Maddox sighed. “I hate being on the sidelines, though.”
“Not to worry, Pat,” said McCready, clapping me on the shoulder. “If anybody can put the pieces together, it’s this man right here. The best there is.” Then he frowned. “I have a question, though. That little kaboom a minute ago—what the hell was that? It rang our chimes pretty good.”
“I’ve seen planes brought down by less,” said Maddox. “A lot less.”
“Hovering beside a burning aircraft.” McCready looked rueful. “Kinda dumb, I guess.”
“You said it.”
“So what was it?” persisted McCready.
Maddox shrugged. “Won’t know till we start combing through the debris. Just guessing, though, I’d say an overheated oxygen cylinder.”
“That’s what the helicopter pilot said, too.” McCready looked puzzled. “But the fire’s about out. Why would it blow now, not earlier?”
“Well . . .” The crash expert glanced away, then met McCready’s gaze. “Frankly?” McCready gave a yes-please nod. “Probably the buffet from your rotor wash,” Maddox said, “stirring things around. Maybe knocked the cylinder against something sharp—a metal rod, or a shard of rock—and it popped. Like a balloon.”
McCready grimaced. “So it was my own damn fault?” I looked at him, surprised; it had been the pilot, not the FBI agent, who had dropped down beside the wreckage. McCready was choosing to let the buck stop with him, though, and I admired that. Maddox gave a half nod, half shrug, which I also admired: He was confirming what McCready said, but without rubbing his nose in it, as he could’ve. McCready shook his head. “Hate that,” he said. “I put my people at risk, and I altered the scene, too. If anybody should know better, it’s me, Mr. Save-the-Evidence. Sorry about that.”
“Well, look on the bright side,” Maddox said. “If it hadn’t blown now, it might’ve blown later, with your guys right there beside it. Somebody’s boot bumps it, the thing tips over, hits a sharp edge, and kaboom. Could’ve taken off a foot, maybe blinded somebody. So you probably did us all a big favor.” He paused. “Hell, now that I think about it, maybe you oughta call that chopper back to stir things around some more; set off anything else that’s about to blow.” He smiled, making sure we knew it was a joke, not a jab. McCready smiled back. Olive branches had been accepted all around, it seemed.
McCready shifted gears and got down to business. “Seriously, how soon you think it’s safe to get down there and start working it? We got more oxygen cylinders down there? What about other hazards?”
Maddox shrugged. “Well, the fuel’s just about burned off. Hydraulic fluid—for the brake lines and the flight-control systems—that’s combustible but not explosive, and it’s probably burned off by now, too. I doubt that there’s another oxygen cylinder—one’s the standard on a Citation, but some have two. I’ve got somebody tracking down the maintenance guys, back at the hangar, so we’ll know for sure.”
“I haven’t had a chance to read up on the Citation,” McCready said—another surprise to me, since I’d noticed him unfolding a big cutaway diagram of the jet during our cross-country flight. “It’s a twin-engine bizjet? Like a Gulfstream or a Learjet?” Was he doing more fence mending—giving Maddox a chance to demonstrate his knowledge?—or was he testing to see how much the man knew?
Maddox gave a half smile. “Sort of like a Learjet. The first version of the Citation was a little sluggish; some pilots called it a ‘Nearjet.’ Newer ones are faster, though still not as fast as that Gulfstream horse you guys rode in on—that was you that circled on your way in, right?” McCready nodded, and Maddox rattled on. “But the Citation’s a good design. Solid. Simple, relatively speaking—it’s the only jet approved for single-pilot operation. Sensible, for a multimillion-dollar minivan. It—”
McCready broke in. “Excuse me? Did you just say ‘minivan’?”
Maddox nodded. “It’s the Dodge Caravan of bizjets. Not too fast, not too fancy, but functional and roomy, and plenty good enough, you know?”
“So much for the magic of flight,” said McCready.
“Hey, I’m all about the magic of flight,” Maddox answered. “It is magic. But tell me: What’s Europe’s biggest aircraft maker called? Airbus, that’s what. Air. Bus. I rest my case.”
A cell phone at McCready’s belt shrilled; he flipped it open, turning his back to Maddox and me. “McCready,” I heard him say. “Go ahead.” He listened a moment, then said, “Got it; we won’t start the party without you. Thanks.” Snapping the phone shut, he turned to us again. “That was Miles Prescott, from the San Diego field office. He’s the lead agent on this case. He’s on his way up—almost here, he says—and he’s bringing the cavalry with him.”