Razing Beijing: A Thriller (15 page)

Stuart grit his teeth, silently reliving Cole’s reckless
decision to override him.

Cole turned from the window. The company’s chief executive
had lost significant weight in recent weeks; his shirt collar looked one size
too large and the gray suit coat hung loosely over his shoulders. Cole’s weary
eyes were dull and deep in their sockets with dark circles beneath them.

“I felt that you were entitled to hear first hand. The
plaintiffs have singled out your name along with Thanatechnology.”

Stuart found it odd that the man who had inadvertently
directed the death of his own daughter was actually appraising him with
sympathy. Or was he mistaking for Cole’s sympathy what was actually fear? He
clasped his hands over a knee. “I guess that doesn’t surprise me.”

Cole appeared mildly startled. “With more than a dozen
victims we’re probably looking at a nine-digit award.” He stared at Stuart for
another moment, opened the top drawer of his desk and removed a video cassette
cartridge. He then reached over the desk and handed it to Stuart. “This is the
video of the crash. I’m told that it will be exhibit A in the suit.”

Stuart took the cassette and wondered if his boss had had
the courage to watch it.

“Fulmer, our attorney, told me that he went over and took a
look at the propfan reconstruction area. He thought the hardware bins and
security procedures looked pretty good. I guess he’s made a couple suggestions
on classifying the hardware, critical, very critical, non-germane and so
forth—I trust that’s okay. And I trust that your staff—”

“Are all pretty much up to speed on the guidelines,” Stuart
assured him. “They’ve been told everything they do, design records,
presentations, e-mails, just about everything are potentially court admissible.
Upside to that is a lot of these guys who are usually pretty sloppy seem to be
polishing up their writing.”

“I trust our D&O policy is in order,” Cole said,
referring to the pricey corporate directors and officers liability coverage
that the company purchased.

“I don’t need insurance, I need another four weeks. Maybe
less, depending on what we find on this video.” Hopefully some of the surviving
eyewitness accounts were correct, in that the camera man had indeed captured
the final seconds of the crash.

Cole gave Stuart a confused look, shook his head then sat
down heavily behind his desk. “You damn well better have insurance. I got
another call this morning, from Chicago. One of their sources thinks that
United is threatening to cancel their order.”

Stuart felt the color drain from his face. United Airlines
was the propfan program launch customer. Losing the launch customer would be a
crushing blow to industry perception, and probably put into question the
commercial viability of the entire venture. “A reliable source?”

“I don’t have to tell you that would likely trigger an
avalanche of cancellations. Now, then. Chicago is also howling over word from
their rep that you’re launching another round of investigation.”

“Sorry. I should’ve called to give you a heads up.”

“And of course you’ve decided to do this despite a
committee consensus that the fault of the failure is now understood.”

“We have to be certain the committee is right.” Stuart felt
certain otherwise.

“That’s what I told them. Realistically, I can take that
position only so long. I’d rather we select the five most likely culprits, fix
them all, and get on with the program.”

Stuart closed his eyes; Hackett again. “If we don’t know
what broke, we can’t be sure we’ve fixed it. I need another four weeks.”

At first Cole glared, but the hard expression softened.
“Finish your investigation. I hope the video helps you succeed. You’ve got two
weeks.”

“WATCH CAREFULLY,”
Ian
Vickers advised the select engineering audience. “At this point, you should see
the aft propeller rotation accelerate quite rapidly...”

The engineers gasped at the sight of the entire engine
bursting into flame. The right wing of the plane dropped perilously close to
the ground. Stuart thought it miraculous that the pilots had kept it aloft for
as long as they did. As the aircraft loomed closer and larger, a rising sound
in the background was the collective hysterical scream of the bystanders. Now
the cameraman—for reasons none would ever know—kept the camera trained after
dropping to the ground. Three sections of shrapnel sailed through the air in
slow motion from the rear of the plane, trailing fragments and flaming tongues
of debris. Here the replay staggered to a freeze at various points; a red
rectangular box briefly highlighted objects deemed significant to the
investigation, displaying cryptic phrases such as ‘item #178, props 3-7, 127
lb. rotor struct. recovered 6350 ft,’ and ‘item #23, 33 lb. aft compressor
disk, recovered IDR.’

The video finished the sequence in regular speed. The
prototype engine tore away from the aircraft and seemed to float in the air,
then slammed into the ground before cart-wheeling toward the crowd—Stuart heard
a gasp and someone promptly exited the conference room. The view jolted as the
earth shook and the camera jerked to the right in time to capture the separated
tail slamming into the ground. Massive chunks of debris bounced past the
scattering heads of the crowd with astonishing speed. The earth shook again,
the view through the lens chaotic, until the camera fell and lay motionless on
the ground. A flash originating somewhere below the bottom of the screen
signaled what someone had previously informed Stuart was the rupture and
explosion of the television van’s fuel tank.

The conference room lights came up to reveal people’s heads
hung low, uncomfortable with one another’s gaze. Seated to Stuart’s left was
the company counsel, Brian Fulmer, who was nervous about so many potential
expert witnesses reviewing the video. Stuart thought the lawyer looked pale
enough to be sick to his stomach. Through the open door could be heard the
sound of sobs retreating down the corridor.

Hackett broke the silence. “My eyes aren’t what they used
to be.  I’ll guess it’s going to be difficult garnering much from what we just
saw.”

“Well, we were able to confirm that the engine speed had
raced far above where the pilots set the throttle.” Otherwise, Stuart
reluctantly agreed. Vickers had tried every conceivable computer enhancement. “We
don’t know why. That leaves us Emily’s ECU reconstruction.”

“I prefer our other options.” Hackett leaned forward. “None
of which drive the program further into the ground.”

Stuart stared at the blank projection screen. The video
hadn’t revealed the secrets they had hoped for. Still, did it make any sense to
pursue what they could with a fix only hoping to strike the intended
target—without any proof that they had—in order to get on with the program? Perhaps
Hackett was right. The practical argument for moving forward certainly appealed
to him. Another part of him was reminded that his concurrence with Hackett’s
proposal would relinquish the manpower dedicated to solving the problem, and in
that vein, the video served as a vivid reminder of the consequences of being
wrong in this business. And he
knew
Hackett was wrong.

“Emily’s got two weeks,” Stuart said. “If we strike out, we
go with your plan.”

Wednesday, April 29

STUART FELT GOOD,
physically
spent. White terrycloth towel draped around his neck and sipping a beer, the calming
effect of the alcohol preceded by a release of energy and tension, he allowed
himself a reprieve from all his anxieties born of explosions, deaths, and an impending
lay-off. Two athletic women in their late twenties chatted over fruit-colored
cocktails and glanced his way several times from the other end of the lounge. Eventually
they picked up their racquets and strolled off toward the ladies’ locker room,
tennis skirt pleats revealing fluid rhythm of lean hips and firm, fitness-honed
bodies. Racquetball was not the only diversion he’d deprived himself of lately,
Stuart realized with crystal clarity. He wondered when he would delve back into
the dating scene, a prospect he did not entirely look forward to. That prospect
reminded him that one’s punishment for having dated young women was to
experience the fatherhood of raising one; thankfully, Ashley was still barely ten.

Since his ex-wife’s unexpected death due to cancer, Stuart often
looked back with regret to the events leading up to Angela having filed for
divorce. Still laboring to nurture to health the company he had co-founded, it
was difficult to deny that he was hardly ever at home. Was that reason enough
to abandon their marriage? It had never occurred to him to be unfaithful. If he
was guilty of anything, it was enslaving himself to
their
security, to
their
dreams—had they not discussed the hardship before taking it on? The more the
bonds of their relationship frayed, the more Stuart indulged himself in his
work. Angela insisted that putting off a pharmacology career to raise their
daughter had nothing to do with any of their problems; the problem, she
claimed, was never having prepared to live her life as a virtual widow. By the
time Stuart made credible progress re-arranging time between home, office, and
lengthy trips overseas, it was simply too late.

After their divorce, Stuart a burn-out at age 36 and his
personal life in shambles, the demands of Coherent Light Incorporated only
increased.

Stuart finally approached his business partner with a
proposal—it was time they reshuffled his management responsibilities, any way. They
agreed not to liquidate the share of company ownership that he had managed to
retain despite the best efforts of Angela’s lawyer. Arriving at details
amenable to both parties, Stuart gradually distanced himself from the company
he had built. He need never again work but the travel, fishing, and consulting
quickly became relentlessly boring.

Word circulated of Stuart’s pseudo-retirement and reached
the CEO of Thanatechnology Corporation, U.S. Navy Captain (retired) James Cole,
Jr. Cole convinced him to fold up his tent and move to Cleveland in order to
‘inject a flagging bureaucracy with some entrepreneurial zing.’

Settling into a routine, Stuart’s challenge became trying
to out-fox the Thanatech bureaucracy. Tragedy struck several years later when
his ex-wife was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphoma. Following a year of
chemotherapy, radiation treatments and a bone marrow transplant, the oncology
staff at Johns Hopkin’s pronounced Angela’s leukemia in remission.

Stuart secretly harbored ambitions of marital reunion. Six
weeks later, Angela was dead.

Following her funeral, Stuart quietly relayed his intention
to resign his position at Thanatech. His sister and brother-in-law graciously
offered to care for Ashley during the weeks he would need to prepare his return
to Virginia. His old partner at CLI had already been badgering him to return to
tackle unspecified problems. For purposes of remaining effective until it
became final, he would conceal his decision from those with whom he continued
to work. Successful completion of the Mojave flight test, he reasoned, would
provide the appropriate break from his Thanatech responsibilities. Things had
appeared to be falling into place.

“How are you, Stu?”

Stuart looked up at the short, muscular figure standing
beside him. Paul Devinn was flushed from exertion, tight curly hair sweaty and
matted to his temples. Thanatech’s assistant director of human resources
clutched his favorite cocktail of orange juice on-the-rocks. Stuart had avoided
returning Devinn’s calls over the last couple of days.

“Horrible,” Stuart said. “Pull up a chair.”

Devinn sat down and together with Stuart propped a foot up
on the railing overlooking the courts. “I guess Cole gave you the bad news?”

“Couldn’t have come at a worse time.”

“When’s it ever a good time?”

On the floor of the court below, two younger men raced
doggedly back and forth, soles squealing on hardwood, grunting as they
clobbered the ball at a pace the older men could only dream of.

“Kinda’ like old times,” Devinn observed, referring to
their undergraduate tournaments together at Georgia Tech.

“Except they seem to be hitting the ball.”

From the corner of his eye, Stuart saw Devinn turn toward
him. “I understand the investigation could be going better.”

“I’ve actually become more optimistic. It’s me that
everyone’s frustrated with.”

Devinn smiled knowingly.

“I know, hard to believe.” Stuart chuckled. “A bunch of
folks started getting comfortable with what I thought was too convenient an
explanation for the failure.”

“That oil-leak vibration problem during the flight?”

Stuart was surprised that a lawyer by training was abreast
of the technical controversy. Then again, the man did hold an engineering degree;
he remembered Devinn had flown to Mojave to witness the test. “I guess there’s
hope for ambulance chasers after all.” Stuart took a long sip of beer. “I
decided to push the investigation in a new direction.”

“Yeah?”

Stuart looked at him. “You’re really interested?”

Devinn shrugged, drinking his orange juice.

“The chief engineer’s leading the charge to unload a
shotgun solution on the problem, hit as many targets as possible. Before we
throw in the towel on pinning down a specific cause, I decided to shake things
up a bit. You know as well as I do the minute the committee declares an engine
fix, the people and money focused on the problem will scatter.”

Devinn nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve had a number of people
through my office lately. Interested in what they have to say?”