“They've been sent to the NTSB lab in Washington, but I've listened to a copy of the cockpit voice recording. Worst twenty-two minutes I've ever spent.”
I waited.
“The FAA has a sterile cockpit rule below ten thousand feet, so for the first eight minutes or so the pilots are all business. After that they're more relaxed, responding to air traffic controllers, chatting about their kids, their lunch, their golf games. Suddenly there's a pop, and everything changes. They're breathing hard and shouting to each other.”
He swallowed.
“In the background you hear beeps then chirps then wails. A member of the recorders group identified each sound as we listened. Autopilot disconnect. Overspeed. Altitude alert. Apparently that meant they'd managed to level off for a while. You hear all this and you picture those guys struggling to save their plane. Shit.”
He swallowed again.
“Then there's this chilling whooping noise. The ground proximity warning. Then a loud crunch. Then nothing.”
Somewhere in the house a door slammed, then water ran through pipes.
“You know how it is when you watch nature films? You've got no doubt that the lion is going to gut that gazelle, but you hang in anyway, then feel awful when it happens. It's like that. You hear these people moving from normalcy into nightmare, knowing they're going to die and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.”
“What about the flight data recorder?”
“That'll take weeks, maybe even months. The fact that the voice recorder worked as long as it did says something about break-up sequence, since power is lost to the recorders once the engines and generator go. But all they're saying now is that input ceased abruptly during a seemingly normal flight. That could indicate a midair disaster.”
“An explosion?”
“Possibly.”
“Bomb or mechanical failure?”
“Yes.”
I gave him a withering look.
“The repair records indicate there were minor problems with the plane over the past two years. Normal parts were reworked, and some sort of switch was replaced twice. But the maintenance records group is saying it looks pretty routine.”
“Any progress on the tipster?”
“The calls were made from a pay phone in Atlanta. Both CNN and the FBI have tapes, and voice analysis is being done.”
Ryan swigged his lemonade, made a face, set it on the table.
“What's the word from the body teams?”
“This is strictly between us, Ryan. Anything official has to come from Tyrell.”
He curled his fingers in a “go on” gesture.
“We're finding penetrations and a lot of lower leg and ankle fractures. That's not typical of ground impact.”
I flashed back to the gouty foot, and again felt puzzled. Ryan must have read my face.
“What now, buttercup?”
“Can I bounce something off you?”
“Shoot.”
“This is going to sound weird.”
“As opposed to your normally conventional views.”
More withering eye action.
“Remember the foot we rescued from the coyotes?”
He nodded.
“It doesn't match any passenger.”
“What doesn't fit?”
“Mainly age, and I feel pretty confident in my estimate. There was no one that old on the plane. Could someone have boarded without being listed?”
“I can look into it. We used to hitch rides in the military, but I suspect that would be pretty tough on a commercial flight. Airline employees sometimes ride free. It's called deadheading. But they'd be listed on the manifest.”
“You were in the military?”
“Crimean War.”
I ignored that.
