Airframe (18 page)

Casey sighed. "Never mind."

"That'd be my advice," Norma said.

In her office, she thumbed through the files on her desk. Most of it was paper on Transpacific 545. The first sheet summarized the stack that followed:

FAA FORM 8020-9, ACCIDENT/INCIDENT PRELIMINARY NOTICE

FAA FORM 8020-6, REPORT OF AIRCRAFT ACCIDENT

FAA FORM 8020-6-1, REPORT OF AIRCRAFT ACCIDENT (CONTINUATION)

FAA FORM 7230-10, POSITION Loos

HONOLULU ARINC

Los ANGELES ARTCC

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA ATAC

AUTOMATIC SIGN-IN/SIGN-OFF LOG

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA ATAC

FAA FORM 7230-4, DAILY RECORD OF FACILITY OPERATION

Los ANGELES ARTCC

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA ATAC

FAA FORM 7230-8, FLIGHT PROGRESS STRIP

Los ANGELES ARTCC

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA ATAC

FLIGHT PLAN, ICAO

She saw a dozen pages of flight path charts; transcriptions of air traffic control voice recordings; and more weather reports. Next was material from Norton, including a sheaf of fault record data—so far the only hard data they had to work with.

She decided to take it home. She was tired; she could look at it at home.

GLENDALE

10:45 P.M.

He sat up in bed abruptly, turned, put his feet on the floor. "So. Listen babe," he said, not looking at her.

She stared at the muscles of his bare back. The ridge of his spine. The strong lines of his shoulders.

"This was great," he said. "It's great to see you."

"Uh-huh," she said.

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"But you know, big day tomorrow."

She would have preferred he stay. The truth was, she felt better having him here at night. But she knew he was going to go. He always did. She said, "I understand. It's okay, Teddy."

That made him turn back to her. He gave her his charming, crooked smile. "You're the best, Casey." He bent over and kissed her, a long kiss. She knew this was because she wasn't begging him to stay. She kissed him back, smelling the faint odor of beer. She ran her hand around his neck, caressing the fine hairs.

Almost immediately, he pulled away again. "So. Anyway. Hate to run."

"Sure, Teddy."

"By the way," Teddy said, "I hear you toured the gardens, between shifts ..."

"Yeah, I did."

"You don't want to piss off the wrong people."

"I know."

He grinned. "I'm sure you do." He kissed her cheek, then bent over, reaching for his socks.

"So, anyway, I probably should be heading out..."

"Sure, Teddy," she said. "You want coffee, before you go?"

He was pulling on his cowboy boots. "Uh, no, babe. This was great. Great to see you."

Not wanting to be left alone in the bed, she got up, too. She put on a big T-shirt, walked him to the door, kissed him briefly as he left. He touched her nose, grinned. "Great," he said.

"Good night, Teddy," she said.

She locked the door, set the alarm.

Walking back through the house, she turned off the stereo, glanced around to see if he had left anything. Other men usually left something behind, because they wanted a reason to come back. Teddy never did. All trace of his presence was gone. There was only the unfinished beer on the kitchen table. She threw it in the trash, wiped away the ring of moisture.

She had been telling herself for months to end it (End what? End what? a voice said), but she somehow never got around to saying the words. She was so busy at work, it was such an effort to meet people. Six months earlier she had gone with Eileen, Marder's assistant, to a country-and-western bar in Studio City. The place was frequented by young movie people, Disney animators—a fun crowd, Eileen said. Casey found it agonizing. She wasn't beautiful, and she wasn't young; she didn't have the effortless glamour of the girls that glided through the room in tight jeans and crop tops.

The men were all too young for her, their smooth faces unformed. And she couldn't make small talk with them. She felt herself too serious for this setting. She had a job, a child, she was looking at forty. She never went out with Eileen again.

It wasn't that she had no interest in meeting someone. But it was just so difficult. There was never enough time, never enough energy. In the end, she didn't bother.

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So when Teddy would call, say he was in the neighborhood, she'd go unlock the door for him, and get in the shower. Get ready.

That was how it had been for a year, now.

She made tea, and got back in bed. She propped herself up against the headboard, reached for the stack of papers, and began to review the records from the fault data recorders. She started to thumb through the printout:

A/S PWR TEST

00000010000

AIL SERVO COMP

00001001000

AOA INV

10200010001

CFDS SENS FAIL

00000010000

CRZ CMD MON

10000020100

EL SERVO COMP

00000000010

EPR/N1 TRA-

00000010000

FMS SPEED INV

00000040000

PRESS ALT INV

00000030000

G/S SPEED ANG

00000010000

SLAT XSIT T/O

00000000000

G/S DEV INV

00100050001

GND SPD INV

00000021000

TAS INV

00001010000

TAT INV

00000010000

AUX 1

00000000000

AUX 2

00000000000

AUX 3

00000000000

AUX COA

01000000000

A/S ROX-P

00000010000

RDR PROX-1

00001001000

There were nine more pages of dense data. She wasn't sure what all the readings represented, particularly the AUX fault checks. One was probably the auxiliary power unit, the gas turbine in the rear of the fuselage which provided power when the plane was on the ground, and backup power in the event of electrical failure during flight. But what were the others?

Auxiliary line readings? Checks of redundant systems? And what was AUX COA?

She'd have to ask Ron.

She flipped ahead to the DEU listing, which stored faults by each leg of the flight. She scanned them quickly, yawning, and then suddenly she stopped:

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DEU FAULT REVIEW

LEG 04

FAULTS 01

R/L SIB PROX SENS MISCOMPARE

8 APR 00:36

FLT 180 FC052606H

ALT 37000

A/S 320

She frowned.

She could hardly believe what she was seeing.

A fault in the proximity sensor.

Exactly what her check of maintenance records told her to look for.

More than two hours into the flight, a proximity sensor error was noted on the inboard electrical bus. The wing had many proximity sensors—little electronic pads which detected the presence of metal nearby. The sensors were needed to confirm that the slats and flaps were in the proper position on the wing, since the pilots couldn't see them from the cockpit.

According to this fault, a "miscompare" had occurred between sensors on the right and left sides. If the main electrical box in the fuselage had had a problem, faults would have been generated on both wings. But the right wing alone had generated the miscompare. She looked ahead, to see if the fault repeated. She skipped through the listing quickly, shuffling papers. She didn't see anything at once. But a single fault in the sensor meant it should be checked. Again, she would have to ask Ron...

It was so difficult to try and assemble a picture of the flight from these bits and pieces. She needed the continuous data from the flight recorder. She'd call Rob Wong in the morning, and see how he was coming with that.

Meanwhile...

Casey yawned, settled lower on the pillows, and continued to work.

101

WEDNESDAY

GLENDALE

6:12 A.M.

The telephone was ringing. She awoke, groggy, and rolled over, hearing the crunch of paper beneath her elbow. She looked down and saw the data sheets scattered all over the bed.

The phone continued to ring. She picked it up.

"Mom." Solemn, close to tears.

"Hi, Allie."

"Mom. Dad is making me wear the red dress, and I want to wear the blue one with the flowers."

She sighed. "What did you wear yesterday?"

"The blue one. But it's not dirty or anything!"

This was an ongoing battle. Allison liked to wear the clothes she had worn the day before.

Some innate, seven-year-old conservatism at work. "Honey, you know I want you to wear clean clothes to school."

"But it is clean, Mom. And I hate the red dress."

Last month, the red dress had been her favorite. Allison had fought to wear it every day.

Casey sat up in bed, yawned, stared at the papers, the dense columns of data. She heard her daughter's complaining voice on the phone and thought, Do I need this? She wondered why Jim didn't handle it. Everything was so difficult, over the phone. Jim didn't hold up his end—he wasn't firm with her— and the kid's natural tendency to play one parent against the other led to an interminable string of long-distance encounters like this.

Trivial problems, childish power plays.

"Allison," she said, interrupting her daughter. "If your father says to wear the red dress, you do what he says,"

"But Mom—"

"He's in charge now."

"But Mom—"

"That's it, Allison. No more discussion. The red dress."

"Oh, Mom..." She started to cry. "I hate you."

And she hung up.

Casey considered calling her daughter back, decided not to. She yawned, got out of bed, walked into the kitchen and turned on the coffeemaker. Her fax machine was buzzing in the comer of the living room. She went over to look at the paper coming out.

It was a copy of a press release issued by a public relations firm in Washington. Although the firm had a neutral name— the Institute for Aviation Research—she knew it was a PR firm 102

representing the European consortium that made Airbus. The release was formatted to look like a breaking wire-service story, complete with headline at the top. It said: JAA DELAYS CERTIFICATION OF N-22

WIDEBODY JET CITING CONTINUED

AIRWORTHINESS CONCERNS

She sighed.

It was going to be a hell of a day.

WAR ROOM

7:00 A.M.

Casey climbed the metal stairs to the War Room. When she reached the catwalk John Marder was there, pacing back and forth, waiting for her.

"Casey."

"Morning, John."

"You've seen this JAA thing?" He held up the fax.

"Yes, I have."

"It's nonsense, of course, but Edgarton drilled a hole. He's very upset. First, two N-22

incidents in two days, and now this. He's worried we're going to get creamed in the press. And he has no confidence that Benson's Media Relations people will handle this right."

Bill Benson was one of the old Norton hands; he had handled media relations since the days when the company lived on military contracts and didn't tell the press a damned thing. Testy and blunt, Benson had never adjusted to the post-Watergate world, where journalists were celebrities who brought down governments. He was famous for feuding with reporters.

"This fax may generate press interest, Casey. Especially among reporters who don't know how screwed up the JAA is. And let's face it, they won't want to talk to press flacks. They'll want an executive in the company. So Hal wants all the inquiries on the JAA routed to you."

'To me," she said. She was thinking, Forget it. She already had a job. "Benson won't be very happy if you do that—"

"Hal's talked to him personally. Benson's on board."

"Are you sure?"

"I also think," Marder said, "we ought to prepare a decent press package on the N-22.

Something besides the usual PR crap. Hal suggested you compile a comprehensive package to refute the JAA stuff—you know, service hours, safety record, dispatch reliability data, SDRs, all of that."

"Okay ..." That was going to be a lot of work, and—

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"I told Hal you were busy, and that this was an added burden," Marder said. "He's approved a two-grade bump in your IC."

Incentive compensation, the company's bonus package, was a large part of every executive's income. A two-grade increase would mean a substantial amount of money for her.

"Okay," she said.

"The point is," Marder said, "we've got a good response to this fax—a substantive response.

And Hal wants to make sure we get it out. Can I count on you to help us?"

"Sure," Casey said.

"Good," Marder said. And he walked up the stairs, into the room.

Richman was already in the room, looking preppy in a sport coat and tie. Casey slipped into a chair. Marder shifted into high gear, waving the JAA fax in the air, berating the engineers.

"You've probably already seen that the JAA is playing games with us. Perfectly timed to jeopardize the China sale. But if you read the memo, you know that it's all about the engine in Miami and nothing about Transpacific. At least not yet..."

Casey tried to pay attention, but she was distracted, calculating what the change in 1C would mean. A two-grade bump was ... she did the figures in her head ... something like a twenty-percent raise. Jesus, she thought. Twenty percent! She could send Allison to private school.

And they could vacation someplace nice, Hawaii or someplace like that. They'd stay in a nice hotel. And next year, move to a bigger house, with a big yard so Allison could run around, and—

Everyone at the table was staring at her.

Marder said, "Casey? The DFDR? When can we expect the data?"