Airframe

GLENDALE
5:45 a.m.

She awoke uneasily, before the alarm went off. She pulled on a bathrobe, walked to the kitchen to turn on the coffee, and looked out the front window. The blue sedan was still parked on the street, the men inside. She considered taking her five-mile run, she needed that exercise to start her day, but decided against it. She knew she shouldn't feel intimidated. But there was no point in taking chances.

She poured a cup of coffee, sat in the living room. Everything looked different to her today. Yesterday, her little bungalow felt cozy; today, it felt small, defenseless, isolated. She was glad Allison was spending the week with Jim.

Casey had lived through periods of labor tension in the past; she knew that the threats usually came to nothing. But it was wise to be cautious. One of the first lessons Casey had learned at Norton was that the factory floor was a very tough world- tougher even than the assembly line at Ford. Norton was one of the few remaining places where an unskilled high school graduate could earn $80,000 a year, with overtime. Jobs like that were scarce, and getting scarcer. The competition to get those jobs, and to keep them, was fierce. If the union thought the China sale was going to cost jobs, they could very well act ruthlessly to stop it.

She sat with the coffee cup on her lap and realized she dreaded going to the factory. But of course she had to go. Casey pushed the cup away, and went into the bedroom to dress.

When she came outside and got into her Mustang, she saw a second sedan pull up behind the first. As she drove down the street, the first car pulled out, following her.

So Marder had ordered two sets of guards. One to watch her house, and one to follow her.

Things must be worse than she thought.

She drove into the plant with an uncharacteristic feeling of unease. First shift had already started; the parking lots were full, acres and acres of cars. The blue sedan stayed right behind her as Casey pulled up to the security guard at Gate 7. The guard waved her through and, by some unseen signal, allowed the blue sedan to follow directly, without putting the barrier down. The sedan stayed behind her until she parked at her spot in Administration.

She got out of the car. One of the guards leaned out the window. "Have a nice day, ma'am," he said.

"Thanks. I will."

The guard waved. The sedan sped off.

Casey looked around at the huge gray buildings: Building 64 to the south. Building 57 to the east, where the twinjet was built. Building 121, the Paint Shed. The maintenance hangars in a row off to the west, lit by the sun rising over the San Fernando Mountains. It was a familiar landscape; she'd spent five years here. But today she was uncomfortably aware of the vast dimensions, the emptiness of the place in early morning. She saw two secretaries walking into the Administration building. No one else. She felt alone.

She shrugged her shoulders, shaking off her fears. She was being silly, she told herself. It was time to go to work.

NORTON AIRCRAFT
6:34 a.m.

Rob Wong, the young programmer at Norton Digital Information Systems, turned away from the video monitors and said, "Sorry, Casey. We got the flight recorder data-but there's a problem."

She sighed. "Don't tell me."

"Yeah. There is."

She was not really surprised to hear it. Flight data recorders rarely performed correctly. In the press, these failures were explained as the consequence of crash impacts. After an airplane hit the ground at five hundred miles an hour, it seemed reasonable to think that a tape deck might not be working.

But within the aerospace industry, the perception was different. Everyone knew flight data recorders failed at a very high rate, even when the aircraft didn't crash. The reason was that the FAA did not require they be checked before every flight. In practice, they were usually function-checked about once a year. The consequence was predictable: the flight recorders rarely worked.

Everybody knew about the problem: the FAA, the NTSB, the airlines, and the manufacturers. Norton had conducted a study a few years back, a random check of DFDRs in active service. Casey had been on that study committee. They'd found that only one recorder in six worked properly.

Why the FAA would mandate the installation of FDRs, without also requiring that they be in working order before each flight, was a frequent subject of late-night discussion in aerospace bars from Seattle to Long Beach. The cynical view was that malfunctioning FDRs were in everybody's interest. In a nation besieged by rabid lawyers and a sensational press, the industry saw little advantage to providing an objective, reliable record of what had gone wrong.

"We're doing the best we can, Casey," Rob Wong said. "But the flight recorder data is anomalous."

"Meaning what?"

"It looks like the number-three bus blew about twenty hours before the incident, so the frame syncs are out on the subsequent data."

"The frame syncs?"

"Yeah. See, the FDR records all the parameters in rotation, in data blocks called frames. You get a reading for, say, airspeed, and then you get another reading four blocks later. Airspeed readings should be continuous across the frames. If they're not, the frames are out of sync, and we can't build the flight. I'll show you."

He turned to the screen, pressing keys. "Normally, we can take the DFDR and generate the airplane in' tri-axis. There's the plane, ready to go."

A wire-frame image of the Norton N-22 widebody appeared on the screen. As she watched, the wire frame filled in, until it took on the appearance of an actual aircraft in flight.

"Okay, now we feed it your flight recorder data…"

The airplane seemed to ripple. It vanished from the screen, then reappeared. It vanished again, and when it reappeared the left wing was separated from the fuselage. The wing twisted ninety degrees, while the rest of the airplane rolled to the right. Then the tail vanished. The entire plane vanished, reappeared again, vanished again.

"See, the mainframe's trying to draw the aircraft," Rob said, "but it keeps hitting discontinuities. The wing data doesn't fit the fuse data which doesn't fit the tail data. So it breaks up."

"What do we do?" she said.

"Resync the frames, but that'll take time."

"How long? Marder's on my back."

"It could be a while, Casey. The data's pretty bad. What about the QAR?"

"There isn't one."

"Well, if you're really stuck, I'd take this data to Flight Sims. They have some sophisticated programs there. They may be able to fill in the blanks faster, and tell you what happened."

"But Rob-"

"No promises, Casey," he said. "Not with this data. Sorry."

BLDG 64
6:50 a.m.

Casey met Richman outside Building 64. They walked together in the early-morning light toward the building. Richman yawned.

"You were in Marketing, weren't you?"

"That's right," Richman said. "We sure didn't keep these hours."

"What did you do there?"

"Not much," he said. "Edgarton had the whole department doing a full court press on the China deal. Very hush-hush, no outsiders allowed. They threw me a little legal work on the Iberian negotiation."

"Any travel?"

Richman smirked. "Just personal."

"How's that?" she said.

"Well, since Marketing had nothing for me to do, I went skiing."

"Sounds like fun. Where'd you go?" Casey said.

"You ski?" Richman said. "Personally, I think the best skiing outside of Gstaad is Sun Valley. That's my favorite. You know, if you have to ski in the States."

She realized he hadn't answered her question. By then they had walked through the side door, into Building 64. Casey noticed the workers were openly hostile, the atmosphere distinctly chilly.

"What's this?" Richman said. "We got rabies today?"

"Union thinks we're selling them out on China." 96

"Selling them out? How?"

"They think management's shipping the wing to Shanghai. I asked Marder. He says no."

A Klaxon sounded, echoing through the building. Directly ahead, the big yellow overhead crane cranked to life, and Casey saw the first of the huge crates containing the wing tooling rise five feet up into the air on thick cables. The crate was constructed of reinforced plywood. It was as broad as a house, and probably weighed five tons. A dozen workers walked alongside the crate like pallbearers, hands up, steadying the load as it moved toward one of the side doors and a waiting flatbed truck.

"If Marder says no," Richman said, "then what's the problem?"

"They don't believe him."

"Really? Why not?"

Casey glanced to her left, where other tools were being crated for shipment. The huge blue tools were first packed in foam, then braced internally, and then crated. All that padding and bracing was essential, she knew. Because even though the tools were twenty feet in length, they were calibrated to thousandths of an inch. Transporting them was an art in itself. She looked back at the crate, moving on the hoist.

All the men standing beneath it were gone.

The crate was still moving laterally, ten yards from where they stood.

"Uh-oh," she said.

"What?" Richman said.

She was already pushing him. "Go!" she said, shoving Richman to the right, toward the shelter of the scaffolding that stood beneath a partially assembled fuselage. Richman resisted; he didn't seem to understand that-

"Run!' she shouted. "It's going to break loose!"

He ran. Behind her, Casey heard the creak of rending plywood, and a metallic twang! as the first of the hoist cables snapped, and the giant crate began to slide from its harness.

They had just reached the fuselage scaffolding when she heard another twang! and the crate smashed down onto the concrete floor. Slivers of plywood exploded in all directions, whistling through the air. They were followed by a thunderous whomp! as the crate toppled over on its side. The sound reverberated through the building.

"Jesus Christ," Richman said, turning to look back at her. "What was that!"

"That," she said, "is what we call a job action."

Men were running forward, hazy forms in the cloud of lingering dust There were shouts, and calls for help. The medic alarm sounded, ringing through the building. At the opposite side of the building, she saw Doug Doherty, shaking his head mournfully.

Richman looked over his shoulder, and pulled a four-inch splinter of plywood from the back of his jacket. "Jeez," he said. He took the jacket off, inspected the tear, putting his finger through the hole.

"That was a warning," Casey said. "And they've also wrecked the tool. Now it'll have to be uncrated and rebuilt. This means weeks of delay."

Floor supervisors in white shirts and ties ran forward into the group around the fallen crate. "What happens now?" Richman said.

"They'll take names and kick ass," Casey said. "But it won't do any good. There'll be another incident tomorrow. There's no way to stop it"

"This was a warning?" Richman said. He put the jacket back on.

'To the IRT," she said. "A clear signal: Watch your backs, watch your heads. We'll see falling wrenches, all sorts of accidents, whenever we're on the floor. We'll have to be careful."

Two workmen broke away from the group around the crate, and started walking toward Casey. One man was burly, wearing jeans and a red-checked work shirt. The other was taller, and wore a baseball cap. The man in the work shirt held a steel drill-press stanchion in his hand, swinging it at his side like a metal club.

"Uh, Casey," Richman said.

"I see them," she said. She was not going to get rattled by a couple of floor goons.

The men walked steadily toward her. Suddenly a supervisor appeared in front of them, holding his clipboard, demanding the men show their badges. The men stopped to talk to the supervisor, glaring at Casey over his head.

"We won't have any trouble with them," she said. "An hour from now, they'll be gone." She went back to the scaffolding, picked up her briefcase. "Come on," she said to Richman. "We're late."

BLDG 64/IRT
7:00 a.m.

Chairs scraped as everyone pulled up to the Formica table. "Okay," Marder said, "let's get started. We're having some union activity, aimed at stalling this investigation. Don't let it get to you. Keep your eye on the ball. First item: weather data."

The secretary passed sheets around the room. It was a report from the LA Traffic Control Center on a form marked "Federal Aviation Administration / report of aircraft accident."

Casey read:

WEATHER DATA

CONDITIONS IN ACCIDENT AREA AT TIME OF ACCIDENT

JAL054 a B747/R was 15 minutes ahead of TPA545 on the same route and 1000' above. JAL054 made no report of turbulence.

REPORT JUST PRIOR TO ACCIDENT

UAL829 a B747/R reported moderate chop at the FIR 40.00 North/165.00 East at FL350. This was 120 miles north and 14 minutes ahead of TPA545. UAL829 made no other reports of turbulence. 100

FIRST REPORT SUBSEQUENT TO ACCIDENT

AAL722 reported continuous light chop at 39 North/170 East at FL350. AAL722 was on the same route, 2000' below, and approximately 29 minutes behind TPA545. AAL722 made no report of turbulence.

"We still have satellite data coming, but I think the evidence speaks for itself. The three aircraft nearest in time and location to Transpacific report no weather except light chop. I'm ruling out turbulence as a cause of this accident."

There were nods around the table. No one disagreed.

"Anything else for the record?"

"Yes," Casey said. "Passenger and crew interviews agree the seat-belt sign was never illuminated."

"Okay. Then we're done with weather. Whatever happened to that plane wasn't turbulence. Flight recorder?"

"Data's anomalous," Casey said. "They're working on it."

"Visual inspection of the plane?"

"The interior was severely damaged," Doherty said, "but the exterior was fine. Cherry."

"Leading edge?"

"No problem we could see. We'll have the aircraft here today, and I'll look at the drive tracks and latches. But so far, nothing."

"You test the control surfaces?"

"No problem."

"Instrumentation?"

"Bravo Zulu."

"How many times you test "em?"

"After we heard the passenger's story from Casey, we did ten extensions. Trying to get a disagree. But everything's normal."

"What story? Casey? You got something from the interviews?"

"Yes," she said. "One passenger gave a report of a slight rumble coming from the wing, lasting ten to twelve seconds…"

"Shit ," Marder said.

"… followed by a slight nose up, then a dive…"

" Goddamn it!"

"… and then a series of violent pitch excursions."

Marder glared at her. "Are you telling me it's the slats again? Have we still got a slats problem on this aircraft?"

"I don't know," Casey said. "One of the flight attendants reported that the captain said he had an uncommanded slats deployment, and that he'd had problems with the autopilot."

"Christ. And problems with the autopilot?"

"Screw him," Burne said. "This captain changes his story every five minutes. Tells Traffic Control he's got turbulence, tells the stewardess he's got slats. Right now I bet he's telling the carrier a whole different story. Fact is, we don't know what happened in that cockpit."

"It's obviously slats," Marder said.

"No, it's not," Bume said. "The passenger Casey talked to said the rumbling sound came from the wing or the engines, isn't that right?"

"Right," Casey said.

"But when she looked at the wing, she didn't see the slats extend. Which she would have seen, if it happened."

"Also true," Casey said.

"But she couldn't have seen the engines, because they'd be hidden by the wing. It's possible the thrust reversers deployed," Burne said. "At cruise speed that'd produce a definite rumble. Followed by a sudden drop in airspeed, probably a roll. The pilot shits, tries to compensate, overreacts-bingo!"

"Any confirmation thrusters deployed?' Marder said. "Damage to the sleeves? Unusual rubstrips?"

"We looked yesterday," Bume said, "and we didn't find anything. We'll do ultrasound and X rays today. If there's something there, we'll find it."

"Okay," Marder said. "So we're looking at slats and thrusters, and we need more data. What about the NVMs? Ron? The faults suggest anything?"

They turned to Ron Smith. Under their gaze, Ron hunched lower in his seat, as if trying to pull his head between his shoulders. He cleared his throat.

"Well?" Marder said.

"Uh, yeah, John. We have a slats disagree on the FDAU printout."

"So the slats did deploy."

"Well, actually-"

"And the plane started porpoising, beat hell out of the passengers, and killed three. Is that what you're telling me?"

No one spoke.

"Jesus," Marder said. "What is the matter with you people? This problem was supposed to be fixed four years ago! Now you're telling me it wasn't!"

The group fell silent and stared at the table, embarrassed and intimidated by Marder's rage.

"Goddamn it!" Marder said.

"John, let's not get carried away." It was Trung, the avionics head, speaking quietly. "We're overlooking a very important factor. The autopilot."

There was a long silence.

Marder glared at him. "What about it?" he snapped.

"Even if the slats extend in cruise flight," Trung said, "the autopilot will maintain perfect stability. It's programmed to compensate for errors like that. The slats extend; the AP adjusts; the captain sees the warning and retracts them. Meanwhile the plane continues, no problem."

"Maybe he went out of autopilot."

"He must have. But why?"

"Maybe your autopilot's screwed up," Marder said. "Maybe you got a bug in your code."

Trung looked skeptical.

"It's happened," Marder said. "There was an autopilot problem on that USAir flight in Charlotte last year. Put the plane into an uncommanded roll."

"Yes," Trung said, "but that wasn't caused by a bug in the code. Maintenance pulled the 'A' flight control computer to repair it, and when they reinstalled it, they didn't push it in the shelf far enough to fully engage the connector pins. The thing kept making intermittent electrical connection, that's all."

"But on Flight 545, the stewardess said the captain had to fight the autopilot for control."

"And I'd expect that," Trung said. "Once the aircraft exceeds flight params, the autopilot actively attempts to take over. It sees erratic behavior, and assumes nobody is flying the plane."

"Did that show up on the fault records?"

"Yes. They indicate the autopilot tried to kick in, every three seconds. I assume the captain kept overriding it, insisting on flying the plane himself."

"But this is an experienced captain."

"Which is why I think Kenny is right," Trung said. "We have no idea what took place in that cockpit."

They all turned to Mike Lee, the carrier representative. "How about it, Mike?" Marder said. "Can we get an interview or not?"

Lee sighed philosophically. "You know," he said, "I've spent a lot of time in meetings like this. And the tendency is always to blame the guy who's not there. It's human nature. I've already explained to you why the flight crew left the country. Your own records confirm the captain is a first-rate pilot. It's possible he made an error. But given the history of problems with this aircraft-slats problems-I'd look first at the aircraft. And I'd look hard."

"We will," Marder said. "Of course we will, but-" "Because it's to no one's advantage," Lee said, "to get into a pissing match. You are focused on your pending deal with Beijing. Fine, I understand. But I would remind you Trans-Pacific is also a valued customer of this company. We've bought ten planes to date, and we have twelve more on order. We're expanding our routes, and we are negotiating a feeder deal with a domestic carrier. We don't need any bad press at the moment. Not for the planes we've bought from you, and certainly not for our pilots. I hope I'm being clear."

"Clear as a fucking bell," Marder said. "I couldn't have said it better myself. Guys, you have your marching orders. Get on with it. I want answers."

BLDG 2O2/FSIM
7:59 a.m.

"Flight 545?" Felix Wallerstein said. "It's very disturbing. Very disturbing indeed." Wallerstein was a silver-haired, courtly man from Munich. He ran the Norton Flight Simulator and Pilot Training program with Germanic efficiency.

Casey said, "Why do you say 545 is disturbing?"

"Because," he shrugged. "How could it happen? It does not seem possible."

They walked through the large main room of Building 202. The two flight simulators, one for each model in service, stood above them. They appeared to be truncated nose sections of the aircraft, held up by a spidery array of hydraulic lifts.

"Did you get the data from the flight recorder? Rob said you might be able to read it."

"I tried," he said. "With no success. I hesitate to say it is useless, but-what about the QAR?"

"No QAR, Felix."

"Ah." Wallerstein sighed.

They came to the command console, a series of video screens and keyboards to one side of the building. Here the instructors sat while they monitored the pilots being trained in the simulator. Two of the simulators were being used as they watched.

Casey said, "Felix, we're concerned the slats extended in cruise flight. Or possibly the thrust reversers."

"So?" he said. "Why should that matter?"

"We've had problems with slats before…"

"Yes, but that is long since fixed, Casey. And slats cannot explain such a terrible accident Where people are killed? No, no. Not from slats, Casey."

"You're sure"

"Absolutely. I will show you." He turned to one of the instructors at the console. "Who's flying the N-22 now?"

"Ingram. First officer from Northwest"

"Any good?"

"Average. He's got about thirty hours."

On the closed-circuit video screen, Casey saw a man in his mid thirties, sitting in the pilot's seat of the simulator.

"And where is he now?" Felix said.

"Uh, let's see," the instructor said, consulting his panels. "He's over the mid-Atlantic, FL three-thirty, point eight Mach."

"Good," Felix said. "So he's at thirty-three thousand feet, eight-tenths the speed of sound. He's been there awhile, and everything seems to be fine. He's relaxed, maybe a little lazy."

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Deploy Mr. Ingram's slats."

The instructor reached over and pushed a button.

Felix turned to Casey. "Watch carefully, please."

On the video screen, the pilot remained casual, unconcerned. But a few seconds later, he leaned forward, suddenly alert, frowning at his controls.

Felix pointed to the instructor's console, and the array of screens. "Here you can see what he is seeing. On his Flight Management display, the slats indicator is flashing. And he's noticed it. Meanwhile, you see the plane gives a slight nose up…"

The hydraulics whirred, and the big cone of the simulator tilted upward a few degrees.

"Mr. Ingram now checks his slats lever, as he should. He finds it is up and locked, which is puzzling, since it means he has an uncommanded slats deploy…"

The simulator remained tilted up.

"So Mr. Ingram is thinking it over. He has plenty of time to decide what to do. The aircraft is quite stable on autopilot Let's see what he decides. Ah. He decides to play with his controls. He pulls the slats lever down, then up… He's trying to clear the warning. But that doesn't change anything. So. He now realizes he has a system problem on his aircraft. But he remains calm. He's still thinking… What will he do?… He changes the autopilot params… he descends to a lower altitude, and reduces his airspeed… absolutely correct… He is still in the nose-up attitude, but now at more favorable conditions of altitude and speed. He decides to try the slats lever again…"

The instructor said, "Should I let him off the hook?'

"Why not?" Felix said "I believe we have made the point."

The instructor punched a button. The simulator tilted back to level.

"And so," Felix said, "Mr. Ingram is restored to normal flight. He makes a note of his problem for the maintenance crews, and he continues on his way to London."

"But he stayed in the autopilot" Casey said. "What if he went out of it?"

"Why should he do that? He's in cruise flight; the autopilot has been operating the plane for at least half an hour."

"But suppose he did."

Felix shrugged, turned to the instructor. "Fail his autopilot."

"Yes, sir."

An audible alarm sounded. On the video screen, they saw the pilot look at the controls and take the stick in his hands. The audible alarm ended; the cockpit became silent. The pilot continued to hold the stick.

"Is he flying the plane now?" Felix asked.

"Yes, sir," the instructor said. "He's at FL two-ninety, point seven-one Mach, with autopilot disabled."

"Okay," Felix said. "Deploy his slats."

The instructor pushed a button.

On the systems monitor in the training console, the slats warning flashed, first amber, then white. Casey looked at the adjacent video screen and saw the pilot leaning forward. He had noticed the warning in the cockpit.

"Now," Felix said. "Once again we see the aircraft nose-up, but this time Mr. Ingram must control it himself… So he brings the stick back… very slightly, very delicately… Good… and now he is stable."

He turned to Casey. "You see?" He shrugged. "It is very puzzling. Whatever happened to that Transpacific flight, it cannot be the slats. And not thrusters either. In either case, the autopilot will compensate and maintain control. I tell you, Casey, what happened to that aircraft is a mystery."

Back in the sunlight, Felix walked over to his Jeep, with a surfboard on top. "I have a new Henley board," he said. "Like to see it?"

"Felix," she said. "Marder is starting to scream."

"So? Let him. He enjoys it."

"What do you think happened to 545?"

"Well. Let us be frank. Flight characteristics of an N-22 are such that if slats deploy at cruise speed, and the captain goes out of the autopilot the aircraft is rather sensitive. You remember, Casey. You did the study on it, three years ago. Right after we made the final fix on the slats."

"That's right" she said, thinking back. "We put together a special team to review flight stability issues on the N-22. But we concluded there wasn't a control-sensitivity problem, Felix."

"And you were correct" Felix said. "There is no problem. All modern aircraft maintain flight stability with computers. A jet fighter cannot be flown at all without computers. Fighters are inherently unstable. Commercial transports are less sensitive, but even so, computers shift fuel, adjust attitude, adjust CG, adjust thrust on the engines. Moment to moment the computers continuously make small changes, to stabilize the aircraft."

"Yes," Casey said, "but the planes can be flown out of autopilot as well."

"Absolutely," Felix said. "And we train our captains to do that. Because the aircraft is sensitive, when the nose goes up, the captain must very gently bring it back again. If he corrects too strongly, the plane noses over. In that case he must pull up, but again, very gently, or he is likely to overcorrect, so the plane would climb sharply then nose down once more. And this is precisely the pattern that occurred on the Transpacific flight."

"You're saying it was pilot error."

"Ordinarily I would think so, except the pilot was John Chang."

"He's a good pilot?'

"No," Felix said. "John Chang is a superb pilot. I see a lot of pilots here, and some are truly gifted. It's more than quick reflexes and knowledge and experience. It's more than skill. It's a kind of instinct. John Chang is one of the five or six best captains I have ever trained on this aircraft, Casey. So whatever happened to Flight 545, it cannot be pilot error. Not with John Chang in the chair. I am sorry, but in this case, it has to be a problem with the aircraft, Casey. It has to be that aircraft."

TO HANGAR 5
9:15A.M.

As they walked back across the vast parking lot, Casey was lost in thought.

"So," Richman said, after a while. "Where are we?"

"Nowhere."

No matter how she put the evidence together, that was the conclusion she came to. They had nothing solid so far. The pilot had said it was turbulence, but it wasn't turbulence. A passenger gave a story consistent with slats deployment, but slats deployment couldn't explain the terrible damage to the passengers. The stewardess said the captain fought the autopilot, which Trung said only an incompetent captain would do. Felix said the captain was superb.

Nowhere.

They were nowhere.

Beside her, Richman trudged along, not saying anything. He had been quiet all morning. It was as if the puzzle of Flight 545, so intriguing to him yesterday, had now proven too complex.

But Casey was not discouraged. She had come to this point many times before. It was no surprise the early evidence appeared to conflict. Because aircraft accidents were rarely caused by a single event or error. The IR teams expected to find event cascades: one thing leading to another, and then another. In the end, the final story would be complex: a system failed; a pilot responded; the aircraft reacted unexpectedly, and the plane got in trouble.

Always a cascade.

A long chain of small errors and minor mishaps.

She heard the whine of a jet. Looking up, she saw a Norton widebody silhouetted against the sun. As it passed over her, she saw the yellow Transpacific insignia on the tail. It was the ferry flight from LAX. The big jet landed gently, puffed smoke at the wheels, and headed toward Maintenance Hangar 5.

Her beeper went off. She unclipped it from her belt.

••• N-22 ROTR BURST MIAMI TV NOW BTOYA

"Oh hell," she said. "Let's find a TV." "Why? What's the matter?" Richman said. "We have trouble."

BLDG 64/IRT
9:20 a.m.

'This was the scene just moments ago at Miami International Airport when a Sunstar Airlines jet burst into flames, after its left starboard engine exploded without warning, showering the crowded runway with a hail of deadly shrapnel."

"Aw, blow me!" Kenny Burne shouted. A half-dozen engineers were crowded around the TV set, blocking Casey's view as she came into the room.

"Miraculously, none of the two hundred and seventy passengers on board were injured. The N-22 Norton widebody was revving for takeoff when passengers noticed clouds of black smoke coming from the engine. Seconds later, the plane was rocked by an explosion as the left starboard engine literally blew to pieces, and was quickly engulfed in flames."

The screen didn't show that, it just showed an N-22 aircraft, seen from a distance, with dense black smoke gushing from beneath the wing.

"Left starboard engine," Burne snarled. "As opposed to the right starboard engine, you silly twit?"

The TV now showed close-ups of passengers milling around the terminal. There were quick cuts. A young boy of seven or eight said, "All the people got excited, because of the smoke." Then they cut to a teenage girl who shook her head, tossing her hair over her shoulder, and said, "It was rully, rully scary. I just saw the smoke and, like, I was rully scared." The interviewer said, "What were your thoughts when you heard the explosion?" "I was rully scared," the girl said. "Did you think it was a bomb?" she was asked. "Absolutely," she said. "A terrorist bomb."

Kenny Burne spun on his heel, throwing his hands in the air. "Do you believe this shit? They're asking kids what they thought. This is the news. 'What did you think?' 'Golly, I swallowed my popsicle.'" He snorted. "Airplanes that kill- and the travelers who love them!"

On the screen, the TV program now showed an elderly woman who said, "Yes, I thought I was going to die. Of course, you have to think that." Then a middle-aged man: "My wife and I prayed. Our whole family knelt down on the runway and thanked the Lord." "Were you frightened?" the interviewer asked. "We thought we were going to die," the man said. "The cabin was filled with smoke-it's a miracle we escaped with our lives."

Bume was yelling again: "You asshole! In a car you would have died. In a nightclub you would have died. But not in a Norton widebody! We designed it so you'd escape with your miserable fucking life!"

"Calm down," Casey said. "I want to hear this." She was listening intently, waiting to see how far they'd take the story.

A strikingly beautiful Hispanic woman in a beige Armani suit stood facing the camera, holding up a microphone: "While passengers now appear to be recovering from their ordeal, their fate was far from certain earlier this afternoon, when a Norton widebody blew up on the runway, orange flames shooting high into the sky…"

The TV again showed the earlier telephoto shot of the plane on the runway, with smoke billowing from under the wing. It looked about as dangerous as a doused campfire.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" Kenny said. "A Norton widebody exploded? A Sunstar piece-of-shit engine exploded." He pointed to the screen image. "That's a goddamn rotor burst, and the blade fragments broke through the cowling which is just what I told them would happenl"

Casey said, "You told them?"

"Hell yes," Kenny said. "I know all about this. Sunstar bought six engines from AeroCivicas last year. I was the Norton consultant on the deal. I borescoped the engines and found a shitload of damage-blade notch breakouts and vane cracks. So I told Sunstar to reject them." Kenny was waving his hands. "But why pass up a bargain?" he said. "Sunstar rebuilt them instead. During teardown, we found a lot of corrosion, so the paper on the overseas overhauls was probably faked. I told them again: Junk 'em. But Sunstar put them on the planes. So now the rotor blows-big fucking surprise- and the fragments cut into the wing, so that nonflammable hydraulic fluid is smoking. It ain't on fire because the fluid won't burn. And it's our fault?'

He spun, pointing back to the screen.

"… seriously frightening all two hundred and seventy passengers on board. Fortunately, there were no injuries…"

"That's right," Burne said. "No penetration of the fuse, lady. No injury to anybody. The wing absorbed it-our wing!"

"… and we are waiting to speak to officials from the airline about this frightening tragedy. More later. Back to you, Ed."

The camera cut back to the newsroom, where a sleek anchorman said, "Thank you, Alicia, for that up-to-the-minute report on the shocking explosion at Miami Airport. We'll have more details as they emerge. Now back to our regularly scheduled program."

Casey sighed, relieved.

"I can't believe this horseshitl" Kenny Burne shouted. He turned and stomped out of the room, banging the door behind him.

"What's his problem?" Richman said.

"For once, I'd say he's justified," Casey said. "The fact is, if there's an engine problem, it's not Norton's fault."

"What do you mean? He said he was the consultant-"

"Look," Casey said. "You have to understand: We build airframes. We don't build engines and we don't repair them. We have nothing to do with engines."

"Nothing? I hardly think-"

"Our engines are supplied by other companies-GE, Pratt and Whitney, Rolls-Royce. But reporters never understand that distinction."

Richman looked skeptical. "It seems like a fine point…"

"It's nothing of the sort. If your electricity goes out, do you call the gas company? If your tires blow, do you blame the car maker?"

"Of course not," Richman said, "but it's still your airplane-engines and all."

"No, it's not," Casey said. "We build the plane, and then install the brand of engine the customer selects. Just the way you can put any one of several brands of tires on your car. But if Michelin makes a batch of bad tires, and they blow out, that's not Ford's fault. If you let your tires go bald and get in an accident, that's not Ford's fault And it's exactly the same with us."

Richman was still looking unconvinced.

"All we can do," Casey said, "is certify that our planes fly safely with the engines we install. But we can't force carriers to maintain those engines properly over the life of the aircraft. That's not our job-and understanding that is fundamental to knowing what actually occurred. The fact is, the reporter got the story backward."

"Backward? Why?'

"That aircraft had a rotor burst" Casey said. "Fan blades broke off the rotor disk and the cowling around the engine didn't contain the fragments. The engine blew because it wasn't correctly maintained. It should never have happened. But our wing absorbed the flying fragments, protecting passengers in the cabin. So the real meaning of this event is that Norton aircraft are so well built that they protected two hundred and seventy passengers from a bad engine. We're actually heroes-but Norton stock will fall tomorrow. And some of the public may be afraid to fly on a Norton aircraft. Is that an appropriate response to what actually happened? No. But it's an appropriate response to what's being reported. That's frustrating for people here."

"Well," Richman said, "at least they didn't mention Trans-Pacific."

Casey nodded. That had been her first concern, the reason she had rushed across the parking lot to the TV set. She wanted to know if the news reports would link the Miami rotor burst to the TPA in-flight incident the day before. That hadn't happened-at least not yet. But sooner or later, it would.

"We'll start getting calls now," she said. "The cat is out of the bag."

HANGAR 5
9:40 a.m.

There were a dozen security guards standing outside Hangar 5, where the Transpacific jet was being inspected. But this was standard procedure whenever a RAMS team from Recovery and Maintenance Services entered the plant. RAMS teams circled the globe, troubleshooting stranded aircraft; they were FAA-licensed to repair them in the field. But since members were chosen for expertise rather than seniority, they were non-union; and there was often friction when they came into the factory.

Within the hangar, the Transpacific widebody stood in the glare of halogen lights, nearly hidden behind a gridwork of roll-up scaffolding. Technicians swarmed over every part of the plane. Casey saw Kenny Burne working the engines, cursing his powerplant crew. They had deployed the two thrust reverser sleeves that flared out from the nacelle, and were doing fluorescent and conductivity tests on the curved metal cowls.

Ron Smith and the electrical team were standing on a raised platform beneath the midships belly. Higher up, she saw Van Trung through the cockpit windows, his crew testing the avionics.

And Doherty was out on the wing, leading the structure team. His group had used a crane to remove an eight-foot aluminum section, one of the inboard slats.

"Big bones," Casey said to Richman. "They inspect the biggest components first."

"It looks like they're tearing it apart," Richman said.

A voice behind them. "It's called destroying the evidence!"

Casey turned. Ted Rawley, one of the flight test pilots, sauntered up. He was wearing cowboy boots, a western shirt, dark sunglasses. Like most of the test pilots, Teddy cultivated an air of dangerous glamour.

"This is our chief test pilot," Casey said. 'Teddy Rawley. They call him Rack 'em Rawley."

"Hey," Teddy protested. "I haven't drilled a hole yet. Anyway, it's better than Casey and the Seven Dwarfs."

"Is that what they call her?" Richman said, suddenly interested.

"Yeah. Casey and her dwarfs." Rawley gestured vaguely to the engineers. "The little fellas. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho." He turned away from the plane, punched Casey on the shoulder. "So: How you doing, kid? I called you the other day."

"I know," she said. "I've been busy."

"I'll bet you have," Teddy said. "I bet Marder's got the screws on everybody. So: What've the engineers found? Wait a minute, let me guess-they found absolutely nothing, right? Their beautiful plane is perfect. So: Must be pilot error, am I right?"

Casey said nothing. Richman looked uncomfortable.

"Hey," Teddy said. "Don't be shy. I've heard it all before. Let's face it, the engineers are all card-carrying members of the Screw the Pilots Club. That's why they design planes to be practically automatic. They just hate the idea that somebody might actually fly them. It's so untidy, to have a warm body in the seat. Makes 'em crazy. And of course, if anything bad happens, it must be the pilot. Gotta be the pilot. Am I right?"

"Come on, Teddy," she said. "You know the statistics. The overwhelming majority of accidents are caused by-"

It was at that point that Doug Doherty, crouched on the wing above them, leaned over and said dolefully, "Casey, bad news. You'll want to see this."

"What is it?"

"I'm pretty sure I know what went wrong on Flight 545."

She climbed the scaffolding and walked out on the wing. Doherty was crouched over the leading edge. The slats were now removed, exposing the innards of the wing structure.

She got down on her hands and knees next to him, and looked.

The space for the slats was marked by a series of drive tracks-little rails, spaced three feet apart, that the slats slid out on, driven by hydraulic pistons. At the forward end of the rail was a rocker pin, which allowed the slats to tilt downward. At the back of the compartment she saw the folding pistons which drove the slats along the tracks. With the slats removed, the pistons were just metal arms poking out into space. As always, whenever she saw the innards of an aircraft, she had a sense of enormous complexity.

"What is it?" she said.

"Here," Doug said.

He bent over one of the protruding arms, pointing to a tiny metal flange at the back, curved into a hook. The part was not much larger than her thumb.

"Yes?"

Doherty reached down, pushed the flange back with his hand. It flicked forward again. "That's the locking pin for the slats," he said. "It's spring-loaded, actuated by a solenoid back inside. When the slats retract, the pin snaps over, holds them in place."

"Yes?"

"Look at it," he said, shaking his head. "It's bent"

She frowned. If it was bent, she couldn't see it. It looked straight to her eye. "Doug…"

"No. Look." He set a metal ruler against the pin, showing her that the metal was bent a few millimeters to the left. "And that's not all," he said. "Look at the action surface of the hinge. It's been worn. See it?"

He handed her a magnifying glass. Thirty feet above the ground, she leaned over the leading edge and peered at the part. There was wear, all right. She saw a ragged surface on the locking hook. But you would expect a certain amount of wear, where the metal of the latch engaged the slats. "Doug, do you really think this is significant?"

"Oh yes," he said, in a funereal tone. "You got maybe two, three millimeters of wear here."

"How many pins hold the slat?"

"Just one," he said.

"And if this one is bad?"

"The slats could pop loose in flight. They wouldn't necessarily fully extend. They wouldn't have to. Remember, these are low-speed control surfaces. At cruise speed the effect magnifies: a slight extension would change the aerodynamics."

Casey frowned, squinting at the little part through the magnifying glass. "But why would the lock suddenly open, two-thirds of the way through the flight?"

He was shaking his head. "Look at the other pins," Doherty said, pointing down the wing. "There's no wear on the action surface."

"Maybe the others were changed out, and this one wasn't?"

"No," he said. "I think the others are original. This one was changed. Look at the next pin down. See the parts stamp at the base?'

She saw a tiny embossed figure, an H in a triangle, with a sequence of numbers. All parts manufacturers stamped their parts with these symbols. "Yeah…"

"Now look at this pin. See the difference? On this part, the triangle is upside down. This is a counterfeit part, Casey."

For aircraft manufacturers, counterfeiting was the single biggest problem they faced as they approached the twenty-first century. Media attention focused mostly on counterfeit consumer items, like watches, CDs, and computer software. But there was a booming business in all sorts of manufactured items, including auto parts and airplane parts. Here the problem of counterfeiting took a new and ominous turn. Unlike a phony Cartier watch, a phony airplane part could kill you.

"Okay," she said. "I'll check the maintenance records, find out where it came from."

The FAA required commercial carriers to keep extraordinarily detailed maintenance records. Every time a part was changed out, it was noted in a maintenance log. In addition, the manufacturers, though not required to, maintained an exhaustive ship's record of every part originally on the plane, and who had manufactured it. All this paperwork meant that every one of the aircraft's one million parts could be traced back to its origin. If a part was swapped out from one plane to another, that was known. If a part was taken off and repaired, that was known. Each part on a plane had a history of its own. Given enough time, they could find out exactly where this part had come from, who had installed it, and when.

She pointed to the locking pin in the wing. "Have you photographed it?"

"Oh sure. We're fully documented."

"Then pull it," she said. "I'll take it to Metals. By the way, could this situation give you a slats disagree warning?"

Doherty gave a rare smile. "Yes, it could. And my guess is, it did. You got a nonstandard part, Casey, and it failed the aircraft."

Coming off the wing, Richman was chattering excitedly. "So, is that it? It's a bad part? Is that what happened? It's solved?" He was getting on her nerves. "One thing at a time," she said. "We have to check."

"Check? What do we have to check? Check how?"

"First of all, we have to find out where that part came from," she said. "Go back to the office. Tell Norma to make sure the maintenance records are coming from LAX. And have her telex the Fizer in Hong Kong to ask for the carrier's records. Tell him the FAA requested them and we want to look at them first."

"Okay," Richman said.

He headed off toward the open doors of Hangar 5, out into the sunlight. He walked with a sort of swagger, as if he were a person of importance, in possession of valuable information.

But Casey wasn't sure that they knew anything at all.

At least, not yet.

OUTSIDE HANGAR 5
10:00 a.m.

She came out of the hangar, blinking in the morning sun. She saw Don Brull getting out of his car, over by Building 121. She headed toward him.

"Hello, Casey," he said, as he slammed the door. "I was wondering when you'd get back to me."

"I talked to Marder," she said. "He swears the wing isn't being offset to China."

Brull nodded. "He called me last night. Said the same thing." He didn't sound happy.

"Marder insists it's just a rumor."

"He's lying," Brull said. "He's doing it."

"No way," Casey said. "It doesn't make sense."

"Look," Brull said. "It doesn't matter to me, personally. They close this plant in ten years, I'll be retired. But that'll be about the time your kid starts college. You'll be looking at those big tuition payments, and you won't have a job. You thought about that?"

"Don," she said "You said it yourself, it doesn't make sense to offset the wing. It'd be pretty reckless to-"

"Marder's reckless." He squinted at her in the sunlight "You know that. You know what he's capable of."

"Don-"

"Look," Brull said. "I know what I'm talking about. Those tools aren't being shipped to Atlanta, Casey. They're going to San Pedro-to the port. And down in San Pedro, they're building special marine containers for shipment."

So that was how the union was putting it together, she thought. "Those are oversize tools, Don," she said. "We can't ship them by road or rail. Big tools always go by boat. They're building containers so they can send them through the Panama Canal. That's the only way to get them to Atlanta."

Brull was shaking his head. "I've seen the bills of lading. They don't say Atlanta. They say Seoul, Korea."

"Korea?" she said, frowning.

"That's right."

"Don, that really doesn't make sense-"

"Yes, it does. Because it's a cover," Brull said. "They'll send them to Korea, then transship from Korea to Shanghai."

"You have copies of the bills?" she said.

"Not with me."

"I'd like to see them," she said.

Brull sighed. "I can do that, Casey. I can get them for you. But you're putting me in a very difficult situation here. The guys aren't going to let this sale happen. Marder tells me to calm 'em down-but what can I do? I run the local, not the plant."

"What do you mean?"

"It's out of my hands," he said.

"Don-"

"I always liked you, Casey," he said. "But you hang around here, I can't help you."

And he walked away.

OUTSIDE HANGAR 5
10:04 a.m.

The morning sun was shining; the plant around her was cheerfully busy, mechanics riding their bicycles from one building to another. There was no sense of threat, or danger. But Casey knew what Brull had meant: she was now in no-man's land. Anxious, she pulled out her cell phone to call Marder when she saw the heavyset figure of Jack Rogers coming toward her.

Jack covered aerospace for the Telegraph-Star, an Orange County paper. In his late fifties, he was a good, solid reporter, a reminder of an earlier generation of print journalists who knew as much about their beat as the people they interviewed. He gave her a casual wave.

"Hi, Jack," she said. "What's up?'

"I came over," he said, "about that wing tool accident this morning in 64. The one the crane dropped."

'Tough break," she said.

'They had another accident with the AJs this morning. Tool was loaded onto the flatbed truck, but the driver took a turn too fast over by Building 94. Tool slid off onto the ground. Big mess."

"Uh-huh," Casey said.

"This is obviously a job action," Rogers said. "My sources tell me the union's opposed to the China sale."

"I've heard that," she said, nodding.

"Because the wing's going to be offset to Shanghai as part of the sales agreement?"

"Come on, Jack," she said. "That's ridiculous."

"You know that for a fact?"

She took a step back from him. "Jack," she said. "You know I can't discuss the sale. No one can, until the ink's dry."

"Okay," Rogers said. He took out his notepad. "It does seem like a pretty crazy rumor. No company's ever offset the wing. It'd be suicide."

"Exactly," she said. In the end, she kept coming back to that same question. Why would Edgarton offset the wing? Why would any company offset the wing? It just made no sense.

Rogers glanced up from his pad. "I wonder why the union thinks the wing's being sent offshore?"

She shrugged. "You'll have to ask them." He had sources in the union. Certainly Brail. Probably others as well.

"I hear they've got documents that prove it."

Casey said, "They show them to you?"

Rogers shook his head. "No."

"I can't imagine why not, if they have them."

Rogers smiled. He made another note. "Shame about the rotor burst in Miami."

"All I know is what I saw on television."

"You think it will affect the public perception of the N-22?" He had his pen out, ready to take down what she said.

"I don't see why. The problem was powerplant, not air-frame. My guess is, they're going to find it was a bad compressor disk that burst."

"I wouldn't doubt it," he said. "I was talking to Don Peterson over at the FAA. He told me that incident at SFO was a sixth-stage compressor disk that blew. The disk had brittle nitrogen pockets."

"Alpha inclusions?' she said.

"That's right," Jack said. "And there was also dwell-time fatigue."

Casey nodded. Engine parts operated at a temperature of 2500 degrees Fahrenheit, well above the melt temperature of most alloys, which turned to soup at 2200 degrees. So they were manufactured of titanium alloys, using the most advanced procedures. Fabricating some of the parts was an art-the fan blades were essentially "grown" as a single crystal of metal, making them phenomenally strong. But even in skilled hands, the manufacturing process was inherently delicate. Dwell-time fatigue was a condition in which the titanium used to make rotor disks clumped into microstructure colonies, rendering them vulnerable to fatigue cracks.

"And how about the Transpacific flight," Rogers said. "Was that an engine problem, too?"

'Transpacific happened yesterday, Jack. We just started our investigation."

"You're QA on the IRT, right?"

"Right, yes."

"Are you pleased with how the investigation is going?"

"Jack, I can't comment on the Transpacific investigation. It's much too early."

"Not too early for speculation to start," Rogers said. "You know how these things go, Casey. Lot of idle talk. Misinformation that can be difficult to clear up later. I'd just like to set the record straight. Have you ruled out engines?"

"Jack," she said, "I can't comment."

"Then you haven't ruled out engines?"

"No comment, Jack."

He made a note on his pad. Without looking up, he said, "And I suppose you're looking at slats, too."

"We're looking at everything, Jack," she said.

"Given the 22 has a history of slats problems…"

"Ancient history," she said. "We fixed the problem years ago. You wrote a story about it, if I recall."

"But now you've had two incidents in two days. Are you worried that the flying public will start to think the N-22 is a troubled aircraft?"

She could see the direction his story was going to take. She didn't want to comment, but he was telling her what he would write if she didn't. It was a standard, if minor, form of press blackmail.

"Jack," she said, "we've got three hundred N-22s in service around the world. The model has an outstanding safety record." In fact, in five years of service there had been no fatalities involving the aircraft until yesterday. That was a reason for pride, but she decided not to mention it, because she could see his lead: The first fatalities to occur on a Norton N-22 aircraft happened yesterday…

Instead she said, "The public is best served by getting accurate information. And at the moment, we have no information to offer. To speculate would be irresponsible."

That did it. He took his pen away. "Okay. You want to go off?"

"Sure." She knew she could trust him. "Off the record, 545 underwent very severe pitch oscillations. We think the plane porpoised. We don't know why. The FDR's anomalous. It'll take days to reconstruct the data. We're working as fast as we can."

"Will it affect the China sale?"

"I hope not."

"Pilot was Chinese, wasn't he? Chang?"

"He was from Hong Kong. I don't know his nationality."

"Does that make it awkward if it's pilot error?"

"You know how these investigations are, Jack. Whatever the cause turns out to be, it's going to be awkward for somebody. We can't worry about that. We just have to let the chips fall where they fall."

"Of course," he said. "By the way, is that China sale firm? I keep hearing it's not."

She shrugged. "I honestly don't know."

"Has Marder talked to you about it?"

"Not to me personally," she said. Her reply was carefully worded; she hoped he wouldn't follow up on it. He didn't

"Okay, Casey," he said. "I'll leave this alone, but what've you got? I need to file today."

"How come you're not doing Cheapskate Airlines?" she said, using the derogatory in-house term for one of the low-cost carriers. "Nobody's done that story yet."

"Are you kidding?" Rogers said. "Everybody and his brother's covering mat one."

"Yeah, but nobody's doing the real story," she said. "Super-cheap carriers are a stock scam."

"A stock scam?"

"Sure," Casey said. "You buy some aircraft so old and poorly maintained no reputable carrier will use them for spares. Then you subcontract maintenance to limit your liability. Then you offer cheap fares, and use the cash to buy new routes. It's a pyramid scheme but on paper it looks great. Volume's up, revenue's up, and Wall Street loves you. You're saving so much on maintenance that your earnings skyrocket. Your stock price doubles and doubles again. By the time the bodies start piling up, as you know they will, you've made your fortune off the stock, and can afford the best counsel. That's the genius of deregulation, Jack. When the bill comes, nobody pays."

"Except the passengers."

"Exactly," Casey said. "Flight safety's always been an honor system. The FAA's set up to monitor the carriers, not to police them. So if deregulation's going to change the rules, we ought to warn the public. Or triple FAA funding. One or the other."

Rogers nodded. "Barry Jordan over at the LA Times told me he's doing the safety angle. But that takes a lot of resources-lead time, lawyers going over your copy. My paper can't afford it. I need something I can use tonight."

"Off the record," Casey said, "I've got a good lead, but you can't source it."

"Sure," Rogers said.

"The engine that blew was one of six that Sunstar bought from AeroCivicas," Casey said. "Kenny Burne was our consultant. He borescoped the engines and found a lot of damage."

"What kind of damage?"

"Blade notch breakouts and vane cracks."

Rogers said, "They had fatigue cracks in the fan blades!"

"That's right," Casey said. "Kenny told them to reject the engines, but Sunstar rebuilt them and put them on the planes. When that engine blew, Kenny was furious. So you might get a name at Sunstar from Kenny. But we can't be the source, Jack. We have to do business with these people."

"I understand," Rogers said. "Thanks. But my editor's going to want to know about the accidents on the floor today. So tell me. Are you convinced the China offset stories are groundless?"

"Are we back on?" she said.

"Yes."

"I'm not the person to ask," she said. "You'll have to talk to Edgarton."

"I called, but his office says he's out of town. Where is he? Beijing?"

"I can't comment."

"And what about Marder?" Rogers said.

"What about him?"

Rogers shrugged. "Everybody knows Marder and Edgarton are at each other's throats. Marder expected to be named president, but the Board passed him over. But they gave Edgarton a one-year contract-so he's got only twelve months to produce. And I hear Marder's undercutting Edgarton, every way he can."

"I wouldn't know about that," she said. Casey had, of course, heard such rumors. It was no secret that Marder was bitterly disappointed about Edgarton's appointment. What Marder could do about it was another story. Marder's wife controlled eleven percent of company stock. With Marder's connections, he could probably pull together five percent more. But sixteen percent wasn't enough to call the shots, particularly since Edgarton had the strong support of the Board.

So most people in the plant thought that Marder had no choice except to go along with Edgarton's agenda-at least for the moment. Marder might be unhappy, but he had no option. The company had a cash-flow problem. They were already building planes without buyers. Yet they needed billions of dollars, if they hoped to develop the next generation of planes, and stay in business in the future.

So the situation was clear. The company needed the sale. And everybody knew it. Including Marder.

Rogers said, "You haven't heard Marder's undercutting Edgarton?"

"No comment," Casey said. "But off the record, it makes no sense. Everybody in the company wants this sale, Jack. Including Marder. Right now, Marder's pushing us hard to solve 545, so the sale goes through."

"Do you think the image of the company will be hurt by the rivalry between its two top officers?"

"I couldn't say."

"Okay," he said finally, closing his notepad. "Call me if you get a break on 545, okay?"

"Sure, Jack."

"Thanks, Casey."

Walking away from nun, she realized she was exhausted by the effort of the interview. Talking to a reporter these days was like a deadly chess match; you had to think several steps ahead; you had to imagine all the possible ways a reporter might distort your statement. The atmosphere was relentlessly adversarial.

It hadn't always been that way. There was a time when reporters wanted information, their questions directed to an underlying event They wanted an accurate picture of a situation, and to do that they had to make the effort to see things your way, to understand how you were thinking about it. They might not agree with you in the end, but it was a matter of pride that they could accurately state your view, before rejecting it. The interviewing process was not very personal, because the focus was on the event they were trying to understand.

But now reporters came to the story with the lead fixed in their minds; they saw their job as proving what they already knew. They didn't want information so much as evidence of villainy. In this mode, they were openly skeptical of your point of view, since they assumed you were just being evasive. They proceeded from a presumption of universal guilt, in an atmosphere of muted hostility and suspicion. This new mode was intensely personal: they wanted to trip you up, to catch you in a small error, or in a foolish statement-or just a phrase that could be taken out of context and made to look silly or insensitive.

Because the focus was so personal, the reporters asked continuously for personal speculations. Do you think an event will be damaging? Do you think the company will suffer? Such speculation had been irrelevant to the earlier generation of reporters, who focused on the underlying events. Modem journalism was intensely subjective-"interpretive"- and speculation was its lifeblood. But she found it exhausting.

And Jack Rogers, she thought, was one of the better ones. The print reporters were all better. It was the television reporters you really had to watch out for. They were the really dangerous ones.

OUTSIDE HANGAR 5
10:15 a.m.

Crossing the plant, she fished her cell phone out of her purse, and called Marder. His assistant, Eileen, said he was in a meeting. "I just left Jack Rogers," Casey said. "I think he's planning a story that says we're shipping the wing to China, and there's trouble in the executive suite." "Uh-oh," Eileen said. "That's not good." "Edgarton better talk to him, and put it to rest." "Edgarton isn't doing any press," Eileen said. "John will be back at six o'clock. You want to talk to him then?" "I better, yes." "I'll put you down," Eileen said.

PROOF TEST
10:19 a.m.

It looked like an aviation junkyard: old fuselages, tails, and wing sections littered the landscape, raised up on rusty scaffolding. But the air was filled with the steady hum of compressors, and heavy tubing ran to the airplane parts, like intravenous lines to a patient This was Proof Test, also known as Twist-and-Shout, the domain of the infamous Amos Peters.

Casey saw him off to the right, a hunched figure in shirtsleeves and baggy pants, bent over a readout stand, beneath an aft fuselage section of the Norton widebody.

"Amos," she called, waving as she walked over to him.

He turned, glanced at her. "Go away."

Amos was a legend at Norton. Reclusive and obstinate, he was nearly seventy, long past mandatory retirement age, yet he continued to work because he was vital to the company. His specialty was the arcane field of damage tolerance, or fatigue testing. And fatigue testing was of vastly greater importance than it had been ten years before.

Since deregulation, the carriers were flying aircraft longer than anybody ever expected. Three thousand aircraft in the domestic fleet were now more than twenty years old. That number would double in five years. Nobody really knew what would happen to all those aircraft as they continued to age.

Except Amos.

It was Amos who had been brought in by the NTSB as a consultant on the famous Aloha 737 accident, back in 1988. Aloha was an inter-island carrier in Hawaii. One of their airplanes was cruising at 24,000 feet when suddenly eighteen feet of the airplane's outer skin peeled off the fuselage, from the cabin door to the wing; the cabin decompressed, and a stewardess was sucked out and killed. Despite the explosive pressure loss, the plane managed to land safely at Maui, where it was scrapped on the spot.

The rest of Aloha's fleet was examined for corrosion and fatigue damage. Two more high-time 737s were scrapped, and a third underwent months of repairs. All three had extensive skin cracks and other corrosion damage. When the FAA issued an Airworthiness Directive mandating inspections of the rest of the 737 fleet, forty-nine more planes, operated by eighteen different carriers, were found to have extensive cracking.

Industry observers were perplexed by the accident, because Boeing, Aloha, and the FAA were supposedly all watching the carrier's 737 fleet. Corrosion cracking was a known problem on some early-production 737s; Boeing had already warned Aloha that the salty, humid Hawaiian climate was a "severe" corrosion environment.

Afterward, the investigation found multiple causes for the accident. It turned out that Aloha, making short hops between islands, was accumulating flight cycles of takeoff and landing at a faster rate than maintenance was scheduled to handle. This stress, combined with corrosion from ocean air, produced a series of small cracks in the aircraft skin. These were unnoticed by Aloha, because they were short of trained personnel. The FAA didn't catch them because they were overworked and understaffed. The FAA's principal maintenance inspector in Honolulu supervised nine carriers and seven repair stations around the Pacific, from China to Singapore to the Philippines. Eventually, a flight occurred in which the cracks extended and the structure failed.

Following the incident, Aloha, Boeing, and the FAA formed a circular firing squad. The undetected structural damage in Aloha's fleet was variously attributed to poor management, poor maintenance, poor FAA inspection, poor engineering. Accusations ricocheted back and forth for years afterward.

But the Aloha flight had also focused industry attention on the problem of aging aircraft, and it had made Amos famous within Norton. He'd convinced management to begin buying more old aircraft, turning wings and fuselages into proof test articles. Day after day, his test fixtures applied repetitive pressures to aging aircraft, stressing them to simulate takeoffs and landings, wind shear and turbulence, so Amos could study how and where they cracked.

"Amos," she said, coming up to him, "it's me. Casey Singleton."

He blinked myopically. "Oh. Casey. Didn't recognize you." He squinted at her. "Doctor gave me a new prescription… Oh. Huh. How are you?" He gestured for her to walk with him, and he headed toward a small building a few yards away.

No one at Norton could understand how Casey was able to get along with Amos, but they were neighbors; he lived alone with his pug dog, and she had taken to cooking him a meal every month or so. In return, Amos regaled her with stories of aircraft accidents he'd worked on, going back to the first BO AC Comet crashes in the 1950s. Amos had an encyclopedic knowledge of airplanes. She had learned a tremendous amount from him, and he had become a sort of adviser to her.

"Didn't I see you the other morning?" he said.

"Yes. With my daughter."

"Thought so. Want coffee?" He opened the door to a shed, and she smelted the sharp odor of burned grounds. His coffee was always terrible.

"Sounds great, Amos," she said.

He poured her a cup. "Hope black is okay. Ran out of that creamer stuff."

"Black is fine, Amos." He hadn't had creamer for a year.

Amos poured a cup for himself in a stained mug, and waved her to a battered chair, facing his desk. The desk was piled high with thick reports. FAA/NASA International Symposium on Advanced Structural Integrity. Airframe Durability and Damage Tolerance. Thermographic Inspection Techniques. Corrosion Control and Structures Technology.

He put his feet up on the desk, cleared a path through the journals, so he could see her. "I tell you, Casey. It's tedious working with these old hulks. I long for the day when we have another T2 article in here."

"T2?" she said.

"Of course you wouldn't know," Amos said. "You've been here five years, and we haven't made a new model aircraft in all that time. But when there's a new aircraft, the first one off the line is called Tl. Test Article 1. It goes to Static Test-we put it on the test bed and shake it to pieces. Find out where the weaknesses are. The second plane off the line is T2. It's used for fatigue testing-a more difficult problem. Over time, metal loses tensile strength, gets brittle. So we take T2, put it in a jig, and accelerate fatigue testing. Day after day, year after year, we simulate takeoffs and landings. Norton's policy is we fatigue test to more than twice the design life of the aircraft. If the engineers design an aircraft for a twenty-year life span- say, fifty thousand hours and twenty thousand cycles-we'll do more than twice that in the pit, before we ever deliver to a customer. We know the planes will stand up. How's your coffee?"

She took a small sip, managed not to wince. Amos ran water through the same old grinds, all day long. That was how it got this distinctive flavor. "Good, Amos."

"Just ask. There's more where that came from. Anyway, most manufacturers test to twice the design life. We test up to four times the spec. That's why we always say, the other companies make doughnuts, Norton makes croissants."

Casey said, "And John Marder always says, That's why the others make money, and we don't."

"Marder." Amos snorted. "It's all money with him, all bottom line. In the old days, the front office told us, Make the best damn airplane you can. Now they say, Make the best airplane you can for a price. Different instruction, you know what I mean?" He slurped his coffee. "So. What is it, Casey- 545?"

She nodded.

"Can't help you there," he said.

"Why do you say that?"

"The plane's new. Fatigue's not a factor."

"There's a question about a part, Amos," she said. She showed him the pin, in a plastic bag.

"Hmm." He turned it over in his hands, held it up to the light. 'This would be-don't tell me-this would be an anterior locking pin for the second inboard slat."

"That's right."

"Of course it's right." He frowned. "But this part's bad."

"Yes, I know."

"So what's your question?'

"Doherty thinks it failed the aircraft. Could it?"

"Well…" Amos stared at the ceiling, thinking. "No. I got a hundred bucks says it didn 't fail the aircraft."

Casey sighed. She was back to square one. They had no leads.

"Discouraged?" Amos said.

"Yes, frankly."

"Then you're not paying attention," he said. "This is a very valuable lead."

"But why? You just said yourself-it didn't fail the aircraft."

"Casey, Casey." Amos shook his head. "Think."

She tried to think, sitting there, smelling his bad coffee. She tried to see what he was driving at. But her mind was blank. She looked at him across the desk. "Just tell me. What am I missing?"

"Were the other locking pins replaced?'

"No."

"Just this one?'

"Yes."

"Why just this one, Casey?" he said.

"I don't know."

"Find out," he said.

"Why? What good will that do?"

Amos threw up his hands. "Casey. Come on, now. Think it through. You have a problem with slats on 545. That's a wing problem."

"Correct."

"Now you've found a part that's been replaced on the wing."

"Correct."

"Why was it replaced?"

"I don't know…"

"Was that wing damaged in the past? Did something happen to it, so that this part had to be replaced? Were other parts replaced as well? Are there other bad parts on the wing? Is there residual damage to the wing?"

"Not that you can see."

Amos shook his head impatiently. "Forget what you can see, Casey. Look at the ship's record and the maintenance records. Trace this part, and get a history of the wing. Because something else is wrong."

"My guess is you'll find more fake parts." Amos stood, sighing. "More and more planes have fake parts, these days. I suppose it's to be expected. These days, everybody seems to believe in Santa Claus."

"How's that?"

"Because they believe in something for nothing," Amos said. "You know: government deregulates the airlines, and everybody cheers. We got cheaper fares: everybody cheers. But the carriers have to cut costs. So the food is awful. That's okay. There are fewer direct flights, more hubs. That's okay. The planes look grubby, because they redo the interiors less often. That's okay. But still the carriers have to cut more costs. So they run the planes longer, buy fewer new ones. The fleet ages. That'll be okay-for a while. Eventually it won't be. And meanwhile, cost pressures continue. So where else do they cut? Maintenance? Parts? What? It can't go on indefinitely. Just can't. Of course, now Congress is helping them out, by cutting appropriations for the FAA, so there'll be less oversight. Carriers can ease up on maintenance because nobody's watching. And the public doesn't care, because for thirty years this country's had the best aviation safety record in the world. But the thing is, we paid for it. We paid to have new, safe planes and we paid for the oversight to make sure they were well maintained. But those days are over. Now, everybody believes in something for nothing."

"So where's it going to end?" she said.

"I got a hundred bucks," he said, "they'll reregulate within ten years. There'll be a string of crashes, and they'll do it. The free marketeers will scream, but the fact is, free markets don't provide safety. Only regulation does that. You want safe food, you better have inspectors. You want safe water, you better have an EPA. You want a safe stock market, you better have the SEC. And you want safe airlines, you better regulate them, too. Believe me, they will."

"And on 545…"

Amos shrugged. "Foreign carriers operate with much less stringent regulation. It's pretty loosey-goosey out there. Look at the maintenance records-and look hard at the paper for any part you're suspicious of."

She started to leave.

"But Casey…"

She turned back. "Yes?"

"You understand the situation, don't you? To check that part, you'll have to start with the ship's record."

"I know."

"That's in Building 64. I wouldn't go there, right now. At least not alone."

"Come on, Amos," she said. "I used to work on the floor. I'll be okay."

Amos was shaking his head. "Flight 545's a hot potato. You know how the guys think. If they can mess up the investigation, they will-any way they can. Be careful."

"I will."

"Be very, very careful."

BLD6 64
11:45 a.m.

Running down the center of Building 64 was a series of one-story chain-link cages that housed parts for the line, and terminal workstations. The workstations were placed inside small partitions, each containing a microfiche reader, a parts terminal, and a main system terminal.

In the parts cage, Casey bent over a microfiche reader, scrolling through photocopies of the ship's record for Fuse 271, which was the original factory designation for the aircraft involved in the TPA accident.

Jerry Jenkins, the parts flow control manager on the floor, stood beside her nervously, tapping his pen on the table and saying, "Find it yet? Find it yet?"

"Jerry," she said, "take it easy."

"I'm easy," he said, glancing around the floor. "I'm just thinking, you know, you could have done this between shifts."

Between shifts would have drawn less attention.

"Jerry," she said, "we're in kind of a rush here."

He tapped his pen. "Everybody's pretty hot about the China sale. What do I tell the guys?"

"You tell the guys," she said, "that if we lose that China sale, then this line will shut down, and everybody will be out of a job."

Jerry swallowed. "That true? Because I hear-"

"Jerry, let me look at the record, will you?"

The ship's record consisted of the mass of documentation-a million pieces of paper, one for every part on the aircraft-used to assemble the aircraft. This paper, and the even more extensive documentation required for FAA type certification, contained Norton proprietary information. So the FAA didn't store these records, because if they did, competitors could obtain it under the Freedom of Information Act. So Norton warehoused five thousand pounds of paper, running eighty feet of shelf space for each aircraft, in a vast building in Compton. All this was copied onto microfiche, for access at these readers on the floor. But finding the paper for a single part was time-consuming, she thought, and-

"Find it yet? Find it?"

"Yeah," she said at last. "I got it"

She was staring at a photocopy of a sheet of paper from Hoffman Metal Works, in Montclair, California The slats locking pin was described in a code that matched the engineering drawings: A/908/B-2117L (2) Ant SI Lteh. SS/HT. A typed date of manufacture, a stamped date of delivery to the factory, and a date of installation. Followed by two stamps- one signed by the mechanic who installed the part on the aircraft, and a second by the QA inspector who approved the work.

"So," he said. "That the OEM or what?"

"Yeah, it's the OEM." Hoffman was the original equipment manufacturer. The part had come direct from them. No distributor was involved.

Jerry was looking out through the chain link at the factory floor beyond. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention, but Casey knew that they were being watched.

Jerry said, "You leaving now?"

"Yes, Jerry. I'm leaving now."

She headed across the floor, staying on the aisle that ran by the parts cages. Away from the overhead cranes. Glancing up at the overhead walkways to be sure nobody was up there. Nobody was. So far, they were leaving her alone.

What she had learned so far was clear The original installed part on TPA 545 had come direct from a reputable supplier. The original part was good; the part Doherty found on the wing was bad.

So Amos was right.

Something had happened to that wing, causing it to be repaired, sometime in the past.

But what?

She still had more work to do.

And very little time to do it.

NORTON QA
12:30 p.m.

If the part was bad, where had it come from? She needed maintenance records, and they hadn't arrived yet. Where was Richman? Back in her office, she flipped through a stack of telexes. All the FSRs around the world were asking for information about the N-22. One from the Right Service Rep in Madrid was typical.

FROM: S. RAMONES, FSR MADRID TO: C. SINGLETON, QA/IRT

PERSISTENT REPORTS VIA MY IBERIA CONTACT B. ALONSO THAT DUE TO MIAMI INCIDENT JAA WILL ANNOUNCE CONTINUED DELAY OF CERTIFICATION OF N-22 AIRCRAFT CITING "AIRWORTHINESS CONCERNS"

PLS ADVISE.

She sighed. What the FSR was reporting was entirely predictable. The JAA was the Joint Aviation Authorities, the European equivalent of the FAA. Recently, American manufacturers had had a good deal of difficulty with it. The JAA was flexing new regulatory muscles, and the agency had many bureaucrats who didn't clearly distinguish between negotiated trade advantage and airworthiness issues. For some time now, the JAA had been making special efforts to force the American manufacturers to use European jet engines. The Americans had resisted, so it was logical that the JAA would take advantage of the rotor burst in Miami to put greater pressure on Norton, by withholding certification.

But in the end, it was a political problem, not her area. She went to the next telex:

FROM: S. NIETO, FSR VANC TO: C. SINGLETON, QA/IRT

FIRST OFFICER LU ZAN PING UNDERWENT EMERGENCY SURGERY FOR SUBDURAL HEMATOMA AT VANC GEN HOSPITAL 0400 HRS TODAY. F/O NOT AVAILABLE FOR QUESTIONS AT LEAST 48 HRS. FURTHER DETAILS TF.

Casey had been hoping for an interview with the injured first officer sooner than that. She wanted to know why he was in the back of the plane, and not in the cockpit. But it seemed an answer to that question would have to wait until the end of the week.

She came to the next telex, and stared in astonishment.

FROM: RICK RAKOSKI, FSR HK TO: CASEY SINGLETON, QA/IRT

RECEIVED YOUR REQUEST MAINTENANCE RECORDS FOR TPA FLIGHT 545, FUSE 271, FOREIGN REGISTRY 098/443/HB09 AND PASSED IT ON TO THE CARRIER.

IN RESPONSE TO FAA REQUEST TRANSPACIFIC RELEASED ALL RECORDS FROM REPAIR STATION KAITAK HK, REPAIR STATION SINGAPORE, REPAIR STATION MELBOURNE. THESE UPLOADED TO NORTON ONLINE SYSTEMS AS OF 2210 LOCAL TIME. STILL WORKING ON CREW INTERVIEWS. MUCH MORE DIFFICULT. DETAILS TF.

A smart move by the carrier, she thought. Since they didn't want to grant crew interviews, they had decided to provide everything else, in an apparent display of cooperation.

Norma came into her office. "Records from LAX are corning in now," she said. "And Hong Kong already delivered."

"I see that. Have you got the storage address?"

"Right here." She handed her a slip of paper, and Casey typed it into the terminal behind her desk. There was a delay for the call to the mainframe, and then a screen flashed up.

MAINT REC N-22 / FUSE 271 / FR 098/443/HB09

DD 5/14 AS 6/19 MOD 8/12

«RS KAITAK - MAINT REC (A-C)

«RS SNGPOR - MAINT REC (B ONLY)

«RS MELB - MAINT REC (A, B ONLY)

"All right," she said. She went to work.

It was the better part of an hour before Casey had her answers. But at the end of mat time, she had a good picture of what had happened to the slats locking pin on the Transpacific aircraft.

On November 10 of the previous year, on a flight from Bombay to Melbourne, the Transpacific aircraft had experienced a problem with radio communications. The pilot made an unscheduled stop on the island of Java, in Indonesia. There, the radio was repaired without difficulty (a blown circuit panel was changed out), and Javanese ground crews refueled the plane for the continuing flight to Melbourne.

After the aircraft landed in Melbourne, Australian ground crews noted that the right wing was damaged.

Thank you, Amos.

The wing was damaged.

Mechanics in Melbourne noted that the fuel coupling was bent on the right wing, and the adjacent slats locking pin was slightly damaged. This was thought to have been caused by ground personnel in Java during the previous fueling stop.

The fuel line couplings on the N-22 were located on the underside of the wing, just behind the leading edge. An inexperienced ground person had used the wrong power lift truck for the N-22 and had jammed the platform railing into the fuel hose while the hose was hooked into the wing. This bent the hose bracket into the wing coupler, bent the coupler plate, and damaged the nearby slats pin.

Slats locking pins were an infrequent change item, and Melbourne repair station did not have one in stock. Rather than delay the aircraft in Australia, it was decided to allow the plane to continue to Singapore and change the part there. However, a sharp-eyed maintenance person in Singapore noticed that the paper on their replacement locking pin appeared suspect. Maintenance crews were uncertain whether the replacement pin was genuine or not.

Since the part already in place functioned normally, Singapore elected not to replace it, and the aircraft was sent on to Hong Kong, the home terminal for Transpacific, where a genuine replacement part was assured. Hong Kong Repair Station-fully aware they were located in a world center for counterfeiting-took special precautions to insure their spare aviation parts were genuine. They ordered parts directly from the original equipment manufacturers in the United States. On November 13 of the previous year, a brand-new slats locking pin was installed on the aircraft.

Paper for the part appeared to be proper; a photocopy came up on Casey's screen. The part had come from Hoffman Metal Works in Montclair, California-Norton's original supplier. But Casey knew the paper was fake, because the part itself was fake. She would run it down later, and find out where the part had actually come from.

But right now, the only question was the one Amos had posed:

Were other parts replaced, as well?

Sitting at her terminal, Casey scrolled through the maintenance summary records for Hong Kong Repair Station for November 13, to find what else had been done to the aircraft mat day.

It was slow going; she had to look at photocopies of maintenance cards, with scrawled handwritten notations after each checkbox. But eventually she found a list of work that had been done on the wing.

There were three notations.

CHG RT LDLT FZ-7. Change the right landing light fuse 7.

CHG RT SLTS LK PIN. Change the right slats locking pin.

CK ASS EQ PKG. Check the associated equipment package. This was followed by a mechanic's notation NRML. Meaning it was checked and normal.

The associated equipment package was a maintenance sub-grouping of related parts that had to be checked whenever a faulty part was detected. For example, if seals on the right fuel lines were found to be worn, it was standard practice to check' seals on the left side as well, since they were part of the associated equipment package.

Changing the slats locking pin had triggered a maintenance check of associated equipment.

But which equipment?

She knew the associated equipment packages were specified by Norton. But she couldn't pull up the list on her office computer. To do that, she would have to go back to the terminal on the floor.

She pushed away from her desk.

BLD6 64
2:40 p.m.

Building 64 was nearly deserted, the widebody line seemingly abandoned between shifts. There was a one-hour delay between first and second shifts, because it took that long for the parking lots to clear. First shift ended at 2:30 p.m. Second shift started at 3:30.

This was the time that Jerry Jenkins had said she should examine the records because there wouldn't be an audience. She had to admit he was right. There was nobody around now.

Casey went directly to the parts cage, looking for Jenkins, but he wasn't there. She saw the QA section manager, and asked where Jerry Jenkins was.

"Jerry? He went home," the manager said.

"Why?"

"Said he wasn't feeling good."

Casey frowned. Jenkins shouldn't have left until after five. She went to the terminal to bring up the information herself.

Typing at the keyboard, she soon had called up the database of associated maintenance packages. She keyed in RT SLATS LK PIN and got the answer she was looking for.

RT SLATS ERV TRK (22 / RW / 2-5455 / SLS)

RT SLATS LVR (22 / RW / 2-5769 / SLS)

RT SLATS HVD ACT (22 / RW / 2-7334 / SLS)

RT SLATS PSTN (22 / RW / 2-3444 / SLS)

RT SLATS FD CPLNG (22 / RW / 2-3445 / SLC)

RT PRX SNSR (22 / RW / 4-0212 / PRC)

RT PRX SNSR CPLNG (22 / RW / 4-0445 / PRC)

RT PRX SNSR PLT (22 / RW / 4-0343 / PRC)

RT PRX SNSR WC (22 / RW / 4-0102 / PRW)

It made sense. The associated parts package consisted of the other five elements of the slats drive track: the track, the lever, the hydraulic actuator, the piston, the forward coupling.

In addition, the list instructed mechanics to check the nearby proximity sensor, its coupling, cover plate, and wiring.

She knew Doherty had already inspected the drive track. If Amos was right, they ought to look very carefully at that proximity sensor. She didn't think anybody had done that yet.

The proximity sensor. It was located deep in the wing. Difficult to get to. Difficult to inspect.

Could that have caused a problem?

Yes, she thought, it was possible.

She shut down the terminal and crossed the plant floor, heading back to her office. She needed to call Ron Smith, to tell him to check the sensor. She walked beneath deserted aircraft toward the open doors at the north end of the building.

As she neared the doors, she saw two men enter the hangar. They were silhouetted against the midday sunlight, but she could see that one wore a red checked shirt. And the other had on a baseball cap.

Casey turned to ask the QA floor manager to call Security. But he was gone; the wire cage stood empty. Casey looked around, and suddenly realized the floor was deserted. She saw no one except an elderly black woman at the far end of the building, pushing a broom. The woman was half a mile away.

Casey looked at her watch. It would be another fifteen minutes before people started showing up.

The two men were walking toward her.

Casey turned and started to walk away from them, heading back the way she had come. She could handle this, she thought.

Calmly, she opened her purse, pulled out her cell phone to call Security.

But the phone didn't work. She didn't get a signal. She realized she was in the center of the building, which was hung with copper mesh along the ceiling to block extraneous radio transmissions while the aircraft systems were being tested.

She wouldn't be able to use her cell phone until she reached the other side of the building.

Half a mile away.

She walked faster. Her shoes clicked on the concrete. The sound seemed to echo through the building. Could she really be alone here? Of course not. There were several hundred people in the building with her, right now. It was just that she couldn't see them. They were inside the airplanes, or standing behind the big tools around the planes. Hundreds of people, all around her. Any minute, she'd see some of them.

She glanced over her shoulder.

The men were gaining on her.

She picked up her pace, almost starting to jog, unsteady in her low heels. And she suddenly thought, This is ridiculous. I'm an executive of Norton Aircraft and I am running through this plant in the middle of the day.

She slowed to a normal walk.

She took a deep breath.

She glanced back: the men were closer now.

Should she confront them? No, she thought. Not unless other people were around.

She walked faster.

To her left was a parts staging area. Ordinarily, there would be dozens of men inside there, fetching parts kits, working the bins. But now the cage was empty..

Deserted.

She looked over her shoulder. The men were fifty yards behind, and closing.

She knew that if she started to scream, a dozen mechanics would suddenly appear. The goons would slip away, vanishing behind tools and scaffolding, and she'd look like a fool. She'd never live it down. The girl who lost it that day on the floor.

She wouldn't scream.

No.

Where the hell were the fire alarms? The medic alert alarms? The hazardous materials alarms? She knew they were scattered all over the building. She'd spent years working in this building. She ought to be able to remember where they were located.

She could hit one and say it was an accident…

But she saw no alarms.

The men were now thirty yards behind. If they broke into a run, they'd reach her in a few seconds. But they were being cautious-apparently they, too, expected to see people at any moment.

But she saw nobody.

On her right, she saw a forest of blue beams-the big industrial jigs that held the fuselage barrels in place, while they were riveted together. The last place she might hide.

I'm an executive of Norton Aircraft. And it's -

The hell with it.

She turned right, ducking among the beams, scrambling through them. She passed staircases and hanging lamps. She heard the men behind her shout in surprise, and start to follow. But by then she was moving in near darkness through the girders. Moving fast.

Casey knew her way around here. She moved quickly, with assurance, always glancing up, hoping to see someone above. Usually there were twenty or thirty men at each position on the scaffolding overhead, joining the barrels in a glare of fluorescent light. Now she saw nobody.

Behind her, she heard the men grunt, heard them bang into the crossbeams, swearing.

She started to run, dodging low-hanging beams, jumping over cables and boxes, and then suddenly she came out into a clearing. Station fourteen: a plane stood on its landing gear, high above the floor. And higher still, all around the tail, she saw the hanging gardens, rising sixty feet into the air.

She looked up at the widebody, and she saw the silhouette of someone inside. Someone in the window.

Someone inside the plane.

Finally! Casey climbed the stairs to the plane, her feet clanging on the steel steps. She went two stones up, then paused to look. High above her, in the hanging gardens, she saw three burly mechanics in hard hats. They were only ten feet below the ceiling, working on the topmost hinge of the rudder; she heard the quick, sputtering buzz of power tools.

She looked down and saw the two men following her on the floor below. They broke clear of the forest of blue jigs, looked up, saw her, and started after her.

She continued up.

She reached the aft door of the plane, and ran inside. The unfinished widebody was huge and empty, a succession of dully gleaming curved arcs, like the belly of a metal whale. Halfway down, she saw a solitary Asian woman, attaching silver insulation blankets to the walls. The woman looked at Casey timidly.

"Is anybody else working here?" she said.

The woman shook her head, No. She looked frightened, as if she'd been caught doing something wrong.

Casey turned, ran back out the door.

Down below, she saw the men just one level beneath her.

She turned and ran up the stairs.

Into the hanging gardens.

The metal staircase had been ten feet wide when she started. Now it narrowed to two feet in width. And it was steeper, more like a ladder climbing into the air, surrounded by a dizzying crosswork of scaffolding. Power lines hung down like jungle vines on all sides; her shoulders banged into metal junction boxes as she scrambled higher. The staircase swayed beneath her feet. It turned abruptly at right angles every ten steps or so. Casey was now forty feet above the ground, looking down on the broad crown of the fuselage. And up at the tail, rising above her.

She was high up, and suddenly flooded with panic. Looking up at the men working on the rudder above, she shouted: "Hey! Hey!"

They ignored her.

Below, she saw the other two men pursuing her, their bodies intermittently visible through the scaffolding as they climbed.

"Hey! Hey!"

But the men still ignored her. Continuing upward, she saw why they had not responded. They were wearing audiopads, black plastic cups like earmuffs, over their ears.

They couldn't hear anything through them.

She climbed.

Fifty feet above the floor, the stairs abruptly angled right, around the black horizontal surface of the elevators, protruding from the vertical tail. The elevators obscured her view-of the men above. Casey worked her way around the elevators; the surfaces were black because they were made of composite resin, and she remembered she must not touch them with her bare hands.

She wanted to grab on to them; the stairs up here were not constructed for running. They swayed wildly and her feet slipped off the steps; she clutched at the railing with sweaty hands as she slid five feet down, before coming to a stop.

She continued upward.

She could no longer see the floor below; it was obscured by the layers of scaffolding beneath her. She couldn't see if the second shift had arrived or not.

She continued up.

As she went higher, she began to feel the thick, hot air trapped beneath the roof of Building 64. She remembered what they called this high perch: the sweatbox.

Working her way upward, she finally reached the elevators. As she continued above them, the stairs angled back now, close to the broad, flat, vertical surface of the tail, blocking her view of the men working on the other side. She no longer wanted to look down; she saw the wooden beams of the ceiling above her. Only five more feet… one more turn of the stairs… coming around the rudder… and then she would be-

She stopped, stared.

The men were gone.

She looked down and saw the three yellow hard hats beneath her. They were on a motorized lift, descending to the factory floor.

"Hey! Hey!"

The hard hats did not look up.

Casey looked back, hearing the clang of the two men still racing up the stairs toward her. She could feel the vibration of their footsteps. She knew they were close.

And she had nowhere to go.

Directly ahead of her, the stairs ended in a metal platform, four feet square, set alongside the rudder. There was a railing around the platform, and nothing beyond.

She was sixty feet up in the air on a tiny platform astride the huge expanse of the widebody tail.

The men were coming.

And she had nowhere to go.

She should never have started to climb, she thought. She should have stayed on the ground. Now she had no choice.

Casey swung her foot over the platform railing. She reached for the scaffolding, gripped it. The metal was warm in the high air. She swung her other leg over.

And then she began to climb down the outside of the scaffolding, reaching for handholds, working her way down.

Almost immediately Casey realized her mistake. The scaffolding was constructed of X-angled girders. Wherever she grabbed, her hands slid down, jamming her fingers into the crossjoint with searing pain. Her feet slipped along the angled surfaces. The scaffolding bars were sharp edged, difficult to hold. After only a few moments of climbing, she was gasping for air. She hooked her arms through the bars, bending her elbows, and caught her breath.

She did not look down.

Looking to her left, she saw the two men on the small high platform. The man in the red shirt, and the man in the baseball cap. They were standing there, staring at her, trying to decide what to do. She was about five feet below them, on the outside of the girders, hanging on.

She saw one of the men pull on a pair of heavy work gloves.

She realized she had to get moving again. Carefully, she unhooked her arms, and started down. Five feet. Another five feet. Now she was level with the horizontal elevators, which she could see through the crisscrossed girders.

But the girders were shaking.

Looking up, she saw the man in the red shirt climbing down after her. He was strong, and moved quickly. She knew he would reach her in just a few moments.

The second man was climbing back down the stairs, pausing now and again to peer at her through the girders.

The man in the red shirt was only about ten feet above her.

Casey went down.

Her arms burned. Her breath came in ragged gasps. The scaffolding was greasy in unexpected places; her hands kept slipping. She felt the man above her, descending toward her. Looking up she saw his big orange work boots. Heavy crepe soles.

In a few moments he would be stomping on her fingers.

As Casey continued to scramble down, something banged against her left shoulder. She looked back and saw a power cable, dangling from the ceiling. It was about two inches thick, covered in gray plastic insulation. How much weight would it support?

Above her, the man was descending.

The hell with it.

She reached out, tugged at the cable. It held firm. She looked up, saw no junction boxes above her. She pulled the cable close, wrapping her arm around it. Then her legs. Just as the man's boots came down, she released the scaffolding and swung out on the cable.

And began to slide.

She tried to go hand over hand, but her arms were too weak. She slid, hands burning.

She was going down fast.

She couldn't control it.

The pain from the friction was intense. She went ten feet, another ten feet. She lost track. Her feet slammed into a junction box and she stopped, swinging in the air. She lowered her legs around the junction box, gripped the cable between her feet, let her body weight go down-

She felt the cable pull away.

A shower of sparks flared from the box, and emergency alarms began to sound loudly throughout the building. The cable was swinging back and forth. She heard shouts from below. Looking down, she realized with a shock that she was only about seven or eight feet above the floor. Hands were reaching up to her. People shouting.

She let go, and fell.

She was surprised how quickly she recovered, getting right to her feet, embarrassed, brushing herself off. "I'm fine," she kept saying to the people around her. "I'm fine. Really." The paramedics ran over; she waved them away. "I'm fine."

By now the workers on the floor had seen her badge, seen the blue stripe, and were confused-why was an executive hanging from the gardens? They were hesitant, stepping away a little, unsure what to do.

"I'm fine. Everything is fine. Really. Just… go on with what you're doing."

The paramedics protested, but she pushed through the crowd, moving away, until suddenly Kenny Burne was at her side, his arm around her shoulder.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Nothing," she said.

"This is no time to be on the floor, Casey. Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember," she said.

She let Kenny walk her out of the building, into the afternoon sun. She squinted in the glare. The huge parking lot was now filled with cars for the second shift. Sunlight glinting off row after row of windshields.

Kenny turned to her. "You want to be more careful, Casey. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah," she said. "I do."

She looked down at her clothes. There was a big streak of grease running across her blouse and skirt.

Bume said, "You got a change of clothes here?"

"No. I have to go home."

"I better drive you," Burne said.

She was about to protest, but didn't. "Thanks, Kenny," she said.

ADMINISTRATION
6:00 P.M.

John Marder looked up from behind his desk. "I heard there was a little upset in 64. What was that about?"

"Nothing. I was checking something."

He nodded. "I don't want you on the floor alone, Casey. Not after that nonsense with the crane today. If you need to go down there, have Richman or one of the engineers go with you."

"Okay."

"This is no time to take chances."

"I understand."

"Now." He shifted in his chair. "What's this about a reporter?"

"Jack Rogers is working on a story that might turn ugly," Casey said. "Union allegations we're sending the wing offshore. Leaked documents that allegedly say we're offsetting the wing. And he's relating the leaks to, ah, friction in the executive suite."

"Friction?" Marder said. "What friction?"

"He's been told that you and Edgarton are at loggerheads. He asked if I thought management conflicts would affect the sale."

"Oh, Christ," Marder said. He sounded annoyed. "That's ridiculous. I'm behind Hal one hundred percent on this. It's essential for the company. And nobody's leaked anything. What did you tell him?"

"I stalled him," Casey said. "But if we want to kill the story, we have to give him something better. An interview with Edgarton, or an exclusive on the China sale. It's the only way to do it."

"That's fine," Marder said. "But Hal won't do any press. I can ask him, but I know he won't do it."

"Well, somebody needs to," Casey said. "Maybe you should."

"That could be difficult," Marder said. "Hal has instructed me to avoid the media until the sale is finalized. I have to be careful here. Is this guy trustworthy?"

"In my experience, yes."

"If I give him something on deep background, he'll cover me?"

"Sure. He just needs something to file."

"All right. Then I'll talk to him." Marder scribbled a note. "Was there anything else?"

"No, that's all."

She turned to leave.

"By the way, how's Richman working out?"

"Fine," she said. "He's just inexperienced."

"He seems bright," Marder said. "Use him. Give him something to do."

"All right," Casey said.

"That was the problem with Marketing. They didn't give him anything to do."

"Okay," she said.

Marder stood. "See you tomorrow at the IRT."

After Casey had gone, a side door opened. Richman walked in.

"You dumb fuck," Marder said. "She almost got hurt in 64 this afternoon. Where the hell were you?'

"Well, I was-"

"Get this straight," Marder said. "I don't want anything to happen to Singleton, you understand me? We need her in one piece. She can't do this job from a hospital bed"

"Got it, John."

"You better, pal. I want you next to her at all times, until we finish this thing."

QA
6:20 p.m.

She went back down to her fourth floor offices. Norma was still at her desk, a cigarette dangling from her lip. "You got another stack on your desk, waiting for you."

"Okay."

"Richman's gone home for the day."

"Okay."

"He seemed eager to leave, anyway. But I talked to Evelyn in Accounting."

"And?"

"Richman's travel at Marketing was billed to customer services in the program office. That's a slush fund they use for baksheesh. And the kid spent a fortune."

"How much?"

"Are you ready? Two hundred and eighty-four thousand dollars."

"Wow," Casey said. "In three months?'

"Right."

"That's a lot of ski trips," Casey said. "How were the charges billed?"

"Entertainment. Customer not specified."

"Then who approved the charges?"

"It's a production account," Norma said. "Which means it's controlled by Marder."

"Marder approved these charges?"

"Apparently. Evelyn's checking for me. I'll get more later." Norma shuffled papers on her desk. "Not much else here… FAA's going to be late with the transcript of the CVR. There's a lot of Chinese spoken, and their translators are fighting about the meaning. The carrier's also doing their own translation, so…"

Casey sighed. "What else is new," she said. In incidents like this one, the cockpit voice recorders were sent to the FAA, which generated a written transcript of the cockpit conversation, since the pilots' voices were owned by the carrier. But disputes over the translation were the rule on foreign flights. It always happened.

"Did Allison call?"

"No, honey. The only personal call you got was from Teddy Rawley."

Casey sighed. "Never mind."

"That'd be my advice," Norma said.

In her office, she thumbed through the files on her desk. Most of it was paper on Transpacific 545. The first sheet summarized the stack that followed:

FAA form 8020-9, accident/incident preliminary notice

FAA form 8020-6, report of aircraft accident

FAA form 8020-6-1, report of aircraft accident (continuation)

FAA form 7230-10, position Loos

honolulu ARINC

Los angeles ARTCC

southern california ATAC

automatic sign-in/sign-off log

southern california ATAC

FAA form 7230-4, daily record of facility operation

Los angeles ARTCC

southern california ATAC

FAA form 7230-8, flight progress strip

Los angeles ARTCC

southern california ATAC

flight plan, ICAO

She saw a dozen pages of flight path charts; transcriptions of air traffic control voice recordings; and more weather reports. Next was material from Norton, including a sheaf of fault record data-so far the only hard data they had to work with.

She decided to take it home. She was tired; she could look at it at home.

GLENDALE
10:45 p.m.

He sat up in bed abruptly, turned, put his feet on the floor. "So. Listen babe," he said, not looking at her.

She stared at the muscles of his bare back. The ridge of his spine. The strong lines of his shoulders.

"This was great," he said. "It's great to see you."

"Uh-huh," she said.

"But you know, big day tomorrow."

She would have preferred he stay. The truth was, she felt better having him here at night. But she knew he was going to go. He always did. She said, "I understand. It's okay, Teddy."

That made him turn back to her. He gave her his charming, crooked smile. "You're the best, Casey." He bent over and kissed her, a long kiss. She knew this was because she wasn't begging him to stay. She kissed him back, smelling the faint odor of beer. She ran her hand around his neck, caressing the fine hairs.

Almost immediately, he pulled away again. "So. Anyway. Hate to run."

"Sure, Teddy."

"By the way," Teddy said, "I hear you toured the gardens, between shifts…"

"Yeah, I did."

"You don't want to piss off the wrong people."

"I know."

He grinned. "I'm sure you do." He kissed her cheek, then bent over, reaching for his socks. "So, anyway, I probably should be heading out…"

"Sure, Teddy," she said. "You want coffee, before you go?"

He was pulling on his cowboy boots. "Uh, no, babe. This was great. Great to see you."

Not wanting to be left alone in the bed, she got up, too. She put on a big T-shirt, walked him to the door, kissed him briefly as he left. He touched her nose, grinned. "Great," he said.

"Good night, Teddy," she said.

She locked the door, set the alarm.

Walking back through the house, she turned off the stereo, glanced around to see if he had left anything. Other men usually left something behind, because they wanted a reason to come back. Teddy never did. All trace of his presence was gone. There was only the unfinished beer on the kitchen table. She threw it in the trash, wiped away the ring of moisture.

She had been telling herself for months to end it (End what? End what? a voice said), but she somehow never got around to saying the words. She was so busy at work, it was such an effort to meet people. Six months earlier she had gone with Eileen, Marder's assistant, to a country-and-western bar in Studio City. The place was frequented by young movie people, Disney animators-a fun crowd, Eileen said. Casey found it agonizing. She wasn't beautiful, and she wasn't young; she didn't have the effortless glamour of the girls that glided through the room in tight jeans and crop tops.

The men were all too young for her, their smooth faces unformed. And she couldn't make small talk with them. She felt herself too serious for this setting. She had a job, a child, she was looking at forty. She never went out with Eileen again.

It wasn't that she had no interest in meeting someone. But it was just so difficult. There was never enough time, never enough energy. In the end, she didn't bother.

So when Teddy would call, say he was in the neighborhood, she'd go unlock the door for him, and get in the shower. Get ready.

That was how it had been for a year, now.

She made tea, and got back in bed. She propped herself up against the headboard, reached for the stack of papers, and began to review the records from the fault data recorders. She started to thumb through the printout:

A/S PWR TEST 00000010000

AIL SERVO COMP 00001001000

AOA INV 10200010001

CFDS SENS FAIL 00000010000

CRZ CMD MON 10000020100

EL SERVO COMP 00000000010

EPR/N1 TRA- 00000010000

FMS SPEED INV 00000040000

PRESS ALT INV 00000030000

G/S SPEED ANG 00000010000

SLAT XSIT T/O 00000000000

G/S DEV INV 00100050001

GND SPD INV 00000021000

TAS INV 00001010000

TAT INV 00000010000

AUX 1 00000000000

AUX 2 00000000000

AUX 3 00000000000

AUX COA 01000000000

A/S ROX-P 00000010000

RDR PROX-1 00001001000

There were nine more pages of dense data. She wasn't sure what all the readings represented, particularly the AUX fault checks. One was probably the auxiliary power unit, the gas turbine in the rear of the fuselage which provided power when the plane was on the ground, and backup power in the event of electrical failure during flight. But what were the others? Auxiliary line readings? Checks of redundant systems? And what was AUX COA?

She'd have to ask Ron.

She flipped ahead to the DEU listing, which stored faults by each leg of the flight. She scanned them quickly, yawning, and then suddenly she stopped:

DEU FAULT REVIEW

LEG 04 FAULTS 01

R/L SIB PROX SENS MISCOMPARE

8 APR 00:36

FLT 180 FC052606H

ALT 37000

A/S 320

She frowned.

She could hardly believe what she was seeing.

A fault in the proximity sensor.

Exactly what her check of maintenance records told her to look for.

More than two hours into the flight, a proximity sensor error was noted on the inboard electrical bus. The wing had many proximity sensors-little electronic pads which detected the presence of metal nearby. The sensors were needed to confirm that the slats and flaps were in the proper position on the wing, since the pilots couldn't see them from the cockpit.

According to this fault, a "miscompare" had occurred between sensors on the right and left sides. If the main electrical box in the fuselage had had a problem, faults would have been generated on both wings. But the right wing alone had generated the miscompare. She looked ahead, to see if the fault repeated. She skipped through the listing quickly, shuffling papers. She didn't see anything at once. But a single fault in the sensor meant it should be checked. Again, she would have to ask Ron…

It was so difficult to try and assemble a picture of the flight from these bits and pieces. She needed the continuous data from the flight recorder. She'd call Rob Wong in the morning, and see how he was coming with that.

Meanwhile…

Casey yawned, settled lower on the pillows, and continued to work.