Airframe (26 page)

Norma came back. “TransPacific’s office is closed. I’ll have to find that magazine tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Hon?”

“What.”

“Go home.”

She sighed. “You’re right, Norma.”

“And get some rest, will you?”

Her daughter had left a message saying she was having a sleep-over at Amy’s house, and that Dad said it was all right. Casey wasn’t happy about it, she thought her daughter shouldn’t have sleep-overs on school nights, but there was nothing she could do now. She got into bed, pulled her daughter’s photograph on the bedside table over to look at it, and then turned to her work. She was going through the flight tapes of TPA 545, checking the waypoint coordinates for each leg against the written radio transcripts from Honolulu ARINC and Oakland Center, when the phone rang.

“Casey Singleton.”

“Hello, Casey. John Marder here.”

She sat up in bed. Marder never called her at home. She looked at the clock; it was after 9
P.M.

Marder cleared his throat. “I just got a call from Benson in PR. He’s had a request from a network news crew to film inside the plant. He turned them down.”

“Uh-huh …” That was standard; news crews were never allowed inside the plant.

“Then he got a call from a producer on that program
Newsline
named Malone. She said
Newsline
was making the request for plant access, and insisted they be allowed in. Very pushy and full of herself. He told her to forget it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He said he was nice about it.”

“Uh-huh.” She was waiting.

“This Malone said
Newsline
was doing a story on the N-22, and she wanted to interview the president. He told her Hal was overseas, and unavailable.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then she suggested we reconsider her request, because the
Newsline
story was going to focus on flight safety concerns, two problems in two days, an engine problem and slats deployment, several passengers killed. She said she’d spoken to critics—no names, but I can guess—and she wanted to give the president an opportunity to respond.”

Casey sighed.

Marder said, “Benson said he might be able to get her an interview with the president next week, and she said no, that wouldn’t work,
Newsline
was running the story this weekend.”

“This weekend?”

“That’s right,” Marder said. “Timing couldn’t be worse. The day before I leave for China. It’s a very popular show. The whole damned country will see it.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then the woman said she wanted to be fair, that it always looked bad if the company didn’t respond to allegations. So if the president wasn’t available to talk to
Newsline
, maybe some other highly placed spokesman would.”

“Uh-huh …”

“So I’m seeing this twit in my office tomorrow at noon,” Marder said.

“On camera?” Casey said.

“No, no. Background only, no cameras. But we’ll cover the IRT investigation, so I think you’d better be there.”

“Of course.”

“Apparently they’re going to do some terrible story on the N-22,” Marder said. “It’s that damn CNN tape. That’s what’s started it all. But we’re in it now, Casey. We have to handle this as best we can.”

“I’ll be there,” she said.

Jennifer Malone awoke to the soft, insistent buzz of the bedside alarm. She turned it off, and looked over at the tanned shoulder of the man next to her, and felt a burst of annoyance. He was a stuntman on a TV series, she’d met him a few months back. He had a craggy face and a nice muscular body and he knew how to perform … but Jeez, she hated it when guys stayed over. She had hinted politely, after the second time. But he’d just rolled over and gone to sleep. And now here he was, snoring away.

Jennifer hated to wake up with some guy in the room. She hated everything about it, the sounds they made breathing, the smell coming off their skin, their greasy hair on the pillow. Even the catches, the celebrities who made her heart skip over candlelight, looked like soggy beached whales the next day.

It was like the guys didn’t know their place. They came over; they got what they wanted; she got what she wanted; everyone was happy. So why didn’t they go the fuck home?

She’d called him from the plane: Hi, I’m coming into town, what are you doing tonight? And he said, without hesitation, Doing you. Which was fine with her. It was sort of funny, sitting in an airplane seat next to some accountant bent over his laptop, the voice in her ear saying, I’m doing you tonight, in every room of your suite.

Which, to his credit, he did. Not subtle, this guy, but he had lots of energy, that pure California body energy that you never found in New York. No reason to talk about anything. Just fuck.

But now, sunlight streaming through the windows …

Damn.

She got up from the bed, feeling the cold air-conditioned air on her naked skin, and went to the closet to choose the clothes she would wear. She was doing pretty straight types, so she picked jeans, a white Agnes B. T-shirt, and a navy Jil Sander jacket. She carried them into the bathroom, ran a shower. While the water was getting warm, she called the cameraman and told him to have the crew ready in the lobby in an hour.

While she took her shower, she reviewed the coming day. Barker first at nine, she’d film him briefly with some aviation background to warm him up, then break to do the rest at his office.

Next the reporter, Rogers. No time to do him at his newsroom in Orange County; she’d start him at Burbank, another airport, different look. He’d talk about Norton with the Norton buildings behind him.

Then at noon, she’d talk to the Norton guy. By then she’d already know the arguments from the other two guys, and she’d try to scare Norton enough that they’d give her access to the president.

And then … let’s see. The ambulance chaser later in the day, briefly. Someone from the FAA on Friday, for balance. Someone from Norton on Friday, as well. Marty would do a stand-up outside Norton, the script wasn’t prepared but all she needed was the intro and the rest was voice-over. B-roll of passengers boarding, going to their doom. Takeoffs and landings, then some good crash shots.

And she was done.

This segment was going to work, she thought, as she
stepped out of the shower. There was only one thing that troubled her.

That damned guy in the bed.

Why didn’t he go home?

As Casey came into the QA offices, Norma glanced up at her, then pointed down the hall.

Casey frowned.

Norma jerked her thumb. “He was here when I came in this morning,” she said. “Been on the phone for an hour solid. Mr. Sleepyhead’s suddenly not so sleepy.”

Casey went down the hall. As she came to Richman’s office, she heard him say, “Absolutely not. We are very confident of how this will turn out. No. No. I’m sure. Hasn’t a clue. No idea.”

Casey stuck her head in.

Richman was leaning back in his chair, with his feet up on the desk, while he spoke on the phone. He appeared startled when he saw her. He put his hand over the phone. “I’ll just be a minute here.”

“Fine.” She went back to her office, shuffled through papers. She didn’t want him around. It was time for another errand, she thought.

“Good morning,” he said as he came in. He was very cheerful, big smile. “I got those FAA documents you wanted. I left them on your desk.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Today I need you to go to TransPacific’s main office.”

“TransPacific? Isn’t that at the airport?”

“Actually, I think they’re in downtown LA. Norma will get
you the address. I need you to pick up back issues of their inflight magazine. As far back as they go. At least a year.”

“Gee,” Richman said. “Couldn’t we have a messenger do that?”

“This is urgent,” Casey said.

“But I’ll miss the IRT.”

“You’re not needed at the IRT. And I want these magazines as soon as possible.”

“In-flight magazines? What are they for?” he said.

“Bob,” she said. “Just get them.”

He gave a crooked smile. “You’re not trying to get rid of me, are you?”

“Pick up the magazines, get them to Norma, and call me.”

John Marder was late. He came striding into the room with an irritable, distracted look, and dropped into a seat. “All right,” he said. “Let’s have it. Where are we on Flight 545? Flight recorder?”

“Nothing yet,” Casey said.

“We need that data—make it happen, Casey. Structure?”

“Well it’s very difficult very difficult indeed,” Doherty said, dolefully. “I still worry about that bad locking pin. I think we ought to be more cautious—”

“Doug,” Marder said. “I already told you. We’ll check it at Flight Test. Now what about hydraulics?”

“Hydraulics are fine.”

“Cable rigging?”

“Fine. Of course we’re at ambient. Have to cold soak to be sure.”

“Okay. We’ll do that at Flight Test. Electrical?”

Ron said, “We’ve scheduled the Cycle Electrical Test beginning at 6
P.M.
, running through the night. If there’s a problem we’ll know in the morning.”

“Any suspicions now?”

“Just those proximity sensors, in the right wing.”

“Have we functioned them?”

“Yes, and they appear normal. Of course, to really check them we’d have to remove the sensors from the housings, take them out of the wing, and that means—”

“Delaying everything,” Marder said. “Forget it. Powerplant?”

“Zip,” Kenny Burne said. “Engines are fine. Some seals on the cooling system were installed backward. And we got a counterfeit reverser cowl. But it’s nothing that would cause the accident.”

“Okay. Powerplant is eliminated. Avionics?”

Trung said, “Avionics check out within normal limits.”

“What about the autopilot? The pilot fighting to override?”

“Autopilot is fine.”

“I see.” Marder looked around the room. “So we have nothing, is that right? Seventy-two hours into this investigation and we have no damned idea what happened to Flight 545? Is that what you’re telling me?”

There was silence around the table.

“Christ,” Marder said, disgusted. He pounded the table. “Don’t you people understand? I want this fucking thing
solved
!”

Fred Barker was solving all her problems.

To start, Jennifer needed a walk-to-work shot for Marty’s voice-over intro (“We talked to Frederick Barker, a former FAA official, now a controversial crusader for aircraft safety”). Barker suggested a location on Sepulveda, with a sweeping view of the south runways of Los Angeles International Airport. It was perfect, and he was careful to mention that no other film crew had used it before.

Next she needed an at-work shot, again for voice-over (“Since leaving the FAA, Barker has worked tirelessly to bring defective aircraft designs to the public’s attention—particularly the design of the Norton N-22”). Barker suggested a corner of his office, where he placed himself in front of a bookshelf of thick FAA documents, at a desk heaped high with technical-looking pamphlets, which he thumbed through for camera.

Next she needed his basic spiel, in the kind of detail that Reardon wouldn’t have time to bother with during the interview. Barker was ready for this, too. He knew where the switches were for the air-conditioning, the refrigerator, the telephones, and all the other noise sources they’d need to turn off for filming. Barker also had a video monitor ready, to replay the CNN tape from Flight 545 while he commented on it. The monitor was a studio-grade Trinitron, placed in a dark corner of the room, so they could get an image off it. There was a V-plug so they could take the feed directly, to sync his
audio comments. And Barker was running one-inch tape, so image quality was excellent. He even had a large model of the N-22 aircraft, with moving parts on the wing and tail that he could use to demonstrate what had gone wrong in flight. The model sat on a stand on his desk, so it didn’t look like a prop. And Barker was dressed for the part: informal shirtsleeves and tie, reminiscent of an engineer, an authoritative look.

Barker was good on camera, too. He appeared relaxed. He didn’t use jargon; his answers were short. He seemed to understand how she would cut the tape together, so he didn’t lock her into anything. For example, he didn’t reach for the model airplane in the middle of an answer. Instead, he gave his answer, then said, “At this point, I’d like to refer to the model.” When she agreed, he repeated the previous answer, picking up the model at the same time. Everything he did was smooth, with no fumbling or awkwardness.

Of course Barker was experienced, not only on television but in the courtroom. The only problem was that he didn’t give her strong emotion—no shock, no outrage. On the contrary, his tone, his manner, his body language, suggested profound regret. It was unfortunate that this situation arose. It was unfortunate that steps hadn’t been taken to correct the problem. It was unfortunate that authorities hadn’t listened to him for all these years.

“There have been eight previous problems with slats on the airplane,” he said. He held the model up, near his face, turned it so that it didn’t gleam in the crew lights. “These are the slats,” he said, pulling out a sliding panel from the front of the wing. He took his hand away, and said, “You get that in close-up?”

“I was late,” the cameraman said. “Could you do it again?”

“Sure. Are you starting wide?”

“Two Ts,” the cameraman said.

Barker nodded. He paused, then began again. “There have been eight previous problems with slats on this airplane.” Again he held the model up, this time already correctly turned
so it didn’t reflect in the light. “These are the slats,” he said, and pulled out the panel in front of the wing. Then he paused again.