Abruptly, the strobe lights went out, plunging the hangar into darkness. Casey moved forward, hearing the webbing creak beneath her feet. Would Richman hear? Could he figure out where she was?
She came to the wing, stretching forward in darkness.
She grabbed it with her hand, moved outward to the edge. Sooner or later, she knew, the webbing would end. Her foot struck a thick cord; she bent down, felt knots.
Casey lay down on the webbing, gripped the edge in both hands, and rolled over the side, falling. For a moment she hung by one arm, the webbing stretching downward. She was surrounded by blackness. She did not know how far it was to the floor. Six feet? Ten feet?
Running footsteps.
She released the webbing, and fell.
She hit the ground standing, dropped to her knees. Sharp pain in her kneecap as she banged into concrete. She heard Richman cough again. He was very close, off to her left. She got up and began to run toward the exit door. The landing lights came on again, harsh and strong. In their glare she saw Richman throw up his hands to cover his eyes. She knew he would be blinded for a few seconds. Not long.
But perhaps enough. Where was the other man? She ran.
She hit the wall of the hangar with a dull metallic thud. Someone behind her said, “Hey!” She moved along the wall feeling for the door. She heard running footsteps.
Where? Where?
Behind her, running footsteps.
Her hand touched wood, vertical runners, more wood, then the metal bar. The door latch. She pushed.
Cool air.
She was outside.
Teddy turned. “Hey, babe,” he said, smiling. “How’s it going
She fell to her knees, gasping for breath. Teddy and the electrical guy came running over. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
They were standing over her, touching her, solicitous. She tried to catch her breath. She managed to gasp, “Call Security.”
“What?”
“Call Security! Someone’s inside!”
– The electrical guy ran to the phone. Teddy stayed with her. Then she remembered the QAR. She had a moment of sudden panic. Where was it?
She stood. “Oh no,” she said. “I dropped it.”
“Dropped what, babe?”
“That box . . .” She turned, looking back at the hangar. She’d have to get them to go back inside, to—
“You mean the one in your hand?” Teddy said.
She looked at her left hand.
The QAR was there, clutched so tightly her fingers were white.
GLENDALE
11:30 p.m.
“Come on, now,” Teddy said, arm around her, walking her into the bedroom. “Everything’s fine, babe.”
‘Teddy,” she said, “I don’t know why …”
“We’ll find out tomorrow,” he said soothingly.
“But what was he doing …”
‘Tomorrow,” Teddy said.
“But what was he …”
She couldn’t finish her sentences. She sat on the bed, suddenly feeling her exhaustion, overwhelmed by it.
“I’ll stay on the couch,” he said. “I don’t want you alone tonight.” He looked at her, chucked her on the chin. “Don’t worry about a thing, babe.”
He reached over, and took the QAR out of her hand. She released it unwillingly. “We’ll just put this right here,” he said, setting it on the bedside table. He was talking to her as to a child
‘Teddy, it’s important…”
“I know. It’ll be there, when you wake up. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Call if you need anything.” He left, closing the door.
She looked at the pillow. She had to get out of her clothes, to get ready for bed. Her face hurt; she didn’t know what had happened to it She needed to look at her face.
She picked up the QAR and stuck it behind the pillow. She stared at the pillow, then lay down on it, and closed her eyes.
Just for a moment, she thought.
FRIDAY
GLENDALE
6:30 a.m.
Something was wrong.
Casey sat up quickly. Pain streaked through her body; she gasped. She felt a burning sensation in her face. She touched her cheek, and winced.
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.
NORTON/DOS
7:40 a.m.
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—”