Final Approach (40 page)

“Captain Timson,” Joe asked, “tell us in your own words, having seen the flight recorder readouts and read the cockpit voice recorder transcript, and having been there as no one else in this room, what happened on that final turn?”

Timson had his hands clasped together on the table. He looked down for a second before beginning, his voice steady but slow. “Everything was normal as we came around, descending on airspeed, looking to roll out right over the end of the runway and land. Somewhere in there, even though I was holding the same amount of back pressure on the control stick as before, somewhere in there the airplane suddenly pitched down. Don, my copilot, yelled something—I see from the transcript he asked what I was doing—and I was too busy pulling on that stick to answer him. It didn't respond for what seemed like an eternity, the nose stayed down and we were dropping, and we were no longer turning toward the runway. In other words, it was as if I had pushed the stick forward, and I was doing the opposite. I thought I had told Don to take it, but I guess I never got the words out. They were in my mind, though, but somewhere during that time Don did hit the priority switch and assume control, and the plane responded … only …”—Timson looked back down and dropped his voice to little more than a whisper—“… only, too late.”

“Captain, when you were first interviewed in the hospital by NTSB investigators, you said that you had maintained control all the way to impact. When you were next interviewed, also in the hospital, this time on October twenty-second, you stated that you said, and I quote, ‘My stick's not responding, take it Don, take it.' In a third interview, after reading the transcript of the cockpit voice recorder, you said that you had meant to say those words, but apparently had not. Is all that correct?”

“Yes sir. I was quite mentally confused for many days after the accident. As you know, I had a skull fracture, and at the first interview, I was under medication. I don't even remember you people being there. The second interview, I told you what I thought I had said. That's what was in my head. I thought I had said it. The tape proved me wrong.”

In the audience, Dr. Mark Weiss made careful note of Timson's words, a thin smile and a shallow nod the only outward indications that something of special significance had reached his ears.

“But you never pushed that stick forward or let it go?” Joe continued.

“Of course not. Why would I do something … something suicidal like that?”

Joe concentrated on the notebook for a few seconds, his brow deeply furrowed. The statement Dick Timson said he had made to Don Leyhe, but hadn't, really puzzled Joe. He had repeated the words to Andy during that second interview with so much force and assurance, as if he'd heard it on a tape recording. Then he'd seemed perplexed and even angry when they showed him the transcript weeks later, convincing him finally that in fact those words were
not
on the tape. The discrepancy probably was exactly as Timson claimed, the result of his head injury. But it still bothered Joe. The man had seemed so sure.

“Captain, you say you did not push the stick forward, but the airplane's nose dropped. How
do
you explain that?”

“There's only one explanation I can think of, Mr. Wallingford. The side-stick controller or the flight computers malfunctioned, or were influenced somehow from the ground.”

“But, sir, you've heard testimony from NTSB staff investigators here this morning that there is no evidence of that happening.”

Timson looked Joe in the eye and nodded evenly. “I know, but I also heard your people say that electromagnetic interference is still a possibility. Look, I was there, and I didn't command nose down. Therefore, the airplane did it for me. What made the airplane disobey me, I don't know. That's your question to answer, not mine.” Timson shifted in his chair and studied his hands, his mouth open, on the verge of adding something. “I … I've flown airplanes for a lot of years, Mr. Wallingford, and I've heard airplane manufacturers and engineers and instructors tell me for years that it was impossible for a particular piece of equipment to fail. Yet that very item would later do just that—fail—and only then would we find their faith in mechanical perfection had been … misplaced. I was there, sir. My life, and that of many others, has been completely altered by this horror, which happened in spite of my best efforts as a pilot. It may be hard for you to accept, but the control system malfunctioned. Plain and simple.”

“There is, then, no chance you pushed it over even for a second to correct your flight path, or some other reason?”

“No sir. I did not.”

An idea flashed through Joe's head, from where he wasn't sure, but the question just seemed appropriate all of a sudden. “Captain, were you fully conscious all the way down?”

Timson's eyes widened slightly at that, but there was no other visible response. The same flat, controlled vocal tones carried his answer. “Of course I was. I wouldn't remember any of this otherwise.”

He had a point, Joe conceded. Plus there was the final word. “There is an epithet on the voice tape just before impact. Someone said, ‘Goddamn it!' Is that your voice?”

“Yes it is.”

To the media it looked like a dramatic pause, but Joe was trying to shift gears, pawing through the list of questions, steeling himself to probe into the foreign areas of human factors he had accepted so reluctantly.

“Captain, you have seen the transcript of your statements to copilot Don Leyhe. Would you characterize those exchanges to be an argument?”

“Of course not.” The reply was quiet and even. “I'm the captain. I do not have an argument with a subordinate, though I may tolerate a discussion. When that discussion is over, if he doesn't know it, it's up to me to tell him. Don did not understand what I was doing, and he mistakenly thought we were running a risk of flying back into windshear. He was wrong, but he wouldn't let it go. I had to speak sharply to get him to quiet down so I could concentrate on flying. It's as simple as that.”

The man's eyes were boring into Joe's. Timson obviously felt strongly about this, but his words conveyed an amazingly archaic attitude.

“Sir,” Joe began, “what is your philosophy of flight management in an airline cockpit? Are there two pilots up there, or only one pilot and an assistant who follows orders blindly?”

Timson smiled, and Joe thought he heard a small snort of derision. “Of course there are two pilots, Mr. Wallingford, and the FAA says they share responsibility. But there is only one captain, and he has the final authority. He should listen to recommendations and then make a decision, and when that decision is made, the other pilot should shut up and support it.”

“Blindly?”

“Not blindly, but with respect and obedience.”

“Are you familiar with a type of training called cockpit resource management?”

Now Timson did snort, audibly and with considerable derision. “Sure. You incorporate that, and you end up flying by committee, or by consensus, with a captain who can't make a decision without checking with everyone on board. That is a major mistake, and this industry will pay dearly for embracing it.”

“Captain, did you hear the testimony this morning from Captain Rohr that if your copilot had taken control just seven-tenths of a second before he did, none of us would be going through this right now?”

“Yes.”

“Do you accept that testimony as true?”

“Well, he said they flew a bunch of simulator flights, so I suppose it's accurate … in a vacuum.”

“What do you mean, ‘in a vacuum'?”

“They weren't there. It takes time for a copilot to recognize he needs to take over from his commander without being ordered to, and there just wasn't time for me to give that order. As I said, I thought I had, but apparently the words didn't clear my throat.”

Joe stared at Timson, waiting without a word for several seconds, watching the captain's reactions. Was his resolve that firm, or was this well-practiced posturing? If Joe got too rough with him, there would be protests, and worse, there would be an outpouring of sympathy that might get in the way of the truth—whatever that might be.

“Captain, had you ever flown with Don Leyhe before?”

“No. I knew him, though. He was one of my pilots.”

“Did you discuss with him when it was okay for him to take control?”

“Of course not. That's common sense.”

“Is it?”

“Sure. You don't touch a captain's yoke unless you're asked to, ordered to, or it's obvious that the captain has no control.”

Joe nodded slowly. “Okay … okay, let's pursue that. Let's say a copilot sees the captain is no longer able to control the situation. You would want him to take control at that point, right?”

“Of course. I expect it.
That,
you see, Mr. Wallingford, is what a copilot is really for. He's a standby entity in many respects, a captain-in-training under the complete control of the flight captain.”

“All right. Now, the period of time it takes for a copilot to recognize a deteriorating situation which the captain, for whatever reason, has lost the ability to control, that period of time is not finite, correct?”

“What do you mean?”

“In other words, that time will vary from copilot to copilot.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“One guy may be more aggressive and self-confident and may spot the problem sooner and seize control sooner than a weaker or more tenuous individual, right?”

“Sure. That's logical.”

“And in such an emergency, you would want the copilot to recognize the problem
as soon as possible
, wouldn't you?”

“I believe so.”

“Otherwise, why is he or she there, right?”

“Right.”

“So, is it a desirable state of affairs to train these copilots to be slower to act, or to be so uncertain of themselves that they may not act in time in the admittedly rare instance where they need to take over?”

“Of course not. We don't train our copilots to be slow, nor do we train them to seize control anytime they don't like what the captain is doing.”

“Would it make sense to you, Captain Timson, as chief pilot, that you should step in and stop a form of training that seeks to make copilots so reluctant to act that they may not act in time in an emergency?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“And, would you agree that a copilot who has been intimidated by a more powerful fellow in a superior position, intimidated and told to keep his hands off the controls, is going to be less likely to act in time?”

Timson stared at Joe, his face slowly turning red, having walked into a trap. “You're misconstruing that conversation.”

“I wasn't talking about your conversation. I was talking generally. But now that you mention it, wasn't your statement on that downwind leg to a shaken Don Leyhe, your answer to him when he asked, and I quote”—Joe turned the page to find the line—“‘What do you want me to do, Captain?' and your reply was, ‘I want you to shut your goddamn face and let me fly my airplane.'” Joe looked up again and slowly removed his reading glasses. “Wasn't that statement, Captain, one that would intimidate any copilot into being much slower to act in an emergency? Didn't you intimidate your copilot right out of the loop? Wasn't he effectively removed from the cockpit?”

“He wouldn't stop blathering. I had to correct him. I had made my decision and he wanted to question it. I was in command, and he did not have the right to keep questioning my decision. It was time to get him out of the loop. I … I …” Timson was sputtering, his direction lost, his mind grappling with the fact that he had been painted into a corner.

“Thank you, Captain.”

“No, I'm not through.”

Joe leaned forward instinctively, the phrase just slipping out before he could think about it. “Yes, Captain, I'm afraid you are. You've answered the question.” It was more the type of editorial remark Susan could make, but there it was, and Timson suddenly was silent. Joe felt sorry for him, which he hadn't expected to do. The man really didn't understand why his method hadn't worked, didn't work, couldn't work. Andy had been absolutely right. Whatever had happened between Tim-son's left hand and the flight-control system, the methods he used as a captain and a chief pilot were vital to the investigation.

From the second row in the audience, Mark Weiss watched Timson's head drop. He watched the man take a deep breath, and once again he tried to hate the man, hate him for what he'd done. But it wouldn't come. Just pity. Pity Dick Timson, and pity those like him who couldn't accept the responsibility for what they'd done. And pity those pilots who kept clinging to the idea that real pilots must always fly alone, even in a two-or three-pilot cockpit.

Dick Timson fielded questions from the technical panel and other parties for two more hours, his North America boss John Walters trying to repair the record and make up for the answers elicited by Joe's questions, and doing more damage in the process. It was crystal clear that Dick Timson, and officially North America, had their feet set in concrete on the issue of how to fly airliners: the captain was God, and that was that. They were fighting the NTSB's right to question the philosophy, rather than debating whether it was the correct philosophy.

Mercifully, Susan marked Timson's dismissal with a fifteen-minute recess, and Joe lingered a minute to watch him as he left the stand, expecting his wife to rush forward to him. She was nowhere to be seen, which was odd. Louise Timson, Joe knew from Andy's research, had spent almost every waking moment by her husband's side at Truman Medical Center for the entire two weeks he had been hospitalized, sleeping mostly in his room on a chair. And, as he also knew, her actions had raised concerns for her mental health, concerns Andy had found out about but had been unable to pursue. Whether they were related to any information about her husband useful to the investigation, Andy didn't know. Dick Timson had refused all NTSB requests to interview his wife.