Looking at the huge hulks of twisted metal that were once a fuselage, he had an epiphany, his destiny called him. Most people would have nightmares at seeing such horror and destruction, McGill was excited and charged with passion.
Immediately upon arriving back in the States, he started taking the first steps towards a career as an aircraft accident investigator.
McGill cleared the stakedown area of all personnel except for his team. The Go Team would walk the perimeter of the main wreckage taking notes and discussing anything peculiar that might be observed.
After the perimeter walk, McGill would assign duties and responsibilities to each member, and the site would be secured, this time for the evening. The team would leave the site en route to the organizational meeting, and if necessary, McGill would conduct a press briefing.
It had been several hours since the accident occurred. Rescue personnel had been advised to remove only those who might still be alive. The remains of the dead were to be left undisturbed, orders of the NTSB Command Center and the FAA. The site was treated by the police as a crime scene — necessary to avoid compromising an investigation by inadvertently tainting evidence. The fire department was allowed to put out and contain any fires. Six red body bags lay empty on the marsh, one for each reported person on board.
The team made their way across the tidal marsh. Low tide had been more than thirty minutes prior and the smell of exposed mud and sea life still hung in the air. The tide had turned and the waters rose. Tiny crabs and spiders worked their way to the tops of the saw grass blades and jumped on the pants legs of the team members in hopes of hitch-hiking a ride to dry ground.
Across the marsh beyond the wreckage McGill saw Back River, the river that constituted the state line between Georgia and South Carolina.
Most of the wreckage was situated on the hard-packed sandy portion of the salt flat, although some debris lay in the softer muck. The muck made walking difficult, and McGill told them it would be increasingly harder to work as the tide came in.
The sawgrass, brown as winter approached its end, stood tall, sometimes as high as four feet. With each gust of wind the dense grass did “the wave” around the accident — bowing down and rising again. Thousands of tiny holes dotted the harder packed marsh flats, little mounds of dirt piled next to each hole. Fiddler crabs scurried in and out hauling food to and from their homes.
A great blue heron swooped in low across the wreckage and landed near Back River. Several white ibis worked their way through the marsh in search of food. A diesel bulldozer revved its engine and moved across the marshlands, startling the birds. They flew off, only to circle and land in a different section of the same flat.
McGill pulled out his compass and turned until it aligned with the aircraft’s direction of impact. “The aircraft was headed almost due south. That’s almost ninety degrees off from the final approach course.”
The nose of the Challenger faced directly toward them as they squished through the marsh.
Dave Morris pointed at the aircraft’s nose cone. “Look at that lateral tear across the nose cone. The damn thing’s grinning at us.”
Dave was a short, rotund man, only five-foot-six and carrying two hundred ten pounds, best known for his uncanny resemblance to the comedian Danny DeVito, especially when he walked. The forty-four-year-old was the prankster of the Atlanta office. He and Jake had teamed up several times on aircraft accidents.
“I’m really surprised the debris field isn’t more expansive. It’s really just confined to this small area.” McGill motioned circles with his hand.
“Well, you gotta figure the aircraft had slowed down to approach speed and then hit here at high tide which abated the impact substantially. I mean, look at the impact crater.” Ben Lewis pointed at the crater. “It’s relatively shallow — all things considered. That also explains why the wreckage is still basically intact.”
The only black team member at the Atlanta Field Office, Ben stood six-foot-four, just over two hundred sixty pounds. Ben had played nose tackle in college at the University of Michigan. For the last ten years, he’d kept his head shaved and sported a graying goatee. Jake nicknamed him “Mr. Clean.” Friendly, docile and jovial, Ben was known for his smile, showing a mouthful of large white teeth.
The salt marsh was unfamiliar territory for McGill as well as the rest of the team. He was intrigued by the fiddler crabs skittering away from his feet.
The Go Team surveyed what remained of the aircraft. Larry Kirkland, clipboard in hand, sketched out a rough diagram of the crash site with the approximate location of the larger sections of wreckage. Later, measurements would be taken and all the data entered in a computer program.
Kirkland was the oldest of the Go Team members at fifty-nine. A slide rule geek, he wore black plastic rimmed glasses and a pocket protector with his usual three pens and one mechanical pencil. All business — no play — he had difficulty with the constant bantering between the other members of the team. Kirkland was best known amongst the team members for his hair. As it thinned on the top of his head, he let it grow long on one side and then combed it over with the help of a little styling gel. When in the field, the wind would lift his comb-over, causing it to flap on his head. The other members, not allowing the moment to pass, teased him by mimicking his comb-over with their hands on their heads.
McGill looked at Jake. “Okay, hotshot, what do you see?”
“Okay. Three main sections to deal with here. Starting from the rear, a shear across the fuselage separating the tail section from the main cabin area. It tore immediately behind the wings, obviously after the wings were sheared off. Then a second tear between the cockpit and the main cabin, immediately behind the cabin door and bulkhead.”
Jake pointed to the two wings in the marsh. “Both wings were ripped off, rupturing the fuel tanks and causing an inferno that engulfed the cabin section. Destruction of the aircraft occurred so quickly that the occupants were probably killed on impact. In all likelihood, everyone on board realized their impending fate as the aircraft plummeted from the sky”
McGill looked at the other team members. “Does everybody concur with that?” The others nodded. “Okay, let’s move on.”
Dave Morris pointed at the nose of the aircraft. “It looks like when the floor of the cockpit fell free, the forward momentum jammed the pilots, seats and all, underneath the nose section. That probably lifted the shell of the nose section upward from the rear and buried the pilots under the rubble. They’ll be a mess to remove.”
McGill said, “Since the tides are rising and fog is rolling in, we’ll recover the pilots’ remains first thing in the morning. Besides, we’ll need the crane and it can’t get here until morning anyway.”
They moved toward the second section of debris, the main cabin compartment. Jake whistled and pointed to something in the tall marsh grass.
“Whoa, what have we here?”
The team moved forward to see. An Uzi machine gun lying next to a white IPod and a gray laptop computer.
“Bodyguards.” McGill placed a yellow flag next the gun. “He had his bodyguards with him all the time.”
Jake marked the other items with yellow flags.
Dave stuck his head inside the main cabin, then leaned back out. “From the outside, the main cabin section appears by and large intact, although somewhat charred, but the inside — holy crap, it’s a scene from hell. The fire burned hottest here.”