Airframe (14 page)

Brull was shaking his head. “I’ve seen the bills of lading. They don’t say Atlanta. They say Seoul, Korea.”

“Korea?” she said, frowning.

“That’s right.”

“Don, that
really
doesn’t make sense—”

“Yes, it does. Because it’s a cover,” Brull said. “They’ll send them to Korea, then transship from Korea to Shanghai.”

“You have copies of the bills?” she said.

“Not with me.”

“I’d like to see them,” she said.

Brull sighed. “I can do that, Casey. I can get them for you. But you’re putting me in a very difficult situation here. The guys aren’t going to let this sale happen. Marder tells me to calm ’em down—but what can I do? I run the local, not the plant.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s out of my hands,” he said.

“Don—”

“I always liked you, Casey,” he said. “But you hang around here, I can’t help you.”

And he walked away.

The morning sun was shining; the plant around her was cheerfully busy, mechanics riding their bicycles from one building to another. There was no sense of threat, or danger. But Casey knew what Brull had meant: she was now in no-man’s land. Anxious, she pulled out her cell phone to call Marder when she saw the heavyset figure of Jack Rogers coming toward her.

Jack covered aerospace for the
Telegraph-Star
, an Orange County paper. In his late fifties, he was a good, solid reporter, a reminder of an earlier generation of print journalists who knew as much about their beat as the people they interviewed. He gave her a casual wave.

“Hi, Jack,” she said. “What’s up?”

“I came over,” he said, “about that wing tool accident this morning in 64. The one the crane dropped.”

“Tough break,” she said.

“They had another accident with the AJs this morning. Tool was loaded onto the flatbed truck, but the driver took a turn too fast over by Building 94. Tool slid off onto the ground. Big mess.”

“Uh-huh,” Casey said.

“This is obviously a job action,” Rogers said. “My sources tell me the union’s opposed to the China sale.”

“I’ve heard that,” she said, nodding.

“Because the wing’s going to be offset to Shanghai as part of the sales agreement?”

“Come on, Jack,” she said. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You know that for a fact?”

She took a step back from him. “Jack,” she said. “You know I can’t discuss the sale. No one can, until the ink’s dry.”

“Okay,” Rogers said. He took out his notepad. “It does seem like a pretty crazy rumor. No company’s ever offset the wing. It’d be suicide.”

“Exactly,” she said. In the end, she kept coming back to that same question. Why would Edgarton offset the wing? Why would any company offset the wing? It just made no sense.

Rogers glanced up from his pad. “I wonder why the union thinks the wing’s being sent offshore?”

She shrugged. “You’ll have to ask them.” He had sources in the union. Certainly Brull. Probably others as well.

“I hear they’ve got documents that prove it.”

Casey said, “They show them to you?”

Rogers shook his head. “No.”

“I can’t imagine why not, if they have them.”

Rogers smiled. He made another note. “Shame about the rotor burst in Miami.”

“All I know is what I saw on television.”

“You think it will affect the public perception of the N-22?” He had his pen out, ready to take down what she said.

“I don’t see why. The problem was powerplant, not airframe. My guess is, they’re going to find it was a bad compressor disk that burst.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” he said. “I was talking to Don Peterson over at the FAA. He told me that incident at SFO was a sixth-stage compressor disk that blew. The disk had brittle nitrogen pockets.”

“Alpha inclusions?” she said.

“That’s right,” Jack said. “And there was also dwell-time fatigue.”

Casey nodded. Engine parts operated at a temperature of 2500 degrees Fahrenheit, well above the melt temperature of most alloys, which turned to soup at 2200 degrees. So
they were manufactured of titanium alloys, using the most advanced procedures. Fabricating some of the parts was an art—the fan blades were essentially “grown” as a single crystal of metal, making them phenomenally strong. But even in skilled hands, the manufacturing process was inherently delicate. Dwell-time fatigue was a condition in which the titanium used to make rotor disks clumped into microstructure colonies, rendering them vulnerable to fatigue cracks.

“And how about the TransPacific flight,” Rogers said. “Was that an engine problem, too?”

“TransPacific happened yesterday, Jack. We just started our investigation.”

“You’re QA on the IRT, right?”

“Right, yes.”

“Are you pleased with how the investigation is going?”

“Jack, I can’t comment on the TransPacific investigation. It’s much too early.”

“Not too early for speculation to start,” Rogers said. “You know how these things go, Casey. Lot of idle talk. Misinformation that can be difficult to clear up later. I’d just like to set the record straight. Have you ruled out engines?”

“Jack,” she said, “I can’t comment.”

“Then you haven’t ruled out engines?”

“No comment, Jack.”

He made a note on his pad. Without looking up, he said, “And I suppose you’re looking at slats, too.”

“We’re looking at everything, Jack,” she said.

“Given the 22 has a history of slats problems …”

“Ancient history,” she said. “We fixed the problem years ago. You wrote a story about it, if I recall.”

“But now you’ve had two incidents in two days. Are you worried that the flying public will start to think the N-22 is a troubled aircraft?”

She could see the direction his story was going to take. She didn’t want to comment, but he was telling her what he would
write if she didn’t. It was a standard, if minor, form of press blackmail.

“Jack,” she said, “we’ve got three hundred N-22s in service around the world. The model has an outstanding safety record.” In fact, in five years of service there had been no fatalities involving the aircraft until yesterday. That was a reason for pride, but she decided not to mention it, because she could see his lead:
The first fatalities to occur on a Norton N-22 aircraft happened yesterday
 …

Instead she said, “The public is best served by getting accurate information. And at the moment, we have no information to offer. To speculate would be irresponsible.”

That did it. He took his pen away. “Okay. You want to go off?”

“Sure.” She knew she could trust him. “Off the record, 545 underwent very severe pitch oscillations. We think the plane porpoised. We don’t know why. The FDR’s anomalous. It’ll take days to reconstruct the data. We’re working as fast as we can.”

“Will it affect the China sale?”

“I hope not.”

“Pilot was Chinese, wasn’t he? Chang?”

“He was from Hong Kong. I don’t know his nationality.”

“Does that make it awkward if it’s pilot error?”

“You know how these investigations are, Jack. Whatever the cause turns out to be, it’s going to be awkward for somebody. We can’t worry about that. We just have to let the chips fall where they fall.”

“Of course,” he said. “By the way, is that China sale firm? I keep hearing it’s not.”

She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Has Marder talked to you about it?”

“Not to me personally,” she said. Her reply was carefully worded; she hoped he wouldn’t follow up on it. He didn’t.

“Okay, Casey,” he said. “I’ll leave this alone, but what’ve you got? I need to file today.”

“How come you’re not doing Cheapskate Airlines?” she said, using the derogatory in-house term for one of the low-cost carriers. “Nobody’s done that story yet.”

“Are you kidding?” Rogers said. “Everybody and his brother’s covering that one.”

“Yeah, but nobody’s doing the real story,” she said. “Super-cheap carriers are a stock scam.”

“A stock scam?”

“Sure,” Casey said. “You buy some aircraft so old and poorly maintained no reputable carrier will use them for spares. Then you subcontract maintenance to limit your liability. Then you offer cheap fares, and use the cash to buy new routes. It’s a pyramid scheme but on paper it looks great. Volume’s up, revenue’s up, and Wall Street loves you. You’re saving so much on maintenance that your earnings skyrocket. Your stock price doubles and doubles again. By the time the bodies start piling up, as you know they will, you’ve made your fortune off the stock, and can afford the best counsel. That’s the genius of deregulation, Jack. When the bill comes, nobody pays.”

“Except the passengers.”

“Exactly,” Casey said. “Flight safety’s always been an honor system. The FAA’s set up to monitor the carriers, not to police them. So if deregulation’s going to change the rules, we ought to warn the public. Or triple FAA funding. One or the other.”

Rogers nodded. “Barry Jordan over at the LA
Times
told me he’s doing the safety angle. But that takes a lot of resources—lead time, lawyers going over your copy. My paper can’t afford it. I need something I can use tonight.”

“Off the record,” Casey said, “I’ve got a good lead, but you can’t source it.”

“Sure,” Rogers said.

“The engine that blew was one of six that Sunstar bought from AeroCivicas,” Casey said. “Kenny Burne was our consultant.
He borescoped the engines and found a lot of damage.”

“What kind of damage?”

“Blade notch breakouts and vane cracks.”

Rogers said, “They had fatigue cracks
in the fan blades
?”

“That’s right,” Casey said. “Kenny told them to reject the engines, but Sunstar rebuilt them and put them on the planes. When that engine blew, Kenny was furious. So you might get a name at Sunstar from Kenny. But we can’t be the source, Jack. We have to do business with these people.”

“I understand,” Rogers said. “Thanks. But my editor’s going to want to know about the accidents on the floor today. So tell me. Are you convinced the China offset stories are groundless?”

“Are we back on?” she said.

“Yes.”

“I’m not the person to ask,” she said. “You’ll have to talk to Edgarton.”

“I called, but his office says he’s out of town. Where is he? Beijing?”

“I can’t comment.”

“And what about Marder?” Rogers said.

“What about him?”

Rogers shrugged. “Everybody knows Marder and Edgarton are at each other’s throats. Marder expected to be named president, but the Board passed him over. But they gave Edgarton a one-year contract—so he’s got only twelve months to produce. And I hear Marder’s undercutting Edgarton, every way he can.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” she said. Casey had, of course, heard such rumors. It was no secret that Marder was bitterly disappointed about Edgarton’s appointment. What Marder could do about it was another story. Marder’s wife controlled eleven percent of company stock. With Marder’s connections, he could probably pull together five percent
more. But sixteen percent wasn’t enough to call the shots, particularly since Edgarton had the strong support of the Board.

So most people in the plant thought that Marder had no choice except to go along with Edgarton’s agenda—at least for the moment. Marder might be unhappy, but he had no option. The company had a cash-flow problem. They were already building planes without buyers. Yet they needed billions of dollars, if they hoped to develop the next generation of planes, and stay in business in the future.

So the situation was clear. The company needed the sale. And everybody knew it. Including Marder.

Rogers said, “You haven’t heard Marder’s undercutting Edgarton?”

“No comment,” Casey said. “But off the record, it makes no sense. Everybody in the company wants this sale, Jack. Including Marder. Right now, Marder’s pushing us hard to solve 545, so the sale goes through.”

“Do you think the image of the company will be hurt by the rivalry between its two top officers?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Okay,” he said finally, closing his notepad. “Call me if you get a break on 545, okay?”

“Sure, Jack.”

“Thanks, Casey.”

Walking away from him, she realized she was exhausted by the effort of the interview. Talking to a reporter these days was like a deadly chess match; you had to think several steps ahead; you had to imagine all the possible ways a reporter might distort your statement. The atmosphere was relentlessly adversarial.

It hadn’t always been that way. There was a time when reporters wanted information, their questions directed to an underlying event. They wanted an accurate picture of a situation, and to do that they had to make the effort to see things your way, to understand how you were thinking about
it. They might not agree with you in the end, but it was a matter of pride that they could accurately state your view, before rejecting it. The interviewing process was not very personal, because the focus was on the event they were trying to understand.

But now reporters came to the story with the lead fixed in their minds; they saw their job as proving what they already knew. They didn’t want information so much as evidence of villainy. In this mode, they were openly skeptical of your point of view, since they assumed you were just being evasive. They proceeded from a presumption of universal guilt, in an atmosphere of muted hostility and suspicion. This new mode was intensely personal: they wanted to trip you up, to catch you in a small error, or in a foolish statement—or just a phrase that could be taken out of context and made to look silly or insensitive.

Because the focus was so personal, the reporters asked continuously for personal speculations. Do you think an event will be damaging? Do you think the company will suffer? Such speculation had been irrelevant to the earlier generation of reporters, who focused on the underlying events. Modern journalism was intensely subjective—“interpretive”—and speculation was its lifeblood. But she found it exhausting.

And Jack Rogers, she thought, was one of the better ones. The print reporters were all better. It was the television reporters you really had to watch out for. They were the really dangerous ones.