A dark-brown Ford Bronco negotiated a route up the stony incline guided by a line of red-and-white tape strung between metal rods embedded in the coarse, grassy soil. The off-roader eventually crested the ridge, revealing the devastation—a wide sprawl of twisted wreckage, scorched earth, and scattered human remains spread across Oregon’s rugged highlands.

The young driver inhaled sharply, stunned. In the passenger seat, a tall, lean man in his late forties placed a steady hand on the dash.

“Stop here.”

The vehicle came to a halt. Without a word, the man climbed out. He moved with a quiet, deliberate assurance. Deep lines creased his weathered face, his greying hair tousled by the breeze. Through gold-rimmed spectacles, his eyes scanned the devastation. He lit a Marlboro Gold with a silver lighter, inhaled deeply, and exhaled a plume of blue smoke. It steadied him.

Henry Grover, Lead Investigator with the National Transportation Safety Board, had seen crash sites before. But nothing like this. Not since Korea. Even then, the destruction hadn’t felt this… intimate.

He passed a collapsed seat cushion. A white teddy bear lay beneath it, surprisingly clean, the tag still attached. Likely bought at the airport. Grover picked it up, hesitated, then tucked it under one arm. He knew better than to let emotion interfere—but he was a father. He walked on.

A white canvas tent stood at the site’s edge. His deputy emerged to meet him.

“Henry,” said John Martinez, balding and heavyset, sweat darkening his collar. “Crimson Air Flight CM822. Dallas to Portland. 148 passengers. Five crew. No survivors.”

Grover nodded.

“Explosion?”

“That’s what Portland ATC heard. Mayday came in at 1300 hours. Said they were hit by something. Lost two tail engines.”

Grover took the field handset.

“This is Grover. NTSB.”

“Dick Brock, ATC. Sir, the pilot said they were rocked hard—some kind of blast. Then static. Gone in under five minutes.”

“Send the recording.”

“Yes, sir.”

Grover hung up. Around him, technicians sifted through the wreckage. Firefighters stood among scorched trees. Further north, blackened soil showed where the aircraft had ruptured on impact. The cockpit was wedged deep in the forest.

Grover crouched near a shard of fuselage—scorched, jagged, and out of place. He narrowed his eyes. Something felt off. But he said nothing yet.

“Have troopers block access,” he told Martinez. “I want no contamination. Souvenir hunters will be crawling out of the woodwork.”

“Already requested backup. Generators and lights on the way.”

“Good,” Grover said. He looked down at the bear, then up at the burning hill. “Let’s find the black boxes. And let’s find out what did this.”

 

 ♦♦♦♦

 

Portland, Oregon – 12:36 p.m.

Mason Lee jammed the key into his Ford sedan’s door, slid inside, and locked it. His hands trembled. He stared into the rearview mirror, eyes wide. Sweat clung to his brow.

“Get a grip,” he muttered.

He started the engine, merged onto I-205, and headed for the airport. His thoughts raced. Were they onto him? Would someone intercept him?

He had lied to his wife. Skipped the team meeting. Taken the briefcase. And now? He wasn’t sure he’d make it.

Then, without warning—a jolt.

A cement truck slammed into the rear of his car. His head cracked against the windshield. The sedan flipped and skidded into oncoming traffic.

A second truck—a freight haulier—crashed into the overturned vehicle, crushing it against the median.

Silence.

From the crowd of gathering bystanders, a man stepped down from the cement truck. He had a slight limp and wore grease-stained boots. He watched the scene with clinical detachment. His gaze lingered on the mangled corpse behind the fractured glass. Then he turned, walked back to the truck, climbed in, and drove away.

The job was done.