Airframe (5 page)

Casey looked down at her pad. She had written:

Structural — Slats Deploy

Hydraulics — Slats Deploy

Avionics — Autopilot

Electrical — Sneak Circuit

Powerplant — Thrust Reversers

That was basically every system on the aircraft.

“You’ve got a lot of ground to cover,” Marder said, standing and gathering his papers together. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“Oh hell,” Burne said. “We’ll nail this in a month, John. I’m not worried.”

“I am,” Marder said. “Because we don’t have a month. We have a week.”

Cries around the table. “A week!”

“Jeez, John!”

“Come on, John, you know an IRT always takes a month.”

“Not this time,” Marder said. “Last Thursday our president, Hal Edgarton, received an LOI from the Beijing government to purchase fifty N-22s, with an option for another thirty. First delivery in eighteen months.”

There was stunned silence.

The men all looked at each other. A big China sale had been rumored for months. The deal had been reported as “imminent” in various news accounts. But nobody at Norton really believed it.

“It’s true,” Marder said. “And I don’t need to tell you what it means. It’s an eight-billion-dollar order from the fastest-growing airframe market in the world. It’s four years of full-capacity production. It’ll put this company on solid financial footing into the twenty-first century. It’ll fund development for the N-22 stretch and the advanced N-XX widebody. Hal
and I agree: this sale means the difference between life and death for the company.” Marder placed the papers in his briefcase and snapped it shut.

“I fly to Beijing Sunday, to join Hal and sign the letter of intent with the minister of transport. He’s going to want to know what happened to Flight 545. And I better be able to tell him, or he’ll turn around and sign with Airbus. In which case I’m in deep shit, this company is in deep shit—and everybody at this table is out of a job. The future of Norton Aircraft is riding on this investigation. So I don’t want to hear anything but answers. And I want them inside a week. See you tomorrow.”

He turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

“What an asshole,” Burne said. “This is his idea of motivating the troops? Fuck him.”

Trung shrugged. “It’s the way he always is.”

“What do you think?” Smith said. “I mean, this could be great,
great
news. Has Edgarton really got an LOI from China?”

“I bet he does,” Trung said. “Because the plant’s been quietly gearing up. They’ve made another set of tools to fab the wing; the tools are about to be shipped to Atlanta. I’ll bet he’s got a deal.”

“What he’s got,” said Burne, “is a major case of cover my ass.”

“Meaning?”

“Edgarton might have a tentative from Beijing. But eight billion dollars is a big order from a big gorilla. Boeing, Douglas, and Airbus are all chasing that order. The Chinese could give it to any of them at the last minute. That’s their style. They do it all the time. So Edgarton’s shitting rivets, worrying he won’t close the deal and he’ll have to tell the board he lost the big one. So what does he do? He lays it on Marder. And what does Marder do?”

“Makes it our fault,” Trung said.

“Right. This TPA flight puts them in perfect position. If they close with Beijing, they’re heroes. But if the deal falls apart …”

“It’s because we blew it,” Trung said.

“Right. We’re the reason an eight-billion-dollar deal cratered.”

“Well,” Trung said, standing, “I think we better look at that plane.”

Harold Edgarton, the newly appointed president of Norton Aircraft, was in his office on the tenth floor, staring out the window overlooking the plant, when John Marder walked in. Edgarton was a big man, an ex-fullback, with a ready smile and cold, watchful eyes. He had previously worked at Boeing, and had been brought in three months earlier to improve Norton’s marketing.

Edgarton turned, and frowned at Marder. “This is a hell of a mess,” he said. “How many died?”

“Three,” Marder said.

“Christ,” Edgarton said. He shook his head. “Of all the times for this to happen. Did you brief the investigation team on the LOI? Tell them how urgent this is?”

“I briefed them.”

“And you’ll clear it up this week?”

“I’m chairing the group myself. I’ll get it done,” Marder said.

“What about press?” Edgarton was still worried. “I don’t want Media Relations handling this one. Benson’s a drunk, the reporters all hate him. And the engineers can’t do it. They don’t speak English, for Christ’s sake—”

“I’ve got it handled, Hal.”

“You do? I don’t want you talking to the fucking press. You’re grounded.”

“I understand,” Marder said. “I’ve arranged for Singleton to do the press.”

“Singleton? That QA woman?” Edgarton said. “I looked at that tape you gave me, where she talked to the reporters about the Dallas thing. She’s pretty enough, but she comes off as a straight arrow.”

“Well, that’s what we want, isn’t it?” Marder said. “We want honest all-American, no-nonsense. And she’s good on her feet, Hal.”

“She’d better be,” Edgarton said. “If the shit hits the fan, she has to perform.”

“She will,” Marder said.

“I don’t want anything to undermine this China deal.”

“Nobody does, Hal.”

Edgarton looked at Marder thoughtfully for a moment. “You better be real clear about that,” he said. “Because I don’t give a damn who you’re married to—if this deal doesn’t close, a lot of people are going to get taken out. Not just me. A lot of other heads will roll.”

“I understand,” Marder said.

“You picked the woman. She’s your call. The Board knows it. If anything goes wrong with her, or the IRT—you’re out on your ass.”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Marder said. “It’s under control.”

“It damn well better be,” Edgarton said, and turned away again to look out the window.

Marder left the room.

The blue minivan crossed the runway and raced toward the line of maintenance hangars at Los Angeles Airport. From the rear of the nearest hangar, the yellow tail of the TransPacific widebody protruded, its emblem shining in the sun.

The engineers began to talk excitedly as soon as they saw the plane. The minivan rolled into the hangar and came to a stop beneath the wing; the engineers piled out. The RAMS team was already at work, a half-dozen mechanics up on the wing, wearing harnesses, scrabbling on their hands and knees.

“Let’s do it!” Burne shouted, as he climbed a ladder to the wing. He made it sound like a battle cry. The other engineers scrambled up after him. Doherty followed last, climbing the ladder with a dejected air.

Casey stepped out of the van with Richman. “They all go right to the wing,” Richman said.

“That’s right. The wing’s the most important part of an aircraft, and the most complicated structure. They’ll look at it first, then do a visual inspect on the rest of the exterior. This way.”

“Where are we going?”

“Inside.”

Casey walked to the nose, and climbed a roll-in staircase to the forward cabin door, just behind the cockpit. As she came to the entrance, she smelled the nauseating odor of vomit.

“Jesus,” Richman said, behind her.

Casey went inside.

*  *  *

She knew the forward cabin would have the least damage, but even here some of the seat backs were broken. Armrests had torn free and swung into the aisles. Overhead luggage bins were cracked, the doors hanging open. Oxygen masks dangled from the ceiling, some missing. There was blood on the carpet, blood on the ceiling. Puddles of vomit on the seats.

“My God,” Richman said, covering his nose. He looked pale. “This happened because of
turbulence
?”

“No,” she said. “Almost certainly not.”

“Then why would the pilot—”

“We don’t know yet,” she said.

Casey went forward to the flight deck. The cockpit door was latched open, and the flight deck appeared normal. All the logs and paperwork were missing. A tiny infant’s shoe was on the floor. Bending to look at it, she noticed a mass of crumpled black metal wedged beneath the cockpit door. A video camera. She pulled it free, and it broke apart in her hands, an untidy heap of circuit boards, silver motors, and loops of tape hanging from a cracked cassette. She gave it to Richman.

“What do I do with this?”

“Keep it.”

Casey headed aft, knowing it would be worse in the back. Already she was forming a picture in her mind of what had happened on this flight. “There’s no question: this aircraft underwent severe pitch oscillations. That’s when the plane noses up and down,” she explained.

“How do you know?” Richman said.

“Because that’s what makes passengers vomit. They can take yaw and roll. But pitching makes them puke.”

“Why are the oxygen masks missing?” Richman said.

“People grabbed them as they fell,” she said. It must have happened that way. “And the seat backs are broken—do you know how much force it takes to break an airplane seat? They’re designed to withstand an impact of sixteen Gs. People
in this cabin bounced around like dice in a cup. And from the damage, it looks like it went on for a while.”

“How long?”

“At least two minutes,” she said. An eternity for an incident like this, she thought.

Passing a shattered midships galley, they came into the center cabin. Here damage was much worse. Many seats were broken. There was a broad swath of blood across the ceiling. The aisles were cluttered with debris—shoes, torn clothing, children’s toys.

A cleanup crew in blue uniforms marked NORTON IRT was collecting the personal belongings, putting them into big plastic bags. Casey turned to a woman. “Have you found any cameras?”

“Five or six, so far,” the woman said. “Couple of video cameras. There’s all sorts of stuff here.” She reached under a seat, came out with a brown rubber diaphragm. “Like I said.”

Stepping carefully over the litter in the aisles, Casey moved farther aft. She passed another divider and entered the aft cabin, near the tail.

Richman sucked in his breath.

It looked as if a giant hand had smashed the interior. Seats were crushed flat. Overhead bins hung down, almost touching the floor; ceiling panels had split apart, exposing wiring and silver insulation. There was blood everywhere; some of the seats were soaked deep maroon. The aft lavs were ripped apart, mirrors shattered, stainless-steel drawers hanging open, twisted.

Casey’s attention was drawn to the left of the cabin, where six paramedics were struggling to hold a heavy shape, wrapped in white nylon mesh, that hung near a ceiling bin. The paramedics adjusted their position, the nylon webbing shifted, and suddenly a man’s head flopped out of the mesh—the face gray, mouth open, eyes sightless, wisps of hair dangling.

“Oh God,” Richman said. He turned and fled.

Casey went over to the paramedics. The corpse was a middle-aged Chinese man. “What’s the problem here?” she said.

“Sorry, ma’am,” one of the medics said. “But we can’t get him out. We found him wedged here, and he’s stuck pretty good. His left leg.”

One of the paramedics shined a light upward. The left leg was jammed through the overhead bin, into the silver insulation above the window panel. She tried to remember what cabling ran there, whether it was flight critical. “Just be careful getting him out,” she said.

From the galley, she heard a cleanup woman say, “Strangest damn thing I ever saw.”

Another woman said, “How’d it get here?”

“Damned if I know, honey.”

Casey went over to see what they were talking about. The cleaning woman was holding a blue pilot’s cap. It had a bloody footprint on the top.

Casey reached for it. “Where’d you find this?”

“Right here,” the cleaning woman said. “Outside the aft galley. Long way from the cockpit, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Casey turned the cap in her hands. Silver wings on the front, the yellow TransPacific medallion in the center. It was a pilot’s cap, with a stripe for a captain, so it probably belonged to one of the backup crew. If this plane carried a backup crew; she didn’t know that yet.

“Oh dear me this is awful just awful.”

She heard the distinctive monotone, and looked up to see Doug Doherty, the structural engineer, striding into the aft cabin.

“What did they do to my beautiful plane?” he moaned. Then he saw Casey. “You know what this is, don’t you. It’s not turbulence. They were
porpoising
.”

“Maybe,” Casey said. “Porpoising” was the term for a series of dives and climbs. Like a porpoise leaping in water.

“Oh yes,” Doherty said, gloomily. “That’s what happened. They lost control. Terrible, just terrible …”

One of the paramedics said, “Mr. Doherty?”

Doherty looked over. “Oh don’t tell me,” he said. “
This
is where the guy got wedged?”

“Yes, sir …”

“Wouldn’t you know,” he said, gloomily, moving closer. “It had to be the aft bulkhead. Right where every flight-critical system comes together to—okay, let me see. What is it, his foot?”

“Yes, sir.” They shone the light for him. Doherty pushed up against the body, which swayed in the harness.

“Can you hold him? Okay … anybody got a knife or something? You probably don’t but—”

One of the paramedics gave him a pair of scissors, and Doherty began to cut. Bits of silver insulation floated to the ground. Doherty cut again and again, his hand moving quickly. Finally he stopped. “Okay. He missed the A59 cable run. He missed the A47 cable run. He’s left of the hydraulic lines, left of the avionics pack … Okay, I can’t see he hurt the plane in any way.”

The paramedics, holding the dead body, stared at Doherty. One of them said, “Can we cut him out, sir?”

Doherty was still looking intently. “What? Oh yeah sure. Cut him out.”

He stepped back, and the paramedics applied the big metal jaws to the upper portion of the plane. They wedged the jaws between the overhead luggage bins and the ceiling, then opened them. There was a loud cracking sound as the plastic broke.