I follow our team over the barrier that blocks the sand from blowing into the streets of Fort Lauderdale. The crowd, pushed back to the sidewalk, is filled with a mixture of locals and tourists. I notice more than a few holding crucifixes and watching with what looks like worry on their faces. I spot a man carrying a picket sign with “Leviticus 24:16” written on it. I make a note to look it up.

Clear as can be, several hundred yards offshore, there’s the plane. We all stop to look. Several people pull out their phones to snap photos. I glance behind us at the rows of hotels and restaurants and see onlookers crowding every balcony and roof with access. I spot several long-range lenses, the kind professionals use.

I can’t deny the spectacle. The scene reminds me of something out of the opening of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, where the missing fleet of planes shows up in the desert. I guess that was the idea—if this is staged by the Warlock. But I already know it is. I get the feeling the crowd is waiting for something else to happen, like an alien stepping out of the Avenger.

There’s only a handful of law enforcement officers on the sandbar. FBI agents dressed like armored beetles probe the aircraft for a bomb. The bureau’s hazardous devices unit is trained to dismantle everything from letter bombs to suitcase nukes. This situation is made even more complicated by the shifting ground. To fight the afternoon tide, Broward sheriff’s deputies and the Fort Lauderdale police have improvised a barricade of sandbags around the plane. They’ve also beached several boats on the sandbar to serve as work platforms.

After we introduce ourselves, an FBI field agent hands Knoll a radio. Knoll tells the head of the bomb squad that our biggest concern is the body. He turns to me and raises an eyebrow, asking if I think that’s correct.

I can’t remember ever being put on the spot like this with people’s lives at stake. I can see the men we’re talking about. I shake my head. “We shouldn’t take the chance. If the plane is a fake, he’ll want to cover his tracks on that too.” I turn to one of our naval experts who took the flight down with us. “Are there any serial numbers or markings that wouldn’t be known publicly?”

He folds his cap over in his hands. He’s got that close-cropped hair and boyish look a lot of military men still hold on to, like overgrown Boy Scouts. “There are four standard markers. One in the cockpit. Two in the engines and one on the tail. Parts are switched around a lot, but those would remain constant.”

I’m sure the Warlock knows this. “Yes, but if all four match, would you say that was the plane? Definitively?”

He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “No. We’d then look for serial numbers on the engines and other parts. Those can be switched out, so they’re not as definitive, but they’d tell us something.” I can tell he’s as nervous as I am. We don’t want to see the men on the sandbar blown apart by our mistaken assumptions.