At six o’clock on the dot, a blond-haired woman in a charcoal-gray suit with an NTSB patch over her breast pocket walked smartly along a hastily built stage at the front of the room. She took her place behind a podium, tapped the microphone, and, without waiting for the room to quiet down, she began to speak.
“My name is Angela Susan Anton and I’m chairman of the National Transportation Safety Board. I know you’ve been waiting since our initial announcement, but we have been working hard to gather meaningful information in the face of the near-total destruction of the aircraft and the tragic deaths of the passengers and crew.”
Waves of weeping swept the room as friends and family of dead passengers heard once more and with official certainty that they would never see their loved ones again.
Chairman Anton resumed her presentation.
“I’ve been working closely with our chief investigator, Mr. Jan Vanderleest, who heads our team of twenty-five investigators. The work so far includes interviews with those who knew the four pilots and relief pilots.”
Anton described the pilots’ seventy-two-hour preflight work-rest history, concluding that the flight crew had been rested and in good physical and mental health, all of which was borne out by the progress of the flight from Beijing up to the moment of the incident.
The chairman pushed through the shouted questions, saying that the air traffic controllers who were in SFO’s control tower when the tragedy occurred had reported that the pilot had checked in on San Francisco tower frequency for landing on runway 28 Left at 8:56 Thursday morning. That landing clearance was issued to WW 888 about a mile and a half from the threshold.
She said, “This is what the air traffic looked like just prior to the incident.”
Anton flicked on her PowerPoint and a large screen to her right depicted a simulation of WW 888’s approach to ward the runway, including the explosion and a graphic interpretation of the breakup of the falling aircraft.
She said, “There have been reports of a flash in the sky just seconds before the aircraft failed. Because of the direction and altitude of the plane in its last moments, we don’t have a clear angle on the right wing, which was the point of impact. And when the fuel inside the wing exploded, the wing failed upward, which
can look from the ground like the contrail of a missile.
“That said, the possibility of a missile strike exists….”
The chairman was interrupted by a tsunami of questions and screams and shoving as photographers jostled for a view of the projected visuals. Anton shouted into her mic, “Chief Vanderleest has additional details. Thank you.”
Anton was barely offstage when Vanderleest took the lectern. He stood like a block of stone until the room was silent again.
Then he spoke. “As the chairman said, the possibility exists that WW 888 was brought down by a missile, but until the flight recorders are found and the remains of the 777 are assembled and analyzed—the reason for the crash of WW 888 is still undetermined. Information on the location of those of the deceased who have been identified is on our website and with Worldwide Airlines, who will give daily briefings.
“Thank you for your attention.”
Conklin called out to me and Cindy over the tidal raging of the crowd, “Stay with me.”
We were in the hallway outside the ad hoc auditorium when an Asian man in jeans and a black jacket body-slammed me. I staggered back into a group of people, somehow getting my balance before I fell. I looked around wildly to see who had assaulted me and for a half second, I got a clear look at his face: wide forehead, thin, white scar across his chin.
Just then, the doors opened at the back of the room and hundreds of people stampeded toward the exit, carrying us along with them.
CHAPTER 36
I WAS OUT of gas when I came through the doorway that night. Martha charged me and I held her back by her shoulders and called out, “Honey,” forgetting that I hadn’t seen Joe in days, or maybe just hoping he would answer.
Mrs. Rose sang out a sweet hello and appeared in the foyer, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Joe isn’t here, but Julie is fine. Are you OK?”
I nodded and tried to block the images of Shirley Chan’s body and the complete devastation of her children’s lives.
Where was Joe?
I wanted my husband. I wanted him to be all right. To be innocent of what felt like betrayal. To spend the night holding me and being held and talking and making love.
“Lindsay, I wasn’t sure when you’d be home.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said to Mrs. Rose. “The day got away from me.”
“Not a problem. I made a roast—”
“I love you,” I blurted.