The young agent pushed past me into the command center, and I could hear a terse exchange of voices. Sixty seconds later, the helicopter returned. It hovered directly over the cluster of federal agents, its downdraft buffeting them and yet somehow leaving Mrs. Janus—standing twenty feet from them—unruffled. Then it edged sideways and touched down. Without a word, Carmelita Janus turned, strode toward it, and climbed back into the copilot’s seat.
As the machine leapt up again—buffeting the agents once more on its way out—I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before: a second helicopter, hovering a hundred yards away. The cabin door was open; perched on the sill, his feet propped on a landing skid, was a man—a man with a boxy black object balanced on one shoulder. A cylinder projected from the front of the box; at its center, I saw a glint of blue: the reflection of a telephoto lens, watching and recording the scene that had just transpired. Judging by the logo emblazoned on the side of the helicopter, Fox News viewers across San Diego—or across the entire nation—would soon be seeing Mrs. Richard Janus being banished from the site of her husband’s smoldering jet, her brave offer to help spurned by the heartless forces of the FBI. I felt sorry for Prescott; his Bureau bosses might well—and his media critics surely would—take him to task for being so unsympathetic . . . or for being caught on camera. At the same time, I couldn’t help admiring Mrs. Janus’s moxie and resourcefulness. Her maneuver could end up complicating our work, though, I realized, especially if it increased the pressure for us to work fast.
“Damn,” said Prescott.
O Brother, I thought, you can say that again.
“Damn,” he repeated. “Damn damn damn.”
AN HOUR HAD PASSED SINCE CARMELITA JANUS FLEW off, but the cyclone of grit and grouchiness she’d stirred up continued to swirl long after the helicopter had vanished. Prescott spent some quality time fussing into his phone; I heard the word “grandstanding” at least three times; I also heard him say, “I want to know everything there is to know about her husband’s life insurance. How much? Does it pay double for accidental death? Is there a suicide exclusion? Most important—is she the sole beneficiary?” There was more muttering I couldn’t quite catch, then he snapped the phone shut and glared at the group as if we were his problem, saying, “So? Now what are we waiting for?” I was wondering that myself, though I wasn’t in a position to ask.
McCready looked startled—or was it angry?—for a split second, but his answer was matter of fact. “We’re waiting for a couple key pieces of gear,” he said. “Should be here any minute.” He recapped the team’s assignments, concluding, “Remember, safety first. Followed closely—really, really closely—by evidence preservation.” He scanned the agents’ faces. “Any other questions for me? For Dr. Brockton or Mr. Maddox? No?” He pointed toward the door. “Okay, fellows, let’s go get it.”
Remembering the thirty-foot bluff we’d have to descend to get to the wreckage, I couldn’t help wondering, Get it? How?
I didn’t have to wonder for long. As we exited the command center, I heard a deep, powerful roar. A moment later a crane lurched into view and rumbled along the rocky ridge road. McCready, Prescott, and Maddox huddled briefly, and then Maddox limped into the crane’s path. Waving his arms to get the driver’s attention, he headed toward the rim of the bluff, motioning the crane to follow. As they traversed the edge, silhouetted against the sky, I imagined for a moment that Maddox was a farmer, leading some immense, long-necked, bellowing beast out to graze. He stopped, peering down the bluff, and then pointed to the ground at his feet, indicating the spot where he wanted the crane. Then he raised his arm overhead and slowly lowered it to horizontal, pointing straight out over the abyss, miming the motion of the machine’s boom.
The crane had a capacity of sixteen tons—thirty-two thousand pounds—according to prominent warnings stenciled on the vehicle and on the boom. No problem, I thought; from where I stood, it looked as if most pieces of the wreckage weighed less than I did. Sidling over to Maddox, I joked, “Reckon we’ve got enough muscle?”
Maddox shrugged, looking more dubious than I’d expected. “It’s not the load capacity I’m worried about, it’s the boom length,” he said. “The plane only weighed six tons, dripping wet, so this thing could easily hoist a whole Citation. Plus another whole Citation. The trick’ll be reaching out far enough. The boom’s a hundred feet long.” He studied the debris field below, then looked again at the boom, now swinging out in a gargantuan imitation of Maddox’s pantomime. “Might be enough. Wish we had another fifty feet.” He frowned at the rough jeep road the crane had lurched up to reach us. “Might be tough to get a bigger rig up the mountain, though.”
I thought, Might be? I was amazed that any rig had managed to make it up.