Borderline

By David Crookes

1970... A Mexican truck driver transporting illegal migrants into the United States is shot dead in Arizona by a U.S. Border Patrol officer.
Thirty years later, after an airline crash, Hope Lacy, a high-profile television and current affairs presenter from a prominent Chicago family, discovers that her entire privileged life has been a lie, that the woman she always believed to be her mother was not her mother at all.
With her lover an Illinois state senator, and her father a wealthy construction industry magnate, Hope is well connected at the highest levels and using her influence in the media, she embarks on a desperate search for the truth about her origins.
But her road to discovery become increasingly dangerous when she finds deceit, betrayal, political corruption and even murder lying around almost every corner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Crookes
• Release date: Dec 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9780980825268

David Crookes

David Crookes self-published his first novel BLACKBIRD in 1996. It was quickly picked up by Hodder Headline, now HATCHETTE GROUP, and became a best seller in multiple editions, as did THE LIGHT HORSEMAN'S DAUGHTER and SOMEDAY SOON and other titles. Now most of his many novels are available as ebooks. David was born in Southampton, England. After living in Canada for twenty-three years he moved to Queensland, Australia with his wife and children. He has worked in many occupations, as a farm hand, factory worker, lumber-mill worker, costing surveyor, salesman, contractor, oilfield and construction industry executive and as a small business owner. He now writes fulltime. His travels have taken him to many parts of the world and his particular passion, apart from writing is single-handed ocean sailing.His novels include:BlackbirdThe Light Horseman's DaughterSomeday SoonChildren of the SunRedcoatBorderlineGreat Spirit ValleyThe Bookkeeper's Daughter

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

U.S. MEXICAN BORDER 1970

Just before the sun rose over the twin towns of Nogales, Arizona, and Nogales, Sonora, the persistent ringing of a bedside telephone in a small weatherboard house on the American side finally woke a U.S. Border Patrol agent from a deep, dreamless sleep.

‘Yeah.’

‘Sorry to wake you buddy, but we might have a problem.’

‘Like what?’

‘Miguel Mendoza's truck just crossed the line with thirty thousand pounds of tomatoes heading for the Tucson markets.’

‘So?’

‘I figure he’s carrying illegals. Did he make any arrangements with you I don’t know about?’

‘Hell, no.’ Suddenly wide awake, the agent sat bolt upright in bed. ‘What makes you think Mendoza's carrying?’

‘I was in the inspection bay with Frank from customs when he was checking the produce in the trailer against the bill of lading. We heard a noise.’

‘What kind of noise?’

‘Like someone moaning.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure.’

‘Jesus… what did you do?’

‘What could we do? We just closed the trailer doors and let him head on up to Tucson.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘No more than five minutes.’

‘Then he won’t get far,’ the agent said angrily and slammed down the phone.

Minutes later he was behind the wheel of his Fargo pickup truck, foot to the floor, heading north on Interstate 19.

*

When Miguel Mendoza's White Freightliner passed through U.S. Customs at Nogales without incident, the young Mexican truck driver crossed himself and gave thanks to God.

He had spent every minute of every hour during his long, nonstop haul from Mazatlan in south-central Sinaloa, worrying about the consequences he would face if the Americans were to arrest him at the border. But now, relaxed and elated to be safely in Arizona, Miguel broke into song as the headlights of his rig illuminated the way ahead on the near empty highway.

Fifteen minutes later he was singing a loud rendition of Credence Clearwater Revival’s ‘Proud Mary’, when the first streaks of dawn’s light silhouetted the peaks of the Sierrita Mountains to the west. It was only late March, but Arizona and Sonora had been experiencing very high temperatures and Miguel was contemplating another scorching day ahead when he noticed headlights rapidly approaching in his rear-view mirror.

He carried on singing with one eye on the mirror as he waited for the speeding vehicle to overtake him. But the words to the song died on his lips when a crew cab pickup bearing the markings of the U.S. Border Patrol drew abreast of him. Then his mouth went dry when red lights on the pickup began flashing, signaling him to pull over.

Miguel pulled the tractor trailer up on the shoulder of the highway and the pickup stopped just ahead of him. Heart thumping, he watched anxiously as its sole occupant, a uniformed border patrol agent, stepped from the vehicle. A moment later, he gasped in dismay when the agent drew a revolver and slowly approached the Freightliner with the weapon pointed directly at him. When he wound down the window of the cab, Miguel couldn’t stop his hands from shaking.

‘Get your hands up where I can see them,’ the agent shouted.

Miguel quickly raised his hands above his head. The agent stepped closer to the door of the cab with his pistol still trained on the Mexican.

‘About two miles down the highway on the left, there’s a dirt road that leads west towards the Tohono O'odham Indian Reservation, you know where it is?’

Miguel nodded fearfully. ‘Si, señor.’

‘Drive your rig down that road until you see an abandoned ranch house behind a stand of tall cottonwoods. When you get there, pull in behind the trees. And don’t try anything stupid because I’ll be right behind you.’

The agent waved his pistol down the highway. ‘Now get going.’

Miguel slipped his rig into gear and drove off with the border patrol agent following close behind. It was getting light when he turned off the highway onto the narrow back road leading to the Indian reservation. A few miles down the dusty trail, he saw the abandoned ranch house about a hundred yards off the road at the end of an overgrown driveway.

Filled with foreboding, Miguel geared down, turned into the driveway and slowly drove up to the old house. When he brought the rig to rest beside an old overgrown well in the yard behind the cottonwood windbreak, the border patrol agent pulled up behind him and jumped from his pickup, revolver in hand.

‘Get out of the truck, Mendoza.’

‘Si, señor.’

‘Speak English, dammit,’ the agent snapped as he walked closer. ‘I know you can.’

Miguel was surprised to hear the agent call him by name. It was light now and as he climbed down from the cab, he wondered if perhaps they had met before. Like most border patrol officers he had encountered during his frequent trips to Arizona, the agent was young, self-assured, and aggressive. But when Miguel looked closely at the face of the man pointing a revolver at him he knew he had never seen him before.

‘Getting paid twenty-five dollars a head for bringing Mexicans into this country, knowing U.S. Customs will always let you through, isn’t enough, eh?’ the agent said angrily. ‘So you decided to bypass the rules and go into business for yourself so you could make three or four hundred. Is that it, Mendoza?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, mister,’ Miguel said lamely, his face unable to conceal the lie.

‘Oh yes, you do. And you would be locked up already if it wasn’t one of my people who heard someone moaning in your rig at the border.’ The agent nodded his head toward the trailer. ‘Now tell me, how many illegals have you got in there? And I warn you, if you lie to me you’re a dead man.’

Miguel lowered his eyes. ‘Six people,’ he said softly.’ Five men and a pregnant woman.’

The agent shook his head slowly. ‘Now let’s see, at three hundred a head, less your cut, of what, around a hundred and fifty—that leaves sixteen hundred and fifty dollars you owe me and my people. Now where in the world are you going to find that kind of money, Mendoza, unless this isn’t the first time you’ve chosen to bite the hand that feeds you.’

‘No mister, you must believe me,’ Miguel pleaded, still avoiding looking the agent in the eye. ‘This is the only time I have ever brought anyone over the border without telling your man in Sinaloa.’

The agent took a step closer. ‘And it will be the last time, Mendoza.’

Miguel heard the hammer cock on the revolver and he looked up in horror just as the agent squeezed the trigger. An instant later, the Mexican lay stone dead on the ground and the agent got back in his pickup and drove away.

*

The unseasonably hot weather continued in southern Arizona for several days after Miguel Mendoza was murdered. Two days after the shooting, a group of Papago Indian youths heading for Nogales, happened upon Mendoza's truck and his body laying beside it when they were looking for water at the abandoned ranch house after their old car had overheated on the dirt road.

When the Indians eventually reached Interstate 19, they flagged down an Arizona Highway Patrol cruiser. It was around midday and the temperature was in the high seventies when the trooper drove into the yard of the ranch house. And soon afterwards, when U.S. Border Patrol agents broke into the Mexican registered truck, the temperature inside its aluminum trailer was at least twenty degrees higher.

CHAPTER TWO

THIRTY YEARS LATER—FEBRUARY 2000

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS.

A winter storm had been brewing all day. Now, with the evening rush hour over, traffic was light and there were few pedestrians braving the elements as a bitterly cold wind blowing off Lake Michigan sent snow swirling in every direction around the concrete canyons of downtown Chicago.

The wild weather outside WSIN-TV, an affiliate of a major national network, located on North State Street, was of no concern to Hope Lacy. As presenter of The 7.30 Report, one of Chicago’s most popular current affairs shows, she had no time for distractions. It was Friday and like every other weekday, she had been going flat-out since getting up at seven o’clock that morning.

Like every morning, Hope caught up with the overnight print and electronic news over breakfast at her downtown apartment. Then, after arriving at the station at nine o’clock, she had worked non-stop throughout the day, familiarizing herself with stories, talking with her producer and reporters, and preparing for live interviews she would conduct on her show.

Now, just ten minutes before she went to air, Hope closed her eyes and relaxed as makeup people put the finishing cosmetic touches to her TV persona—an image which had made Hope Lacy the darling of Chicago television, and her hard hitting show a consistent winner in the ratings. But all too soon, the brief respite ended when someone rapped on her dressing room door.

‘Three minutes, Hope.’

Hope opened her eyes and stood up and checked herself in a full length mirror. Almost thirty-one, she could pass for twenty-five. Her beautifully tailored grey business suit, complemented by a crisp blood-red blouse, was a creation of a top New York designer. She owed her sultry good looks, her creamy smooth complexion, full lips, dark eyes, and coal black hair to her Italian parentage. But the credit for maintaining her trim, well proportioned figure through a strict regimen of diet and exercise, was entirely hers.

Satisfied she was looking her best, Hope turned and walked into an adjacent studio, sat down at her desk on the set of The 7.30 Report and waited for the cameras to roll.

*

A hundred and seventy miles southwest of Chicago in a fashionable downtown apartment in Springfield, Illinois, State Senator Max Beck was pouring himself a stiff bourbon when he heard a familiar signature tune playing on his television. Drink in hand, he quickly moved to an easy chair in front of the set and sat down.

Beck smiled as the music faded away and an authoritative sounding voiceover man announced the start of another edition of The 7.30 Report with Hope Lacy. He watched as she welcomed her viewers to the show, then launched a series of scathing reports and interviews on controversial local and state issues—all skillfully slanted to stir up the emotions of her viewers. She wound up the show with a sure to please exposé of a shady Chicago business concern caught in the act of ripping off consumers.

Beck grinned approvingly. The show had been vintage Hope Lacy. As always it had been a masterpiece of careful manipulation of her large audience that embraced all demographics—the image of a beautiful, caring young woman assuming the role of a knight in shining armor, defending the weak against the strong and leading the charge of good over evil.

The senator got up to pour himself another drink. As he did, a weather advisory came on the television and he paused to listen to it. The announcer said a storm, originating in Canada bringing howling winds and heavy snowfalls over much of Michigan had now reached northern Illinois. Already there were reports of drifting snow and treacherous conditions on several highways including Route 66 south of Chicago. The advisory warned against non-essential highway travel and said some airlines were already warning of flight delays and possible cancellations and diversions if conditions worsened.

Beck picked up the remote, clicked off the television and shrugged. The weather didn’t really matter because he wouldn’t be seeing Hope this weekend anyway. Usually, when the state legislature was in session she would fly down to Springfield and when it wasn’t, they would spend the weekends together at her apartment in Chicago, or at his place in his hometown of Joliet. But this weekend Hope’s mother and stepfather were returning to Chicago after a winter vacation in Hawaii and she had promised to spend the weekend with them.

Beck recharged his glass and sat down again. For a long time he idly traced a finger around the lip of his glass as he pondered the prospect of a weekend without Hope. There would be no romantic candlelit dinners with his lovely fiancé and worse still, there would be no lovemaking.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the sliding glass door leading to the balcony of the apartment. Beck got up and pushed back the drapes and looked outside. In the glow of a swaying streetlight below, he saw it was already snowing heavily. He shook his head. It was going to be a bleak weekend in more ways than one.

*

Hope had arranged to pick up her mother and stepfather at the airport when they arrived home from Hawaii. Trans Pacific Airlines Flight 1307, from Honolulu, was scheduled to land at O’Hare International at 9.45 p.m. Under normal circumstances, she would have had plenty of time to go home and change and have something to eat before heading to the airport.

But worsening weather conditions in and around the city, more than doubled the time it normally took to drive home from the TV station. So the first thing she did when she reached home was to call the airline to see if her parents’ flight was likely to be delayed, or even diverted to another airport.

An impersonal recorded voice at flight information announced. ‘Trans Pacific Flight 1307, from Honolulu is due to arrive on schedule at 10.55 p.m.’

Hope hung up and glanced at her watch. Even if it took twice as long as usual to drive to O’Hare, if she left right away, she would get there in plenty of time. And she could always get something to eat at the airport if she had any time to kill once she got there.

Interstate 90 to the airport was slow and difficult. From time to time falling snow cut down visibility, reducing traction on the road and making it very slippery. But Hope arrived safely at O’Hare thirty minutes ahead of the scheduled arrival time of her parents’ flight. Once inside Terminal 3, she checked a flight monitor. It was a different story now. Most flights were running late including Flight 1307.

Hope headed for a cafeteria to get a hot drink and a sandwich. As always, there were smiles of recognition from several people as she walked through the concourse. At the cafeteria, she bought a sandwich and a mug of hot chocolate, then found an empty table in a corner and sat down to wait.

*

Trans Pacific Airlines Boeing 767 non-stop service from Honolulu to Chicago ran into light turbulence over a hundred miles out from Chicago. O’Hare traffic control advised that intermittent snow was delaying takeoffs and landings and issued a holding instruction to the pilot.

After the airliner had flown its designated holding pattern for almost twenty minutes, the control tower gave the pilot clearance to land and the 767 began its descent. With thick low cloud and swirling snow obscuring not only the main runway lights, but also much of the entire airport, the decision was made to land the plane on autopilot.

There were some tense moments on the flight deck as the plane came closer and closer to the ground without any improvement in visibility. But then suddenly, the runway lights appeared and the aircraft made a copybook landing.

The grey-haired pilot grinned and gave his younger co-pilot the thumps up. But their relief was short lived. After reverse thrust was activated on the jetliner’s twin engines and the plane had slowed to around thirty-five knots, another aircraft loomed up in front of them.

But for the low cloud and blowing snow, the fireball caused when the two aircraft collided, would have been seen for miles around. However, there was no escaping the sound of the impact in the airport environs, not even in the cafeteria where Hope was sitting.

CHAPTER THREE

Even before any official announcement was made over the PA system, rumor flew through Terminal 3 that an accident had occurred on one of the airport’s seven runways. After a period of anxious speculation among travelers, meeters and greeters, and airport and airline staff around the terminal’s three concourses, an announcement was made that confirmed everyone’s worst fears.

A somber, measured male voice told the hushed terminal that as a result of the accident and poor weather conditions, all flights were now cancelled and the airport would be closed until further notice. In addition, any people awaiting the arrival of Trans Pacific’s flight 1307, who were not already at the flight’s designated arrival gate, were asked to go there immediately.

Hope felt the blood drain from her face. From her media experience, she knew that the short terse announcement was the start of a crisis management exercise by the airport and airline officials. And the marshalling of people meeting Flight 1307 meant her parents’ plane was involved in the accident.

Hope hurried from the cafeteria to the arrivals gate where a crowd of people was gathered around a desk manned by airline staff. The senior staff member told everyone that Flight 1307 had been involved in a runway collision.

When asked how serious the accident was, the airline official wouldn’t elaborate, saying it was too early to speculate on the possibility of casualties. But when he advised that a private lounge had been made available for persons who had next of kin aboard the flight, and that further information would be passed on to them there as soon as it came to hand, Hope knew that injuries and possibly fatalities were involved. She closed her eyes and prayed to God that her mother and stepfather were safe.

It was after midnight and Hope was sitting anxiously in the private lounge with around twenty other distraught relatives awaiting word on their loved ones when a member of Trans Pacific’s crisis management team brought the first news. It was not good.

‘The explosions that occurred at the time of the accident,’ the official said gravely, ‘were caused by ruptured fuel tanks igniting. And although the airport’s emergency services responded quickly and saved many lives, I’m afraid many others have been lost. All I can tell you at the moment is that all survivors are to be transferred to the closest hospitals.’

There were gasps of dismay from around the lounge followed by a chorus of angry demands for more specific information.

‘Please… ladies and gentlemen,’ the official said, raising his arms in an attempt to quell the outburst, ‘please, bear with us. We will keep each of you informed promptly as to the situation concerning your relatives. But you will appreciate that, owing to the fire, positive identification of some passengers who have lost their lives may take quite some time. In the meantime, should you wish to return home, please leave your contact details with us and we will be in touch just as soon as we have more news to pass on. Alternatively, for those of you who wish to remain close by, arrangements will be made for accommodation at airport hotels.’

Hope mulled over what the airline spokesman had said and decided to brave the weather and go home to await news of her parents. As she left the lounge, a reporter with a WSIN-TV news crew spotted her and hurried over.

‘How did you get to get in there, Hope?’ he asked with a grin.

‘I wasn’t working, George.’ Hope said icily. ‘My parents were on the Trans Pacific flight.’

The reporter’s grin faded quickly. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry…’

‘It’s all right, George. What have you got so far from the airport administration and emergency services?’

The reporter eyed Hope tentatively. ‘Just that there are a number of injuries and fatalities. The first official media releases contained no real specifics. You know how the authorities like to play it close to the vest until they get things into focus. I was hanging around here in the hopes of trying to interview a relative to try and learn a bit more. But I didn’t expect to see you.’

Hope sighed. ‘Well, they haven’t told us any more than they’ve told you. And there were no details given of how the accident came about. Have you heard anything?’

The reporter shrugged. ‘Nothing official yet. But what we’ve been able to glean from our own contacts here at the airport, is that just as the Trans Pacific flight touched down, a Pioneer Aviation jet loaded with mail somehow taxied onto the same runway. Someone said its pilot might have gotten disoriented going through a snow flurry near the end of the runway.’

Hope shook her head sadly. ‘Well, I’m going home now,’ she said putting on a brave face. ‘If you hear anything I should know, will you call me?’

The reporter nodded solemnly. ‘You bet I will, Hope.’

*

It had stopped snowing and the stormy conditions seemed to be easing as Hope drove home. From time to time, she saw emergency vehicles with lights flashing, traveling in both directions on the highway and it was only then that the possibility that she may never see her mother and stepfather alive again really sank in.

She was struggling to hold back tears when her cell phone rang. She answered it quickly, thinking the news crew might have some news. But the call was from Max Beck.

‘Hope, where are you?’

‘Driving home from O’Hare, Max.’

‘I was just going to bed when I heard about the accident on TV. They said a flight from Honolulu was involved. It wasn’t….’

‘Yes,’ Hope cut in quickly, ‘it was mom and dad’s flight.’

‘Oh God, are they okay?’

‘I don’t know, Max. All I know is there are some fatalities and all survivors are being hospitalized. The airline said they’ll contact me as soon as they have anything definite. All I can do is wait and hope for the best.’

‘You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this, ’ Max said. ‘I’m going to come up right away.’

‘I don’t know, Max. The roads aren’t good. There’s been a weather advisory put out.’

‘I know. But I’m coming anyway. I’ll use a four-wheel drive.’

‘Please be careful, Max.’

‘I will. See you in a few hours, bye.’

*

When Hope got home to her apartment, she made a pot of coffee and drank two cups sitting anxiously at the kitchen table. Then, still on tenterhooks, she got up and paced the floor of the living room.

Around 3.00 a.m. she went to her bedroom, changed into a nightgown and lay down on the bed. She was dog-tired but sleep was impossible. Eventually, she shut off the light and closed her eyes. In the stillness of the room, her anxiety eased a little and thoughts of happier family times stole across her mind.

She remembered herself as a young child, frolicking with her mother on the manicured lawns of her stepfather’s big house in an exclusive area of Chicago’s Lincoln Park. Then a vision of her proud mother and stepfather at her graduation ceremony at the University of Illinois flashed through her mind. That recollection was followed by happy memories of a trip they had all taken together to Europe to celebrate her breaking into television after just a few short years as a reporter for the Chicago Tribune.

As the pleasant reminiscences faded away, the awful reality of the accident at the airport brought a knot to her stomach. Hope realized she had much to be thankful for during her upbringing. Not only had she a loving mother and stepfather, but also, before she had carved out her own success, she had enjoyed a privileged life that only family wealth and position could provide.

But her mother had told her that things had not always been easy for her or for Hope. As a newborn baby, Sophia had been left an orphan when her entire family was killed in a massive allied air raid on Rome in 1943. After spending her childhood in an orphanage, she had trained as a nurse which had stood her in good stead when she applied to immigrate to the United States in the mid-1960’s

It was in America that Sophia had met Vittorio Rossano, an Italian doctor, who had left Italy a couple of years earlier than Sophia to start a new life in the United States. Sophia told Hope that she married Vittorio soon after fate brought them together at a hospital in the southwest where they both worked, and that less than a year later their happiness was made complete when Hope was born.

But Sophia’s life was shattered soon afterwards, when Vittorio had been killed in an automobile accident. The brutal twist of fate had left Sophia alone to struggle as a single parent, and Hope with no childhood memories of her biological father.

However, a year later after Sophia had moved to Chicago to make a fresh start, fate dealt her a kinder hand when Vernon Lacy, an up and coming young construction contractor was admitted to hospital after suffering a mild heart attack. He was only hospitalized for a matter of days, but it was long enough for him to fall head over heels in love with the beautiful black-haired Italian nurse who helped speed his recovery.

The fact that Sophia came with a readymade family didn’t deter Vernon Lacy from proposing marriage in the least. And because he had been so willing, even eager, to have Hope become a part of his future, Sophia didn't hesitate to accept his proposal. After spending her own childhood in an orphanage, she desperately wanted her daughter to grow up as part of a complete loving family.

The marriage had been a good union. That it produced no more children only served to strengthen the bond between Vernon and his stepdaughter. And Sophia had been a good wife—always careful to take very special care of Vernon knowing that his heart wasn’t strong.

For his part, Vernon had been a wonderful provider. Over the years, his Midas touch had made his construction business one of the largest in the state, making him one the richest men in Illinois. And his wealth and position had brought other good fortune. It had been through Charles Kruger, a business associate of her stepfather’s with solid contacts in government, that Hope had met her fiancé, the tall, good-looking and politically influential state senator, Max Beck.

As Hope lay reflecting on the past and worrying about the present, she heard the buzz of her apartment intercom. She got up quickly, turned on the light and hurried to the hallway. The closed circuit television monitor on the intercom panel identified the visitor as Max Beck and she quickly buzzed him up.

Hope was standing at the open door of her apartment when Max stepped out of the elevator. Unshaven, and with his blond hair uncombed and wearing blue jeans, snow boots and a bulky black parka, he looked very different from the well-groomed, immaculately dressed lover who called on her in normal circumstances.

Max hurried over to Hope and embraced her. ‘I got here as soon as I could,’ he said, setting down a small overnight bag in the hallway. ‘Any news yet?’

‘No, nothing yet from the airline. But they could call at any time.’

‘What about the police or the hospital?’

‘The responsibility for notifying passengers’ next of kin in aviation disasters always rests with the airline. So all I can do is wait, Max.’ She moved closer to him. ‘Let me take your coat.’

Hope looked at Max as he unzipped his parka. His face showed his concern for her. A slight grimace furrowed his brow, narrowing his pale blue eyes, tightening his thin lips and accentuating his strong Teutonic jaw.

‘It’s good of you to drive so far in such bad conditions, Max,’ she said as she took his coat. ‘I really appreciate it.’

He was about to say something when the telephone rang. Hope rushed to it, then paused and took a deep breath before answering.

‘Hope Lacy, speaking.’

Max looked on apprehensively as Hope stood listening at the telephone. When he saw her face blanch, her lips tremble and her eyes well up with tears, he knew it was the airline calling and that the news was bad.

‘My mother is dead, Max,’ she said tearfully after she put the phone down, ‘but my stepfather is still clinging to life in intensive care at the Resurrection Medical Center.’

CHAPTER FOUR

The collision of the two jets at O’Hare International took a heavy toll. But there would have been much greater loss of life if it had not been for the airport fire and rescue services responding rapidly and the fact that the second aircraft was carrying freight not passengers.

As it happened, all three flight crew members aboard the jet freighter were incinerated on impact when their aircraft’s fuel tanks, full in readiness for a flight to Los Angeles, ruptured and exploded after the wing of their airplane clipped the wing of Flight 1307. Fire spread to the Boeing 767 passenger jet when fragments of burning