There were nods around the table. No one disagreed.
“Anything else for the record?”
“Yes,” Casey said. “Passenger and crew interviews agree the seat-belt sign was never illuminated.”
“Okay. Then we’re done with weather. Whatever happened to that plane wasn’t turbulence. Flight recorder?”
“Data’s anomalous,” Casey said. “They’re working on it.”
“Visual inspection of the plane?”
“The interior was severely damaged,” Doherty said, “but the exterior was fine. Cherry.”
“Leading edge?”
“No problem we could see. We’ll have the aircraft here today, and I’ll look at the drive tracks and latches. But so far, nothing.”
“You test the control surfaces?”
“No problem.”
“Instrumentation?”
“Bravo Zulu.”
“How many times you test “em?”
“After we heard the passenger’s story from Casey, we did ten extensions. Trying to get a disagree. But everything’s normal.”
“What story? Casey? You got something from the interviews?”
“Yes,” she said. “One passenger gave a report of a slight rumble coming from the wing, lasting ten to twelve seconds…”
“Shit,” Marder said.
“… followed by a slight nose up, then a dive…”
“Goddamn it!”
“… and then a series of violent pitch excursions.”
Marder glared at her. “Are you telling me it’s the slats again? Have we still got a slats problem on this aircraft?”
“I don’t know,” Casey said. “One of the flight attendants reported that the captain said he had an uncommanded slats deployment, and that he’d had problems with the autopilot.”
“Christ. And problems with the autopilot?”
“Screw him,” Burne said. “This captain changes his story every five minutes. Tells Traffic Control he’s got turbulence, tells the stewardess he’s got slats. Right now I bet he’s telling the carrier a whole different story. Fact is, we don’t know what happened in that cockpit.”
“It’s obviously slats,” Marder said.
“No, it’s not,” Bume said. “The passenger Casey talked to said the rumbling sound came from the wing or the engines, isn’t that right?”
“Right,” Casey said.
“But when she looked at the wing, she didn’t see the slats extend. Which she would have seen, if it happened.”
“Also true,” Casey said.
“But she couldn’t have seen the engines, because they’d be hidden by the wing. It’s possible the thrust reversers deployed,” Burne said. “At cruise speed that’d produce a definite rumble. Followed by a sudden drop in airspeed, probably a roll. The pilot shits, tries to compensate, overreacts—bingo!”
“Any confirmation thrusters deployed?’ Marder said. “Damage to the sleeves? Unusual rubstrips?”
“We looked yesterday,” Bume said, “and we didn’t find anything. We’ll do ultrasound and X rays today. If there’s something there, we’ll find it.”
“Okay,” Marder said. “So we’re looking at slats and thrusters, and we need more data. What about the NVMs? Ron? The faults suggest anything?”
They turned to Ron Smith. Under their gaze, Ron hunched lower in his seat, as if trying to pull his head between his shoulders. He cleared his throat.
“Well?” Marder said.
“Uh, yeah, John. We have a slats disagree on the FDAU printout.”
“So the slats did deploy.”
“Well, actually—”
“And the plane started porpoising, beat hell out of the passengers, and killed three. Is that what you’re telling me?”
No one spoke.
“Jesus,” Marder said. “What is the matter with you people? This problem was supposed to be fixed four years ago! Now you’re telling me it wasn’t!”
The group fell silent and stared at the table, embarrassed and intimidated by Marder’s rage.
“Goddamn it!” Marder said.
“John, let’s not get carried away.” It was Trung, the avionics head, speaking quietly. “We’re overlooking a very important factor. The autopilot.”
There was a long silence.
Marder glared at him. “What about it?” he snapped.
“Even if the slats extend in cruise flight,” Trung said, “the autopilot will maintain perfect stability. It’s programmed to compensate for errors like that. The slats extend; the AP adjusts; the captain sees the warning and retracts them. Meanwhile the plane continues, no problem.”
“Maybe he went out of autopilot.”
“He must have. But why?”
“Maybe your autopilot’s screwed up,” Marder said. “Maybe you got a bug in your code.”
Trung looked skeptical.
“It’s happened,” Marder said. “There was an autopilot problem on that USAir flight in Charlotte last year. Put the plane into an uncommanded roll.”
“Yes,” Trung said, “but that wasn’t caused by a bug in the code. Maintenance pulled the ‘A’ flight control computer to repair it, and when they reinstalled it, they didn’t push it in the shelf far enough to fully engage the connector pins. The thing kept making intermittent electrical connection, that’s all.”
“But on Flight 545, the stewardess said the captain had to fight the autopilot for control.”
“And I’d expect that,” Trung said. “Once the aircraft exceeds flight params, the autopilot actively attempts to take over. It sees erratic behavior, and assumes nobody is flying the plane.”
“Did that show up on the fault records?”
“Yes. They indicate the autopilot tried to kick in, every three seconds. I assume the captain kept overriding it, insisting on flying the plane himself.”
“But this is an experienced captain.”
“Which is why I think Kenny is right,” Trung said. “We have no idea what took place in that cockpit.”
They all turned to Mike Lee, the carrier representative. “How about it, Mike?” Marder said. “Can we get an interview or not?”
Lee sighed philosophically. “You know,” he said, “I’ve spent a lot of time in meetings like this. And the tendency is always to blame the guy who’s not there. It’s human nature. I’ve already explained to you why the flight crew left the country. Your own records confirm the captain is a first-rate pilot. It’s possible he made an error. But given the history of problems with this aircraft—slats problems—I’d look first at the aircraft. And I’d look hard.”
“We will,” Marder said. “Of course we will, but—” “Because it’s to no one’s advantage,” Lee said, “to get into a pissing match. You are focused on your pending deal with Beijing. Fine, I understand. But I would remind you Trans-Pacific is also a valued customer of this company. We’ve bought ten planes to date, and we have twelve more on order. We’re expanding our routes, and we are negotiating a feeder deal with a domestic carrier. We don’t need any bad press at the moment. Not for the planes we’ve bought from you, and certainly not for our pilots. I hope I’m being clear.”
“Clear as a fucking bell,” Marder said. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Guys, you have your marching orders. Get on with it. I want answers.”
BLDG 2O2/FSIM
7:59 a.m.
“Flight 545?” Felix Wallerstein said. “It’s very disturbing. Very disturbing indeed.” Wallerstein was a silver-haired, courtly man from Munich. He ran the Norton Flight Simulator and Pilot Training program with Germanic efficiency.
Casey said, “Why do you say 545 is disturbing?”
“Because,” he shrugged. “How could it happen? It does not seem possible.”
They walked through the large main room of Building 202. The two flight simulators, one for each model in service, stood above them. They appeared to be truncated nose sections of the aircraft, held up by a spidery array of hydraulic lifts.
“Did you get the data from the flight recorder? Rob said you might be able to read it.”
“I tried,” he said. “With no success. I hesitate to say it is useless, but—what about the QAR?”
“No QAR, Felix.”
“Ah.” Wallerstein sighed.
They came to the command console, a series of video screens and keyboards to one side of the building. Here the instructors sat while they monitored the pilots being trained in the simulator. Two of the simulators were being used as they watched.
Casey said, “Felix, we’re concerned the slats extended in cruise flight. Or possibly the thrust reversers.”
“So?” he said. “Why should that matter?”
“We’ve had problems with slats before…”
“Yes, but that is long since fixed, Casey. And slats cannot explain such a terrible accident Where people are killed? No, no. Not from slats, Casey.”
“You’re sure”
“Absolutely. I will show you.” He turned to one of the instructors at the console. “Who’s flying the N-22 now?”
“Ingram. First officer from Northwest”
“Any good?”
“Average. He’s got about thirty hours.”
On the closed-circuit video screen, Casey saw a man in his mid thirties, sitting in the pilot’s seat of the simulator.
“And where is he now?” Felix said.
“Uh, let’s see,” the instructor said, consulting his panels. “He’s over the mid-Atlantic, FL three-thirty, point eight Mach.”
“Good,” Felix said. “So he’s at thirty-three thousand feet, eight-tenths the speed of sound. He’s been there awhile, and everything seems to be fine. He’s relaxed, maybe a little lazy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Deploy Mr. Ingram’s slats.”
The instructor reached over and pushed a button.
Felix turned to Casey. “Watch carefully, please.”
On the video screen, the pilot remained casual, unconcerned. But a few seconds later, he leaned forward, suddenly alert, frowning at his controls.
Felix pointed to the instructor’s console, and the array of screens. “Here you can see what he is seeing. On his Flight Management display, the slats indicator is flashing. And he’s noticed it. Meanwhile, you see the plane gives a slight nose up…”