Airframe (34 page)

Sunlight poured through her window onto the foot of the bed. She looked down at twin arcs of grease on the bedspread. She still had her shoes on. She still had her clothes on.

She was lying on top of the bedspread, fully dressed.

Groaning, she twisted her body, swung her feet to the floor. Everything hurt. She looked down at the bedside table. The clock said six-thirty.

She reached behind the pillow, brought out the green metal box with a white stripe.

The QAR.

She smelled coffee.

The door opened, and Teddy came in in his boxer shorts, bringing her a mug. “How bad is it?”

“Everything hurts.”

“I figured.” He held the coffee out to her. “Can you handle this?”

She nodded, took the mug gratefully. Her shoulders hurt as she lifted it to her lips. The coffee was hot and strong.

“Face isn’t too bad,” he said, looking at her critically. “Mostly on the side. I guess that’s where you hit the mesh …”

She suddenly remembered: the interview.

“Oh Jesus,” she said. She got off the bed, groaning again.

“Three aspirins,” Teddy said, “and a very hot bath.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Make time. Hot as you can stand.”

She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She looked in the mirror. Her face was streaked with grime. There was a purple bruise that started by her ear and ran back behind her neck. Her hair would cover it, she thought. It wouldn’t show.

She took another drink of coffee, removed her clothes, got into the shower. She had bruises on her elbow, on her hip, on her knees. She couldn’t remember how she had gotten them. The stinging hot spray felt good.

When she came out of the shower, the telephone was ringing. She pushed open the door.

“Don’t answer that,” Casey said.

“Are you sure?”

“There’s no time,” she said. “Not today.”

She went into the bedroom to dress.

She had only ten hours until her interview with Marty Reardon. Between now and then, she had only one thing she wanted to do.

Clear up Flight 545.

Rob Wong placed the green box on the table, attached a cable, pressed a key on his console. A small red light glowed on the QAR box.

“It’s got power,” Wong said. He sat back in his chair, looked at Casey. “You ready to try this?”

“I’m ready,” she said.

“Keep your fingers crossed,” Wong said. He pushed a single key on the keyboard.

The red light on the QAR box began to flicker rapidly.

Uneasily, Casey said, “Is that …”

“It’s okay. It’s downloading.”

After a few seconds, the red light glowed steadily again.

“Now what?”

“It’s done,” Wong said. “Let’s see the data.” His screen began to show columns of numbers. Wong leaned forward, looking closely. “Uh … looks pretty good, Casey. This could be your lucky day.” He typed rapidly at the keyboard for several seconds. Then he sat back.

“Now we see how good it is.”

On the monitor, a wire-frame aircraft appeared and rapidly filled in, becoming solid, three-dimensional. A sky-blue background appeared. A silver aircraft, seen horizontally in profile. The landing gear down.

Wong punched keys, moving the aircraft around so they saw it from the tail. He added a green field running to the horizon, and a gray runway. The image was schematic but
effective. The airplane began to move, going down the runway. It changed attitude, the nose raising up. The landing gear folded into the wings.

“You just took off,” Wong said. He was grinning.

The aircraft was still rising. Wong hit a key, and a rectangle opened on the right side of the screen. A series of numbers appeared, changing quickly. “It’s not a DFDR, but it’s good enough,” Wong said. “All the major stuff is here. Altitude, airspeed, heading, fuel, deltas on control surfaces—flaps, slats, ailerons, elevators, rudder. Everything you need. And the data’s stable, Casey.”

The aircraft was still climbing. Wong hit a button, and white clouds appeared. The plane continued upward, through the clouds.

“I figure you don’t want to real time this,” he said. “You know when the accident occurred?”

“Yes,” she said. “It was about nine-forty into the flight.”

“Nine-forty elapsed?”

“Right.”

“Coming up.”

On the monitor, the aircraft was level, the rectangle of numbers on the right stable. Then a red light began to flash among the numbers.

“What’s that?”

“Fault recording. It’s, uh, slats disagree.”

She looked at the aircraft on the screen. Nothing changed.

“Slats extending?”

“No,” Wong said. “Nothing. It’s just a fault.”

She watched a moment longer. The aircraft was still level. Five seconds passed. Then the slats emerged from the leading edge.

“Slats extending,” Wong said, looking at the numbers. And then, “Slats fully extended.”

Casey said, “So there was a fault first? And then the slats extended afterward?”

“Right.”

“Uncommanded extension?”

“No. Commanded. Now, plane goes nose up, and—uh-oh—exceeding buffet boundary—now here’s the stall warning, and—”

On the screen, the airplane nosed over into a steep dive. The white clouds streaked past, faster and faster. Alarms began to beep, flashing on the screen.

“What’s that?” Casey said.

“The plane’s exceeding the G-load envelope. Jeez, look at him.”

The airplane pulled out of the dive, and began a steep climb. “He’s going up at sixteen … eighteen … twenty-one degrees,” Wong said, shaking his head. “Twenty-one degrees!”

On commercial flights, a standard rate of climb was three to five degrees. Ten degrees was steep, used only in takeoffs. At twenty-one degrees, passengers would feel as if the plane were going straight up.

More alarms.

“Exceedences,” Wong said again, in a flat voice. “He’s stressing the hell out of the airframe. It’s not built to take that. You guys do a structure inspect?”

As they watched, the plane went into a dive again.

“I can’t believe this,” Wong said. “The autopilot’s supposed to prevent that—”

“He was on manual.”

“Even so, these wild oscillations would kick in the autopilot.” Wong pointed to the box of data to one side. “Yeah, there it is. The autopilot tries to take over. Pilot keeps punching it back to manual. That’s crazy.”

Another climb.

Another dive.

In all, they watched aghast as the aircraft went through six cycles of dive and climb, until suddenly, abruptly, it returned to stable flight.

“What happened?” she said.

“Autopilot took over.
Finally
.” Rob Wong gave a long sigh. “Well, I’d say you know what happened to this airplane, Casey. But I’m damned if I know
why
.”

A cleaning crew was at work in the War Room. The big windows overlooking the factory floor were being washed, the chairs and the Formica table wiped down. In the far corner, a woman was vacuuming the carpet.

Doherty and Ron Smith were standing near the door, looking at a printout.

“What’s going on?” she said.

“No IRT today,” Doherty said. “Marder canceled it.”

Casey said, “How come nobody told me that—”

Then she remembered. She’d turned her beeper off, the night before. She reached down, turned it back on.

“CET test last night was damn near perfect,” Ron said. “Just as we said all along, that’s an excellent airplane. We only got two repeated faults. We got a consistent fault on AUX COA, starting five cycles in, around ten-thirty; I don’t know why that happened.” He looked at her, waiting. He must have heard that she had been inside the hangar the night before, at about that time.

But she wasn’t going to explain it to him. At least, not right now. She said, “And what about the proximity sensor?”

“That was the other fault,” Smith said. “Out of twenty-two cycles we ran during the night, the wing proximity sensor faulted six times. It’s definitely bad.”

“And if that proximity sensor faulted during flight …”

“You’d get a slats disagree in the cockpit.”

She turned to leave.

“Hey,” Doherty said. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to look at some video.”

“Casey: Do you know what the hell is going on?”

“You’ll be the first to know,” she said. And she walked away.

As swiftly as the investigation had stalled the day before, she felt it coming together. The QAR had been the key. At last she could reconstruct the sequence of events on Flight 545. And with that, the pieces of the puzzle were falling rapidly into place.

As she walked to her car, she called Norma on her cell phone. “Norma, I need a route schedule for TransPacific.”

“Got one right here,” Norma said. “It came over with the FAA packet. What do you want to know?”

“Flight schedule to Honolulu.”

“I’ll check.” There was a pause. “They don’t go into Honolulu,” Norma said. “They only go to—”

“Never mind,” Casey said. “That’s all I need to know.” It was the answer she had expected.

“Listen,” Norma said, “Marder has called three times for you already. He says you’re not answering your pager.”

“Tell him you can’t reach me.”

“And Richman has been trying to—”

“You can’t reach me,” Casey said.

She hung up, and hurried to her car.

Driving in the car, she called Ellen Fong in Accounting. The secretary said Ellen was working at home again today. Casey got the number, and called.

“Ellen, it’s Casey Singleton.”

“Oh yes, Casey.” Her voice was cool. Careful.

“Did you do the translation?” Casey said.

“Yes.” Flat. No expression.

“Did you finish it?”

“Yes. I finished it.”

“Can you fax it to me?” Casey said.

There was a pause. “I don’t think I should do that,” Ellen said.

“All right …”

“Do you know why?” Ellen Fong asked.

“I can guess.”

“I will bring it to your office,” Ellen said. “Two o’clock?”

“Fine,” Casey said.

The pieces were coming together. Fast.

Casey was now pretty sure she could explain what happened on Flight 545. She could almost lay out the entire chain of causal events. With luck, the tape at Video Imaging would give her final confirmation.

Only one question remained.

What was she going to do about it?

Fred Barker was sweating. The air conditioner was turned off in his office, and now, under Marty Reardon’s insistent questioning, sweat trickled down his cheeks, glistened in his beard, dampened his shirt.

“Mr. Barker,” Marty said, leaning forward. Marty was forty-five, handsome in a thin-lipped, sharp-eyed way. He had the air of a reluctant prosecutor, a seasoned man who’d seen it all. He spoke slowly, often in short fragments, with the appearance of reasonableness. He was giving the witness every possible break. And his favorite tone was that of disappointment. Dark eyebrows up: How could this be? Marty said, “Mr. Barker, you’ve described ‘problems’ with the Norton N-22. But the company says Airworthiness Directives were issued that fixed the problems. Are they right?”

“No.” Under Marty’s probing, Barker had dropped the full sentences. He now said as little as possible.

“The Directives didn’t work?”

“Well, we just had another incident, didn’t we. Involving slats.”

“Norton told us it wasn’t slats.”

“I think you’ll find it was.”

“So Norton Aircraft is lying?”

“They’re doing what they always do. They come up with some complicated explanation that conceals the real problem.”

“Some complicated explanation,” Marty repeated. “But aren’t aircraft complicated?”

“Not in this case. This accident is the result of their failure to redress a long-standing design flaw.”

“You’re confident of that.”

“Yes.”

“How can you be so sure? Are you an engineer?”

“No.”

“You have an aerospace degree?”

“No.”

“What was your major in college?”

“That was a long time ago …”

“Wasn’t it music, Mr. Barker? Weren’t you a music major?”

“Well, yes, but, uh …”

Jennifer watched Marty’s attack with mixed feelings. It was always fun to see an interview squirm, and the audience loved to watch pompous experts cut down to size. But Marty’s attack threatened to devastate her entire segment. If Marty destroyed Barker’s credibility …

Of course, she thought, she could work around him. She didn’t have to use him.

“A Bachelor of Arts. In music,” Marty said, in his reasonable tone. “Mr. Barker, do you think that qualifies you to judge aircraft?”

“Not in itself, but—”

“You have other degrees?”

“No.”

“Do you have any scientific or engineering training at all?”

Barker tugged at his collar. “Well, I worked for the FAA …”

“Did the FAA give you any scientific or engineering training? Did they teach you, say, fluid dynamics?”

“No.”

“Aerodynamics?”

“Well, I have a lot of experience—”

“I’m sure. But do you have
formal training
in aerodynamics, calculus, metallurgy, structural analysis, or any of the other subjects involved in making an airplane?”

“Not formally, no.”

“Informally?”

“Yes, certainly. A lifetime of experience.”

“Good. That’s fine. Now, I notice those books behind you, and on your desk.” Reardon leaned forward, touched one of the books that lay open. “This one here. It’s called
Advanced Structural Integrity Methods for Airframe Durability and Damage Tolerance
. Pretty dense. You understand this book?”

“Most of it, yes.”

“For example.” Reardon pointed to the open page, turned it to read. “Here on page 807, it says, ‘Leevers and Radon introduced a biaxiality parameter B that relates the magnitude of the T stress as in equation 5.’ You see that?”

“Yes.” Barker swallowed.

“What is a ‘biaxiality parameter’?”