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.”
WAR ROOM
9:00 a.m.
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 Right 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?
SEPULVEDA BOULEVARD
10:45 a.m.
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,” Matty 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 I 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’?”
“Uh, well, it’s rather difficult to explain briefly …”
Marty jumped: “Who are Leevers and Radon?”
“They’re researchers in the field.”
“You know them?”
“Not personally.”
“But you’re familiar with their work.”
“I’ve heard their names.”
“Do you know anything about them at all?”
“Not personally, no.”
“Are they important researchers in the field?”
“I’ve said I don’t know.” Barker tugged at his collar again.
Jennifer realized she had to put a stop to this. Marty was doing his attack-dog routine, snarling at the smell of fear. Jennifer couldn’t use any of this stuff; the significant fact was that Barker had been on a crusade for years, he had a track record, he was committed to the fight. In any case she already had his slats explanation from the day before, and she had softball answers to the questions she had asked herself. She tapped Marty on the shoulder. “We’re running late,” she said.