“How do you mean?”

“We’ve been ferrying people out of Guam for the last two days. Physicists, biologists, mathematicians, you name it. Everybody being flown to the middle of nowhere in the Pacific Ocean.”

“What’s going on?” Norman said.

The pilot glanced at him, eyes unreadable behind dark aviator sunglasses. “They’re not telling us anything, sir. What about you? What’d they tell you?”

“They told me,” Norman said, “that there was an airplane crash.”

“Uh-huh,” the pilot said. “You get called on crashes?”

“I have been, yes.”

For a decade, Norman Johnson had been on the list of FAA crash-site teams, experts called on short notice to investigate civilian air disasters. The first time had been at the United Airlines crash in San Diego in 1976; then he had been called to Chicago in ‘78, and Dallas in ‘82. Each time the pattern was the same-the hurried telephone call, frantic packing, the absence for a week or more. This time his wife, Ellen, had been annoyed because he was called away on July 1, which meant he would miss their July 4 beach barbecue. Then, too, Tim was coming back from his sophomore year at Chicago, on his way to a summer job in the Cascades. And Amy, now sixteen, was just back from Andover, and Amy and Ellen didn’t get along very well if Norman wasn’t there to mediate. The Volvo was making noises again. And it was possible Norman might miss his mother’s birthday the following week. “What crash is it?” Ellen had said. “I haven’t heard about any crash.” She turned on the radio while he packed. There was no news on the radio of an airline crash.

When the car pulled up in front of his house, Norman had been surprised to see it was a Navy pool sedan, with a uniformed Navy driver.

“They never sent a Navy car the other times,” Ellen said, following him down the stairs to the front door. “Is this a military crash?”

“I don’t know,” he said.