Final Approach (41 page)

Mark Weiss took Joe aside as he poured a glass of water at the rear of the room. “There's something I've got to lay out for you, Joe. This afternoon or evening. Something I can only show you in private.”

“Can you give me a hint?”

“Only that it concerns Timson's testimony. I can't say more here.” Mark patted Joe's elbow once, turned, and disappeared into the corridor, leaving Joe with unanswered questions and a piqued curiosity. In his limited experience with the man, Dr. Mark Weiss was not normally so secretive.

Andy was beside him then, and Susan approached, all three of them huddling to one side, discussing Timson's statements, agreeing that the answers were pivotal. Timson wasn't backing down a millimeter from his insistence that he never relaxed his back pressure on the control stick. He had thrown a direct challenge to the NTSB to prove equipment failure wasn't the cause, and Joe knew with a sinking feeling he'd been entertaining for weeks that they probably couldn't rise to the challenge.

“Who's next?” Andy asked.

“We're going to get the tower controller up there and let North America chew at him awhile.”

Carl Sellers was precise and impressive once he began his testimony, piecing together each and every act of his life on that Friday evening, adding convincing explanations to match and even documenting the time and exact duration of the momentary power spike in the tower which had attracted so much media attention. He had no idea, he said, whether the power glitch had any connection with the machine being loaded by the Air Force C-5B. No, he was not excessively distracted in the tower cab that evening. Yes, he was aware of the windshear monitors as North American 255 approached, and no, they did not go off. It wasn't until North America's vice-president John Walters had tossed every have-you-stopped-beating-your-wife? question he could possibly think of that one finally found a nerve and Sellers began emerging from his cocoon of precision, his temper building as he considered the questions, and at last passed his personal critical mass.

“Mr. Sellers,” Walters had asked, “the pilot of the landing Metroliner obviously meant windshear when he used the phrase ‘gusty out there.' You were the tower controller, you knew there were thunderstorms in the area, why on earth didn't you correct him? Why didn't you ask him whether he really meant to say ‘windshear' instead of ‘gusty'?”

Sellers had leaned forward to the microphone, his hands formed into fists on each side of its base. The sound of his overamplified voice boomed through the ceiling speakers in the ballroom, slightly distorted and startling. “Mr. Walters, I've been sitting here all afternoon putting up with your snide and sarcastic insinuations that I'm too stupid to know what I'm doing, and now you're implying that I should have edited the pilot's statements. This may be hard for you to understand—”

“Mr. Sellers, please contain—,” Joe began.

“No, let me finish. This desk jockey has had his opportunity, Mr. Chairman, and I demand mine.”

“This is not a personal confrontation, gentlemen,” Joe interjected, all but unheard as Walters bowed with a little flourish, saying, “By all means, Mr. Sellers, fire away.”

“The point is this. It is not now, nor has it ever been my job, or the job of any controller, to think and speak and act for the goddamn pilots. When these people come down final, they should be trained adults able to call a spade a spade, and a microburst a microburst. The fact that jerkwater commuters like this one hire greenhorn children and put them in the cockpit without training them is not
my
fault, nor is it that of the FAA!”

Susan and Joe both could see the frantic look on the face of the FAA men at their table as Sellers spoke, pleading with him by expression and hand signals to simmer down. Walters, however, pulled the plug on their attempts.

“Are you quite through, Mr. Sellers? Can I continue now? Or would you like to snarl a bit more at me and the world in general for your demonstrated incompetence?”

Sellers's mouth came open as Susan rose from her chair and shouted at them both, banging the palm of her hand on the table for emphasis.

“
GENTLEMEN! THAT
…
IS
…
ENOUGH!
This is supposed to be an orderly proceeding, and I will not tolerate such behavior in here again. Is that clear?”

There was no response, the veins in Sellers's neck standing out a quarter inch as he struggled to keep control as he watched Walters, who had painted the most witheringly disdainful sneer he could manage across his face.

“Mr. Walters? Mr. Sellers? I'm talking to both of you!” Susan said.

“I'm sorry, Madam Chairman, I shall contain my comments,” a surprised Walters said as he turned to her. Sellers nodded as well. “I apologize for the outburst.”

As Susan regained her seat, the barely concealed smiles on the faces of the television cameramen betrayed their analysis of the exchange: that was great camera! The choice of a sound bite for the evening news was now a foregone conclusion.

Joe avoided Farris entirely when Susan adjourned the hearing for the day. He assembled the staff for a planned briefing twenty minutes later, but kept it short so everyone could unwind and get sufficient rest. There had been enough emotion for one day, but Tuesday's session had everyone worried.

Jeff Perkins found Joe as the staff meeting broke up and shanghaied him to dinner, trying unsuccessfully to keep his obviously worried friend off the subject of the next day's agenda.

“It's going to be one of the toughest I've ever dealt with, Jeff. The 737 captain is the second witness. He asked us to let him testify. Demanded, was more like it, and ALPA underscored the request. We all want to get a clear record on Timson's management style, but their eagerness frightens me a bit, since this is supercharged emotionally already.”

“You set this witness list up yourself, Joe?”

“I supervised. My human-performance group chairman, Andy Wallace, did most of the work, and he's promised not to make a circus out of it—promised to keep it from looking like an exercise in airline bashing—but there are four other North America pilots whom we'll put on tomorrow.”

“This is on the question of why copilots can't monitor captains?”

“Yeah, as well as why oppressive management styles can adversely affect safety. You heard Captain Timson's testimony today, and that from the ALPA pilot who said the copilot could have recovered?”

“That shocked me.”

“Well, it shocked
me
when I first heard how clear-cut the simulator tests had turned out. God, there was no doubt.”

“Joe, I'm no pilot, but it seems to me that this is really a simple matter if you deal with people like machinery.”

“That's what we're trying to
not
do, Jeff. Or do I miss your point?”

“Well, what I mean is, most of these airplanes have main hydraulic systems and backup systems in case the main hydraulics fail, right?”

“Yes.”

“All right, Timson was like their main hydraulic system, okay? And the copilot was the backup system. When the primary failed—whatever the reason—the backup should have worked. So if I understand what you guys and gals are up to, you're saying you don't know why the primary system failed, but you're damn well going to find out why the backup system didn't work so it won't happen again. In fact, you're saying the failure of the backup is at least as important as the failure of the primary, and maybe more so. Am I close?”

Joe looked at his friend with admiration. “That's a hell of a good summary, Jeff—for a cop.”

“Thanks, I think.” They were both laughing, and Joe was glad he knew Perkins could still be kidded.

“Joe, by the way …” He glanced around, assuring they were not being overheard. “Our office has been asked to get a copy of the leaked control tower tape from that radio station and ship it to D.C. The lab wants to electronically compare it to the original … see where the copy came from.”

“How can they do that?”

“Each recorder tape head leaves characteristic sounds and errors on a tape unique to it. So if the station's tape came from the NTSB's copy, they'll find it out.”

“Meaning?” Joe asked.

“Meaning, just a friendly heads-up. You might want to question your man again, just to make sure he's telling it like it is.”

Joe nodded slowly, chilled by the thought that he had trusted Gardner too much. He had begun to seriously suspect him a month ago.

“Jeff, is it possible—and permissible—for you to look into who holds stock in a public corporation? Is there an easy way?”

“I can do that. Who?”

“Bill Caldwell of the FAA. I'm curious whether he owns any aircraft manufacturer's stock.”

“I'll call you,” Perkins said simply.

“Bill?”

“Yes. Who is this?” Bill Caldwell's phone had been ringing as he turned the key in his front door lock in the Georgetown district of Washington, D.C. He figured it had gone through at least ten rings by the time he got to it, which meant someone really wanted to find him.

“This is Jake McIntyre, Bill.”

“Doc! Well how the hell are you?” Memories of Dr. Jake lounging and laughing with his father in the Caldwell family home back in Texas flashed across his mind. Doc had been a guardian angel after Bill Caldwell senior had died, leaving behind a confused eight-year-old boy. Doc had been like a father after that, paying for his college, guiding him, and even keeping him out of the military draft through a few back-door manipulations of his medical record. He realized suddenly that the familiar voice on the other end of the phone was shaking. “Are you okay, Doc?”

There was a long pause, filled with the hissing static of a long-distance line, before the answer came. “No. No Bill, I'm not. I'm sorry to call you, but I don't know what else to do. I guess I'm spooked.”

Caldwell shifted the telephone handset from his right to his left ear, his right hand instinctively uncapping a pen and adjusting a yellow legal pad he kept on the small rosewood desk with the telephone.

“Tell me about it, Doc. What's the matter? And where are you?”

“Canada. I'm in Banff, or near it. Kananaskis. Bill, there're a couple of people at the safety board trying to get my license, and I haven't done anything wrong. They're after me, and the local police up here are now asking me questions and want me to talk to the NTSB people again. I'm too old to go through this, Bill. I can't … I mean, I'm not responsible for Dick Timson's crash. I—”

“Whoa, Doc, please. One thing at a time.” Caldwell questioned him slowly, making notes as the panicked physician related the NTSB's attempts to question him about the Timson medical records, his protests that all the exams were properly done, and his belief that Captain Richard Timson was in good shape.

Bill Caldwell wondered if there was something more. He had taken a chance once before for Doc when the agency had suspected him of giving class I medicals without all the proper tests. Bill had administratively “fixed the ticket,” as he called it, crushing the violation filed by the FAA Air Surgeon which would have suspended McIntyre's certification as a doctor licensed to administer FAA medical exams. He had done it aboveboard by forcing an internal review, but it was sticking his neck out, and for a surgically careful bureaucrat who had become a professional survivor, it amounted to a career gamble. Yet his loyalties to Doc ran deeper than for any other human being. When Caldwell had engineered the ouster of the FAA's federal Air Surgeon a few years back—a doctor who refused to take the associate administrator's orders—he had thought about recommending Doc McIntyre as a replacement. Doc would have done his bidding and been totally devoid of ambition or initiative. The realization that Doc was also very lazy had canceled the idea. If he failed, it would reflect badly on Caldwell.

“Doc, please understand, I have to ask you this. Have you complied with all the regulations on this man's exams? Have you been keeping your nose clean like you promised me? Was everything done properly?”

It seemed the doctor hesitated too long, but the answer came at last. “Yes. Yes, Bill, it's all been done right. I'm just scared of these people. Since I'm a company doctor, I'm afraid they're out to get me in order to get North America.”

“Why don't you just talk to them and find out what they want? I mean, if everything was done right, then maybe all they want is your impression of Captain Timson.”

“No, Bill! No! They're after me. You've … you've got to believe me. I've heard things. I've heard they want to prove I didn't do a good job of examining Timson so they can say his medical was no good.”

“Was it, Doc?”

“Yes. I mean, he was in perfect health. My records show that. Bill, is there anything you could do to get these people off my back without endangering yourself? They've been calling and calling, and the company told me to go on vacation to get away from them, at least until the Kansas City hearing is over … so the company knows they're after me. Please, Bill. I don't want to put you in jeopardy, but if there's anything …”

Caldwell sighed quietly and thought. Since it involved the NTSB, and that was headed by Dean Farris, maybe there
was
a safe way to protect him.

“Doc, give me your number, then sit tight for a few days and don't worry. There is one guy I can get hold of and find out what's going on. If I can help, I will, but this problem doesn't originate within my agency like last time.”

“I know.”

“I'll do what I can.” He took down McIntyre's number and hesitated for a second, a merged image of Doc's chronic laziness and the various duties of an FAA-certified company doctor coalescing in his mind, ready to ring caution bells and sound career alarms. Caldwell lifted his eyes from the legal pad suddenly and arrested the thought in its tracks. This was a matter of loyalty, and besides, he could be sufficiently circumspect and careful to avoid personal danger.