Final Approach by John J. Nance

miles away, in the FAA’s hangar at Washington National Airport, and the FAA was bound to help the NTSB with such emergency transportation.
    â€œWell …” The duty controller looked embarrassed. “Our illustrious associate administrator has standing orders that we can’t commit either Gulfstream without his personal approval, so we’re trying to chase him down.”
    â€œHe doesn’t have a Bellboy?”
    â€œHe does, but he keeps turning it off. We think he’s at a late dinner. Should have him on the line in a few minutes—I hope.”
    Wallingford paused for a second, considering the difficulty of getting the Go Team to Kansas City without one of the FAA airplanes. The last commercial flights of the evening had all left National already. If they had to wait for the next one, the team wouldn’t be able to get there until late morning, and that was too long to wait.
    â€œTell him we really need it.”
    â€œNo problem, I’m sure. I’ll try to set up a three A.M. departure, and I’ll call you on the beeper again if we can’t meet that deadline. We’ll take care of Mr. Associate Dictator Caldwell.”
    Joe thanked him and took the briefing sheet, heading for the door and his office. There were nine Go Team members to notify, plus one Board member, after which he would begin the process of contacting the various so-called interested parties. North America Airlines, Airbus Industrie, the FAA, the Air Line Pilots Association (ALPA), and the engine manufacturer would have to be called, and each would be sending preselected employees to join the NTSB team. Joe looked at his watch as he pushed open the door to the stairwell. It was going to be a sleepless night.
    Senator Kell Martinson had stood in shock beside his car for what seemed an eternity, but in fact was less than five minutes. Fire and destruction lay before him everywhere, it seemed. There was no way to prepare for what had just happened—the mind-numbing realization that the steep turning approach (which he had thought a bit odd) had been a suicidal maneuver.
    Cindy was in that inferno somewhere. He stared dumbstruck at the burning wreckage as he tried to grasp that horrid reality. His aide—his lover—had been on board that airplane.
    The panicked feeling of being in exactly the wrong place at the wrong moment overtook him—a hunted feeling, like the mindless, urgent need a child feels suddenly to flee a dark and scary room. Kell jumped behind the wheel and put the car in drive, roaring past the startled figure of a man who had to leap to one side to get out of the way. Heading the car toward the security gate, he braked to a halt for a few seconds to let it open, then raced through, clawing for the anonymity of the highway. He had to get out of there. Get back to Kansas. Get to the house in Salina.
    Rich Carloni angrily twirled the dial again, searching in vain for a radio station with news of the crash. Only the potpourri of rock music, elevator music, country music, and talk shows spilled from the speakers. Disgusting! Without a phone or a two-way, he had no idea what was happening ahead as he raced up the freeway toward Kansas City Airport, and the apprehension over how to proceed once he got there was knotting his stomach. It was one thing to pick up the remains of two or three people smashed into hamburger by a private plane crash—he’d already done that several times in his eight months as an accident investigator with the Board. It was another thing entirely, however, to deal with a major airline crash—something he’d never experienced.
    The exit ramp for the airport was coming up fast, more visible now that the heavy rain had stopped. The windshield wipers began an awful squawking sound, and Rich snapped them off as his mind raced forward to the question of where to go on the airport property. Should he drive first to the tower, or should he go through