July 4th, 1975 - Southern Oregon, USA
A dark-brown Ford Bronco negotiated a route up the stony incline guided by a line of red-and-white tape strung between metal rods embedded in the coarse, grassy soil. The off-roader eventually crossed the crest of a ridge bringing into view the extent of overwhelming destruction and carnage spread out wide over the rugged, rocky terrain. With a gentle touch on the driver’s arm, the passenger indicated that he stop the vehicle. The young man behind the wheel gasped in horror.
The second occupant surveyed the tragic scene in stoic silence. An unsettled while later, the tall, lanky man in his late forties opened the passenger door and climbed out of the vehicle with an expressionless lined face. He slowly ran his fingers through his wiry hair as his trained eyes took stock of the scattered sight through gold-rimmed spectacles. Leaning back against the Bronco, he removed a packet of Marlboro Gold from his jacket pocket and opened the flip-top. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a butane lighter, and then pondered briefly before replacing the packet and lighter. He drew in deeply, feeling the familiar warmth in his lungs, then, with a resigned shake of his head, exhaled a thick-blue cloud of smoke.
“I’ll walk from here!” He turned to the driver and closed the passenger door. The young man didn’t respond as he – gripping tightly onto the steering wheel – continued to stare incredulously at the haunting sight.
Henry Grover took a long breath, exhaled heavily, then lips pressed tightly in a grimace, made his way to a white canvas tent erected on the east side of the fragments-strewn area. There was no escaping the lingering smell of smouldering flesh, decomposing human remains, metal still hot to the touch, and the toxic stench of burnt foam rubber and melted plastic. The day's warmth had quickened the congealing of blood spread over the debris and area. He smoked more at crash sites. It helped mask the unpleasantness.
A Lead Investigator with the National Transportation Safety Board – the U.S. Government’s independent agency responsible for civil transportation accident investigations – Henry Grover would never be able to erase the memory of the three crash sites he had been involved with during his eight-year tenure since formation of the agency. Even the carnage he had witnessed during a two-year posting to Korea as a young fighter pilot had not prepared him for his first assignment. Had he grown immune to the horrors over his tenure?
He didn’t believe he would ever succeed in shaking off the troubling reminders of his vocation. He had considered a new line of work more than once, only to be persuaded to remain with the agency. He had a talent: a skill for recreating the disasters and forming a clear image of what had happened. He was needed, and there had to be closure. Too many conflicting concerns were pressing for answers. Angry and grieving families, aviation authorities, politicians with self-interest agendas and insurance companies, not to mention the airline’s fear of potential costs. Who was to blame? More often than not, it was either a case of human error or parts fatigue.
Halfway across, something caught his eye. He bent down and plucked a white teddy bear from under a scorched seat cushion. In stark contrast to its surroundings, the toy was surprisingly pristine, with the maker’s label attached, suggesting it had been purchased at the airport before departure. The investigator paused and glanced around before shrugging off the notion of spotting its less fortunate owner. It didn’t pay to become emotionally involved. He would have to take comfort in the thought that he was the proud father of two healthy teenage daughters. Clutching the bear, he continued to skirt his way towards the operation’s temporary onsite centre.
The wreckage stretched over a wide area just north of I5, the Pacific Highway about 18 miles north of Medford – a city in southern Oregon, USA. To the west and just over two miles lay a small farming community ironically named Independence, whose population numbered a mere 301 recorded in the 1970 census. The aircraft narrowly missed the Meadow’s farm and ploughed into the elevated rocky landscape known locally as Sky Creek.
“What have we got?” he asked as his slightly unkempt go-team deputy approached – the senior leading the first group onsite and coordinating the initial field investigation. In his early forties, John Martinez was a second-generation Hispanic American balding and a little on the heavy side – for which he jokingly blamed his wife’s cooking.
“Crimson Air domestic Flight CM822 – carrying 148 passengers and five crew – flew out from Dallas, Texas at local time 11:30 hours. Scheduled ETA at Portland Oregon International Airport at 1340 hours. You need to allow for the two-hour time difference from Texas being ahead. A total distance of 1,620 miles and an estimated flight time of a little over four hours,” replied Martinez. Grover could always count on his meticulous-for-details deputy having the facts at his fingertips. Grover glanced at his watch – 6:56 pm.
A little over five-and-a-half hours ago, he had been nursing a cup of sweet black coffee at his desk in the Washington HQ when the call came in. A high-speed taxi ride, one hour by helicopter, a flight in a recently commissioned Learjet 35 into a private airfield outside Medford, and the final leg in the waiting Bronco had brought the Lead Investigator to his fourth assignment – and by what he was already observing, potentially the most devastating.
“We’re about 230 miles from the airport, so it’s safe to assume the aircraft was still some way away when it encountered the problem. It would have been at its cruising height and not have commenced its descent,” continued the deputy. “We arrived just over two hours ago. By then, the fires had been doused by the firefighters out of Medford, but not before causing pretty awful and extensive damage…, as you can imagine. The plane was scheduled for a return flight after an hour’s stopover, so, unfortunately, the plane’s fuel tanks were over half full. Most of the spillage came from the left-wing when it split in two on impact with the tree-line.” He gestured in the direction with his head.
Henry Grover cast an eye towards the woodland. Once a vibrant summer brown and spreading green canopy was now a collection of lifeless posts of charcoal and scorched earth.
“The fire brigade took some time to find a way up here and eventually managed to bring it under control… But by then, there was significant damage,” he confirmed. “The fire spread rapidly, taking out quite a tract of the vegetation. You can’t see it all from here. As for the plane? The cockpit came to rest wedged in the trees. It suffered the most from the ensuing firestorm.” The senior investigator would be acquainting himself soon enough with the full extent of the damage.
“Have you been in contact with air traffic control, Portland?”
“We’ve set up a field phone and have established a connection through the local exchange. The senior traffic controller, Dick Brock, is on standby and expecting your call.”
“Okay,” he nodded and sighed loudly, then continued to walk towards the tent – Martinez by his side.
Henry Grover paused at the entrance and turned to survey the flurry of activity around the site. The passengers and crew’s removal appeared to be well underway, with several technical specialists also inspecting, taking photos, and recording information – trained eyes looking for any evidential detail. The source is where the team would find clues to how and why, not just in the lab.
“Who’s heading the recovery effort? I see there are a few people other than us out there.”
“An independent crew out of LA. They came up by helicopter and got straight to it. A guy named Gus Jefferson is running the show.”
“Yes, I know him,” responded Grover. “He’s got a good reputation. A good team!” Collecting, bagging and tagging the bodies, body parts, and personal effects was a gruesome task.
“They are being assembled and stored in an empty warehouse in Medford. The city council has been very cooperative,” added the deputy.
Clearing away the bodies and human remains took priority. Once the site had been dehumanised, it would be a matter of gathering every scrap and performing meticulous and detached forensic work.
“Black Boxes?” He asked after the flight data and cockpit voice recorders usually stowed in the aircraft's tail. The bright-orange shoebox-sized units were known by the misnomer - black box.
“Nothing yet… Still looking. It appears the tail took the brunt, and the remnants are spread out pretty wide. Hopefully, we’ll locate them soon.”
In her late twenties, a woman sitting at a portable, folding table with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose looked up as Grover set foot into the onsite H.Q.
“Hi, boss! Glad you could make it!” she said with a grin.
“Thanks, Jean! I see you’ve already got stuck into it!” responded Grover warmly. Jean Davis was one of his able-bodied team members, exacting and dogged in her work and with whom Grover had been associated for the past four years. She gave an approving smile and turned her attention back to the table.
“What security do we have?”
“Oregon’s state police was on the scene soon after the local sheriff’s office and immediately took charge. One or two of the local boys couldn’t stop puking.”
“It’s understandable,” muttered the senior investigator under his breath. “Who could ever get used to this?” he added as he raised his leg and bent his knee, then stubbed out the cigarette butt on the leather sole of his shoe. He looked around before tossing the spent cigarette into a nearby metal bin. At that moment, a gritty and tough-looking man wearing the dark/light blue combination uniform of the Oregon State Police and sporting the traditional smokey bear hat entered the tent.
“Ah! Captain!” acknowledged Martinez. “There you are. Let me introduce Henry Grover, our Senior Investigator.”
“Captain Dave Moore, Oregon State Police.” The policeman shook the Lead Investigator’s hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” responded Grover. “Tell me, how many troopers do you have onsite?”
“At the moment…, ten,” he replied.
“How are they bearing up? It can’t be easy for the first-timers,” suggested Grover.
“I admit it’s the first time for me too… It's a bit grisly, to be sure, but we have a job to do, and my boys will handle it. It’s not that we’re in the thick of it… only providing peripheral control and security.”
“I suggest you organise more people. I’m afraid the word’s already out, and we’ll soon have to cope with sightseers. We can’t have anyone contaminating the site. Unfortunately, from our experience, souvenir-hunters tend to materialise out of nowhere and could unwittingly walk away with a vital piece of evidence.” Although most citizens were considerate of Grover's experience, there were always ignorant eager individuals to contend with. “You’ll also have to be prepared to work through the night. There’s a lot to do.”
“I understand. I’ll get straight onto it.” He immediately excused himself and left the tent, barking urgent instructions into his walkie-talkie.
“We’ll need to get the place lit up before it gets dark… What time is sunset?”
“Around nine,” replied Martinez. “The equipment is already en route out of Portland with four generators and enough fuel to keep us going for a while.”
“It looks like a wide area,” remarked the senior man.
“I made sure to arrange excess. Don’t worry. The place will be flooded with light.”
“What’s the weather forecast?”
“Dry, thankfully,” replied Martinez with a sigh of relief. A rainfall would have significantly hindered an investigation and potentially contaminated vital evidence – not to mention the added unpleasantness in working conditions.
“Okay, good. Can you connect me with air traffic control?” Martinez instantly busied himself with the radio.
“He’s on the line,” confirmed the deputy after a while and held out the receiver. Realising he was still holding the bear, Grover propped it against the radio and accepted the handset. The toy would remain there until the owner could be identified – a further reminder of the importance of finding the answer.
“Hello, Henry Grover, NTSB here!” he said.
“Good afternoon. Dick Brock, senior air traffic controller. I was on duty during the incident with the Crimson aircraft,” replied a gravelly voice on the other end of the phone.
“What can you tell me?”
“The Mayday distress call came in at just after 1300 hours. The aircraft was approximately 325 miles out. We had taken over the flight five minutes earlier as it crossed into the State over the northwest corner of Nevada… The pilot confirmed there was an explosion that rocked the plane and threw it out of control… That is, whatever caused the problem. It would appear they lost power from two of the three tail-mounted engines.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Not a great deal. As you can imagine, the usual spate of back-and-forths with a final, we’re going down. It was all a bit short – less than five minutes from receiving the Mayday to radio silence. It’s created quite a shock here!”
“Do you have a copy recording we could have?”
“Yes. Would you like me to get it over to you at the site?”
“I’d appreciate it. Thanks!”
“It’s an unfortunate event. We’re all pretty shaken up over here… First time…”
And hopefully, the last, thought a woeful Grover, although, with continued progress in mitigating such disasters, he knew flying was still a dangerous combination of failures and human error.
“Anyway… please don’t hesitate to call again should you have any more questions... I shan’t be leaving for a while!”
The deputy raised an eyebrow.
“Did I catch him say something about an explosion?”
“Let’s not yet jump to any conclusions, John,” responded Grover, as he replaced the receiver in its cradle, then reached into his jacket for the packet of Marlboro Gold.
“First things first… I need to inspect the site!”
♦♦♦♦
Portland, Oregon: Clutching a worn leather briefcase tightly under his left arm, he struggled to insert the key. He took a breath and a moment to calm himself, then slid the key into the lock. His eyes darted around nervously as if he were expecting to be waylaid before opening the car door and slumping onto the seat. He placed the case on the passenger seat and studied his trembling hands, clenching and unclenching his fists. Sitting at the wheel of his two-year-old Ford sedan, he adjusted the rearview mirror catching his reflection. He held it for a while, looking hard at himself – questioning. The muscles in his face tightened. As he left the office on the pretext of an urgent doctor’s appointment, he felt all eyes were on him – accusing and judging. His senses were on high alert, his anxiety running in overdrive. Is he doing the right thing? He shivered involuntarily.
“Get a grip!” he muttered angrily, then returned the mirror to a view through the back window.
He turned the ignition, depressed the clutch, engaged the column-mounted gear lever in reverse and slowly backed out of the parking space. With a last look around, he drove through and out of the expansive car park. Mason Lee was a careful and rational driver by habit – always driving at an appropriate speed, keeping up with traffic, and maintaining a safe distance between vehicles. He made his way unhurriedly, eventually turning right onto the I205 freeway and towards Portland Oregon International Airport.
He glanced at his watch – 12:36. He had allowed himself more than enough time.
As he drove along, he played over how he had continually glossed over his wife’s concerns, excusing his subdued manner during the past few days as just unusual pressure at work. He was being unfair and felt guilty keeping her in the dark. She deserved to know. They prided themselves on their open and honest relationship, never keeping secrets from one another. It had been preying on his mind since agreeing to the meet. Deep in thought, he didn’t notice the large cement truck in the rearview mirror…, rapidly gaining on him.
The force of the sudden rear-end impact threw an unexpectant Mason Lee viciously forward, releasing his grip on the steering wheel and smacking his head against the windscreen, fracturing the glass. The truck ploughed on, forcing the car into the low central barrier. Catching the metal divide at an angle, the vehicle flipped over the barricade onto its roof and into the path of oncoming traffic. The panicked driver of a truck hauling a twenty-foot-long container – packed to the gills in auto parts – had little time to react and careered into the toppled vehicle at speed, pitching it back hard against the barrier. The whole incident happened in an instant catching the midday traffic unawares. The distraught truck driver subsequently explained to the police that he had reacted instinctively and immediately slammed on his brakes. Unfortunately, with the considerable momentum from the vehicle’s heavy load, he could not stop in time and avoid hitting the luckless Ford. The resultant collision caused the most significant damage to the smaller vehicle’s shell.
In the ensuing confusion, a man climbed out of the offending truck and joined a growing number of curious onlookers at the barrier. He looked over at the bloodied, misshapen figure hanging out through the shattered windscreen under the upturned wreck. With a final impassive look, he strode back to his vehicle, climbed in, and calmly drove away, leaving behind the carnage he had created.
