Fly by Wire: A Novel

Fly By Wire

Ward Larsen

*

Book Cover:

With Its Revolutionary Fly-By-Wire Technology, The C-500 had become the airplane of choice for freight operators worldwide.

Until a routine delivery goes horribly wrong.

F
alling like a stone from six miles up, a brand new C-500 crashes in central France, killing two pilots aboard. With over one hundred C-500s in service around the world, interest is keen to get to the bottom of the mystery. When French officials take over this highly public investigation, they call in the best there is: they call Frank "Jammer" Davis.

A retired U. S. Air Force fighter pilot, Davis is part of the National Transportation Safety Board's "go team." With a reputation for getting things done -- and for steamrolling anyone who gets in his way -- Davis starts to dig.

But just as Davis starts his investigation, news of the crash is overshadowed by a more spectacular disaster: suicide bombers attack oil refineries across the world, sending governments and financial markets into a tailspin.

A relentless Davis keeps working, but when he finally uncovers the cause of the crash, and its terrifying connection to the terrorist attacks, it is a conspiracy of unthinkable proportions.

A conspiracy he might not be able to stop.

*

Fly-by-wire \ fli-bi-wi(e)r \ adjective, (1968) : of, relating to, being, or utilizing a flight-control system in which controls are operated electrically rather than mechanically

--Merriam-Webster's 11
^{th
Collegiate Dictionary}

^PROLOGUE:

^{Marseille, France}

^{The room was cool and dark by design. Three dozen computer workstations sat ready, the hum of ventilation fans a constant backdrop. Most of the large circular screens were in a standby mode, vacant and black, but those in action glowed with flecks of green, tiny winged crosses that were accompanied by multicolored data tags. A handful of men and women sat watching, each hunched in a God s eye view of their respective domain. The air traffic control center, Marseille High Sector, was coming to the end of its night shift.}

^{Dimly lit and without windows, the bunker had no natural circadian rhythm, no guidance from sunlight or darkness to govern the day s cycle. These customary markers were replaced by instruments of far greater precision -- digital clocks. Mounted on walls and support columns, there were more than a dozen scattered throughout the room, glowing red numbers presented in twenty-four-hour format and synchronized to a painstaking accuracy. The clocks were situated, without fail, in pairs -- one registering Zulu time, the universal standard of aviation, and the other, in a blatant act of Gallic defiance, Central European time. In France, it was 5:56 in the morning.}

^{Serge Flourent was nearing the end of his shift. His coffee cup long empty, the air traffic controller struggled to keep his eyes open. Only five of the operating stations around him were occupied. In another hour, the morning rush would be well under way, no fewer than two dozen men and women issuing directives into their microphones, an incessant chatter of frequencies, call signs, and navigation fixes. In spite of the rough hours, Flourent preferred the solitude of the night shift.}

^{His eyes fluttered as a new blip came to his screen. World Express Flight 801. The data strip told him the aircraft was a new Cargo Air C-500, headed across the Atlantic to KIAH, Houston Intercontinental Airport. Another delivery from the factory, no doubt.}

^{A female voice crackled into his headset, "Marseille, WorldEx 801 checking in, flight level three eight zero.
Bonjour!"}

^{Flourent grinned. English was the mandatory language for air traffic control everywhere, but at least the American pilot was trying to be civil.}

^{"WorldEx 801, Marseille Control.
Bonjour
." Flourent was in a generous mood. "WorldEx 801, you are cleared direct Sierra Hotel Alpha."}

^{"WorldEx 801, roger. Cleared direct Shannon."}

^{Flourent watched the blip on his screen change its vector ever so slightly as the pilot applied the shortcut. Everything again fell quiet. He looked up just in time to see the clock turn to the new hour. His relief would arrive for the hand-off briefing in fifteen minutes. Then Flourent could go home to his warm bed and his lukewarm girlfriend. These were the tired thoughts drifting through his head when he saw the first sign of trouble.}

^{The altitude display for World Express 801 showed a descent of five hundred feet.
Careless Americans.}

^{"WorldEx 801, check altitude."}

^{He waited patiently, but got no response. The number on Flourent s screen flashed red as it reached one thousand feet below the assigned cruising level.}

^{"WorldEx 801, Marseille Control, over?"}

^{Still no reply. Flourent watched incredulously as the big jet broke through thirty-five thousand feet -- half a mile below where it was supposed to be. Thankfully, there was no traffic below. Ten miles to the east, a US. Air Force C-5 Galaxy was lumbering along at thirty-two thousand feet. Flourent would take no chances.}

^{"Reach 961, turn right immediately to heading three five zero.}

^Traffic!"

^{"Reach 961, roger. Heading three five zero."}

^{At least his radios were working, Flourent thought. He watched the World Express jet dive through thirty thousand feet. The rate of descent was incredible and seemed to be increasing. Then he noticed the speed readout -- it had fallen to less than a hundred knots. With a logic born of eighteen year's experience, Flourent reasoned that World Express 801 was making little horizontal headway because it was pointed nearly straight down.}

^{"WorldEx 801, Marseille Control! Are you experiencing difficulty?"}

^Nothing.

^{"WorldEx 801, Marseille!" Flourent's voice carried an edge that drew the attention of his supervisor. The woman came over and looked at his scope.}

^{"What is it, Serge?"}

^{Flourent pointed to the flashing symbol. "World Express 801 does not respond to my calls. Its falling like a stone."}

^{Twenty thousand feet. Subconsciously, Flourent adjusted his microphone. "World Express 8 -- 0-- 1, this is Marseille. Do you read?"}

^{His supervisor shouted to another controller three stations away, "Louis! You have a heavy jet breaking into your low altitude sector from above. Call up World Express 801 to your screen! Clear any other traffic!"}

^{The low altitude controller acknowledged the order.}

^{Flourent saw the altitude display break ten thousand feet. Then the flashing red numbers next to the jet's blip disappeared. His heart seemed to stop as he watched the only thing that remained -- the primary return, a tiny white square floating tenuously across the black void of his display.}

^{"We've lost his transponder," the supervisor said. She plugged her own headset into a jack at Flourent's station. "WorldEx 801, WorldEx 801, this is Marseille! Do you hear?"}

^{Finally, a garbled reply, "Marseille . . . WorldEx 801 ... Mayday! May--" Then a terrible pause.}

^{"WorldEx 801," the supervisor said, "you are clear of all traffic. What is the nature of your difficulty?"}

^{Again silence. Without altitude information, the two air traffic controllers could do little but watch the tiny white square that was World Express 801 and will it to not disappear. Seconds later, it did just that.}

^{Flourent s heart skipped a beat. His supervisor tried one more time to raise the flight by radio. There was now a distinct difference in her tone -- no longer urgency. Hope, perhaps. "WorldEx 801, Marseille. Do you read?"}

^{The ensuing silence was thick and heavy, as if all sound had been pulled into some aural black hole.}

^{"All right, Serge," the supervisor said, "activate the alert."}

^{For the first time in his long tenure as a controller, Flourent positioned his cursor over a red icon in one corner of the display. Automatically, the disaster response began.}

^{In fact, the alert proved redundant. Police and fire units took dozens of calls centered on the village of Solaize, just outside Lyon. The reports were of an explosion of some sort.}

^{The first to the scene was a small village fire brigade. They found widely scattered blazes and enough wreckage to certify that they were indeed dealing with an air disaster. Seeing no chance for survivors, the man in charge decided to wait for help before tackling the inferno. There might be hazardous material involved, and the boys from Station 9 were better suited to handle that.}

^{Looking at the other man in his truck, the lieutenant gestured downhill from the crash site toward an industrial quarter at the edge of town, along the Rhone River. He said, "It could have been worse, Claude. He might have hit over there."}

^.

^{The Gulf of Oman}

^{Ten hours later}

^{The gulf waters were relatively calm in the late afternoon, and light winds made for an easy landing as the Bell 429 settled onto a helipad at the stern of the mega yacht
Sol y Mar.}

^{The ship was a Sparkman and Stevens custom, two hundred and nineteen feet of glistening paint, mahogany, and chrome. No expense had been spared in her construction, and in the three years since
Sol y Mars
christening, extensive upgrades had been made to her staterooms and salons, and the bridge had been updated to include the most advanced electronic gear for communications and navigation.}

^{As had been the case all afternoon, an even dozen men were stationed around the ship at precise intervals. None would be mistaken for crewmembers -- the uniforms they wore were not nautical, but more akin to special forces attire, to include the automatic weapons they displayed openly. Twenty miles out to sea, the only other ship presently in sight was a distant oil tanker, yet in these chaotic waters one could never tell when a show of force might be necessary to discourage the odd band of pirates.}

^{The helicopter's skids planted firmly on the large H, and its thumping rotors changed pitch as the aircraft's weight transferred to
Sol y Mars
sturdy afterdeck. Moments later, a man in a flowing white robe stepped down, assisted at the elbow by one of the security men. It was the sixth and final delivery of its kind. The man, a Saudi, walked quickly across the helipad, his robe snapping and fluttering in the idling chopper's down wash.}

^{He made his way to the main salon and found the others waiting -- Dubai, Russia, Singapore, Abu Dhabi, and Switzerland. There were exactly six seats at the large conference table, and the Saudi settled into the only vacancy. Each place was set with a crystal carafe of water and a goblet. Nothing else was offered, no tray of fruit, no decanter of premium liquor. Unique to the day's hastily arranged meeting, there were also no servants hovering at the room's perimeter, no one to attend to the principals' whims and demands. All extraneous staff had long departed.}

^{The rich cherry table was circular, reinforcing to all the nature of their arrangement. The men were here on equal footing, and while the Saudi was today recognized as "chairman," the tide was little more than a parliamentary convenience. Determined by rotation -- there was simply no other way -- the main duty of the acting executive was to act as facilitator, arranging transportation and a venue for the gathering.}

^{Without so much as a "good afternoon," the Saudi brought the meeting to order.}

^{"Do we know why this has happened?" The question was open to all.}

^{Russia said, "I have spoken with our operative in France. He has theories, but it may be some time before we have an answer. Fortunately, the same can be said for others -- there
will
be an investigation."}

^{Singapore, "The man has become worrisome. Is he still necessary?"}

^{None spoke, and this lack of response was an answer in itself.}

^{The Saudi addressed Switzerland. "Are the finances in order?"}