Page 36 of Rising Tiger

“Controlled flight into terrain.”

“You’re saying you believe it was pilot error?”

He nodded. “Maybe different evidence will be found at the crash site, but from my perspective, there is nothing to suggest a technical issue. Nor sabotage.”

“Why would you think sabotage might be a possibility?”

“You’re DSC,” the flight mechanic stated, pointing at her uniform. “That’s the kind of thing you handle, isn’t it?”

Asha nodded. “Yes.”

“I think your investigation is going to be short-lived.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I was with that helicopter the entire time. I never took my eyes off of it until General Mehra boarded and he and his party took off. Not even the invisible man could have made it past me.”

“You would have been able to see the invisible man?” she asked.

“No,” Siddiqui replied, “but I would have seen the fog swirl as he tried to access the aircraft. And that’s why I believe the cause of the crash was”—he began to say CFIT again, but stopped himself midsentence and said—“pilot error. Because of the terrain and the way in which the weather changes here, visibility likely worsened as they traveled closer to Wellington.”

It was possible, Asha reasoned. It was probably even the most likely explanation. But it didn’t explain Siddiqui being publicly identified as the chief flight mechanic, along with his religion. That part felt too coordinated, too prepared in advance.

She put the question to him again, told him to take his time, but the man remained unable to come up with any names of anyone who might have exposed him.

Asha believed him—both in that the helicopter hadn’t been sabotaged and that he had no clue who had outed him.

She debated whether it was worth her time to visit the crash site. That type of investigation was largely outside her realm of expertise.

There were trained investigators on scene who, ostensibly, would be able to spot any indication that a bomb or a missile of some sort had brought down the helo.

But barring that sort of evidence, she was leaning heavily toward Sergeant Siddiqui’s assessment—pilot error coupled with poor visibility.

She was about to release Siddiqui so that he could take his family over to the temporary base housing that had been arranged for them, when Khan knocked and stuck his head into the office.

“Phone call, ma’am. Line two. Major Badal.”

She picked it up. “Yes, Major?”

“I need you to come to Coonoor.”

“To the crash site?”

“No,” Badal responded, “to the police station. There’s something you need to see.”

She was flown up on the same HAL Dhruv, with the same Indian Air Force crew, that had hot-washed the rioters and the Coimbatore police.

At her request, the pilots flew the same route as General Mehra’s helicopter and then circled the crash site for several minutes so that she could take it all in.

There were few words she could have chosen to describe it. Wreckage was scattered everywhere. Trees had been snapped like toothpicks. The surrounding forest had been charred black.

On a large patch of grass near the town of Coonoor police station, the Dhruv touched down and disgorged its sole passenger. Major Badal was waiting for her.

She saluted the superior officer and followed him inside. Like every other police station she had ever set foot inside, it smelled like stale chai mixed with cigarettes that had been not-so-covertly smoked in the station restroom. There was a ton of activity going on, no doubt in response to the crash.

Badal led her to a small, empty conference room that had been set up as a war room and closed the door behind them. On the desk was a laptop computer with two attachments—a projector and what appeared to be some sort of SD card reader.

“Next to the head constable, who processed this evidence when it arrived, and the inspector in charge of this station, no one else has seen what I am about to show you,” said Badal.