Though I'd had little time to dwell on it, the noontime confrontation had led me to a decision. I was ending the circle of disaster that had been my relationship with Ryan. From now on our interactions would be strictly professional.
“Tell me.”
Ryan patted the swing.
I crossed to him but remained standing.
“Why an explosion?”
“Sit.”
“If this is a come-on, you can—”
“There's cratering and fiber penetration.”
In the half-light of the overhead bulb Ryan's face looked drained of life. He inhaled deeply, then flicked his butt into Ruby's ferns. I watched sparks comet through the dark, imagining the plunge of Air TransSouth 228.
“Do you want to hear this?”
Placing my pack between us, I dropped onto the swing.
“What's cratering?”
“Cratering is caused when a solid or liquid is suddenly converted to a gas.”
“As in a detonation.”
“Yes. An explosion rockets the temperature thousands of degrees and sends out shock waves that create a gas wash effect on metal surfaces. That's how the explosives group experts described it. They showed slides at today's briefing. It looks kind of like an orange peel.”
“They're finding cratering?”
“They've spotted it on fragments. Rolled edges, too, which is another indicator.”
He gave the swing a gentle push.
“What's fiber penetration?”
“They're seeing the fibers of some materials driven through other, undamaged materials. All under high- powered microscopes, of course. They're also finding heat fractures and flash melting at the ends of some fibers.”
Another oscillation, and I tasted the Greek salad I'd wolfed down after leaving the morgue.
“Don't rock the swing.”
“Some of the blow-up photos are amazing.”
I zipped my jacket and tucked my hands into the pockets. Though the days were still warm, the nights were growing crisp.
“So cratering and rolled edges on metal, and flash melting and penetration of fibers mean an explosion. Our lower leg injuries fit with that.”
“So does the fact that a large part of the fuselage landed intact.”
I planted a foot to stop our forward motion.
“It all adds up to an explosion.”
“Caused by?”
“Bomb. Missile. Mechanical failure. The FAA's Aviation Explosives Security Unit will conduct chromatographic analysis to determine what chemicals might be present, and radiophotography and X-ray diffraction to identify molecular species. And one other. Oh, yeah. Infrared spectrophotometry. Not sure what that one's for, but it has a nice ring. That is, if they can arm-wrestle the job away from the FBI crime lab.”
“Missile?” It was the first I'd heard of that possibility.
“Not likely, but it's been suggested. Remember all the hoopla about a missile bringing down TWA 800? Pierre Salinger bet his nuts the navy was to blame.”
I nodded.
“And these hills are home to a number of militia groups. Maybe Eric Rudolph's white-trash buds got into the arms market and bought a new toy.”
Rudolph was wanted in connection with a number of abortion clinic attacks and as a suspect in the bombing at the 1996 Olympic Games in Atlanta. Rumors persisted that he'd fled to these hills.
“Any idea where this explosion was centered?”
“It's too early to tell. The cabin-interior documentation group is compiling a seat damage chart that'll help pinpoint the blast.”
Ryan pushed with his toes, but I held the swing firm.
“Our group is doing the same for wounds and fractures. Right now it looks like the worst injuries occurred in the back of the plane.” The anthropologists and pathologists were diagramming the distribution of trauma by seat location. “What about the radar group?”
“Nothing unexpected. Following takeoff, the flight routed north-east from the airport toward Athens. The Atlanta air traffic control center is in charge up to Winston-Salem, where Washington takes over, so the plane
