"Yeah." I nodded and stared at the video images of the crash scene that were being shown over and over as a variety of people spoke over the images. The wreckage still burned in the ravine. You could make out the skeleton of a helicopter and the path of destruction where it had ripped through the trees. There was no trench in the ground or the trees. Marine One had come straight down.

A large, dark green tarp covered a large portion of the wreckage site. I couldn't figure out how or why they had erected a tarp, then remembered the news helicopters. A lot of sensitive evidence could be on the ground. Like bodies. Like the president's charred body. Not something for the news helicopters to feature around the world.

Rachel asked, "Think we'll get a case from this?" Rachel worked with me both on the criminal defense work I did, and aviation cases. She hadn't been a pilot when she started with me four years before, but had gotten her private pilot's license within a year. She loved it and was working toward her commercial license.

"Probably thinking about the security clearances. Lots of French workers didn't have the clearances the people at Sikorsky had. Remember all that yelling from Congress? They said if the contract for the new Marine One helicopter went to a French company, it would expose the president to assassination by helicopter. They picked the French company anyway. They're probably scared shitless right now."

Rachel stood up. "Maybe they did just kill the president."

"Well, maybe they're about to be our client, so don't jump to any conclusions. What do we know so far?" I asked.

Rachel sipped her coffee, pushed her black hair behind her ear, and said, "Departed the South Lawn around ten PM heading to Camp David. Secret Service wanted to drive, president wanted to fly. Marine pilot okayed the flight. Apparently he had a ton-"

"What was his name?"

"Chuck Collins." They all looked at me. "You know him?"

I knew him all right. Not personally as much as by reputation. Everyone in Marine helicopters, even in the reserves, was shocked when he was selected as the commanding officer of HMX-1 to fly the president. There had been a stunned silence in the Corps. We couldn't imagine how a pilot who was widely known to despise the president had become his chief pilot. Most had shrugged and put it down as one of the many ironies of life. Others had simply waited for something dramatic to happen, which they thought was inevitable. But what most expected was an anonymous book or article exposing the president as a fraud or a philanderer and Collins being fired in disgrace.

Rachel broke my train of thought. "So, do you?"

"Know him? Yeah, sort of. Not very well. Reputation mostly. Without a doubt, one of the best pilots in the Corps." He could fly anything. He'd flown F/A-18s, then transferred to helicopters. Nobody did that, but he did. He wanted to work with the grunts, get shot at and shoot back instead of dropping bombs. He had supposedly said he wanted to "watch 'em die" when he was in combat. None of this above-the-fray-anonymous-bomb-dropping-steak-eating existence for him. What a piece of work. But a great pilot. Several combat tours, highly decorated, brave, heroic even. But how had he become the president's pilot? Had the interviewers been so dazzled they didn't see what he was like? We had all wondered, but had frankly forgotten about it.

Rachel went on, "So he changed altitude a couple of times looking for clear air. Kept moving around. Last transmission to ATC said he was out of control."

"They interviewed the controller?"

"Yeah, and they've already recovered the FDR, even though it's pretty burned. They've taken it back to D.C."

I felt stupid. If you'd asked me whether Marine One had a flight data recorder, I wouldn't have known. Airliners all have them, but most other planes don't. It made sense that they'd put one in Marine One, particularly the new model. "What about the CVR?" The cockpit voice recorder, a hard drive that recorded everything the pilots or crew said.

"Still looking for it."

"What's everyone saying happened?" I asked.

Rachel leaned back slightly. "First on was that senator from Mississippi- "

"Blankenship," Berberian said.

"He called a press conference at the Capitol. Said exactly what you just said." Rachel imitated Blankenship's voice: " 'I hate to say I told you so, but I said if we picked this foreign company to build Marine One, admittedly with an American company as the front, that there could be trouble. I'm now told we never even completed the security clearances of the European workers before this helicopter was delivered. Now it's come to this. I'm calling for a full investigation into the construction and security of the helicopter, particularly the parts made overseas.' "

Rachel said, "He said if it wasn't intentional, then it was a defective helicopter, and that's almost as bad. So he got two I told you so's, which clearly pleased him. Then there were the usual experts. One former NTSB investigator said it was almost certainly the weather." The NTSB was the National Transportation Safety Board. They were responsible for investigating all major crashes in the United States, and sometimes outside the United States. They had trained investigators, one of whom was in charge of any investigation. Those investigators would often retire and go into private consulting work doing the same thing for private parties for a lot more money.

"Pretty good guess."

"Not if you listen to the other former NTSB investigator. He said this helicopter could handle that weather no problem. Wouldn't be comfortable, but wouldn't cause it to crash, and they were too high for a wind shear to knock them down."

"That's also true. What else?" I asked.

"Then there was the former helicopter pilot with a million flight hours who suspects foul play. Said these Marine One pilots are the best helicopter pilots in the world flying the strongest and best helicopter in the world. Wouldn't be maintenance, not with the way they take care of Marine One. He said it was either a missile or a midair by another plane that wasn't squawking."

"Squawking?" Berberian asked.

I answered, "Had their transponder turned off so Washington control couldn't see them on their radars, at least not easily. Might be the only way you could get another airplane close to the president in the air." I watched the video on the screen zoom in on a large rotor blade that was close to the rest of the wreckage. It was nearly intact. "It'd be pretty hard to shoot down a helicopter in the dark through a thunderstorm. Could be done with radar and fire control, but it wouldn't be easy. And I promise you not by some random guy with a Stinger in his trunk."

"Marine One have antimissile defenses?"

"Sure," I answered.

"What sort?"

"You're not cleared for that."

Berberian laughed. "You don't know, do you?"

I looked over his way. "Actually I do. But I can't talk about it."

He was puzzled. "Why the hell not?"

"Because I fly that helicopter every month, Rick. I know the Secret Supplement."

"The what?"

"The book that describes all the classified equipment."

Berberian wasn't persuaded. He wanted the inside scoop and was pissed I wouldn't give it to him.

Rachel poured another cup of coffee and headed toward the door while I watched the political commentators in front of the White House discussing the swearing in of the vice president, Donald Cunningham, the former senator from Illinois. "Shall we call Kathryn?" she asked.

"We?"

"Aren't I going to be involved?" Rachel asked.

"In the case, or investigation, whatever it is, probably; but not the phone call. I'm not going to make this call on a speakerphone."