Thursday, March 3, 1994

It was a little after six-thirty P.M. and I was still in my Pentagon office, pecking out a monthly summary of Air Force plane crashes for my boss, Major General Maxwell Cramer. A Gordon Lightfoot cassette played softly on the small tape deck on my desk. I peered into the computer screen and grimaced. General Cramer, Chief of Air Force Safety, was not going to be pleased at the February results; three planes had gone down with a total of nine fatalities. Cramer would tear into me the moment I handed him the report.

I sat back, feeling more than a little disgusted. I'd been on Cramer's staff for only a couple of months and was still having a tough time adjusting to his outbursts. I kept trying to convince myself there wasn't anything personal behind them, but I was beginning to wonder. Cramer seemed to enjoy riding me, needling me incessantly, mostly about little things. He seemed to love giving me projects with unrealistic deadlines or publicly criticizing my reports, which were perfectly fine.

When someone gets on a general's hit list, the Pentagon grapevine kicks into overdrive. I was constantly being asked what I had done to piss Cramer off. Answer: I didn't know I'd never even met the guy until I began working for him. Go figure, huh?

The music began mellowing me a little and I pushed back from my desk, my eyes going to a row of framed pictures on the far wall. Most showed me in a flight suit, wearing a cocky grin as I stood next to an F-15 Strike Eagle fighter. One was taken after my first mission over Iraq, my dark hair matted with sweat, the exhilaration of combat evident on my face.

I still hadn't completely accepted that I'd never fly again. The Chief Flight Surgeon of the Air Force had denied my request to be reinstated to flight status, a decision that didn't take me by surprise. The Air Force didn't have much use for a fighter pilot with a back that resembled a Tinkertoy. Something about how another ejection would probably kill me.

That's what busted me up in the first place, during the Gulf War, when a missile had practically blown my fighter in two. I'd ejected too low to get a full chute and fractured my back on landing. Three surgeries in two years and a gallon of superglue had made me functional, but not good enough to fly.

Now I would spend the rest of my career in boring staff jobs, pushing paper while my buddies got plum assignments as operations officers of fighter wings.

Still, my career was going well. I'd made full colonel a couple of years early and knew if I kept my shoes shined and my nose clean, I had a shot at a star. Cramer notwithstanding, the only major hurdle I faced was the fact that I was single. The Air Force was big into generals having a spouse so there'd be someone to handle the wives' teas and bake sales, that sort of thing. An antiquated notion that might be considered more than a little sexist, but hey, that's reality. The way the military looked at it, if I really wanted to make a star, I should get a wife. Anyway, I'm not overly concerned about joining the constellation club. I was happy to still be breathing.

Not like Cole Rison.

The cassette player hissed and then clicked off. In the ensuing silence, my eyes drifted to the desktop. Under the Plexiglas, a small, tattered photo showed two tanned men in flight suits, arms around each other, grinning at the camera. The lean, dark-haired major with the mustache was me, John Quinn; the sandy-haired captain was Cole Rison, my electronic warfare officer. The picture had been taken just before our final mission over Baghdad. I stared at Cole for a few moments before turning away.

Almost four years had passed, and I still felt the guilt. I had to be the hero. My hand dropped to the lower desk drawer, where I kept my emergency bottle of Scotch. I'd long since come to define an emergency as anytime after official duty hours.

"Colonel Quinn?"

My hand hovered by the drawer as I glanced at the attractive brunette who had pushed in my door. She stood there expectantly, a jacket draped over her arm.

"Yes, Josie?" I said, my hand climbing up to the desk.

Even as head of the Safety Liaison Office, I no longer rated Josie Brent as my personal secretary. She now supported everyone in the five-man office since the Air Force, citing budget constraints, hadn't replaced Mrs. Stout when she'd retired last month.

"I'm leaving, Colonel Quinn," Josie said. "Anything you need before I go?"

I shook my head. "Everyone else gone?"

Josie nodded.

"Fine. I'll lock up." Josie started to leave, then stopped. "Major Billings says you're doing the accident summary."

I shrugged. "His kid had a school play."

She gave me one of her shiny-eyed looks. "That's real nice, boss."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a big softie." I winked. "Now, beat it."

She grinned and closed the door.

My hanging around to finish up the report so Billings could get home for the game was no big deal. I was divorced, no kids. Nothing waited at home for me except a microwave pizza, a stiff drink, and maybe a few minutes of a Bullets game.

In a way, I envied Major Jeff Billings. When my ex-wife Jennifer and I got married, kids were never really an option. I wanted them; she didn't. End of discussion. Maybe that was for the best, considering we split up. They say divorce is hardest on the kids, and that may very well be true.

But it was damn tough on me.

I thought about the Scotch in the drawer again, but resumed my pecking on the keyboard, only to be interrupted by the phone.

"Safety Liaison. Colonel Quinn," I mumbled somewhat distractedly into the receiver.

"John, it's Tim Sweeney. The general wants to see you ASAP" Lieutenant Colonel Tim Sweeney was the no-necked ex-football All-American who served as one of General Cramer's executive officers. Tim's no genius, but he's a scratch golfer and his father-in-law is a two-star, so he'll go far.

"Christ, Tim. You said the old man was gone for the day. Look, can you stall him? I need a few more minutes to finish this report."

"Forget the report, John." There was a click. "John, there's been another goddamn crash," Cramer's high-pitched voice cut in. "Get your butt over here! Now! And bring me a list of personnel for a safety investigation board."

"Yes sir. When did it-"

But Cramer had hung up.

Visitors often wander around the Pentagon's hub-and-spoke system of interlocking corridors and hallways like rats in a B. F. Skinner maze, though the design is quite efficient once you get the hang of it. There are five concentric hallways, or rings, that expand outwardly from the center, labeled A to E. They intersect ten numbered corridors or spokes. An office number is like points on a grid map, telling you its precise location in the building. For example, General Cramer hung out in room 5E161, which was on the fifth floor, E-ring, between corridors one and two.

After grabbing the Crash Response file, I hurried out of my third-floor office, popped up two flights of stairs, and hustled down corridor 2 until I got to the E-ring. With their outside view, F-ring offices were the location of choice for most of the Pentagon's heavy hitters. The rule was you had to have at least two stars to be guaranteed a window seat.

I took a left down a gray-tiled hallway. The Office for the Air Force Chief of Safety was the fifth door on the right. As I turned the knob, I heard General Cramer's voice. He sounded pissed.

There were three desks in the large, plush anteroom. The two belonging to the execs were empty. At her corner desk, Martha Chan, Cramer's secretary, glanced up, a phone to her ear. Her pretty face spread into a sympathetic smile. Go in, she mouthed, motioning to her left.

The door to Cramer's office was open, and I could hear him shouting something about a Learjet crash. Lears were part of the Air Force fleet that hauled senators, congressmen, and other assorted D.C. bigwigs around. I stuck my head through the doorway.

"... don't give a damn, Major!" Cramer snarled into the phone. "You call me the moment they confirm word on survivors!" He slammed down the receiver and shoved back from his desk, his face tense. Lieutenant Colonel Sweeney stood poised before him, one hand holding a pen over a notepad.

The first thing most people noticed about General Cramer was that his appearance didn't match his voice. He was a husky man with thick black hair and rugged good looks. A major general at just forty-four, his rise had been phenomenal, due in no small part to his pedigree. Cramer's father and grandfather had been four-star generals, and Cramer was on everybody's shortlist to become the chief of staff someday. Cramer's elevation was particularly notable because he was a bachelor with a reputation as a ladies' man, a double whammy for most senior officers. Now, I wasn't under any illusions that since Cramer could get two stars with a couple strikes against him, I could get one. Unless I was willing to change my name to Cramer, of course.

"Tim," Cramer barked. "Call General Ware's office. Tell them there's no news yet on survivors. And notify the Andrews command post I want updates every ten minutes."

My eyebrows crawled up at the mention of General Ware. Since when did the chairman of the Joint Chiefs become personally interested in the crash of a jet?

"Yes sir," Lieutenant Colonel Sweeney said. He gave me a quick nod and shot past.

"John, get in here!" Cramer motioned me to a chair. "And close the goddamn door!"

Cramer impatiently checked his watch as I took a seat. "We have to make this fast. A Lear from Andrews just crashed shortly after takeoff. I'm putting you in charge of the accident investigation. You've got a 1930 briefing at the Andrews command post with General Stinson before catching a helo out to the crash site. I also- Something wrong, John?"

Cramer's comments had caught me off guard, and I was struggling to regain my composure. "Uh, no, sir. I'm just a little confused. Air Force regs say Air Mobility Command is supposed to appoint the safety investigation team."

"Screw that. There's no time to get someone sent out from AMC Headquarters in St. Louis."

"Sir, I'll at least need time to organize the safety investigation board members."

Cramer waved a hand. "Forget it. Just get out to the site and begin the preliminary investigation. Now, where's that list?"

I removed a sheet from the file and slid it over, feeling a sense of trepidation. There was no way Cramer would be jumping through hoops if the Lear had just been carrying military personnel or low-ranking government types. Someone important had been on the crashed jet.

Cramer donned black eyeglasses that made him appear professorial and began reading.

Air Force regulations were clear about who could comprise the safety investigation board. The members' qualifications were what one would expect: pilots, maintenance personnel, an air traffic controller, a flight doctor, maybe a human factors expert, even a meteorologist if weather was thought to be a factor. But to ensure objectivity no board member could be from the base from which the downed plane was stationed.

"Looks good," Cramer said, glancing up. He tossed his glasses on the desk. "I'll handle the team's notification. You get me answers. The White House is breathing down General Ware's neck and he's breathing down mine."

White House. Christ.

"Yeah, John," Cramer said. "This thing is big. The Lear was carrying a passenger." He paused. "Mr. Joshua Thurston."

The name was familiar.

"President Halloran's half brother."

"Shit-"

"A bucketful and then some," Cramer said. "General Ware has already called President Halloran over in Russia and told him the news."

I twisted in my chair, recalling that the President had departed the day before for a summit with the Russian president. I tossed out a little cough.

"Now what, John?" Cramer asked irritably.

I hesitated. "Frankly, sir, I'm wondering why you're putting me in charge. I'd have thought a crash investigation with this kind of interest would be assigned to a general officer."

Cramer sat back, his brow knitted. "That struck me funny, too. But Ware insisted he wanted an 0-6 in charge."

For an instant, I was tempted to ask why Cramer had selected me for a high-visibility investigation over one of his fair-haired boys. But that would be pushing it. Instead, I said, "Didn't Mr. Thurston work here in the building?"

Cramer nodded. "The Army's assistant deputy secretary for manpower."

"What was the plane's destination?"

"Fort Bragg, North Carolina. He was on his way to attend a retention conference."

"Who were the Lear's pilots?"

Cramer glanced down at a paper on his desk. "Lieutenant Colonel Rick French. Captain Judd Wilson was his copilot."

I shot forward. Though I knew Judd Wilson only casually, Rick French was a good friend. We'd met two years earlier when I was the wing safety officer at Andrews and he was the Lear squadrons operations officer.

Cramer's face softened. "I'd forgotten you spent a few years at Andrews."

I nodded. "You mentioned survivors. . .

Cramer shook his head. "We had an unconfirmed report. Doesn't look good."

His intercom buzzed. "Sir, General Ware is on line two," Lieutenant Colonel Sweeney said.

While Cramer talked on the phone, I watched the wall, my mind on Rick's wife, Janet, and their two teenage daughters, Mindy and Sara. I wondered if they'd been told. I hoped not. I didn't want them to worry until verification of survivors could be made.

"Dammit!" Cramer said, hanging up. "Looks like you're going to get some help on this crash investigation whether you want it or not, John."

"Sir?"

He eyed me. "The White House notified General Ware that they've requested the NTSB send someone to assist on the investigation."

"Sir, they've got no jurisdiction in military accidents unless a civilian aircraft is involved."

Cramer snorted. "Like that matters. Don't you watch the news? These days the NTSB are the goddamn glamour boys of crash investigations."

My jaw tightened. "Sir, the White House is saying they don't think we can handle-"

"Save it, John. Just make damn sure you cover all the bases on this thing. We can't afford to have anyone second-guessing our conclusions."

I nodded, tight-lipped. "Who is going to be in charge of this investigation, General?"

Cramer responded with a thin smile. "Why, you are, John. The NTSB's role will be strictly advisory."

"Who are they sending out?"

Cramer shrugged. "General Ware didn't have a name. Someone will meet you at Andrews."

I checked my watch and glanced at the paper I'd handed him. "I want to add a name to that list, sir."

"Who do you have in mind?"

I braced myself for his response. "Lieutenant Colonel Chen."

Cramer looked incredulous. "That insolent bastard! Out of the question. Besides, I thought he'd retired."

"He's on terminal leave, sir. His retirement isn't official for another month." Terminal leave was the military's term for someone burning up accrued leave prior to separation from the service.

"No, John. This thing is way too sensitive politically-"

"Sir, you said the White House wants answers. No one works faster than Ted."

Cramer gave me a hard look. "Wasn't Chen your deputy when you worked safety at Andrews?"

"I nodded, surprised that Cramer would know about my relationship with Ted Chen, since I'd never told him. But this wasn't the first time I'd been puzzled by the general's familiarity with my past.

"You think you can make him toe the line, keep that smart mouth of his in check?" Cramer asked.

"Yes, sir." That was a lie. No one controlled Ted Chen.

Cramer gave me a curt nod. "He screws up, it's your funeral."

"Fine, sir. One more thing. Ted might be more receptive if you called to tell him his terminal leave is canceled."

For a second, I thought Cramer might tell me to go to hell. Instead, he growled, "What's the number?"

I recited it from memory. "It's a bar in Oxen Hill," I explained, and rose to my feet.

Cramer did a double take.

"The Happy Hawaiian Lounge," I said. "Ted bought the place when he worked at Andrews. He lives upstairs. Tell him to meet me at the Andrews command post."

"A goddamn bar?" General Cramer said, and shook his head.

He was punching numbers as I left.