“These roads have been closed, but One-Oh-One South is open and so is—maybe you know it—Mills-Peninsula. A health care facility just south of Trousdale.”
Vanderleest went on, “Highway Patrol will be shuttling the kids from the schools to this medical center. It’s close and it’s big. This is where you can help.”
Conklin asked, “Does anyone know what caused the crash?”
“All we know right now is that this flight from Beijing was coming in for a normal, on-schedule landing. The pilot was talking to the control tower, which had cleared them to land on runway Twenty-Eight L when the plane turned into a fireball at three thousand feet.
“As for what happened. I don’t know how, who, or why, and that goes for all of us. Right now, no one knows shit.”
CHAPTER 24
CONKLIN STARTED UP our car and we set course for the Mills-Peninsula Medical Center, a detour that would take us past ground zero, only a quarter of a mile away.
As soon as we cleared the barricade and rounded the turn onto the flat four-lane expanse of Millbrae Avenue, we could see the length and breadth of the disaster. I’ve driven along Millbrae Avenue any number of times, bought lunch, gased up, cashed checks on this broad stretch of suburban highway.
It was now completely unrecognizable.
Off to our left, the dry grass on the median of Rollins Road was blazing. Ahead, looking west toward the hills, a dense roiling bank of smoke nearly blocked out the sky.
The closer we got to the crash site, the more the smoke made us cough. Visibility became limited to about three car lengths on all sides. But what we could see was horrible.
Luggage was strewn loosely across the road, spilling clothing and personal articles: books, and a pink dress, as clean as if it had just been unpacked, hanging across the median strip.
Conklin jerked the wheel, cutting the car around a chunk of charred flesh, a decapitated passenger, his clothes torn off by the blast. I put my head between my knees, but it didn’t help.
“Linds. It’s OK. Hang on.”
He stopped the car and I opened the door and did what I never do. I barfed at a crime scene. Then we were rolling again.
Directly up ahead were red flashers, a lot of them. A half dozen fire trucks lined the street next to the Mills High School playing field. It was a sight out of a science-fiction movie crossed with a late-night horror film.
In place of kids jogging on the track and scrimmaging were several detached rows of seats with dead passengers still strapped in for landing. And in the center of this gruesome field were three misshapen sections of the airframe standing like grotesque sculptures, rising twenty feet into the murky air. NTSB agents in hazmat suits were taking pictures, putting down markers next to bodies and body parts.
Wind blew smoke across the field, sparking small fires and making my eyes water. Conklin crossed himself.
A team of airport cops came up to our car. We identified ourselves and reviewed the best and only route to the health care facility: straight ahead three blocks, left on Camino Real for three long blocks, then right on Trousdale.
“Mills-Peninsula. A big glass building,” the cop said.
“We know the place,” said Conklin.
“Drive safely.”
I was never going to forget seeing this. No matter how hard I tried.
CHAPTER 25
THE MILLS-PENINSULA Medical Center parking lot was jammed to a standstill with hundreds of cars driven here by the parents of the kids at the three crash-affected schools. They had left their cars and ganged up at the police line at the barricade en masse.
It was a big parking lot and we were still out on the street, but even from a hundred yards away, I could see and hear that the parents were freaking the hell out. And who could blame them? They wanted to get their children. They were getting roadblocks instead.
As Conklin and I watched, a school bus rounded Trousdale and entered the lot from the rear. The parents reversed their direction and stampeded toward the bus, coming to a stop at the blockade of police vehicles across the Trousdale entrance.
For the first time since Brady had yelled “Everyone, listen up!” I became furious at the horror, at the outrageous loss of life, at the trauma everyone in San Francisco would bear for the rest of their lives.
The same type of question I asked myself every day on the job came to me now.
What had happened to WW 888? Was the crash due to pilot error or a structural flaw? Or had some person or persons deliberately brought down this jet with four hundred passengers?
Was the downing of WW 888 an act of war?
The dispatcher’s voice came over the car radio.
“Boxer, Conklin, sit tight. San Mateo County Sheriff is going to escort you into the building.”
I copied that, and my partner got on his phone.