pensive darkness Al had just visited. “I should’ve figured it out as soon as I saw the fax,” he said. “That was around the same time we went out for dinner with the senator. I should have known.”
“It’s water under the bridge now, Jake,” Al said gesturing to the bridge above and the water below. Jake didn’t laugh. Al ran his fingers through his reddish brown hair, and threw his head back with a sigh. “Besides, I don’t think it matters.”
“What do you mean?”
“When did you get that fax from Wei Ling?”
“Ten days ago.”
Al took a deep breath. “She is probably dead already.”
“Dead?”
“If she isn’t dead, she is locked away somewhere beyond your reach. Beyond the reach of American law, the power of righteousness, civil liberties, all that good stuff.”
“So what are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you it may be too late.”
“Too late to help the girl, or too late to find out what is going on between the senator, my father, the girl, and this guy in the picture?”
“Jake, I’m going to spell it out for you very clearly. Be careful. For the next couple of days, be careful. If I were you, I would stay away from your girlfriend. Keep your head down for a while. Vary your routine. And you may want to tell your father what you know. He could be in danger.”
“My father is out of town until the end of the week.”
“Well, eventually he is coming back and unless you want to bury both your parents in one summer, you might want to warn him. Assuming he doesn’t already know.”
“Al, you’re officially scaring the shit out of me.”
“Good.”
“Good for whom?”
“Fear is a good emotion. It creates alertness.”
“I’m going to have to disagree with you. Fear sucks, Al.”
“It can be good…” Al said thinking. “Who knows, today might turn out to be one of the best days of your life.”
“Not unless we get a quick turnaround. The day is young and it’s going downhill fast.”
“You’re missing the point. Some people wait their whole lives for a day like today. A day where they learn they have the chance to be an honest-to-goodness, balls-to-the-wall, hero.”
Jake shook his head. “Maybe this hero is going to slip into his apartment, grab his sleeping bag, and join you right here at the Potomac View Retreat.”
“My door is always open.” ***
Jake left and Al dug through a plastic bag he kept on the shelf in the rafters under the bridge. He pulled out an old pair of running shoes, the treads almost completely bare in the path his foot followed as it hit the ground on the heel and rolled forward.
He slipped on the shoes with their bright yellow reflective trim and reached down to tie the laces. With the grace and lightness of a ballerina, Al propelled himself down the shore of the river. He passed the Jefferson Memorial at a six-mile-a-minute pace, and kicked it up a notch when he headed over the Fourteenth Street Bridge.
It was redemption time. It was time to join the world of the living.
