On the screen, the TV program now showed an elderly woman who said, “Yes, I thought I was going to die. Of course, you have to think that.” Then a middle-aged man: “My wife and I prayed. Our whole family knelt down on the runway and thanked the Lord.” “Were you frightened?” the interviewer asked. “We thought we were going to die,” the man said. “The cabin was filled with smoke—it’s a miracle we escaped with our lives.”
Bume was yelling again: “You asshole! In a car you would have died. In a nightclub you would have died. But not in a Norton widebody! We designed it so you’d escape with your miserable fucking life!”
“Calm down,” Casey said. “I want to hear this.” She was listening intently, waiting to see how far they’d take the story.
A strikingly beautiful Hispanic woman in a beige Armani suit stood facing the camera, holding up a microphone: “While passengers now appear to be recovering from their ordeal, their fate was far from certain earlier this afternoon, when a Norton widebody blew up on the runway, orange flames shooting high into the sky …”
The TV again showed the earlier telephoto shot of the plane on the runway, with smoke billowing from under the wing. It looked about as dangerous as a doused campfire.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Kenny said. “A Norton widebody exploded? A Sunstar piece-of-shit engine exploded.” He pointed to the screen image. “That’s a goddamn rotor burst, and the blade fragments broke through the cowling which is just what I told them would happenl”
Casey said, “You told them?”
“Hell yes,” Kenny said. “I know all about this. Sunstar bought six engines from AeroCivicas last year. I was the Norton consultant on the deal. I borescoped the engines and found a shitload of damage—blade notch breakouts and vane cracks. So I told Sunstar to reject them.” Kenny was waving his hands. “But why pass up a bargain?” he said. “Sunstar rebuilt them instead. During teardown, we found a lot of corrosion, so the paper on the overseas overhauls was probably faked. I told them again: Junk ’em. But Sunstar put them on the planes. So now the rotor blows—big fucking surprise— and the fragments cut into the wing, so that nonflammable hydraulic fluid is smoking. It ain’t on fire because the fluid won’t burn. And it’s our fault?’
He spun, pointing back to the screen.
“… seriously frightening all two hundred and seventy passengers on board. Fortunately, there were no injuries …”
“That’s right,” Burne said. “No penetration of the fuse, lady. No injury to anybody. The wing absorbed it—our wing!”
“… and we are waiting to speak to officials from the airline about this frightening tragedy. More later. Back to you, Ed.”
The camera cut back to the newsroom, where a sleek anchorman said, “Thank you, Alicia, for that up-to-the-minute report on the shocking explosion at Miami Airport. We’ll have more details as they emerge. Now back to our regularly scheduled program.”
Casey sighed, relieved.
“I can’t believe this horseshitl” Kenny Burne shouted. He turned and stomped out of the room, banging the door behind him.
“What’s his problem?” Richman said.
“For once, I’d say he’s justified,” Casey said. “The fact is, if there’s an engine problem, it’s not Norton’s fault.”
“What do you mean? He said he was the consultant—”
“Look,” Casey said. “You have to understand: We build airframes. We don’t build engines and we don’t repair them. We have nothing to do with engines.”
“Nothing? I hardly think—”
“Our engines are supplied by other companies—GE, Pratt and Whitney, Rolls-Royce. But reporters never understand that distinction.”
Richman looked skeptical. “It seems like a fine point…”
“It’s nothing of the sort. If your electricity goes out, do you call the gas company? If your tires blow, do you blame the car maker?”
“Of course not,” Richman said, “but it’s still your airplane—engines and all.”
“No, it’s not,” Casey said. “We build the plane, and then install the brand of engine the customer selects. Just the way you can put any one of several brands of tires on your car. But if Michelin makes a batch of bad tires, and they blow out, that’s not Ford’s fault. If you let your tires go bald and get in an accident, that’s not Ford’s fault And it’s exactly the same with us.”
Richman was still looking unconvinced.
“All we can do,” Casey said, “is certify that our planes fly safely with the engines we install. But we can’t force carriers to maintain those engines properly over the life of the aircraft. That’s not our job—and understanding that is fundamental to knowing what actually occurred. The fact is, the reporter got the story backward.”
“Backward? Why?’
“That aircraft had a rotor burst” Casey said. “Fan blades broke off the rotor disk and the cowling around the engine didn’t contain the fragments. The engine blew because it wasn’t correctly maintained. It should never have happened. But our wing absorbed the flying fragments, protecting passengers in the cabin. So the real meaning of this event is that Norton aircraft are so well built that they protected two hundred and seventy passengers from a bad engine. We’re actually heroes—but Norton stock will fall tomorrow. And some of the public may be afraid to fly on a Norton aircraft. Is that an appropriate response to what actually happened? No. But it’s an appropriate response to what’s being reported. That’s frustrating for people here.”
“Well,” Richman said, “at least they didn’t mention Trans-Pacific.”
Casey nodded. That had been her first concern, the reason she had rushed across the parking lot to the TV set. She wanted to know if the news reports would link the Miami rotor burst to the TPA in-flight incident the day before. That hadn’t happened—at least not yet. But sooner or later, it would.
“We’ll start getting calls now,” she said. “The cat is out of the bag.”
HANGAR 5
9:40 a.m.
There were a dozen security guards standing outside Hangar 5, where the Transpacific jet was being inspected. But this was standard procedure whenever a RAMS team from Recovery and Maintenance Services entered the plant. RAMS teams circled the globe, troubleshooting stranded aircraft; they were FAA-licensed to repair them in the field. But since members were chosen for expertise rather than seniority, they were non-union; and there was often friction when they came into the factory.
Within the hangar, the Transpacific widebody stood in the glare of halogen lights, nearly hidden behind a gridwork of roll-up scaffolding. Technicians swarmed over every part of the plane. Casey saw Kenny Burne working the engines, cursing his powerplant crew. They had deployed the two thrust reverser sleeves that flared out from the nacelle, and were doing fluorescent and conductivity tests on the curved metal cowls.
Ron Smith and the electrical team were standing on a raised platform beneath the midships belly. Higher up, she saw Van Trung through the cockpit windows, his crew testing the avionics.
And Doherty was out on the wing, leading the structure team. His group had used a crane to remove an eight-foot aluminum section, one of the inboard slats.
“Big bones,” Casey said to Richman. “They inspect the biggest components first.”
“It looks like they’re tearing it apart,” Richman said.
A voice behind them. “It’s called destroying the evidence!”
Casey turned. Ted Rawley, one of the flight test pilots, sauntered up. He was wearing cowboy boots, a western shirt, dark sunglasses. Like most of the test pilots, Teddy cultivated an air of dangerous glamour.
“This is our chief test pilot,” Casey said. ‘Teddy Rawley. They call him Rack ’em Rawley.”
“Hey,” Teddy protested. “I haven’t drilled a hole yet. Anyway, it’s better than Casey and the Seven Dwarfs.”
“Is that what they call her?” Richman said, suddenly interested.
“Yeah. Casey and her dwarfs.” Rawley gestured vaguely to the engineers. “The little fellas. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho.” He turned away from the plane, punched Casey on the shoulder. “So: How you doing, kid? I called you the other day.”
“I know,” she said. “I’ve been busy.”
“I’ll bet you have,” Teddy said. “I bet Marder’s got the screws on everybody. So: What’ve the engineers found? Wait a minute, let me guess—they found absolutely nothing, right? Their beautiful plane is perfect. So: Must be pilot error, am I right?”
Casey said nothing. Richman looked uncomfortable.
“Hey,” Teddy said. “Don’t be shy. I’ve heard it all before. Let’s face it, the engineers are all card-carrying members of the Screw the Pilots Club. That’s why they design planes to be practically automatic. They just hate the idea that somebody might actually fly them. It’s so untidy, to have a warm body in the seat. Makes ’em crazy. And of course, if anything bad happens, it must be the pilot. Gotta be the pilot. Am I right?”
“Come on, Teddy,” she said. “You know the statistics. The overwhelming majority of accidents are caused by—”
It was at that point that Doug Doherty, crouched on the wing above them, leaned over and said dolefully, “Casey, bad news. You’ll want to see this.”