Read Online Final Approach by John J. Nance - Free Book Online Page A

structure that had been the aft cabin area bore little resemblance to an airplane, with jagged pieces of aluminum jutting everywhere, reflecting in staccato bursts the red-and-blue flashes from the galaxy of rescue-vehicle beacons, the ruined section seemingly lost in the noise of engines and shouted orders that obscured what the fireman now thought he heard from within.
    The man laid down the nozzle of the hose and moved forward, ear cocked, sure what he had heard was an echo. But it got louder as he approached, the sound of someone, a female, trying to yell for help but not managing much volume above the din surrounding them. He selected a likely foothold—a punctured gap in the silver skin which formed a wall before him—and tried to mount it, but there was no handhold that wouldn’t slice through his heavy gloves, and he had to back off.
    The voice was definitely there now, and definitely female, coming from somewhere within the twisted jumble of metal. He stabbed the beam of his powerful flashlight at the mess but could see nothing. One thing, however, was now certain: someone was alive in there. Someone they had all missed before.
    â€œHang on! I hear you! I’m coming!” He screamed the words as loudly as he could while dashing around to the other side, playing the flashlight through the wreckage, spotting seat fabric and what looked like a limp arm deep within. Obviously not the source of the voice. At last he found a foothold and a handhold, clambering up as carefully as he could, shocked at the razor-sharp edge on the metal stringers. Against his better judgment, he quickly tossed his fire hat away in order to maneuver his head through the twisted structure, wiggling and dodging and climbing steadily until the voice seemed close enough to track. He shone his light once again into the interior, into what appeared to be an impossible cage of shredded metal reeking of jet fuel just waiting for an ignition source. Why it hadn’t already burned, he couldn’t understand. Apparently the fire in the main section had been kept away by the wind.
    There. To the right of a greenish piece of serrated metal, a face, a moving face, eyes staring back at him, pleading in the process.
    â€œCan you hear me?”
    There was a long pause, and then an answer, as if the owner of the voice couldn’t quite believe someone had finally come.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAre you injured?”
    â€œI … we can’t move. There … we’re … six of us here. All hurt. Several are unconscious, bleeding badly. One may be dead, I can’t tell … he’s not moving or talking. We can’t move. My leg’s trapped. There’s a piece of metal in it, and I can’t get free. I’m afraid to try. Please … please get us out. You’re going to have to come in, though.”
    â€œOkay, I’m going to get help here immediately.”
    â€œMister …?”
    â€œYes. I’m here.”
    â€œWe’re all soaked in gas.”
    Her sentence froze his stomach, confirming what he had already not wanted to admit: he was climbing around inside a primed firebomb.
    â€œThere’re big puddles everywhere in here. It’s burning my skin and some got in my eyes. Please don’t light anything. We’re soaked.”
    The fireman carefully pulled his two-way radio from a coat pocket, taking pains not to strike metal against metal, wondering if he even dared hit the transmit button to call for help. This was going to be a dangerous race … and a nightmare.
    Joe Wallingford arrived at the FAA hangar on the north end of Washington National Airport at 2:45 A.M. , only to find it dark, unoccupied, and locked, the FAA’s Gulfstreams unmanned inside and members of the NTSB Go Team standing around in confusion. Infuriated but controlled, Joe found a pay phone and dialed the FAA command post back in the city, knowing instinctively what had happened the second a