Final Approach (24 page)

At the same moment, 600 miles to the north in Kansas City, NTSB investigator Nick Gardner smiled a slightly perverse smile as he snapped off the small, plastic radio in his hotel room, having just heard a local news station play the Kansas City control-tower recording from Friday night. The FAA and NTSB would go crazy looking for the source of the leak, and he was it.

The original audio tape—a reel from a machine in the tower which slowly recorded all radio activity to and from the tower's radios—was still in the possession of the control-tower chief, who would undoubtedly appear before his scandalized superiors shortly clutching that tape to show it had not been stolen. That would confuse FAA headquarters for at least a few hours. But the tower chief had made an official duplicate for the NTSB investigators to examine, and Nick, as chairman of the air-traffic-control group, had surreptitiously copied that one, slipping the cassette to a local radio news reporter Monday night in the airport hotel parking lot. There would be no way to prove which dub had been copied, and Nick was counting on that uncertainty to keep himself employed.

“I want the world to hear for themselves that the controller never mentioned—
never mentioned
, mind you—the possibility of windshear while the Airbus was on its first approach,” he had told the reporter, who promised to give the tape to the national media as well. He would have liked to explain why he knew the FAA so very well, but the explanation would have make him seem biased and unreliable as a source.

I
am
biased, he thought, but not unreliable. But if I tell the reporter I'm a former air traffic controller myself, he won't trust me. For over a decade he had worked the scopes, almost destroying his life, the lousy excuse for FAA management making the high-pressure job impossibly stressful. In the face of failing health, chain-smoking, chronic migraine headaches, and dangerous blood-pressure levels, he had been granted medical retirement just two months before the illegal PATCO controllers strike—which was the only reason he had been employable by the NTSB, all the PATCO strikers having been barred from other government positions. Nick's great escape had proven a perfect solution, but he couldn't forget his past, or the things within the air-traffic-control system that still cried out for change.

By 10
A.M.
in Washington, all three television networks and a host of radio networks had played the tape, and by 11
A.M.
—as Gardner knew would happen—accusations, recriminations, and frantic phone calls were erupting in reaction. Once again, an FAA-controlled tape had found its way into the public domain.

By 11:20
A.M.
in his Washington office, NTSB Chairman Dean Farris had replaced the receiver with his ears red and his blood pressure rising. FAA Associate Administrator Bill Caldwell's accusations were infuriating. How the hell could Caldwell be sure it wasn't his own FAA people in Kansas City who released the tower tape? There was no justification, he had sputtered at Caldwell, for concluding that the NTSB team had leaked the tape to the media. And in any event, it probably didn't matter.

Farris had punched Wallingford's cellular phone number with poorly contained fury, calculating a high probability that he was responsible and jumping at the chance to ream him out.

“Joe? What do you know about the leak of the tower tapes?”

There was momentary silence on the other end, and Farris interpreted it darkly.

“Nothing. I just heard about it a few minutes ago.”

“You know that came from our people, don't you? That was the NTSB's copy they played.” Farris tossed it out as a statement of fact, listening carefully for the tone of the reply, which was that of an offended man.

“
What?
Where did you get
that
idea, Mr. Chairman?”

“The FAA accounted for their tape. Have you accounted for yours?”

“Nick Gardner is in charge of the ATC group. I'm looking for him now, but he wouldn't—”

“Bullshit, Joe. Under your loose control, I'm surprised you haven't asked the media in as a formal party to the investigation.”

There was silence, and with perverse satisfaction, Farris could imagine Joe Wallingford counting to ten—which, in effect, he was.

“Mr. Chairman, that was uncalled for … not to mention an insult.”

“If the shoe fits, Joe.”

“It does not.” Joe realized he was squeezing the phone in anger.

“Perhaps. In the meantime, the FAA is convinced we did it, and they're madder than hell. On top of that, the media is hammering away at sabotage on every network. They're convinced someone murdered Larry Wilkins and took all those passengers with him, and Caldwell is saying he's all but convinced the flight-control system of the A320 was sabotaged by radio waves from the ground! I'm sitting in the middle of mass hysteria. I need you back here now.”

Joe thought he'd misunderstood. Farris couldn't be ordering him to fly home. “What?”

“I want you to head back here this afternoon.”

“I'm in the middle of the
field
investigation.” This is unbelievable, Joe thought. The man has no concept of what we do out here.

“Joe, follow orders, for Christ's sake. Get back here. Leave Andy Wallace in charge. He can handle it. First thing when you get back, I want you to go up to Caldwell and explain what happened with the tower tape—if you can, that is. You say Nick's people didn't do it?”

“That's my assumption.”

“Good. You go tell Caldwell.”

Joe punched the disconnect button on his phone as he fumbled for the list of phone numbers to the cellular phones carried by the rest of his team. He located Nick's at last, punching in the numbers and waiting for his voice, which came on line with the first ring.

The conversation was quick. Yes, he had heard the broadcast. No, he hadn't leaked the tape, and for that matter, no one had ever had unsupervised control of the NTSB's tape. In short, the tower had to be responsible. The tower personnel were lying.

“Nick, you are certain? I'm going to be defending us to Farris and to the FAA.”

“I'm certain,” he replied.

There was a 3
P.M.
departure to Washington, and Joe reluctantly booked himself on the flight before beginning the process of turning the reins over to Andy. There were too many things to do—too many loose ends. Talk to all the group chairmen, check the progress of wreckage removal and the search for the CVR, review the witness interview progress, check in with Barbara, and then worry through two more pages of “to do” items on his legal pad. He had rushed out of his room mentally going over it all when two men from Airbus caught him in the hotel foyer, their faces gray and serious, their mood funereal.

“We would have gone to Ms. Rawlson, but since she's in the hospital …”

“I understand.”

André Charat from Airbus had been assigned to Barbara's systems group, and the other man, Robert d'Angosta, was an Airbus technical support representative from Toulouse, France. Joe directed them to the conference room, mildly apprehensive and on guard.

Charat began, clearing his throat and talking to his shoes. “We are very concerned, Mr. Wallingford, that the technical realities of the 320's flight-control system be clearly understood.”

“By the entire team, I assume?”

“Yes, and most importantly, by you. You are the decision maker.”

“Hey, now, I'm only in charge of the field investigation,” he began. Charat raised his hand and waved Joe to a verbal halt.

“You set the pace, Mr. Wallingford. You need to know.”

Joe had noticed d'Angosta holding a leather portfolio. He opened it at Charat's nod and began spreading electrical-system diagrams on the table as Charat launched into an abbreviated but precise explanation of the flight-control computers in the A320 and why the probability that all of them could fail simultaneously so as to cause an uncommanded pitch down was almost to the threshold of impossible.

“You would stand a better chance of winning the lottery,” he said at last, watching Joe for a reaction and looking him in the eye for the first time.

“How about EMI? Electromagnetic interference? Possible?”

“Yes …,” Charat began slowly, shifting his gaze to the table, remembering the thousands of hours of discussions with FAA people, airline executives, and even French aviation authorities, all nervous over a new technology, “but it's only possible if you have a monstrously powerful transmitter very, very close, as close as 300 feet, and even then the worst that could happen is some sort of momentary instability. Since there are no such powerful radar or radio sources anywhere close to Kansas City Airport, that means this simply
isn't
a valid possibility.”

“Have you seen the flight-data-recorder readouts?”

“Yes. Your Walt Rogers provided those a few hours ago. Mr. Wallingford, those readouts prove our point, don't you see?”

Joe was surprised, and Charat noticed, nodding before the word was out of Joe's mouth: “Why?”

Charat shifted in his chair, his right hand gesturing in an intricate pattern as if grasping an invisible control stick, an accomplished mime describing the control inputs while his left hand simulated the airplane responding to those commands. “Because, the readout shows that the flight controls—in this case the elevator—was operating in a positive manner. First nose down, then a steady nose up. No transient computer failure, electrical short, or stray radio-induced signal would have let the elevator operate in such middle ranges. If there had been a control failure to the down position, the elevator surface would have slammed to full nose-down deflection and stayed there. Since here it was operating short of that—as we can see from that readout—that proves that only one thing could have caused this accident.”

Charat stopped and his hands descended slowly to his lap as his eyes fixed on Joe, who was holding his breath.

“Yes?” Joe asked it at last, seeing that the Airbus representative was waiting for an invitation to present his coup de grace.

“The pilots commanded those changes. Whoever was flying pushed the nose over and failed to pull it back until too late. Our airplane only did what it was told. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Joe caught himself sighing, his right palm held up in the air as an unconscious gesture of frustration. These men were sincere, surely. But they were anything but neutral. They had an airplane to protect, and their conclusion was suspect. “The captain says he never pushed forward.”

“The captain, sir, is either lying or deluded.”

“That's quite a statement, Mr. Charat.”

“And these fanciful and uninformed statements we are hearing, making electronically impossible accusations against our flight-control system, are they not inflammatory too? I tell you, we have information that there are some in the FAA who want to ground the airplanes.”

Joe knew his face was being studied for the slightest flicker of a muscle. Charat must know something of Caldwell's attitude, he decided. Or he's a skillful fisherman, casting out his worst nightmare, looking for a ripple on the water of official normalcy. When Joe could stand the impasse no longer, he shook his head. “No one's going to ground your airplane unless there's a clear and certain reason.”

“Oh?” Charat sat back, a scowl crossing his features. A Gallic scowl, Joe thought. The French were so good at acting as if they'd been mortally insulted, or was that an unfair, almost bigoted impression? The French executive leaned forward again. “And you are not aware, Mr. Wallingford, that certain people within the FAA have already started threatening the A320 with grounding if it cannot be proven to
their
satisfaction that no control problems could possibly be involved? Is that not an impossible standard?”

“What, exactly, are you referring to?” Joe asked, having just barely stopped himself from asking, “What, exactly, do you know?”

“We have our sources. And we know of certain FAA officials with ties to American manufacturers who would love to ground the 320 for months. We … I … hope that you, as an investigator with an impeccable record for balance and honesty, will not permit that to happen.”

They parted amicably, but Joe was deeply worried. The only explanation that made any sense was a system failure, either internally or induced by radio interference, and yet they had made a convincing case against it. But the hints about Bill Caldwell and his stand on the 320—as well as his intentions—had unnerved Joe. As Charat was leaving, he half mumbled something Joe did not quite understand. Now the words coalesced, as if his mental computer had needed time to decipher a coded message. “Check,” Charat had said under his breath, “who owns stock in which aircraft builders before deciding who to believe at FAA.” It was most likely a desperate gambit, a scandalous sidelong accusation against anyone in government who opposed their airplane. But like a multipronged fishhook snagged in the skin, it was going to be hard to dislodge.

If the men from Airbus were right that their flight controls were blameless, then Joe would have to accept the idea that Dick Timson, chief pilot, highly experienced captain, and a company vice-president, purposefully or negligently pushed the nose of his aircraft into a shallow dive at a point in time when such a thing would be, in effect, an act of suicidal stupidity, and of all the possibilities, that made the least sense. In fact, it gave more credence to the theory of electronic interference.

Joe found a phone at the back of the ballroom and called Barbara's hospital room. She was supposed to be released on Thursday in time to go home with the team, but she was under everyone's orders to rest in the meantime. Instead, she had spent almost every hour on the phone with members of her systems group, directing the various probes and trying to figure out the location of Flight 255's elusive cockpit voice recorder.