Ghost (20 page)

twenty-three

ONE HOUR TO NOWHERESVILLE

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Brad Bryson says to me. We’re standing side by side, looking at our ride to Bahawalpur. It is an ancient-looking C-130 Hercules. Just like President Zia’s.

“Remind me to cuss out the CIA for not giving the Pakistanis newer planes.”

“Amen to that,” Brad says.

We’re dressed in jeans, boots, and khaki button-down shirts covered by tan vests. Brad and I look ready to go on safari. All we need are pith helmets.

The absurdity of the moment is just too much. We’re going to go check out a smoking crater that once was a C-130—and we’re flying to it in a near-identical aircraft.

“Don’t they say these things happen in threes?” Brad asks.

“Yeah. I hope we’re not number two.”

Cheech comes over to us and must sense our trepidation. “Agent Burton, we have assigned two of our best pilots for your flight.”

That’s a comfort, seeing as number one and number two are in pieces somewhere in the Punjab desert. Should I say that? No, Beth Jones wouldn’t consider that being diplomatic. I bite my tongue.

“I have answers for you to your questions from this morning.” He seems to be genuinely trying to be nice. Maybe I didn’t get him in trouble after all. “Okay, there were some items brought aboard PAK-1 at Bahawalpur. Two crates of mangoes and a couple of model aircraft.”

I think this over for a moment. “Were they screened for explosives?”

“Yes. They were visually inspected.”

Okay, that’s something. “What about bomb dogs?”

“Dogs?” Cheech asks, puzzled. I sense a hint of disgust in his voice.

“Bomb-sniffing dogs. Were any used to check out the things that came aboard?”

“Agent Burton, dogs are filthy creatures. We would never have them anywhere near the presidential aircraft.”

I’m not sure how to respond. He went from cordial to borderline hostile again. As he walks away, he tosses another bone our way. “I checked with the maintenance officer. The hydraulic fluid was replaced last month during the routine overhaul. Please convey that to Colonel Sowada.”

Once he’s out of earshot, Brad notes, “Muslim culture believes dogs are vile animals.”

I’d forgotten that. I’m now two for two with Cheech. I’ve insulted him and humiliated him. So much for that relationship.

A few minutes later, we pile aboard the C-130 through the back cargo ramp. The seats are all positioned sideways in the bay, which means we’ll be looking at one another from opposite rows on either side of the fuselage for the entire flight. I guess it might be better that way. If we crash, at least we won’t have to see the ground spinning our way.

Colonel Sowada’s team feels right at home. I’m sure they’ve traveled by C-130 before, as they strap themselves in without a hint of concern. Brad and I fumble with our seat straps until we finally figure them out. Just as we get settled, a Pakistani airman walks through the cargo bay to hand each one of us a set of earplugs. I take mine, tear open the package, and say, “Guess we won’t be talking much on this flight.”

The pilots arrive and move to the flight deck. They go through their checklist, flipping switches and turning knobs. They finish, and the engines fire up.

Holy cow. The earplugs do no good. There are four gigantic turbo-prop engines over our heads turning sixteen massive propeller blades. The din is staggering. The entire plane vibrates and shakes, and the roaring sound of the engines burrows straight into my head. It engulfs us, and within seconds my senses are overloaded. God, we’re not even off the ground yet.

The pilots go through another checklist. When complete, the Hercules starts to move. We taxi toward the runway, and the pilots stop for one more preflight check. The engines are run up, and the cacophony grows to the point where it feels like my skull will split open. I’m vibrated so badly that I wonder if my fillings will break loose.

Brad shouts something in my ear. I have no idea what he’s trying to say. Across from us, Colonel Sowada and his team appear placid and at ease. I hope that’s just for show, otherwise I would have to throttle them all.

The Hercules lurches forward as the pilots get off the taxiway and position the big bird for takeoff on the main runway. Once again, they open the engines up and we thunder along, gaining speed. The cargo hold is racked with noise. We’re being rattled to death. How does the infantry suffer through this when the Herk becomes their taxi into combat?

And then we claw our way into the sky. A whining sound and a sudden clunk indicate the wheels are up and retracted. We’re airborne, and I breathe a long sigh of relief. That was the hairiest takeoff I’ve ever experienced.

We level out under ten thousand feet. No oxygen necessary, and the C-130’s cargo area doesn’t appear to be pressurized. We shake, rattle, and roll our way south, we DSS spy-types looking suitably terrified while the air force guys kick back and either nap or read.

As we jolt and bounce along, my eyes notice the flight-deck door. It is open. Is that standard procedure for the Pakistanis? Is this how PAK-1 was operated? If so, everyone aboard had unrestricted access to the pilots. It’s a terrorist’s best-case scenario.

Looking at the door, I realize this flight may not be just an exercise intended to cause premature aging in us nonaviators. It also is an opportunity to see how a Pakistani flight crew operates an identical aircraft to the one we will soon study. The in-flight procedures and routines could be very illuminating. Already, I’ve noticed that the crew went through not just one preflight check, but at least three before we finally took off. That’s pretty thorough. They tested the engines and a host of other systems. Everything worked fine, obviously, or we never would have taken off. The same was probably true with Zia’s plane. The preflight checks detected nothing out of the ordinary, otherwise they probably would have scrubbed the flight.

But that open cockpit door worries me. It fits with another piece of the puzzle given to us yesterday. Somebody outside the flight deck shouted for the pilot just before PAK-1 crashed. Surely, the radio in the cockpit would not have picked up that voice over all the engine noise if the door had been closed.

Another clue: Somebody had keyed the radio. They had an open mike for at least a few seconds, but neither pilot spoke. What does that mean?

An hour later, we land at Bahawalpur. The cargo ramp drops, and together we exit the aircraft under the tail. The moment we hit the tarmac, we’re assailed by heat so intense if feels like we’ve just walked into an oven. I’m bathed in sweat in seconds.

“Welcome to the Punjab desert,” one of the air force guys says.

We are in Nowheresville, the end of the earth. I stop and turn in a circle, checking out our surroundings. There’s nothing but a vast and empty sea of sand and reddish-brown dirt in every direction off the runway. In the distance sits a small terminal building, the only sign of civilization on the horizon.

A sudden wind blows across the desertscape, kicking up dust devils in its wake. They dance and spin as the gust slams into us. It feels like somebody’s just hit us with a blowtorch.

“It’s like a blast furnace here,” Brad remarks.

“Be sure to stay hydrated.”

“Do you have any water?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

“Well, we’ll get some from our hosts.”

We walk toward the terminal. Brad nudges my arm. “Take a look at that.”

In the distance we can see a bunch of Pakistanis, all dressed in white. They just seem to be milling around on the runway.

“This was the airport PAK-1 landed and took off from, right?” Brad says.

“Yeah.”

“Well, what kind of an airport allows civilians onto the runways?”

I stop walking and study the airport’s perimeter. No fencing. No security. Not even an outer fence.

“Anyone could have walked in here,” Brad says.

“We’ll have to find out if the plane was under guard while it was here.”

“They wouldn’t leave the president’s plane unsecured, would they?”

“I hope not.”

When we reach the terminal, we’re greeted by Pakistani soldiers, who lead us to a collection of beaten and weary World War II–style machine-gun-armed jeeps, a few four-wheel-drive trucks, and a couple of Range Rovers. We load up and soon we’re tearing off down a rutted dirt road. An officer riding shotgun talks to us over his shoulder as we bounce along. “It will be dark soon. We will go to the crash site in the morning.”

“Where are we going?”

“Our barracks. We have rooms waiting for you.”

We drive deeper and deeper into this desolate countryside. Every now and then, we come across a small village. Our convoy sends the locals scrambling away from the road. We see herds of goats with shepherds standing watch over them. A stray chicken here and there runs from our wheels as we pass through these little hamlets. We’ve driven out of the twentieth century into a scene that could have come straight out of the Bible. Minus our machine guns and gas-powered vehicles, we’re bearing witness to a way of life unchanged for thousands of years.

Not a tree or even a hint of green exists in this harsh and sunbaked land. In the small villages, every structure is layered with dirt. I don’t see any signs of recent construction. How the occasional farms grow anything out here is anyone’s guess.

We slow for another settlement. Locals line the street and gawk at us. They’re dressed in traditional Pakistani clothing, which is as filthy as their dwellings. With the fierce winds and dust storms, I imagine it is impossible to stay clean out here. A small boy waves at us. It is the only friendly gesture to come our way. Everyone else just looks at us with a mixture of curiosity and hostility.

On the far side of the village, our rat-patrol convoy slows down. An ancient-looking farmer, his face lined and scarred, blocks the road ahead. He’s struggling with a camel who seems to have a mind of its own. The farmer pulls a lead and the camel balks.

We inch past him. The camel eyeballs me as we go by. This is just too surreal.

The air carries a unique bouquet so typical of the Third World. It is a mixture of manure, sewage, and garbage. As we come to the next hamlet along the road, the odor takes on a new pungency. Smoke rises from a heap of trash at the edge of the village where they’re burning their garbage. The thick smoke nearly makes us gag.

Just before dark, we reach a Pakistani Army outpost. It is a small governmental oasis in this barren place. The white stucco buildings look almost new. We’re led into one of the barracks, where our Pakistani officer-host tells us, “You will have to share rooms.”

“That is not a problem,” I say.

We walk down a long hallway toward a toothless and wizened old man sitting in a chair. As we get closer, the officer points to a pair of Old West saloon-style double doors. “That is for you. A houseboy will remain outside in case you require anything.”

Houseboy? That guy looks a hundred years old.

We enter our quarters and find two bare metal bunks, a utilitarian chest of drawers, and a small doorway leading to a bathroom. No air-conditioning. The room smells foul and is sweltering hot. We stow our gear and the Pakistani tells us they’re serving dinner at the mess hall.

We make our way to the mess. Inside, we find a buffet waiting for us: mangoes, juice, meat of some sort. The Pakistanis went to great lengths for us, and we try to show our appreciation.

Toward the end of our meal, Cheech reappears and tells us, “We’ll leave for the crash site after breakfast tomorrow morning.”

We thank him. He gives us a cryptic grin and warns us, “When you wake up, watch your feet.”

“Our feet?” I ask, perplexed.

“Yes. Snakes like to get out of the cold during the night. They crawl into the barracks.”

“Are they dangerous?”

Cheech gives me a wicked look. “Oh, yes. They are quite poisonous.”

“Great. Thanks for the warning.”

“My pleasure. Good night, Agent Burton. Sleep well.”

What do you know? Cheech can play the game, too.

twenty-four

THE BUFFET AT THE END OF THE WORLD

Brad and I stir shortly after dawn. We spent the night stewing in our own sweat, suffering full bladders, since we were both unwilling to brave the snakes to make a run to the bathroom.

Brad sits up on his bunk, careful to keep his feet far above the floor. He yawns and asks, “How’d you sleep?”

“Didn’t. You?”

“Not much. Dreamt about snakes when I did.”

“I think Cheech was just getting me back.”

“Maybe. But want to risk it?”

The thought of a poisonous snake biting me out in this hellhole does not appeal to me. “No.”

“Well, you’re the lead investigator,” Brad says grandly. “After you.”

I look down at the floor. No snakes. I’m not going to take any chances, though. Sitting nearby is a metal wastebasket. I reach over and snag it.

“What are you doing?”

“Scaring the snakes,” I answer.

Brad shakes his head. I sidearm the wastebasket across the room. It skids over the concrete, bangs off the doorway, and spins into the corridor. Outside our room, I hear a sudden crash and someone exclaiming in Pashto.

Brad bursts into laughter. “You just scared the hell out of our ninety-year-old houseboy.”

“Sorry. Just trying to scare the snakes.”

Cautiously, I plant my feet on the concrete floor. No nibbles. I check under both bunks and find them slither-free. Now to clear the bathroom. I step to the doorway and gingerly peer around inside. The place is filthy and reeks. Third World bathrooms are never very pretty. This one looks like a bacteriological experiment gone wrong.

“All clear,” I announce.

“Good, ’cause I have to use the john,” Brad says with relief.

Twenty minutes later, we’re dressed and ready to go. We scarf down some yogurt, mangoes, and juice and head out to the rat-patrol convoy.

Cheech is there, waiting for us. “How’d you sleep?” he asks innocently.

“Oh, very well, thank you,” I tell him. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“The crash site is very remote,” Cheech explains. “It is a bumpy ride.”

He wasn’t kidding. Our convoy sets off in a cloud of dust and follows a rutted road through another series of tiny villages. Somewhere along the way, we turn off into the desert and go off-road. We’re thrown around in the back of the Range Rover, and by the end of the trip I start longing for the C-130. It was so much more comfortable.

The landscape is flat to the horizon in every direction. The desert exudes hostility. Man should not live here.

A half hour later, several small structures come into view. They look like lean-tos and a few World War II–era army tents. Cheech calls out, “We’re here.”

We pile out of our rigs, and the smell assaults us. It is a combination of aviation fuel, burned rubber, and burned flesh.

“Keep breathing,” I tell Brad. “I’ve had to deal with this before. You get used to the smell.”

“I’ll never get used to this,” Brad says miserably.

We walk across the sand to one of the lean-tos. It’s been thrown together with a couple of metal poles and a makeshift roof of colorful rugs. Inside are a dozen or so folding chairs.

On the other side, I see a blackened scar in the sandy ground. Small chunks of twisted metal dot the scene, all that’s left of PAK-1.

Colonel Sowada comes up beside me. “Well, let’s go take a look.”

We head over, dodging the debris along the way. We come to a small crater, not more than three cars wide lined up door to door, and only about eight feet deep.

“A C-130 made that?” I ask Colonel Sowada.

“Yes. It went straight in. Take a look.” He points across the crater. I follow his finger and see a burned outline of the plane’s right wing stretching across the desert floor. I look to the left and see another one. Both outlines connect to the crater. “The nose and the fuselage created the crater.”

“Where’s all the wreckage?” I had expected to see big hunks of aluminum, engine parts, and chunks of the fuselage. But the debris field is very small, only a few yards surrounding the crater, and none of the pieces I see are larger than man-size.

“Aviation fuel burns hot,” Sowada’s engineer says.

“Could there be parts of the plane elsewhere?” Brad asks. He adds, “Wouldn’t that happen if it came apart in midair?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t look like that happened. The fireball just consumed the plane.”

“Well, let’s get to work,” Colonel Sowada orders.

As the air force team descends into the crater, I sketch the crash site in my notebook. When I finish, I take photographs with a small push-here-dummy 35 mm camera.

The air force team works dutifully through the morning heat. By noon, we’re all baking and I retreat to a lean-to for a break. I notice our Pakistani guests are busy working around another tent. Curious, I watch them. They’re setting up lunch. The Pakistanis heap racks of lamb, piles of fruit, and other morsels onto a series of long tables.

Colonel Sowada comes over and sits down next to Brad and me. He looks over at the activity and marvels, “Jesus. It’s the buffet at the end of the world.”

I pull out my notebook and write “Initial Thoughts” on a fresh page. “Colonel, what do you think so far?”

Sowada’s ready for the question. “I can tell you this: No missile hit that plane. It crashed intact, probably at a sixty-to sixty-five-degree angle.”

“What about a bomb on board?” I’m thinking of the crates of mangoes brought on board just before PAK-1 left the airport.

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“There’s no evidence to support a bomb. No blast damage on the pieces we’ve examined, and nothing fell off the plane before it went down. If a bomb brought it down, the debris field would stretch for miles.”

I write all of this down.

“Everything points to control loss,” Colonel Sowada continues. “The Herk went in at about 175 to 200 knots indicated. That’s below normal cruise, which is about 290. It must not have been very high. It went straight in.”

The air force team’s pathologist climbs out of the crater and approaches us. He’s got horn-rimmed glasses that are spotted with drips of perspiration. “Not a lot of human remains,” he tells Sowada. “The Pakistanis already removed most of what was left. Muslim custom dictated that.”

I ask, “Were autopsies done on the pilots or crew?”

The doc shakes his head. “No. They were interred within twenty-four hours. The only autopsies that will come out of this crash will be on the Americans. But that’s assuming we can find their remains.”

He hands Colonel Sowada a charred wallet. The folds appear to be melted together. “Put this with the other personal items. We’ll try to identify it later,” he tells the pathologist, as he gives the wallet back to him. The doc does as told, then returns to the crater.

Cheech interrupts us next. “We have found a witness to the crash.”

That excites me. Right now, I’m feeling like a third wheel. “Can we interview him?”

“Yes. We will take you to him after lunch.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

Cheech departs for the crater. Colonel Sowada and I return to our conversation.

“So the plane dove straight into the ground. It was intact before it hit, with no sign of an onboard explosion. A missile didn’t hit it. What could have done this?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe mechanical failure of some kind.”

“Or somebody killed the pilots,” Brad ventures.

If the cockpit door was open or unlocked, it could have happened.

“It would have had to happen fast, before the pilots had a chance to resist,” Brad says.

“Or radio a Mayday,” I add.

From the crater, we hear the pathologist shout. Standing on the rim, he’s holding a charred human femur.

I look over at the buffet. I see a leg of lamb, and my stomach executes a slow roll.

“Let’s go see what the witness saw,” I suggest.

We climb into the Range Rover with Cheech, a soldier-driver, and a couple other ISI types. After another wild ride, we come to the edge of a small village. We park and wait as the ISI guys go off to retrieve the witness. They return with Methuselah. At least he looks as old as Methuselah. He wears a dirty white robe and frayed sandals. His face reflects the harshness of his homeland. It is furrowed with wrinkles and worry lines.

“This is the shepherd who saw the plane crash,” Cheech tells us. “Ask him anything and I will translate.”

Methuselah looks terrified. With wide eyes flanked by deep crow’s-feet and topped by big, bushy gray eyebrows, he practically trembles with fear—no doubt because of all the ISI interest in the case. The ISI spooks are not known for their gentle demeanor inside Pakistan.

I try to set him at ease. As I offer my hand, I give him a wide, friendly smile. This surprises him, but he takes my hand and tries to smile in return. He doesn’t have a tooth left in his mouth.

In a perfect world, we would have an embassy staffer translating for us, and we’d be interviewing this witness far from the intimidating presence of Pakistani intelligence. But we have no control here. We’ve got to go with what we’re given.

“Colonel, please ask him to describe what he saw for us.”

Cheech says something in Pashto. The shepherd replies. Cheech turns to us and says, “He was with his goats when he saw the plane. It was low. At first, he says it was flying straight.”

The shepherd interrupts and tells Cheech something. “He says it started to go up and down.”

“Up and down?” I ask.

“Yes. Just a minute.” Cheech starts talking in Pashto again.

Methuselah gets very animated. With one hand, he makes a porpoising sort of gesture. His hand oscillates up and down. It looks like he’s describing a roller-coaster ride.

“He says the plane went up and down, up and down. It grew worse and worse until it went nose down and crashed.”

“How long did it make those movements?”

Cheech asks Methuselah. “He says at least several minutes.”

“Several minutes? Are you sure?”

They have an animated discussion. Finally, Cheech reports, “Yes. He’s sure of it. He watched the plane nose up and nose down across much of the sky in his view.”

I make the same gesture the shepherd just made with my own hand. The shepherd nods vigorously.

“Ask him if he saw something hit the plane, or if he saw pieces fall off.”

The shepherd shakes his head as he answers the question. Cheech tells us, “No. Nothing hit the plane. It was flying along normally one minute. The next it was going up and down. No pieces fell off that he saw.”

“Ask him if he saw a missile fired at the C-130.”

Cheech does this, then grudgingly reports, “He does not know what a missile is. But he didn’t see any streaks of fire or light rising from the ground.”

“How high was the plane when it started to go in?”

“He is just a shepherd. He knows nothing of flight.”

A stick lies on the ground nearby. I pick it up and point to the sky. “Where between the stars and the ground was it?”

The shepherd does his best to show us. I can’t make any sense of it.

How are we going to get an altitude estimate from this man? I scan the sky, mind racing. In the distance, I see a bird circling lazily. That gives me an idea.

“Was the plane flying as high as an eagle flies, or lower?”

Cheech asks him. “About as high as an eagle flies. He says he doesn’t see many planes. This one, when it crashed, made his goats panic. They ran away and it took a long time to find them again.”

One last question. “Colonel, ask him about the weather. Was there any lightning? Could lightning have hit the plane? What about wind?”

“He says it was a clear day, hot. Little wind. No lightning. He’s sure nothing hit the plane.”

We thank Methuselah for his time. I’d like to do something for him, give him something for what he’s given us, but I have nothing of value on me. We part ways after another round of handshaking.

Cheech slips into the front passenger seat, then twists around to get his eyes on us. “Did you get what you needed?”

“Absolutely. But if we need to talk to him again, can you find him?”

“Of course. We can find anyone in our country. Anyone we wish at any time we want.”

No wonder Methuselah was so frightened. We drive back to the crash site in silence.