Drone Games (20 page)

“Twenty seconds,” a producer’s voice spoke through Griffin’s earpiece.

Lee raised the camera to his shoulder.

Griffin adjusted her microphone. After coordinating the break-in sequence, the station informed her that the feed was being picked up nationally. She straightened the logo on her company jacket and gave her hair a few fluffs. She was facing west. Lake Michigan was in the background.

“Less than an hour ago, a commercial passenger flight . . .” she paused and touched her earpiece. “. . . we’re confirming that it was Delta . . . crashed shortly after takeoff from Mitchell International Airport. What you’re seeing behind me is exclusive live video of the crash site, and a debris field that appears to stretch from west to east. We are just now receiving preliminary information that there may have been over one hundred passengers and crew on board. We don’t have any confirmation on that yet.”

The voice of Fox and Friends morning news coanchor, Elisabeth Colby, interrupted. “I want to repeat for viewers just tuning in that we’re speaking live with Neela Griffin from our local WITI Fox affiliate in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, at the scene of a Delta Airlines passenger jet that has just gone down in Lake Michigan after takeoff from Mitchell International Airport. Neela, has anyone given you any indication of the possible cause for the crash?”

“No, Elisabeth. It’s too early. I don’t see any of the federal officials who generally take charge of situations like this. Local emergency land and water rescue vehicles are just starting to enter the area.”

Griffin noticed two men climbing onto the rooftop. Both wore dark blue windbreakers with yellow block lettering. She instinctively clicked off the microphone.

The first FBI agent rudely swept a finger across his throat. “Ma’am, you’ve got exactly ten seconds to pack up and get off this building. That goes for Kid Rock over there too. Tell him to shut down and leave now.”

She walked briskly over to Lee. “Do what they say, and please don’t give them any hassle. See if you can set up on that hill to my right. The first house on the point. The one with the flagpole. Be sure to ask permission. I’ll try and get some statements. I’ll meet you as soon as I can.”

She’d had federal confrontations before and was experienced enough to know that their jurisdictional muscle-flexing was serious. Some agents even confiscated equipment and vehicles without warning or legal cause. The action rarely went to court, and the station always recovered its property, but only after bureaucratic delays that killed any chance of news exclusives.

A convoy of police-escorted vehicles appeared. The entire scene was quickly becoming federalized, which meant that media personnel would receive only limited information, usually from scheduled news conferences.

Griffin’s brief moment in the national spotlight had ended. She stepped back from the camera and turned on her microphone. “Elisabeth, we’ve lost our video, and it looks like we’re being asked to move to a safer location. I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to broadcast. We’ll try to check in later. Reporting live from a Delta Airlines crash site on the shore of Lake Michigan south of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, this is Neela Griffin, WITI Fox 6 News.”

Griffin talked with the agents until she saw her partner drive away. She straddled the edge of the roof and then lowered both feet onto the stepladder. When she started down, the ladder suddenly twisted, sending her flailing sideways off the picnic table toward the pavement. Her tailbone hit first, and then the back of her head bounced off the concrete with a hard thump.

Three identical Ford E350 vans moved through the parking lot. The lead van lurched to a stop. A man flew out of the passenger door.

“Lady, are you all right?” Tom Ross asked, noticing a circle of blood oozing from her hair. He stripped off his shirt and flashed his ID to an FBI agent. “Where’s medical?”

“Straight ahead and left to the shoreline about a quarter mile farther, sir. They’re setting up now.”

“Do me a favor and call ahead on this, okay?”

“But she’s a reporter.”

“What difference does that make?” Ross snapped angrily. “She’s injured.”

Ross gently parted Griffin’s hair and pressed his shirt onto her scalp. He raised his hand. “How many fingers?”

She stared at his blurred image incredulously and then tried to touch his cheek. Her eyes welled with moisture. “Daddy?”

“It’s all right, ma’am,” Ross assured. “Try and keep pressure on that, okay? We’ll get you some help.”

Griffin blinked her eyes repeatedly and noticed Ross’s ID. She tried to sit up. “N . . . TSB? Would you mind if I asked you some questions? I really would appreciate an interview. It’s the least you can do for trying to run me over.”

“What? Nobody ran you over. You fell off a ladder. It was an accident.”

“You asked me how many fing . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Ma’am, it’s a good chance that we’ve got well over a hundred fatalities to deal with out here,” Ross said. “You’re not making much sense right now, and I’m afraid I don’t have time to try and figure it out. I’ll give you an interview for ten minutes after you get treatment and after our initial press conference.” He looked down and saw that she had fainted.

Ross noticed media gathering outside the fence and waved to his entourage. The vehicles moved on. He lifted Griffin and headed for his van. Her hair pressed against his bare chest and chin. It was mink-soft.

Ron Hollings helped Ross load Griffin into the middle seat, sliding a blanket under her head. The bleeding had slowed.

“We don’t have a first-aid kit,” Hollings said, starting the engine. “How is she?”

“She took a pretty hard hit, but she’ll live,” Ross answered, rifling through his suitcase. He pulled on a clean shirt.

The van rolled forward to a perimeter checkpoint. Ross pressed his ID against the windshield. A sheriff’s deputy waved them through.

Ross gently wiggled Griffin’s leg.

“Hey, no sleeping with a head injury. What’s your name?”

Griffin sat up slightly and spotted a vehicle on a hill in the distance. A man was standing next to a flagpole holding a camera.

“Terry.”

“Terry what?”

“Terry Lee,” she said, still dazed. “He’s trying to film—”

“Ron, meet Terry Lee. She’s a reporter. Terry, if you promise to keep your eyes open, then I’ll give you your interview. You can look me up at the Courtyard Marriott Hotel on South 5th Street. It’ll probably be around eleven o’clock. That’s the best I can do.”

“Eleven a.m.?” Griffin asked, her head throbbing.

“No, p.m. I’ll make sure I find you. There’ll be a crowd.”

The van pulled up to the medical station—a series of tents sealed off from the weather by heavy canvas—where two emergency paramedics were waiting.

Ross helped her onto a waiting gurney.

“Okay, Terry Lee. They’ll take care of you from here. You’ll be fine.”

She motioned for him to come closer. “My name is Neela Griffin. Thank you. I’m sorry if I caused any problems.” She wrapped her arm around Ross’s neck and squeezed tightly for a long five seconds.

Ross didn’t know why he closed his eyes, but when he did, his stomach flipped, over the crest of a thrill ride. He took a deep breath and gave his head a rapid shake.

The gurney rolled away.

“Are you going to stand there all day, or can we get back to work?” Hollings asked, frowning suspiciously at his boss.

“She hugged me,” Ross said blankly. “Do you know how long it’s been since someone hugged me? I forgot how good it felt. And . . . she smelled great. Like vanilla and cinnamon. I can’t breathe.”

“What in the world is the matter with you? Tom, I know you have problems at home, but you just met that woman.”

“Neela,” Ross said to himself. His smile quickly vanished when he saw the chaos out on Lake Michigan. Something in the water caught his eye—rectangular shapes rolling on the waves. He picked up a pair of binoculars. It was luggage.

Courtyard Marriott

NTSB Press Briefing

Tuesday, May 19

1:00 a.m.

THE NTSB and the FBI had leased adjoining room blocks. The hotel’s largest meeting center was converted into a press site complete with a roped-off section separating media personnel from federal investigators. The NTSB followed the AIM (Aviation Investigation Manual), a thick, Bible-like document with procedural rules on how to conduct, handle, and manage a major air accident. The rules specified everything from the bureaucratically absurd (how to prevent other agencies from drinking NTSB’s coffee) to the serious (how to recover underwater wreckage). It even addressed how to designate restricted hotel entrances and exits so officials could come and go without having to pass through a phalanx of reporters or cameras.

Tom Ross stepped onto a makeshift stage followed by an entourage of local government, airline, and law enforcement officials. He tapped a microphone.

“Good morning. I apologize for the delay. Thank you for your patience and understanding during this very trying time. My name is Tom Ross. I’m heading up the NTSB’s investigation of Delta Airlines Flight 771 along with our Go Team experts in flight and human performance, power, systems, air traffic control, and physical structures. I’ll share a brief status report on what we know at this point.”

He produced several sheets of paper. “First, let me echo Milwaukee’s mayor, and city and airline officials, on how profoundly saddened we are at this tragic loss of life. In deference to the families, I will not be providing any names of passengers or crew; there are representatives here from Delta who will continue to address that.” He adjusted the microphone. “Yesterday morning, at approximately 6:00 a.m., Delta Airlines Flight 771 departed Milwaukee’s Mitchell International Airport en route to Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta, Georgia. There were 147 passengers and five crew members on board. Approximately one minute into the aircraft’s ascent to five thousand feet, the plane experienced a severe loss of both altitude and control, followed by a rapid descent into Lake Michigan two miles offshore. The main fuselage is partially intact and submerged in fifty-eight feet of water. This continues to be a search-and-rescue operation. There are rotational divers in the water, and those operations will continue. I am able to make the following statement: at this time we cannot confirm any survivors. That may change. There still may be air pockets inside the wreckage. We’re working with Delta to obtain a verified passenger list. As for possible causes of the crash, it is far too early to speculate. As you know, with any water operation, recovery is made more difficult by depth and temperature. I regret to remind everyone that without insulated clothing, fifty-five degree water does not favor survivability over extended periods. I can confirm that we have located the general position of both the cockpit voice and flight data recorder, but they are under heavy debris. We have a good track record of recovering black boxes and are planning regular press updat—”

“Could this have been an act of terrorism?” a voice shouted from the audience.

Ross immediately stepped aside.

Walter Ford, Milwaukee FBI Special Agent in Charge, moved to the microphone.

“We plan on addressing those issues separately from the crash investigation. A team of Special Agents from Homeland Security Investigations is on site to help ascertain all the facts. That is a routine procedure. At this time, we have no evidence or indication to that end. We’re in the early stages, and our priorities are with the families.”

Ross returned to the microphone.

“We’ll hold a follow-up Q&A session at this location. The NTSB’s administrative liaison, Ed Roesler, will have information on an 800 number that Delta has provided for family members. He’ll also distribute a media transcript. This concludes NTSB’s remarks. I’m going to turn it over to Mr. Chuck Hill, vice-president of Delta Customer Relations. Thank you.”

Ross spotted a woman seated in the back of the room wearing a Fox 6 News cap. He circled around the crowd unnoticed and pulled up a chair.

“How are you?”

“A little drowsy from the pain meds,” Neela Griffin replied. “It took ten stitches.”

“It’s nice to see you again,” Ross admitted. “I was a little short with you today, and I wanted to apologize.”

“You’re forgiven, but I have a confession too.” She lowered her eyes. “When I was lying on the ground, you put your hand in front of my face and asked how many fingers there were. Did I say anything?”

“Nah, you were pretty out of it,” Ross said, choosing to forego her “daddy” comment. “I think you were in shock.”

“There were three fingers.”

“That’s right. So what’s this about?”

“When I was ten years old in Cleveland, I fell off a porch and hit my head. My father took me to the hospital. He kept holding his fingers up and asking that same question. I stayed overnight while he went to work. He was a city firefighter. What you did brought back really strong memories. I guess I got a little choked up. Thank you.”

“That’s a nice story.” Ross smiled warmly. “So what happened? Were you okay?”

“Oh, sure, I was fine. It was a routine—” Her smile suddenly broke down and she pressed a tissue to her eyes. “I’m sorry, I usually don’t get emotional like this. It was just a bad time.”