Uncontrolled flight, p.12
Uncontrolled Flight, page 12
“Will?”
I turned to see a tall, fit man with a grey crewcut, hand extended. “I’m Roy. Good of you to make the time.” His grip was mighty and he held on a fraction longer than necessary. “We appreciate it.”
“Sure.” Like I had a choice.
Roy led me past the front desk. “Luanne, I’ll be in the boardroom. Lyndon too. No interruptions, okay?” If Luanne heard him there was no sign of it. She stabbed furiously at the keyboard, headset bobbing with every stroke. I pictured her shouting football plays into a mouthpiece, a field of oversized men quaking at her feet.
We turned the corner and entered a boardroom that was what you’d expect: beige walls, big flat-screen TV at one end, ceiling-mounted projector, no windows except a tall glass panel beside the door that gave a slivered glimpse of the equally beige hallway outside. Up the centre of the room ran a veneer conference table surrounded by a dozen chairs, few of which matched. In one of them sprawled a long-limbed man with a scrubbed face and thinning blond hair. He stood to shake my hand. “Good to see you again,” he said from several inches above me. “We met two weeks ago at the crash site. Lyndon Johnson.”
There must be some minimum height requirement for this job, I thought, forgetting for the moment Nathalie, roughly the size of an adolescent.
Lyndon waited a few beats before adding: “Like the American President.”
I stared at him, lost.
“My name. Like the former US President, Lyndon Johnson.”
“Oh, right. I’m Will. Like … Will Werner. Well, you know that.”
Lyndon’s smile flashed like a shark’s bite. My cheeks flamed. I was what you might call ill at ease.
“Take a seat,” said Roy, indicating the other side of the table. He settled in beside Lyndon and nudged a small voice recorder that sat on the table. “You don’t mind if we record this.”
It didn’t sound like a question. “I guess not.”
Roy switched the recorder on. “Standard procedure. If at any point you want it off, that’s fine. It’s your choice.” He glanced down at a pad of yellow paper covered with writing. “I’m the IIC, the investigator in charge of this incident. Lyndon is the technical investigator. He’ll ask you some questions on the mechanical side. I’m looking into the operational stuff, flight patterns, pilot decision-making, timing of the drops, that sort of thing. We may be here awhile, so if you need a break just say so. Washroom’s down the hall to the left, water cooler’s right behind you. Any questions before we start?”
“I can’t think of any.”
“All right. Please state your full name and position.”
“William Joseph Werner. That’s Werner with a W, not a V the way it sounds. Bird dog pilot with West Air Flight Services.”
“How long have you been with West Air?”
“Ten years, since 2003. Though I did some part-time flying with them for two years before that.”
“And your pilot experience before West Air?”
I walked them through it: first flying lesson at fourteen, a birthday gift from my dad; private pilot’s licence at sixteen; commercial training once I dropped out of university; and once I qualified to fly commercially, four years in small planes around central and northern BC, spelling off regular pilots at any company that would have me.
“How’d you get on at West Air?” Roy asked.
“This floatplane pilot I’d worked with in Fort St. John got hired there. We’d stayed in touch, the odd phone call here and there, he invited me to his wedding, that sort of thing. He calls out of the blue to say they’re looking for someone who can start right away. Two pilots bailed at the beginning of the season, health problems the way I understand it, and the company was in a panic. He put in a good word for me, said I was a fast learner. That’s mainly what they needed under the circumstances.”
“How long did you work with Rafe?”
“We started full-time at West Air the same year, so ten years.”
“Were you usually the one to fly bird dog with him?”
“We were pretty much always a team. That’s usually how it goes. If they get a bird dog and a tanker pilot who work in synch, they tend to keep them together. It’s more efficient. Safer too. The more you fly together, the better you can read each other. You know how your partner operates, how he likes to do a drop, whether he’s careful and picky or more fast and loose. You know, is he a Boy Scout or a cowboy. You get to the point where you practically know what he’s going to do before he does it.”
“Fascinating,” said Lyndon. I’d been wondering when he would chime in. “Sounds not unlike a loved one, say a spouse.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean? “Uh, more like someone you’ve known a long time, like an old friend or a family member.” I shifted in the lumpy chair. It felt the way I imagine a camel’s back would. “It’s like a family at West Air. There’s not a lot of turnover. Rafe … God, it was the last thing anyone expected.”
Roy nodded. Lyndon played with a silver pen, spinning it around on the table, so caught up in the action that I wondered if they’d finished, until Lyndon started in again.
“So tell us in your own words what happened that day.”
My own words? Who else’s would I use? I bit my lip and pulled myself back to the beginning. “I went up with Ernie Louis. He’s an air attack officer with the BC ministry of forests, the one I fly with most of the time in the Interior. You’re talking to him too, right?”
“Mmm,” said Lyndon. “The Indian.”
If this guy was trying to put me at ease, he was failing big time. The pen-spinning was bad enough. Now he was giving off serious asshole vibes.
I did my best to stay calm. “So we go up to assess the situation, do our dummy run. We overfly the area twice so Ernie can get a handle on the fire and the wind. We talk it over and decide how much of a load Rafe should drop and where. We come up with the circuit he should fly — basically drop retardant along the outer edges of the fire to box it in and keep it from spreading. The wind wasn’t too bad. It was supposed to pick up later, but at that point it was only a breeze so we didn’t have to adjust much for load drift. It also meant a simple drop, an equal release of retardant on all four sides, since the fire wasn’t trending in any one direction.”
“What about the terrain?” asked Roy.
“Straightforward. The ground rose a little on the west and east flanks of the fire, but it was gradual, maybe seven, eight percent. Not too steep. The plan was for Rafe to fly those parts of the circuit downhill so he wouldn’t have to drop into rising terrain. It was an easy circuit to fly.”
“What about the trees?” Roy asked. “How’d they look from the air?”
My tongue felt dry and sticky. I knew we’d get to the trees. “They were tall, mature. Eighty-five, a hundred feet? It was an even-age stand — you know, the trees all roughly the same height, no huge ones sticking out above the rest. We ordered up an even, steady flight, climbing after takeoff and then levelling off to come in parallel with the terrain on the south flank of the fire. And of course we did the dummy run first so he’d know what circuit to fly and where to drop.” I looked at Roy, then Lyndon — looked them square in the face — and brought my fingers to my jaw where I’d nicked it. “There was nothing unusual about the run. The trees he clipped — well, I still don’t get it. They were visible. The visibility was good up there over top of the fire.”
Lyndon treated me to another predatory grin. It did not add to his appeal. His neat blond hair and shiny round cheeks suggested health and innocence with a strong vein of ugly underneath, like a televangelist or a pedophile. “Earlier you mentioned that when you fly with a pilot for a certain length of time, you learn whether he is more of a” —he consulted his notes — “more of a Boy Scout or a cowboy. How would you describe Rafe?”
Fuck. I saw instantly that I had set a trap and placed it right at my own feet. That’s why I won’t play chess, despite the hours my father spent trying to teach me. You need to think ahead more, he’d say. You’ve got the moves down, but you have to get inside your opponent’s head and figure out how he’s likely to react.
Once again I had proved that I’m not the tactician my dad hoped for but instead a bone-headed idiot. I licked my lips. “Rafe was a highly experienced pilot who was known for his accuracy.”
“He had, what? Eighteen years as an aerial firefighter?” Roy asked, glancing at his yellow pad.
Lyndon spoke before I could. “You say he was known for his accuracy. Enlighten us further.”
“He made a lot of bull’s eyes, more than anyone.” Lyndon’s eyebrows drew together, so I explained. “A bull’s eye is when you drop the load exactly where you’re instructed to. You have to release it at the exact right second and pull up at the exact right spot. Rafe was very good at that.”
“Presumably this bull’s eye is a desirable accomplishment,” Lyndon said.
“Right. It’s like getting a hundred on a test. It’s what the tanker pilots are always shooting for.”
“But getting a hundred isn’t always a good thing.” Lyndon leaned back slightly and continued to play with his pen. “Sometimes getting a hundred has certain … drawbacks.”
My right knee began to jackhammer up and down. “I’m not following.”
Lyndon gave the pen a few more spins. “Some people are so keen to score a hundred that they will go to any lengths to do so. They may act in ways that they know are wrong, like copying another student’s answers or procuring the test beforehand. They are so badly in need of the perfect mark that they take risks which could put them in serious jeopardy.”
There was a risk I wanted to take, and it was to grab the goddamned pen and plunge it into that asshole’s smug round face. Roy must’ve sensed something because he leaned toward Lyndon and neatly smacked the silver pen, stopping it in mid-rotation. The thud of metal on table left the room resoundingly quiet.
“Time for a break,” said Roy. He turned to me. “Can I get you a coffee?”
“I’m not in need of a break,” Lyndon said. “Are you, Mr. Werner?”
“I need a break,” Roy said. “Interview suspended.” He shut off the recorder and I let out a long breath.
Which Lyndon heard, loud and clear. “Feeling better now?” he asked.
I touched my nicked jaw. “I’m feeling fine.” You asshole, I wanted to say.
Lyndon pushed back his chair and angled his broad face, beaming nastily, toward mine. “Because you seem a little tense to me. It must be difficult trying to protect your friend. Your cowboy friend.”
You bastard, I thought. You fucking desk jockey. You don’t know the first thing about it.
His eyes glittered. “You feel better now? Think you turned a cowboy into a Boy Scout?”
I stood up so fast the chair rolled away behind me. “Shut up, okay? Just — stop.” I fought to contain my voice. “We’re talking about my partner. For ten years he’s the person I work with and eat with and joke around with. Every single day, okay? And he’s dead. He died right in front of me, do you get that? It happened in a second” — I snapped my fingers — “one fucking second and his life is done. Over. He’s gone. So no, I don’t feel fucking better. Not about any fucking thing.”
“Okay, Will, okay. Take it easy.” Roy touched my arm. “Don’t let this one rile you up. He’s not our most sensitive investigator.”
Lyndon grunted. “I am sensitive to many things.” He turned and strode out of the room.
* * *
By the time Roy and I had finished cups of strong, dark coffee in the TSB kitchen, the volcano inside me had subsided some. We returned to the boardroom. Lyndon was nowhere to be seen, but Roy switched on the recorder just the same. After a few more questions about the day of the accident — our alert status, weather, visibility, comms with the Cariboo Fire Centre — he asked about the weeks leading up to the crash, our working hours and rest days. That part was easy. West Air has strict ceilings on how long we can work. Skipping our days off is out of the question, no matter how busy we get.
“So from what you saw on the job,” said Roy, “or from what Rafe told you, would you say that in the period leading up to the accident he was fatigued?”
“No, he was not.”
The door opened and in walked Lyndon, looking more smug and superior than before the break.
“Was he unwell or sick? Complaining of a headache or any other physical problem?”
“No.”
“Was he stressed?” Roy continued. “Acting different?”
I tried desperately to think like a chess player but at the same time wanted to be truthful. “Not stressed. I would say he was a bit quiet at one point. Not as talkative as usual.”
“Distracted?” Lyndon said, settling himself in.
“No. Quiet.”
“How long had he been that way?” Lyndon asked.
I touched my jaw. No way could I say a couple of months. They’d have a field day with that. But I couldn’t lie either. “Hard to say. It’s been a tough patch for all of us, not just Rafe. We’ve been on yellow and red alerts a good while. You almost forget what it’s like to not be on call.”
“So why was he not himself?” Lyndon asked.
“I never said he wasn’t himself. I said he was quiet. I have no idea why. The busy season, I guess, like the rest of us.” Lyndon was spinning his pen around again. Was it some interview technique for when the subject-matter got heavy? Was it supposed to make me think he was all nonchalant, barely listening, before he trapped me?
Lyndon kept his gaze on the twirling pen. “What about his marriage? Was that a factor?”
“What do you mean, a factor?”
“In his behaviour leading up to the crash. A factor in his being stressed.”
“I keep telling you, he was quiet, not stressed. Why would it be?”
“I’m asking you.”
Strategic thinking had abandoned me, and I honestly had no idea where he was headed. “I don’t know. Seems pretty unlikely.”
Lyndon gave his pen a couple more spins for good measure, then, thank God, stopped. He looked me straight in the eyes. “No need to pretend, Will. We are aware that Rafe’s marriage was, shall we say, troubled. We have confirmed that two months before his death, he and his wife separated and he moved into a furnished studio apartment in New Westminster.”
My mouth fell open. What the fuck? What kind of sick joke was this? “Yeah, right.”
“We have plenty of proof. Paperwork, witnesses, not to mention confirmation from his wife.”
Impossible. They were solid, those two. They loved each other for real, the way my mom and dad did. Besides, Rafe would’ve told me.
And yet … As the idea sank in, I realized it explained a lot: Rafe’s remoteness, his weight loss, his solemn face the morning that would be his last. I rubbed my jaw and noticed, when I removed my fingers, a faint smear of blood. Damn!
“Call me crazy,” Lyndon continued, “but it seems more than a mere coincidence. Rafe rents his own apartment two months before the crash, he begins to act distracted around the same —”
“He wasn’t distracted! I never said distracted. The recorder’s still going. Do I need to play it back to you?”
“Calm down, Mr. Werner,” Lyndon said. “Not distracted, perhaps, but you said different, out of sorts. It makes sense, don’t you think? A long marriage ends, it takes a toll on a man. He becomes withdrawn, depressed, suicidal even —”
I slammed the table with my hand, fuck the blood, and stood up. “Quit putting words in my mouth, you asshole! I told you, Rafe was fine. He did everything right. He was an excellent pilot with a spotless record. He was one of the best air tanker pilots on the continent. He was reliable, he was well rested, he was himself, he was full of life —”
The sickening irony of what I’d just said landed like a sucker punch. The investigators looked at me, waiting for me to continue, maybe taking in my bleeding jaw, and they may have kept on looking, but I’ll never know because I left the room, left the building, climbed into the shaded cab of my black Tacoma, and drove the fuck away.
* * *
My thoughts reeled. How could Rafe and Sharon have split? And how could I not have known? Sure, Rafe barely mentioned Sharon this season, but as I told that sanctimonious American president prick, he was quiet about everything. And so what if he was quiet? When, during this summer of nonstop fires, have any of us had time to shoot the shit?
I peeled out of the TSB lot, corner of an old tissue stuck to my jaw, steaming. If only I’d had the balls to plant my fist in that bastard’s corn-fed cheek.
I pointed the truck southwest, toward Steveston. I had to cool down before showing my face back at the office. Maybe half an hour of fishing boats and seagulls would do it.
As I sped down the highway, a classic Zeppelin mix cranked as loud as my ears could handle, I thought back to the last time I’d seen Rafe and Sharon together. It was the West Air Christmas party last year, a big do at the Rolling Acres Country Club. I went with Justine, a friend of Andy’s I get together with sometimes, mainly for formal occasions. She always looks like she stepped out of a fashion spread, every hair in place, every nail perfectly painted, never the same outfit twice. She loves to dress up and she hates to be touched. Andy was clear about that before he ever introduced us. “She is strictly a gorgeous companion, all right? Try anything and I am no longer your friend.”
Rafe and Sharon arrived late that night, I remember that. I’d been watching for them. My plan was to stick close to Rafe until the stand-up cocktails ended and the awkward business of musical chairs began. Justine was a looker but she was reserved — shy, I think, under all her perfection — and if the evening was going to be any fun for her, I’d have to snag seats beside Rafe, not get stuck at a table of bores.
You know how some people carry an energy field around them? Rafe was like that. Put him with Sharon and they had the wattage of a substation. I don’t know if it was his vitality rubbing off on her or if she gave off her own sparks, but that night, when they entered the private dining room Jeff had rented, mine wasn’t the only head to turn. They glided into the room like stars on the red carpet. They were dressed like stars too, certainly better than those of us who had that afternoon dusted off the only sports jacket and tie we owned. Rafe wore a real suit, which he filled prodigiously. Sharon was in some swishy dress that bared her back and offered regular flashes of leg. In heels she stood nearly as tall as Rafe, cementing the impression of a single stunning unit.
