“Understood, sir.
The Minister turned to Moon, resting a hand on the American’s shoulder. “On behalf of my government, and myself, I am so sorry, Charles.”
“Thank you, Ali. When you called with the news that the plane had been found, I held out hope.” He gestured out the helo’s Plexiglas window. “Now . . .” He let his voice trail off. There was nothing more to say.
The pilot settled the French-built EC155 executive chopper next to a utilitarian helicopter with military colors. Ghami’s bodyguard, a tight-lipped, no-necked mountain of a man named Mansour, opened the helicopter’s door while the blades still whirled overhead. Ignoring the blast of grit kicked up by the rotor wash, Ghami leapt down to the ground and paused while the more portly Moon followed.
They started walking toward the wreck. Moon was sweating after only a couple of paces, but neither the Libyan Minister nor his guard seemed affected by the heat and the blazing sun. The smell of charred plastic and aviation fuel carried over to them on the occasional slap of wind.
In Moon’s estimation, approaching the debris on foot made it look worse than from the air. Everything was burned dark and warped by the fire that had consumed the plane. They paused at the cordon of soldiers and waited for the lead investigator from the NTSB. The investigator was moving slowly through the debris, snapping pictures with a digital camera, while a man with him was recording everything on a camcorder. When the investigator finally noted the dignitaries, he said a couple of words to his companion and trudged over. His face was long and gaunt, his mouth turned down at the corners.
“Ambassador Moon?” he called when he was within earshot.
“I’m Moon. This is Ali Ghami, Libya’s Foreign Minister.”
They shook hands. “I’m David Jewison.”
Moon saw Ghami shift position ever so slightly at hearing the name.
“Can you, ah, tell us anything?” Moon invited.
Jewison glanced back over his shoulder and then returned his gaze to the Ambassador. “We weren’t the first people to come here. That much is certain.”
“What are you saying?” Ghami asked sharply.
Moon knew that Libya’s handling of this crisis would have an impact on their relations with the United States and the Western powers far beyond the Tripoli Accords. Jewison’s revelation doubtless put both Ghami and his government in a difficult position. If there was any evidence of tampering, then an accusation of a cover-up wouldn’t be too far behind.
“From what we can tell, a group of nomads has been over the site. They left behind hundreds of footprints, as well as cooking fires, camp detritus consistent with their lifestyle, and the body of a camel that had been shot in the head. Our local guide said the camel appeared to be near the end of its life, judging by the wear on its teeth, and was probably put down because it no longer had value.
“Parts of the wreckage have been disturbed, some possibly removed. The passengers’ remains have also been moved. I believe Muslim custom is to bury people within twenty-four hours of their deaths. My Libyan counterpart here says it’s likely the nomads did just that. I have no reason to doubt his assessment, but we won’t know for sure until we get some cadaver dogs up here.”
“Do you have any preliminary ideas what happened to the plane?”
“From what we can tell—and this is very, very early—the aircraft lost part of its tail section sometime during the flight. We don’t know why, because it has not been recovered here at the scene. We’re sending out our chopper in a few minutes to visually search what we know to be the flight path. This damage could have caused a loss of hydraulic fluid as well as the failure of its rudder and elevators. Without the hydraulic system, the flaps, ailerons, slats, and spoilers on the main wings would have also failed. Had this been the case, the plane would have been difficult, if not impossible, to control.”
Ghami asked, “Is there any indication why part of the tail was lost?”
“Nothing yet,” Jewison replied. “We’ll get an idea once we find it.”
“And if you don’t?” This was from Moon. The question wasn’t a deliberate provocation, but he was curious about Ghami’s reaction. Just because he personally liked the man didn’t mean he had forgotten his role here.
“Barring some other evidence, it would officially be classified as reasons unknown.”
Ghami looked to the Ambassador. “Charles, I promise you that it will be located and the reason for this tragedy explained.”
“No offense, Minister,” Jewison interrupted, “but that may not be a promise you can keep. I’ve been a crash investigator for eighteen years. I’ve seen everything there is to see, including an airliner that exploded in midair and was pulled out of the ocean off Long Island. That was a relatively straightforward investigation compared to this. We can’t tell what damage was done by the crash and what was done by your people.” Ghami made to protest, and Jewison staved him off with a gesture. “I mean the nomads. They’re Libyan so they’re your people, is all I mean.”
“The nomads are citizens of no country but the desert.”
“Either way, they messed with this scene so badly I don’t know if even finding the tail will give us a definitive answer.”
Ghami held the aviation expert’s stare. “Ambassador Moon and other representatives of your government have explained to me that you are the best in the world at what you do, Mr. Jewison. I have their assurance and thus their confidence that you will find an answer. I am certain that you treat each and every airline disaster with your utmost efforts, but you must surely know the gravity of this situation and the importance of what you find.”
Jewison looked from one man to the other. His expression was even more dour as he came to understand that politics was going to play as large a part in his search as forensic science.
“How long until the conference?” he asked.
“Forty-eight hours,” Moon answered.
