“Hrnmm.”
“It’s not true.”
“Hmmm.”
“Why is Marder doing this?” Casey said. “Why did he set me up for this?”
“Saving his skin,” Norma said. “Probably avoiding a problem he knows about, and you don’t.”
“What problem?”
Norma shook her head. “My guess is something about the plane. Marder was program manager on the N-22. He knows more about that aircraft than any other person in the company. There may be something he doesn’t want to come out.”
“So he announces a phony finding?”
“That’s my guess.”
“And I’m the one carrying the water?”
“Looks like it,” Norma said.
Casey was silent. “What should I do?’
“Figure it out,” Norma said, squinting through the smoke of her cigarette.
“There’s no time…”
Norma shrugged. “Find out what happened to that flight. Because your tail is on the line, honey. That’s how Marder’s set it up.”
Walking down the hall, she saw Richman.
“Well, hi—”
“Later,” she said.
She went into her office and shut the door. She picked up a photograph of her daughter and stared at it In the picture, Allison had just emerged from a neighbor’s swimming pool. She stood with another girl her age, both of them in swimming suits, dripping water. Sleek young bodies, smiling gap-toothed faces, carefree and innocent.
Casey pushed the picture aside, turned to a large box on her desk; opening it, she removed a black portable CD player, with a neoprene sling. There were wires that ran to a strange pair of goggles. They were oversize, and looked like safety goggles, except they didn’t wrap around. And there was a funny coating on the inside of the lenses, sort of shimmery in the light This, she knew, was the maintenance Heads-Up Display. A card from Tom Korman fell out of the box’. It said, “First test of VHUD. Enjoy!”
Enjoy.
She pushed the goggles aside, looked at the other papers on her desk. The CVR transcript of cockpit communications had finally come in. She also saw a copy of Transpacific Flight-lines. There was a postit on one page.
She flipped it open to the picture of John Chang, employee of the month. The picture was not what she had imagined from the fax. John Chang was a very fit man in his forties. His wife stood beside him, heavier, smiling. And the children, crouched at the parents’ feet, were fully grown: a girl in her late teens, and a boy in his early twenties. The son resembled his father, except he was a little more contemporary; he had extremely closely cropped hair, a tiny gold stud in his ear.
She looked at the caption: “Here he relaxes on the beach at Lantan Island with his wife, Soon, and his children, Erica and Tom.”
In front of the family a blue towel was spread across the sand; nearby, a wicker picnic basket, with blue-checked cloth peeking out. The scene was mundane and uninteresting.
Why would anyone fax this to her?
She looked at the date on the magazine. January, three months ago.
But someone had had a copy of that magazine, and had faxed it to Casey. Who? An employee of the airline? A passenger? Who?
And why?
What was it supposed to tell her?
As Casey looked at the magazine picture, she was reminded of the unresolved threads of the investigation. There was a great deal of checking still to do, and she might as well get started.
Norma was right.
Casey didn’t know what Marder was up to. But maybe it didn’t matter. Because her job was still the same as it had always been: to find out what happened to Flight 545.
She came out of the office. “Where’s Richman?” Norma smiled. “I sent him over to Media Relations to see Benson. Pick up some standard press packets, in case we need them.”
“Benson’s got to be pissed off about this,” Casey said.
“Uh-huh,” Norma said. “Might even give Mr. Richman a hard time.” She smiled, looked at her watch. “But I’d say you’ve got an hour or so, to do what you want. So get going.”
NAIL
3:05 p.m.
“So. Singleton,” Ziegler said, waving her to a seat. After five minutes of pounding on the soundproof door, she had been admitted to the Audio Lab. “I believe we found what you were looking for,” Ziegler said.
On the monitor in front of her she saw a freeze-frame of the smiling baby, sitting on the mother’s lap.
“You wanted the period just prior to the incident,” Ziegler said. “Here we’re approximately eighteen seconds prior. I’ll start with full audio, and then cut in the filters. Ready?”
“Yes,” she said.
Ziegler ran the tape. At high volume, the baby’s slobbering was like a bubbling brook. The hum inside the cabin was a constant roar. ‘Taste good?” the man’s voice said to the baby, very loudly.
“Cutting in,” Ziegler said. “High-end bypass.”
The sound got duller.
“Cabin ambient bypass.”
The slobbering was suddenly loud against a silent background, the cabin roar gone.
“High delta-V bypass.”
The slobbering was diminished. What she heard now were mostly background sounds—silverware clinking, fabric movement.
The man said, “Is—at—akfast—or you—arah?” His voice cut in and out.
“Delta-V bypass is no good for human speech,” Ziegler said. “But you don’t care, right?”
“No,” Casey said.
The man said, “Not—ailing—or—ewardess—on—is— ightr
When the man finished, the screen became almost silent again, just a few distant noises.
“Now,” Ziegler said. “It starts.”
A counter appeared on the screen. The timer ran forward, red numerals flickering fast, counting tenths and hundredths of a second.
The wife jerked her head around. “What—wa—at?”
“Damn,” Casey said.
She could hear it now. A low rumble, a definite shuddering bass sound.
“It’s been thinned by the bypass,” Ziegler said. “Deep, low rumble. Down in the two to five hertz range. Almost a vibration.”
No question, Casey thought. With the filters in place, she could hear it. It was there.
The man’s voice broke in, a booming laugh: “Ake it— easy—Em.”
The baby giggled again, a sharp earsplitting crackle.
The husband said,”—ost—ome—oney.”
The low-pitched rumbling ended.
“Stop!” Casey said.
The red numerals froze. The numbers were big on the screen—11:59:32.
Nearly twelve seconds, she thought. And twelve seconds was the time it took for the slats to fully deploy.
The slats had deployed on Flight 545.
By now, the tape was showing the steep descent, the baby sliding on the mother’s lap, the mother clutching it, her panicked face. The passengers anxious in the background. With the filters in place, all their shouts produced unusual clipped-off noise, almost like static.
Ziegler stopped the tape.
“There’s your data, Singleton. Unequivocal, I’d say.”
“The slats deployed.”
“Sure sounds like it. It’s a fairly unique signature.”
“Why?” The aircraft was in cruise flight. Why would they deploy? Was it uncommanded, or had the pilot done it? Casey wished again for the flight data recorder. All these questions could be answered in a few minutes, if they just had the data from the FDR. But it was going very slowly.
“Did you look at the rest of the tape?”
“Well, the next point of interest is the cockpit alarms,” Ziegler said. “Once the camera jams in the door, I can listen to the audio, and assemble a sequence of what the aircraft was telling the pilot. But that’ll take me another day.”
“Stay with it,” she said. “I want everything you can give me.”
Then her beeper went off. She pulled it off her belt, looked at it.
••• JM ADMIN ASAP BTOYA
John Marder wanted to see her. In his office. Now.
NORTON ADMINISTRATION
5:00 p.m.
John Marder was in his calm mood—the dangerous one.
“Just a short interview,” he said. ‘Ten, fifteen minutes at most. You won’t have time to go into specifics. But as the head of the IRT, you’re in the perfect position to explain the company’s commitment to safety. How carefully we review accidents. Our commitment to product support. Then you can explain that our preliminary report shows the accident was caused by a counterfeit thruster cowl, installed at a foreign repair station, so it could not have been a slats event. And blow Barker out of the water. Blow Newsline out of the water.”
“John,” she said. “I just came from Audio. There’s no question—the slats deployed.”
“Well, audio’s circumstantial at best,” Marder said. “Ziegler’s a nut. We have to wait for the flight data recorder to know precisely what happened. Meanwhile, the IRT has made a preliminary finding which excludes slats.”
As if hearing her own voice from a distance, she said, “John, I’m uncomfortable with this.”
“We’re talking about the future, Casey.”
“I understand, but—”
“The China sale will save the company. Cash flow, stretch development, new aircraft, bright future. That’s what we’re talking about here, Casey. Thousands of jobs.”
“I understand, John, but—”
“Let me ask you something, Casey. Do you think there’s anything wrong with the N-22?”
Absolutely not.”
“You think it’s a deathtrap?”