Airframe

GLENDALE
6:12 a.m.

The telephone was ringing. She awoke, groggy, and rolled over, hearing the crunch of paper beneath her elbow. She looked down and saw the data sheets scattered all over the bed.

The phone continued to ring. She picked it up.

"Mom." Solemn, close to tears.

"Hi, Allie."

"Mom. Dad is making me wear the red dress, and I want to wear the blue one with the flowers."

She sighed. "What did you wear yesterday?"

"The blue one. But it's not dirty or anything!"

This was an ongoing battle. Allison liked to wear the clothes she had worn the day before. Some innate, seven-year-old conservatism at work. "Honey, you know I want you to wear clean clothes to school."

"But it is clean, Mom. And I hate the red dress."

Last month, the red dress had been her favorite. Allison had fought to wear it every day.

Casey sat up in bed, yawned, stared at the papers, the dense columns of data. She heard her daughter's complaining voice on the phone and thought, Do I need this? She wondered why Jim didn't handle it. Everything was so difficult, over the phone. Jim didn't hold up his end-he wasn't firm with her- and the kid's natural tendency to play one parent against the other led to an interminable string of long-distance encounters like this.

Trivial problems, childish power plays.

"Allison," she said, interrupting her daughter. "If your father says to wear the red dress, you do what he says,"

"But Mom-"

"He's in charge now."

"But Mom-"

"That's it, Allison. No more discussion. The red dress."

"Oh, Mom…" She started to cry. "I hate you."

And she hung up.

Casey considered calling her daughter back, decided not to. She yawned, got out of bed, walked into the kitchen and turned on the coffeemaker. Her fax machine was buzzing in the comer of the living room. She went over to look at the paper coming out.

It was a copy of a press release issued by a public relations firm in Washington. Although the firm had a neutral name- the Institute for Aviation Research-she knew it was a PR firm representing the European consortium that made Airbus. The release was formatted to look like a breaking wire-service story, complete with headline at the top. It said:

JAA DELAYS CERTIFICATION OF N-22

WIDEBODY JET CITING CONTINUED

AIRWORTHINESS CONCERNS

She sighed.

It was going to be a hell of a day.

WAR ROOM
7:00 a.m.

Casey climbed the metal stairs to the War Room. When she reached the catwalk John Marder was there, pacing back and forth, waiting for her.

"Casey."

"Morning, John."

"You've seen this JAA thing?" He held up the fax.

"Yes, I have."

"It's nonsense, of course, but Edgarton drilled a hole. He's very upset. First, two N-22 incidents in two days, and now this. He's worried we're going to get creamed in the press. And he has no confidence that Benson's Media Relations people will handle this right."

Bill Benson was one of the old Norton hands; he had handled media relations since the days when the company lived on military contracts and didn't tell the press a damned thing. Testy and blunt, Benson had never adjusted to the post-Watergate world, where journalists were celebrities who brought down governments. He was famous for feuding with reporters.

"This fax may generate press interest, Casey. Especially among reporters who don't know how screwed up the JAA is. And let's face it, they won't want to talk to press flacks. They'll want an executive in the company. So Hal wants all the inquiries on the JAA routed to you."

'To me," she said. She was thinking, Forget it. She already had a job. "Benson won't be very happy if you do that-"

"Hal's talked to him personally. Benson's on board."

"Are you sure?"

"I also think," Marder said, "we ought to prepare a decent press package on the N-22. Something besides the usual PR crap. Hal suggested you compile a comprehensive package to refute the JAA stuff-you know, service hours, safety record, dispatch reliability data, SDRs, all of that."

"Okay…" That was going to be a lot of work, and-

"I told Hal you were busy, and that this was an added burden," Marder said. "He's approved a two-grade bump in your IC."

Incentive compensation, the company's bonus package, was a large part of every executive's income. A two-grade increase would mean a substantial amount of money for her.

"Okay," she said.

"The point is," Marder said, "we've got a good response to this fax-a substantive response. And Hal wants to make sure we get it out. Can I count on you to help us?"

"Sure," Casey said.

"Good," Marder said. And he walked up the stairs, into the room.

Richman was already in the room, looking preppy in a sport coat and tie. Casey slipped into a chair. Marder shifted into high gear, waving the JAA fax in the air, berating the engineers. "You've probably already seen that the JAA is playing games with us. Perfectly timed to jeopardize the China sale. But if you read the memo, you know that it's all about the engine in Miami and nothing about Transpacific. At least not yet…"

Casey tried to pay attention, but she was distracted, calculating what the change in 1C would mean. A two-grade bump was… she did the figures in her head… something like a twenty-percent raise. Jesus, she thought. Twenty percent! She could send Allison to private school. And they could vacation someplace nice, Hawaii or someplace like that. They'd stay in a nice hotel. And next year, move to a bigger house, with a big yard so Allison could run around, and-

Everyone at the table was staring at her.

Marder said, "Casey? The DFDR? When can we expect the data?"

"Sorry," she said. "I talked to Rob this morning. The calibration's going slowly. He'll know more tomorrow."

"Okay. Structure?"

Doherty began in his unhappy monotone. "John it's very difficult very difficult indeed. We found a bad locking pin on the number-two inboard slat. It's a counterfeit part and-"

"We'll verify it at Flight Test," Marder said, interrupting him. "Hydraulics?"

"Still testing, but so far they check out. Cables rigged to spec."

"You'll finish when?"

"End of first shift today."

"Electrical?"

Ron said, "We've checked the principal wiring pathways. Nothing yet. I think we should schedule a CET on the entire aircraft."

"I agree. Can we run it overnight to save time?"

Ron shrugged. "Sure. It's expensive, but-"

"The hell with expense. Anything else?"

"Well, there's one funny thing, yes," Ron said. "The DEU faults indicate there may have been a problem with proximity sensors in the wing. If the sensors failed, we might get a slats misread in the cockpit."

This was what Casey had noticed the night before. She made a note to ask Ron about it later. And also the matter of the AUX readings on the printout.

Her mind drifted again, thinking of the raise. Allison could go to a real school, now. She saw her at a low desk, in a small classroom-

Marder said: "Powerplant?"

"We're still not sure he deployed the thrust reversers," Kenny Burne said. "It'll be another day."

"Go until you can rule it out. Avionics?"

Trung said, "Avionics check out so far."

"This autopilot thing…"

"Haven't gotten to autopilot yet. It's the last thing in the sequence that we confirm. We'll know by Flight Test."

"All right," Marder said. "So: new question regarding proximity sensors, check that today. Still waiting on flight recorder, powerplant, avionics. That cover it?"

Everyone nodded.

"Don't let me keep you," Marder said. "I need answers." He held up the JAA fax. "This is the tip of the iceberg, people. I don't have to remind you what happened to the DC-10. Most advanced aircraft of its time, a marvel of engineering. But it had a couple of incidents, and some bad visuals, and bang- the DC-10's history. History. So get me those answers!"

NORTON AIRCRAFT
9:31 a.m.

Walking across the plant toward Hangar 5, Richman said, "Marder seemed pretty worked up, didn't he? Does he believe all that?"

"About the DC-10? Yes. One crash finished the aircraft."

"What crash?"

"It was an American Airlines flight from Chicago to LA," Casey said. "May, 1979. Nice day, good weather. Right after takeoff the left engine fell off the wing. The plane stalled and crashed next to the airport, killing everybody on board. Very dramatic, it was all over in thirty seconds. A couple of people taped the flight, so the networks had film at eleven. The media went crazy, called the plane a winged coffin. Travel agents were flooded with calls canceling DC-10 bookings. Douglas never sold another one of them."

"Why did the engine fall off?"

"Bad maintenance," Casey said. "American hadn't followed Douglas's instructions on how to remove the engines from the plane. Douglas told them to first remove the engine, and then the pylon that holds the engine to the wing. But to save time, American took the whole engine-pylon assembly off at once. That's seven tons of metal on a forklift. One fork-lift ran out of gas during the removal, and cracked the pylon. But the crack wasn't noticed, and eventually the engine fell off the wing. So it was all because of maintenance."

"Maybe so," Richman said, "but isn't an airplane still supposed to fly, even missing an engine?"

"Yes, it is," Casey said. "The DC-10 was built to survive that kind of failure. The plane was perfectly airworthy. If the pilot had maintained airspeed, he'd have been fine. He could have landed the plane."

"Why didn't he?"

"Because, as usual, there was an event cascade leading to the final accident," Casey said. "In this case, electrical power to the captain's cockpit controls came from the left engine. When the left engine fell off, the captain's instruments were shut off, including the cockpit stall warning and the backup warning, called a stick shaker. That's a device that shakes the stick to tell the pilot the plane is about to stall. The first officer still had power and instruments, so the first officer's chair didn't have a stick shaker. It's a customer option for the first officer, and American hadn't ordered it. And Douglas hadn't built any redundancy into their cockpit-stall warning system. So when the DC-10 began to stall, the first officer didn't realize he had to increase throttle."

"Okay," Richman said, "but the captain shouldn't have lost his power in the first place."

"No, that was a designed-in safety feature," Casey said. "Douglas had designed and built the aircraft to survive those failures. When the left engine tore off, the aircraft deliberately shut down the captain's power line, to prevent further shorts in the system. Remember, all aircraft systems are redundant. If one fails, the backup kicks in. And it was easy to get the captain's instrumentation back again; all the flight engineer had to do was trip a relay, or turn on emergency power. But he didn't do either one."

"Why not?'

"No one knows," Casey said. "And the first officer, lacking the necessary information on his display, intentionally reduced his airspeed, which caused the plane to stall and crash."

They were silent for a moment, walking.

"Consider all the ways this might have been avoided," Casey said. "The maintenance crews could have checked the pylons for structural damage after servicing them improperly. But they didn't. Continental had already cracked two pylons using forklifts, and they could have told American the procedure was dangerous. But they didn't. Douglas had told American about Continental's problems, but American didn't pay any attention."

Richman was shaking his head.

"And after the accident, Douglas couldn't say it was a maintenance problem, because American was a valued customer. So Douglas wasn't going to put the story out. In all these incidents, it's always the same story-the story never gets out unless the media digs it out. But the story's complicated, and that's difficult for television… so they just run the tape. The tape of the accident which shows the left engine falling off, the plane veering left, and crashing. The visual implies the aircraft was poorly designed, that Douglas hadn't anticipated a pylon failure and hadn't built the plane to survive it. Which was completely inaccurate. But Douglas never sold another DC-10."

"Well," Richman said. "I don't think you can blame the media for that. They don't make the news. They just report it."

"That's my point," Casey said. "They didn't report it, they just ran the film. The Chicago crash was a kind of turning point in our industry. The first time a good aircraft was destroyed by bad press. The coup de grace was the NTSB report. It came out on December 21. Nobody paid any attention.

"So now, when Boeing introduces their new 777, they arrange a complete press campaign to coincide with the launch. They allow a TV company to film the years of development, and at the end there's a six-part show on public television. There's a book to go with it. They've done everything they can think of to create a good image for the plane in advance. Because the stakes are too high."

Richman walked along beside her. "I can't believe the media has that much power," he said.

Casey shook her head. "Marder is right to be worried," she said. "If anybody in the media gets onto Flight 545, then the N-22 will have had two incidents in two days. And we're in big trouble."

NEWSLINE /NEW YORK
1:54 p.m.

In midtown Manhattan, in the twenty-third-floor offices of the weekly news show Newsline, Jennifer Malone was in the editing bay, reviewing tape of an interview with Charles Manson. Her assistant Deborah walked in, dropped a fax on her desk, and said casually, "Pacino dumped."

Jennifer hit her pause button. "What?"

"Al Pacino just dumped."

"When?"

'Ten minutes ago. Blew Marty off, and walked."

"What? We shot four days of B-roll on the set in Tangier. His picture opens this weekend-and he's slated for the full twelve." A twelve minute segment on Newsline, the most-watched news show on television, was the kind of publicity that money couldn't buy. Every star in Hollywood wanted on the show. "What happened?"

"Marty was chatting with him during makeup, and mentioned that Pacino hadn't had a hit in four years. And I guess he got offended, and walked."

"On camera?"

"No. Before."

"Jesus," Jennifer said. "Pacino can't do that. His contract calls for him to do publicity. This was set up months ago."

"Yeah, well. He did."

"What's Marty say?"

"Marty is pissed. Marty is saying, What did he expect, this is a news show, we ask hard-hitting questions. You know, typical Marty."

Jennifer swore. "This was just what everyone was worried about."

Marty Reardon was a notoriously abrasive interviewer. Although he had left the news division to work on Newsline- at a much higher salary-two years before, he still viewed himself as a hard-hitting newsman, tough but fair, no-holds-barred-though in practice he liked to embarrass interviewees, putting them on the spot with intensely personal questions, even if the questions weren't relevant to the story. Nobody wanted to use Marty on the Pacino shoot, because he didn't like celebrities, and didn't like doing "puff pieces." But Frances, who usually did the celeb pieces, was in Tokyo interviewing the princess.

"Has Dick talked to Marty? Can we salvage this?" Dick Shenk was the executive producer of Newsline. In just three years, he had skillfully built the show from a throwaway summer replacement, into a solid prime-time success. Shenk made all the important decisions, and he was the only person with enough clout to handle a prima donna like Marty.

"Dick is still at lunch with Mr. Early." Shenk's lunches with Early, the president of the network, always lasted late into the afternoon.

"So Dick doesn't know?"

"Not yet."

"Great," Jennifer said. She glanced at her watch: it was 2 p.m. If Pacino had dumped, they had a twelve-minute hole to fill, and less than seventy-two hours to do it. "What've we got in the can?"

"Nothing. Mother Teresa's being recut. Mickey Mantle isn't in yet. All we have is that wheelchair Little League segment."

Jennifer groaned. "Dick will never go with that."

"I know," Deborah said. "It sucks."

Jennifer picked up the fax her assistant had dropped on the console. It was a press release from some PR group, one of hundreds that every news show received each day. Like all such faxes, this one was formatted to look like a breaking news story, complete with a headline at the top. It said:

JAA DELAYS CERTIFICATION OF N-22

WIDEBODY JET CITING CONTINUED

AIRWORTHINESS CONCERNS

"What's this?" she said, frowning.

"Hector said give it to you."

"Why?"

"He thought there might be something in it."

"Why? What the fuck's the JAA?" Jennifer scanned the text; it was a lot of aerospace babble, dense and impenetrable. She thought: No visuals.

"Apparently," Deborah said, "it's the same plane that caught fire in Miami."

"Oh. Hector wants to do a safety segment? Good luck. Everybody's seen the tape of the burning plane already. And it wasn't that good to begin with." Jennifer tossed the fax aside. "Ask him if he has anything else."

Deborah went away. Alone, Jennifer stared at the frozen image of Charles Manson on the screen in front of her. Then she clicked the image off, and decided to take a moment to think.

Jennifer Malone was twenty-nine years old, the youngest segment producer in the history of Newsline. She had advanced quickly because she was good at her job. She had shown talent early; while still an undergraduate at Brown, working as a summer intern like Deborah, she had done research late into the night, hammering away at the Nexis terminals, combing the wire services. Then, with her heart in her mouth, she had gone in to see Dick Shenk, to propose a story about this strange new virus in Africa, and the brave CDC doctor on the scene. That led to the famous Ebola segment, the biggest Newsline break of the year, and another Peabody Award for Dick Shenk's Wall of Fame.

In short order, she had followed with the Darryl Strawberry segment, the Montana strip-mining segment, and the Iroquois gambling segment. No college intern in memory had ever gotten a segment on air before; Jennifer had four. Shenk announced he liked her spunk, and offered her a job. The fact that she was bright, beautiful, and an Ivy Leaguer did not hurt, either. The following June, when she graduated, she went to work for Newsline.

The show had fifteen producers doing segments. Each was assigned to one of the on-camera talent; each was expected to deliver a story every two weeks. The average story took four weeks to build. After two weeks of research, producers met with Dick, to get the go-ahead. Then they visited the locations, shot B-roll for background, and did the secondary interviews. The story was shaped by the producer, and narrated by the on-air star, who flew in for a single day, did the stand-ups and the major interviews, and then flew on to the next shoot, leaving the producer to cut the tape. Sometime before air, the star would come into the studio, read the script the producer had prepared, and do the voice-overs for visuals.

When the segment finally aired, the on-camera star would come off as a real reporter: Newsline jealously protected the reputations of its stars. But in fact the producers were the real reporters. The producers picked the stories, researched and shaped them, wrote the scripts and cut the tape. The on-camera talent just did as they were told.

It was a system Jennifer liked. She had considerable power, and she liked working behind the scenes, her name unknown. She found the anonymity useful. Often, when she conducted interviews, she would be treated as a flunky, the interviewees speaking freely, even though tape was rolling. At some point, the interviewee would say, "When will I get to meet Marty Reardon?" She would solemnly answer that that hadn't been decided yet, and continue with her questions. And in the process, nail the stupid bozo who thought she was just a dress rehearsal.

The fact was, she made the story. She didn't care if the stars got the credit. "We never say they do the reporting," Shenk would intone. "We never imply they are interviewing someone they didn't actually interview. On this show, the talent is not the star. The star is the story. The talent is just a guide- leading the audience through the story. The talent is someone they trust, someone they're comfortable inviting into their home."

That was true, she thought. And anyway, there wasn't time to do it any other way. A media star like Marty Reardon was more heavily booked than the president, and arguably more famous, more recognizable on the street. You couldn't expect a person like Marty to waste his valuable time doing spade-work, stumbling over false leads, putting together a story.

There just wasn't time.

This was television: there was never enough time.

She looked again at her watch. Dick wouldn't return from lunch until three or three-thirty. Marty Reardon was not going to apologize to Al Pacino. So when Dick came back from lunch, he was going to blow his top, rip Reardon a new one- and then be desperate for a package to fill the hole.

Jennifer had an hour to find him one.

She turned on her TV, and started idly flipping channels. And she looked again at the fax on her desk.

JAA DELAYS CERTIFICATION OF N-22

WIDEBODY JET CITING CONTINUED

AIRWORTHINESS CONCERNS

Wait a minute, she thought. Continued airworthiness concerns? Did that mean an ongoing safety problem? If so, there might be a story here. Not air safety-that had been done a million times. Those endless stories about air traffic control, how they were using 1960s computers, how outdated and risky the system was. Stories like mat just made people anxious. The audience couldn't relate because there was nothing they could do about it. But a specific aircraft with a problem? That was a product safety story. Don't buy this product. Don't fly this airplane.

That might be very, very effective, she thought.

She picked up the phone and dialed.

HANGAR 5
11:15 a.m.

Casey found Ron Smith with his head in the forward accessory compartment, just back of the nose wheel. All around him, his electrical team was hard at work.

"Ron," she said, "tell me about this fault list." She had brought the list with her, all ten pages.

"What about it?"

"There's four AUX readings here. Lines one, two, three, and COA. What do they service?"

"Is this important?"

"That's what I'm trying to determine."

"Well." Ron sighed. "AUX 1 is the auxiliary power generator, the turbine in the tail. AUX 2 and AUX 3 are redundant lines, in case the system gets an upgrade and needs them later. AUX COA is an auxiliary line for Customer Optional Additions. That's the line for customer add-ons, like a QAR. Which this plane doesn't have."

Casey said, "These lines are registering a zero value. Does that mean they're being used?"

"Not necessarily. The default is zero, so you'd have to check them."

"Okay." She folded up the data sheets. "And what about the proximity sensor faults?"

"We're doing that now. We may turn up something. But look. The fault readings are snapshots of a moment in time. We'll never figure out what happened to this flight with snapshots. We need the DFDR data. You've got to get it for us, Casey."

"I've been pushing Rob Wong…"

"Push him harder," Smith said. "The flight recorder is the key."

From the back of the airplane, she heard a pained shout "Fuck a hairy duck! I don't believe this!"

It had come from Kenny Burne.

He was standing on a platform behind the left engine, waving his arms angrily. The other engineers around him were shaking their heads.

Casey went over. "You found something?"

"Let me count the ways," Bume said, pointing to the engine. "First off, the coolant seals are installed wrong. Some maintenance idiot put them in backward."

"Affecting flight?'

"Sooner or later, yeah. But that's not all. Take a look at this inboard cowl on the reversers."

Casey climbed the scaffolding to the back of the engine, where the engineers were peering inside the open cowls of the thrust reversers.

"Show her, guys," Burne said.

They shone a work light on the interior surface of one cowl. Casey saw a solid steel surface, precisely curved, covered with fine soot from the engine. They held the light close to the Pratt and Whitney logo, which was embossed near the leading edge of the metal sleeve.

"See it?" Kenny said.

"What? You mean the parts stamp?" Casey said. The Pratt and Whitney logo was a circle with an eagle inside it, and the letters P and W.

"That's right. The stamp."

"What about it?"

Burne shook his head. "Casey," he said. "The eagle is backward. It's facing the wrong way."

"Oh." She hadn't noticed that.

"Now, do you think Pratt and Whitney put their eagle on backward? No way. This is a goddamn counterfeit part, Casey."

"Okay," she said. "But did it affect flight?"

That was the critical point. They'd already found counterfeit parts on the plane. Amos had said there would be more, and he was undoubtedly right. But the question was, Did any of them affect the behavior of the plane during the accident?

"Could have," Kenny said, stomping around. "But I can't tear down this engine, for Chrissakes. That'd be two weeks right there."

"Then how will we find out?'

"We need that flight recorder, Casey. We've got to have that data."

Richman said, "You want me to go over to Digital? See how Wong is coming?"

"No," Casey said. "It won't do any good." Rob Wong could be temperamental. Putting more pressure on him wouldn't accomplish anything; he was likely to walk out, and not return for two days.

Her cell phone rang. It was Norma.

"It's starting," she said. "You got calls from Jack Rogers, from Barry Jordan at the LA Times, from somebody named Winslow at the Washington Post. And a request for background material on the N-22, from Newsline."

"Newsline? That TV show?"

"Yeah."

"They doing a story?"

"I don't think so," Norma said. "It sounded like a fishing expedition."

"Okay," Casey said. "I'll call you back." She sat down in a corner of the hangar and took out her notepad. She began to write out a list of documents to be included in a press package. Summary of FAA certification procedures for new aircraft. Announcement of FAA certification of the N-22; Norma would have to dig that up from five years ago. Last year's FAA report on aircraft safety. The company's internal report on N-22 safety in flight from 1991 to present-the record was outstanding. The annual updated history of die N-22. The list of ADs issued for the aircraft to date-there were very few. The one-sheet features summary on the plane, basic stats on speed and range, size and weight. She didn't want to send too much. But that would cover the bases.

Richman was watching her. "What now?" he said.

She tore off the sheet, gave it to him. "Give this to Norma. Tell her to prepare a press packet, and send it to whoever asks for it."

"Okay." He stared at the list. "I'm not sure I can read-"

"Norma will know. Just give it to her."

"Okay."

Richman walked away, humming cheerfully.

Her phone rang. It was Jack Rogers, calling her directly. "I keep hearing the wing's being offset. I'm told Norton is shipping the tools to Korea, but they're going to be transshipped from there to Shanghai."

"Did Marder talk to you?"

"No. We've traded calls."

'Talk to him," Casey said, "before you do anything."

"Will Marder go on the record?"

"Just talk to him."

"Okay," Rogers said. "But he'll deny it, right?"

'Talk to him."

Rogers sighed. "Look, Casey. I don't want to sit on a story that I've got right-and then read it two days from now in the LA Times. Help me out, here. Is there anything to the wing tooling story, or not?'

"I can't say anything."

'Tell you what," Rogers said. "If I were to write that several high-level Norton sources deny the wing is going to China, I assume you wouldn't have a problem with that?"

"I wouldn't, no." A careful answer, but then it was a careful question.

"Okay, Casey. Thanks. I'll call Marder." He hung up.

NEWSLINE
2:25 p.m.

Jennifer Malone dialed the number on the fax, and asked for the contact: Alan Price. Mr. Price was still at lunch, and she spoke to his assistant, Ms. Weld.

"I understand there's a delay in European certification of the Norton aircraft. What's the problem?'

"You mean the N-22?"

"That's right."

"Well, this is a contentious issue, so I'd prefer to go off the record."

"How far off?"

"Background."

"Okay."

"In the past, the Europeans accepted FAA certification of a new aircraft, because that certification was thought to be very rigorous. But lately JAA has been questioning the U.S. certification process. They feel that the American agency, the FAA, is in bed with the American manufacturers, and may have relaxed its standards."

"Really?" Perfect, Jennifer thought. Inept American bureaucracy. Dick Shenk loved those stories. And the FAA had been under attack for years; there must be plenty of skeletons there. "What" s the evidence?" she asked.

"Well, the Europeans find the whole system unsatisfactory. For example, the FAA doesn't even store certification documents. They allow the aircraft companies to do that It seems entirely too cozy."

"Uh-huh." She wrote:

–FAA in bed with mfrs. Corrupt!

"Anyway," the woman said, "if you want more information, I suggest you call the JAA directly, or maybe Airbus. I can give you the numbers."

She called the FAA instead. She got put through to their public affairs office, a man named Wilson.

"I understand the JAA is refusing to validate certification of the Norton N-22."

"Yes," Wilson said. "They've been dragging their feet for a while now."

"The FAA has already certified the N-22?"

"Oh sure. You can't build an airplane in this country without FAA approval and certification of the design and manufacturing process from start to finish."

"And do you have the certification documents?"

"No. They're kept by the manufacturer. Norton has them."

Ah-ha, she thought. So it was true.

–Norton keeps certification, not FAA.

–Fox guarding chicken coop?

"Does it bother you that Norton holds the documentation?"

"No, not at all."

"And you're satisfied that the certification process was proper?"

"Oh sure. And like I said, the plane was certified five years ago."

"I've been hearing that the Europeans are dissatisfied with the entire process of certification."

"Well, you know," Wilson said, adopting a diplomatic tone, "the JAA's a relatively new organization. Unlike the FAA, they have no statutory authority. So, I think they're still trying to decide how they want to proceed."

She called the information office for Airbus Industries in Washington, and got put through to a marketing guy named Samuelson. He reluctantly confirmed that he had heard of the JAA confirmation delays, though he didn't have any details.

"But Norton's having a lot of problems these days," he said. "For example, I think the China sale is not as firm as they pretend it is."

This was the first she had heard of a China sale. She wrote:

–China sale N-22?

She said, "Uh-huh…"

"I mean, let's face it," Samuelson continued, "The Airbus A-340 is a superior plane in every way. It's newer than the Norton widebody. Better range. It's better in every way. We've been trying to explain this to the Chinese, and they are starting to understand our perspective. Anyway, if I had to guess, I'd guess the Norton sale to the People's Republic is going to fall apart. And of course safety concerns are part of that decision. Off the record, I think the Chinese are very concerned the plane is unsafe."

–C thinks airplane unsafe.

"Who would I talk to about that?" she said.

"Well, as you know, the Chinese are generally reluctant to discuss negotiations in progress," Samuelson said. "But I know a guy over at Commerce who may be able to help you. He's with the Ex-Im Bank, which provides long-term financing for overseas sales."

"What's his name?" she said.

His name was Robert Gordon. It took fifteen minutes for the operator at the Commerce Department to find him. Jennifer doodled. Finally the secretary said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Gordon is in a meeting."

"I'm calling from Newsline" she said.

"Oh." A pause. "Just a minute, please."

She smiled. It never failed.

Gordon came on, and she asked him about the JAA certification, and the Norton sale to the People's Republic. "Is it true the sale is in jeopardy?"

"Every airplane sale is in jeopardy until it's concluded, Ms. Malone," Gordon said. "But as far as I know, the China sale is in good standing. I did hear a rumor that Norton is having trouble with JAA certification for Europe."

"What's the trouble there?"

"Well," Gordon said, "I'm not really an aircraft expert, but the company's had an awful lot of problems."

–Norton has problems.

Gordon said, "There was that thing in Miami yesterday. And of course you heard about that incident in Dallas."

"What's that?"

"Last year, they had an engine flameout on the runway. And everybody jumped off the plane. A bunch of people broke their legs jumping off the wings."

–Dallas incident-engine/broken legs. Tape?

She said, "Uh-huh…"

"I don't know about you," Gordon said, "but I don't like to fly very much, and uh, Jesus Christ, people are jumping off the airplane, that's not a plane I'd want to be on."

She wrote:

-jumping off plane YOW!

–unsafe aircraft.

And beneath it, in large block letters, she wrote:

DEATHTRAP.

She called Norton Aircraft for their version of the story. She got a PR guy named Benson. He sounded like one of those drawling, half-asleep corporate guys. She decided to hit him right between the eyes. "I want to ask you about the Dallas incident."

"Dallas?" His voice sounded startled.

Good.

"Last year," she said. "You had a flameout of the engine, and people jumped off the plane. Broke their legs."

"Oh, right. That incident involved a 737," Benson said.

–incident w/737.

"Uh-huh. Well, what can you tell me about it?"

"Nothing," Benson said. "That wasn't our plane."

"Oh, come on," she said. "Look, I already know about the incident."

"That's a Boeing plane."

She sighed. "Jesus. Give me a break." It was so tedious, the way these PR types stonewalled. As if a good investigative reporter would never find out the truth. They seemed to think if they didn't tell her, no one would.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Malone, but we don't make that plane."

"Well, if that's really true," she said, her tone openly sarcastic, "I suppose you can tell me how I can confirm it?"

"Yes ma'am," Benson said. "You dial area code 206 and ask for Boeing. They'll help you."

Click.

Jesus! What a prick! How could these companies treat the media this way? You piss off a reporter, you'll always get paid back. Didn't they understand that?

She called Boeing, asked for the PR department. She got an answering machine, some bitch reciting a fax number and saying questions should be faxed, and they would get back to her. Unbelievable, Jennifer thought. A major American corporation, and they didn't even answer the phone.

Irritably, she hung up. There was no point in waiting. If the Dallas incident involved a Boeing plane, she had no story.

No damn story.

She drummed her fingers on the desk, trying to decide what to do.

She called Norton back, saying she wanted to talk to someone in management, not PR. She was put through to the president's office, then was transferred to some woman named Singleton. "How can I help you?" the woman said. "I understand there's been a delay in European certification of the N-22. What's the problem with the plane?" Jennifer asked.

"No problem at all," Singleton said. "We've been flying the N-22 in this country for five years."

"Well, I've been hearing from sources that this is an unsafe aircraft," Jennifer said. "You had an engine flameout on the runway at Miami yesterday…"

"Actually, we had a rotor burst. That's being investigated now." The woman was speaking smoothly, calmly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world for an engine to blow up.

–"rotor burst"!

"Uh-huh," Jennifer said. "I see. But if it's true your plane has no problems, why is the JAA withholding certification?"

The woman at the other end paused. "I can only give you background on this," she said. "Off the record."

She sounded unsettled, tense.

Good. Getting somewhere.

"There is no problem with the aircraft, Ms. Malone. The issue concerns powerplant. In this country, the plane flies with Pratt and Whitney engines. But the JAA is telling us that if we want to sell the plane in Europe, we're going to have to equip it with IAE engines."

"IAE?"

"A European consortium that makes engines. Like Airbus. A consortium."

"Uh-huh," Jennifer said

–IAE = consortium Europe

"Now allegedly," Singleton continued, "the JAA wants us to equip the aircraft with the IAE engine to meet European noise and emission standards, which are more stringent than those in the U.S. But the reality is we make airframes, not engines, and we believe the engine decision should be left up to the customer. We install the engine the customer asks for. If they want an IAE, we put an IAE on. If they want a Pratt and Whitney, we put Pratt and Whitney on. They want GE, we put GE on. That's the way it's always been in this business. The customer picks the engine. So we consider this an unwarranted regulatory intrusion by the JAA. We're happy to put on IAE engines, if Lufthansa or Sabena tells us to do it. But we don't think JAA should dictate the terms of market entry. In other words, the issue has nothing to do with airworthiness."

Listening, Jennifer frowned. "You're saying it's a regulatory dispute?"

"Exactly. This is a trading bloc issue. The JAA is trying to force us to use European engines. But if that's their goal, we think they should force it on the European airlines, not us."

–regulatory dispute!!!

"And why haven't they forced it on the Europeans?"

"You'd have to ask JAA. But frankly, I imagine they've already tried, and been told to go to hell. Aircraft are custom built to the carrier's specs. The operators choose the engines, the electronics packages, the interior configuration. It's their choice."

Jennifer was now doodling. She was listening to the tone of the woman's voice at the other end of the line, trying to sense the emotion. This woman sounded slightly bored, like a schoolteacher at the end of the day. Jennifer detected no tension, no hesitation, no hidden secrets.

Fuck, she thought No story.

She made one last try: she called the National Transportation Safety Board in Washington. She got put through to a man named Kenner in public affairs. "I'm calling about the JAA certification of the N-22." Kenner sounded surprised. "Well, you know, that's really not our area. You probably want to talk to someone at the FAA."

"Can you give me anything on background?" "Well, FAA aircraft certification is extremely rigorous and has served as the model for foreign regulatory bureaucracies. As long as I can remember, foreign agencies around the world have accepted FAA certification as sufficient. Now the JAA has broken that tradition, and I don't think it's any secret why. It's politics, Ms. Malone. The JAA wants the Americans to use European engines, so they're threatening to withhold certification. And, of course, Norton's about to make a sale of N-22s to China, and Airbus wants that sale."

"So the JAA is trashing the plane?"

"Well. They're certainly raising doubts."

"Legitimate doubts?"

"Not as far as I'm concerned. The N-22's a good plane. A proven plane. Airbus says they have a brand-new plane; Norton says they have a proven plane. The Chinese are probably going to take the proven product. It's also somewhat less expensive."

"But is the plane safe?"

"Oh, absolutely."

–NTSB says plane is safe.

Jennifer thanked him, and hung up. She sat back in her chair, and sighed. No story.

Nothing.

Period.

The end.

"Shit," she said.

She punched the intercom. "Deborah," she said. "About this aircraft thing-"

"Are you watching?" Deborah said, squealing.

"Watching what?"

"CNN. It's un-fucking-believable."

Jennifer grabbed her remote.

EL TORITO RESTAURANT
12:05 p.m.

The El Torito offered acceptable food at a reasonable price, and fifty-two kinds of beer; it was a local favorite of the engineers. The IRT members were all sitting at a center table in the main room, right off the bar. The waitress had taken their order and was leaving, when Kenny Burne said, "So, I hear Edgarton's got a few problems."

"Don't we all," Doug Doherty said, reaching for the chips and salsa.

"Marder hates him."

"So what?" Ron Smith said. "Marder hates everybody."

"Yeah but the thing is," Kenny said, "I keep hearing Marder is not going to-"

"Oh Jesus! Look!" Doug Doherty pointed across the room, toward the bar.

They all turned to stare at the television set mounted above the bar. The sound was down, but the image was unmistakable: the interior of a Norton widebody jet, as seen by a badly shaking video camera. Passengers were literally flying through the air, bouncing off luggage racks and wall panels, tumbling over the seats.

"Holy shit" Kenny said.

They got up from the table, ran into the bar shouting, "Sound! Turn up the sound!" The horrifying images continued.

By the time Casey got into the bar, the video segment had ended. The television now showed a thin man with a moustache, wearing a carefully cut blue suit which somehow suggested a uniform. She recognized Bradley King, an attorney who specialized in airline accidents.

"Well that figures," Burne said, "it's Sky King."

"I think this footage speaks for itself," Bradley King was saying. "My client, Mr. Song, provided it to us, and it vividly portrays the terrible ordeal passengers were subjected to on this doomed flight. This aircraft went into an unprovoked and uncontrolled dive-it came within five hundred feet of crashing in the Pacific Ocean!"

"What?" Kenny Burne said. "It did what!"

"As you know, I'm a pilot myself, and I can say with absolute conviction that what occurred is a result of well-known design flaws on the N-22 jet. Norton has known about these design flaws for years and has done nothing. Pilots, operators, and FAA specialists have all complained bitterly about the aircraft. I personally know pilots who refuse to fly the N-22 because it is so unsafe."

"Especially the ones on your payroll," Burne said.

On the television, King was saying, "Yet the Norton Aircraft Company has done nothing substantive to address these safety concerns. It's inexplicable, really, that they could know about these problems and do nothing. Given their criminal negligence, it was only a matter of time until a tragedy like this occurred. Now three people are dead, two passengers paralyzed, the copilot in a coma as we speak. All together, fifty-seven passengers required hospitalization. That's a disgrace to aviation."

"That sleazebag," Kenny Burne said. "He knows it's not true!"

But the television was showing the CNN tape again, this time in slow motion, the bodies spiraling through the air, alternately blurred and sharp. Watching it, Casey started to sweat. She felt dizzy and cold, her chest tight. The restaurant around her became dim, pale green. She dropped quickly to a bar stool, took a deep breath. Now the television showed a bearded man with a scholarly air, standing near one of the runways at LAX. Aircraft were taxiing in the background. She couldn't hear what the man was saying because the engineers around her were screaming at the image.

"You asshole!"

"Fuckface!"

"Weenyprick!"

"Lying dipshit!"

"Will you guys shut up?" she said. The bearded man on the screen was Frederick Barker, a former FAA official, no longer with the agency. Barker had testified in court against the company several times in recent years. The engineers all hated him.

Barker was saying, "Oh yes, I'm afraid there's no question about the problem." About what problem? she thought, but now the television cut back to the CNN studio in Atlanta, the female anchor in front of a photograph of the N-22. Beneath the photograph it said, UNSAFE? in huge red letters.

"Christ, do you believe that shit," Burne said. "Sky King and then that scumbag Barker. Don't they know Barker works for King?"

The television now showed a bombed-out building in the Middle East. Casey turned away, got off the bar stool, took a deep breath.

"Goddamn, I want a beer," Kenny Burne said. He headed back to the table. The others followed him, muttering about Fred Barker.

Casey picked up her purse, got her cell phone out, and called the office. "Norma," she said, "call CNN and get a copy of the tape they just ran on the N-22."

"I was just going out to-"

"Now," Casey said. "Do it right now."

NEWSLINE
3:06 p.m.

"Deborah!" Jennifer screamed, watching the tape. "Call CNN and get a copy of that Norton tape!" Jennifer watched, transfixed. Now they were running it again, this time in slow motion, six frames a second. And it held up! Fantastic!

She saw one poor bastard tumble through the air like a diver out of control, arms and legs flailing in all directions. The guy smashed into a seat, and his neck snapped, the body twisting, before he bounced up in the air again and hit the ceiling… Incredible! His neck being broken, right on tape!

It was the greatest piece of tape she'd ever seen. And the sound! Fabulous! People screaming in pure terror-sounds you couldn't fake-people shouting in Chinese, which made it very exotic, and all these incredible crashing noises as people and bags and shit smashed into the walls and ceilings-Jesus!

It was fabulous tape! Unbelievable! And it went on for an eternity, forty-five seconds-and all of it good! Because even when the camera wobbled, when it streaked and blurred, that just added to it! You couldn't pay a cameraman to do that!

"Deborah!" she screamed. "Deborah!"

She was so excited her heart was pounding. She felt like she was going to jump out of her skin. She was dimly aware of the guy on camera now, some weasel lawyer, feeding the segment his opening arguments; it must be his tape. But she knew he would give it to Newsline, he'd want the exposure, which meant-they had a story! Fantastic! A little frill and build, and they were there!

Deborah came in, flushed, excited. Jennifer said, "Get me the clips on Norton Aircraft for the last five years. Do a Nexis search on the N-22, on a guy named Bradley King, and a guy named"-she looked back at the screen-"Frederick Barker. Download it all. I want it now!"

Twenty minutes later, she had the outlines of the story, and the background on the key figures. LA Times story from five years ago on the roll-out, certification, and maiden flight for the launch customer of the Norton N-22. Advanced avionics, advanced electronic control systems and autopilot, blah blah blah.

New York Times story on Bradley King, the controversial plaintiffs attorney, under fire for approaching the families of crash victims before they had been officially informed of their relatives' death by the airlines. Another LA Times story on Bradley King, settling a class-action suit after the Atlanta crash. Long Beach Independent Press-Telegram, Bradley King, "the King of Aviation Torts," censured by the Ohio bar for misconduct in contacting victims' families; King denies wrongdoing. New York Times story, has Bradley King gone too far?

LA Times story on "whistle-blower" Frederick Barker's controversial departure from the FAA. Barker, an outspoken critic, says he quit in dispute over the N-22. Supervisor says Barker was fired for leaking reports to media Barker sets up private practice as "aviation consultant."

Long Beach Independent Press-Telegram, Fred Barker launches crusade against Norton N-22, which he claims has a "history of unacceptable safety incidents." Orange County Telegraph-Star, Fred Barker's campaign to make airlines safe. Orange County Telegraph-Star, Barker accuses FAA of failing to clamp down on "unsafe Norton aircraft." Orange County Telegraph-Star, Barker key witness for Bradley King lawsuit, settled out of court.

Jennifer was beginning to see the shape that the story would take. Clearly they should stay away from the ambulance chaser, Bradley King. But Barker, a former FAA official, would be useful. He would probably also be able to criticize certification practices by the FAA.

And she noticed that Jack Rogers, the reporter for the Orange County Telegraph-Star, took a particularly critical view of Norton Aircraft. She noted several recent stories under Rogers's byline:

Orange County Telegraph-Star, Edgarton under pressure to make new sales for troubled company. Dissension among directors, top management. Doubts he will succeed.

Orange County Telegraph-Star, drug and gang activity on Norton twinjet assembly line.

Orange County Telegraph-Star, rumors of union trouble. Workers oppose the China sale, which they say will ruin the company.

Jennifer smiled.

Things were definitely looking up.

She called Jack Rogers at his newspaper. "I've been reading your pieces on Norton. They're excellent. I gather you think the company's got some problems."

"A lot of problems," Rogers said.

"You mean with the airplanes?"

"Well, yes, but they're also having union problems."

"What's that about?"

"It's not clear. But the plant's in turmoil, and management's not leading. The union's angry about the China sale. Thinks it shouldn't happen."

"Will you talk about this on camera?"

"Sure. I can't give you my sources, but I'll tell you what I know."

Of course he would, Jennifer thought. It was the dream of every print reporter to somehow get on television. The print guys all understood the real money came from appearing on the box. No matter how successful you were in print, you were nothing unless you could get on TV. Once you had name recognition from TV, you could migrate to the lucrative lecture circuit, getting five, ten thousand dollars just to speak at a lunch.

"I'll probably be out later in the week… My office will contact you."

"Just tell me when," Rogers said.

She called Fred Barker in Los Angeles. He almost seemed to be expecting her call. "That's pretty dramatic videotape," she said.

"It's frightening," Barker said, "when an aircraft's slats deploy at nearly the speed of sound. That's what happened on the Transpacific flight. It's the ninth such incident since the aircraft entered service."

"The ninth?'

"Oh yes. This is nothing new, Ms. Malone. At least three other deaths are attributable to Norton's shoddy design, and yet the company has done nothing."

"You have a list?"

"Give me your fax number."

She stared at the list. It was a little too detailed for her taste, but still compelling:

Norton N-22 Slats Deployment Incidents

1. January 4,1992. Slats deployed at FL350, at.84 Mach. The flap/slat handle moved inadvertently.

2. April 2,1992. Slats deployed while the airplane was in cruise at.81 Mach. A clipboard reportedly fell on the flap/slat handle.

3. July 17,1992. Initially reported as severe turbulence; however it was later learned that the slats had extended as a result of inadvertent flap/slat handle movement. Five passenger injuries, three serious.

4. December 20,1992. Slats extended in cruise flight without movement of the flap/slat handle in cockpit. Two passenger injuries.

5. March 12,1993. Airplane entered a prestall buffet at.82 Mach. The slats were found to be extended and the handle was not in the up and locked position.

6. April 4,1993. First officer rested his arm on the flap/slat handle, moved the handle down, extending the slats. Several passenger injuries.

7. July 4,1993. Pilot reported the flap/slat handle moved and slats extended. Aircraft was in cruise flight at.81 Mach.

8. June 10,1994. The slats extended while the airplane was in cruise flight without movement of the flap/slat handle.

She picked up the phone and called Barker back. "Will you talk about these incidents on camera?"

"I've testified in court about this on numerous occasions," Barker said. "I'll be happy to speak to you on the record. The fact is, I want this airplane fixed before more people die. And nobody has been willing to do it-not the company, and not the FAA. It's a disgrace."

"But how can you be so sure this flight was a slats accident?"

"I have a source inside Norton," Barker said. "A disgruntled employee who is tired of all the lying. My source tells me it is slats, and the company is covering up."

Jennifer got off the phone with Barker, and pushed the intercom button. "Deborah!" she screamed. "Get me Travel!"

Jennifer closed the door to her office, and sat quietly. She knew she had a story.

A fabulous story.

The question now was: What's the angle? How do you frame it?

On a show like Newsline, the frame was all-important. Older producers on the show talked about "context," which to them meant putting the story in a larger setting. Indicating what the story meant, by reporting what had happened before, or reporting similar things that had occurred. The older guys thought context so important, they seemed to regard it as a kind of moral or ethical obligation.

Jennifer disagreed. Because when you cut out all the sanctimonious bullshit, context was just spin, a way of pumping the story-and not a very useful way, because context meant referring to the past

Jennifer had no interest in the past; she was one of the new generation that understood that gripping television was now, events happening now, a flow of images in a perpetual unending electronic present. Context by its very nature required something more than now, and her interest did not go beyond now. Nor, she thought, did anyone else's. The past was dead and gone. Who cared what you ate yesterday? What you did yesterday? What was immediate and compelling was now.

And television at its best was now.

So a good frame had nothing to do with the past. Fred Barker's damning list of prior incidents was actually a problem, because it drew attention to the fading, boring past. She'd have to find a way around it-give it a mention and go on.

What she was looking for was a way to shape the story so that it unfolded now, in a pattern that the viewer could follow. The best frames engaged the viewer by presenting the story as a conflict between good and bad, a morality story. Because the audience got that. If you framed a story that way, you got instant acceptance. You were speaking their language.

But because the story also had to unfold quickly, this morality tale had to hang from a series of hooks that did not need to be explained. Things the audience already knew to be true. They already knew big corporations were corrupt, their leaders greedy sexist pigs. You didn't have to prove that; you just had to mention it. They already knew that government bureaucracies were inept and lazy. You didn't have to prove that, either. And they already knew that products were cynically manufactured with no concern for consumer safety.

From such agreed-upon elements, she must construct her morality story.

A fast-moving morality story, happening now.

Of course, there was still another requirement for the frame. Before anything else, she must sell the segment to Dick Shenk. She had to come up with an angle that would appeal to Shenk, that would fit his view of the world. And that was no easy matter: Shenk was more sophisticated than the audience. More difficult to please.

Within the Newsline offices Shenk was known as the Critic, for the harsh way he shot down proposed segments. Walking around the office, Shenk adopted an affable air, playing the grand old man. But all that changed when he listened to a proposal. Then he became dangerous. Dick Shenk was well educated and smart-very smart-and he could be charming when he wanted to. But at bottom he was mean. He had grown meaner with age, cultivating his nasty streak, regarding it as a key to his success.

Now she was going to take a proposal in to him. She knew Shenk would want a story badly. But he would also be angry about Pacino, angry about Marty, and his anger could quickly turn against Jennifer, and her proposed segment.

To avoid his anger, to sell him this segment, she would have to proceed carefully. She would have to fashion the story into a shape that, more than anything else, gave vent to Dick Shenk's hostility and anger, and turned it in a useful direction. She reached for a notepad, and began to sketch the outlines of what she would say.

ADMINISTRATION
1:04 p.m.

Casey got into the elevator in Administration, Richman following her. "I don't understand," he said. "Why is everybody so angry with King?"

"Because he's lying," Casey said. "He knows the aircraft didn't come within five hundred feet of the Pacific Ocean. Everybody'd be dead if it did. The incident happened at thirty-seven thousand feet. At most the aircraft dropped three or four thousand feet. That's bad enough."

"So? He's getting attention. Making the case for his client He knows what he's doing."

"Yes, he does."

"Hasn't Norton settled out of court with him in the past?"

"Three times," she said.

Richman shrugged. "If you have a strong case, take him to trial."

"Yes," Casey said. "But trials are very expensive, and the publicity doesn't do us any good. It's cheaper to settle, and just add the cost of his greenmail to the price of our aircraft. The carriers pay that price, and pass it on to the customer. So in the end, every airline passenger pays a few dollars extra for their ticket, in a hidden tax. The litigation tax. The Bradley King tax. That's how it works in the real world."

The doors opened, and they came out on the fourth floor. She hurried down the corridor toward her department.

"Where are we going now?' Richman said. 'To get something important mat I forgot all about." She looked at him. "And you did, too."

NEWSLINE
4:45 p.m.

Jennifer Malone headed toward Dick Shenk's office. On the way, she passed his Wall of Fame, a tight arrangement of photographs, plaques, and awards. The photographs showed intimate moments with the rich and famous: Shenk riding horses with Reagan; Shenk on a yacht with Cronkite; Shenk in a Southampton softball game with Tisch; Shenk with Clinton; Shenk with Ben Bradlee. And in the far corner, a photograph of an absurdly young Shenk with shoulder-length hair, an Arriflex mounted on his shoulder, filming John Kennedy in the Oval Office.

Dick Shenk had begun his career in the sixties as a scrappy documentary producer, back in the days when the news divisions were prestige loss leaders for the networks- autonomous, handsomely budgeted, and lavishly staffed. Those were the great days of the CBS White Papers and NBC Reports. Back then, when Shenk was a kid running around with an Arri, he was in the world, getting real stuff that mattered. With age and success, Shenk's horizons had narrowed. His world was now limited to his weekend house in Connecticut and his brownstone in New York. If he went anywhere else, it was in a limousine. But despite his privileged upbringing, his Yale education, his beautiful ex-wives, his comfortable existence, and his worldly success, Shenk at sixty was dissatisfied with his life. Riding around in his limousine, he felt unappreciated: not enough recognition, not enough respect for his accomplishments. The questing kid with the camera had aged into a querulous and bitter adult. Feeling he had been denied respect himself, Shenk in turn denied it to others-adopting a pervasive cynicism toward everything around him. And that was why, she felt certain, he would buy her frame on the Norton story.

Jennifer entered the outer office, stopped by Marian's desk. "Going to see Dick?" Marian said. "Is he in?"

She nodded. "You want company?" "Do I need it?" Jennifer said, raising an eyebrow. "Well," Marian said "He's been drinking." "It's okay," Jennifer said. "I can handle him."

Dick Shenk listened to her, eyes closed, fingers pressed together to make a steeple. From time to time, he nodded slightly as she spoke.

She ran through the proposed segment, hitting all the beats: the Miami incident, the JAA certification story, the Trans-Pacific flight, the jeopardized China sale. The former FAA expert who says the plane has a long history of uncorrected design problems. The aviation reporter who says the company is mismanaged, drugs and gang activity on the factory floor, a controversial new president, trying to boost flagging sales. Portrait of a once-proud company in trouble.

The way to frame the piece, she said, was Rot Beneath the Surface. She laid it out: badly run company makes a shoddy product for years. Knowledgeable people complain, but the company never responds. FAA is in bed with the company and won't force the issue. Now, at last, the truth comes out. The Europeans balk at certification; the Chinese have cold feet; the plane continues to kill passengers, just as critics said it would. And there's tape, riveting tape, showing the agonies passengers went through as several died. At the close, it's obvious to all: the N-22 is a deathtrap.

She finished. There was a long moment of silence. Then Shenk opened his eyes.

"Not bad," he said.

She smiled.

"What's the company's response?" he asked, in a lazy voice.

"Stonewall. The plane's safe; the critics are lying."

"Just what you'd expect," Shenk said, shaking his head. "American stuff is so shitty." Dick drove a BMW; his tastes ran to Swiss watches, French wines, English shoes. "Everything this country makes is crap," he said. He slumped back in his chair, as if fatigued by the thought. Then his voice became lazy again, thoughtful: "But what can they offer as proof?"

"Not much," Jennifer said. "The Miami and Transpacific incidents are still under investigation."

"Reports due when?"

"Not for weeks."

"Ah." He nodded slowly. "I like it. I like it very much. It's compelling journalism-and it beats the shit out of 60 Minutes. They did unsafe airplane parts last month. But we're talking about a whole unsafe aircraft! A deathtrap. Perfect! Scare the hell out of everybody."

"I think so, too," she said. She was smiling broadly now. He had bought it!

"And I'd love to stick it to Hewitt," Dick said. Don Hewitt, the legendary producer of 60 Minutes, was Shenk's nemesis. Hewitt consistently got better press than Shenk, which rankled. 'Those jerkoffs," he said. "Remember when they did their hard-hitting segment on off-season golf pros?"

She shook her head. "Actually, no…"

"It was a while back," Dick said. He got fuzzy for a moment, staring into space, and it was clear to her that he had been drinking heavily at lunch. "Never mind. Okay, where are we? You got the FAA guy, you got the reporter, you got tape of Miami. The peg is the home video, we lead with that."

"Right," she said, nodding.

"But CNN is going to run it day and night," he said. "By next week, it'll be ancient history. We have to go with this story Saturday."

"Right," she said.

"You got twelve minutes," he said. He spun in his chair, looked at the colored strips on the wall, representing the segments in production, where the talent was going to be. "And you got uh, Marty. He's doing Bill Gates in Seattle on Thursday; we'll shuttle him to LA Friday. You'll have him six, seven hours."

"Okay."

He spun back. "Go do it."

"Okay," she said. "Thanks, Dick."

"You sure you can put it together in time?'

She started collecting her notes. 'Trust me."

As she headed out through Marian's office, she heard him shout, "Just remember, Jennifer-don't come back with a parts story! I don't want a fucking parts story!"

QA/NORTON
2:21 p.m.

Casey came into the QA office with Richman. Norma was back from lunch, lighting another cigarette. "Norma," she said, "have you seen a videotape around here? One of those little eight-millimeter things?"

"Yeah," Norma said, "you left it on your desk the other night. I put it away." She rummaged in her drawer, brought it out. She turned to Richman. "And you got two calls from Marder. He wants you to call him right away."

"Okay," Richman said. He walked down the hall to his office. When he was gone, Norma said, "You know, he talks to Marder a lot. I heard it from Eileen."

"Marder's getting in with the Norton relatives?"

Norma was shaking her head. "He's already married Charley's only daughter, for Christ's sake."

"What're you saying?" Casey said. "Richman's reporting to Marder?"

"About three times a day."

Casey frowned. "Why?"

"Good question, honey. I think you're being set up."

"For what?"

"I have no idea," Norma said.

"Something about the China sale?"

Norma shrugged. "I don't know. But Marder is the best corporate infighter in the history of the company. And he's good at covering his tracks. I'd be real careful around this kid." She leaned across her desk, lowered her voice. "When I got back from lunch," she said, "nobody was around. The kid keeps his briefcase in his office. So I had a look."

"And?"

"Richman's copying everything in sight. He's got a copy of every memo on your desk. And he's Xeroxed your phone logs."

"My phone logs? What's the point of that?"

"I couldn't begin to imagine," Norma said. "But there's more. I also found his passport. He's been to Korea five times in the last two months."

"Korea?" Casey said.

"That's right, honey. Seoul. Went almost every week. Short trips. One, two days only. Never more than that."

"But-"

"There's more," Norma said. "The Koreans mark entry visas with a flight number. But the numbers on Richman's passport weren't commercial flight numbers. They were tail numbers."

"He went on a private jet?"

"That's what it looks like."

"A Norton jet?"

Norma shook her head. "No. I talked to Alice in Flight Ops. None of the company jets has been to Korea in the last year. They've been shuttling back and forth from Beijing for months. But none to Korea."

Casey frowned.

"There's more," Norma said. "I talked to the Fizer in Seoul. He's an old beau of mine. Remember when Marder had that dental emergency last month, and took three days off?"

"Yeah…"

"He and Richman were together in Seoul. Fizer heard about it after they'd gone, and was annoyed to be kept out of the loop. Wasn't invited to any of the meetings they attended. Took it as a personal insult."

"What meetings?" Casey said.

"Nobody knows." Norma looked at her. "But be careful around that kid."

She was in her office, going through the most recent pile of telexes, when Richman poked his head in. "What's next?" he said cheerfully.

"Something's come up," Casey said. "I need you to go to the Flight Standards District Office. See Dan Greene over there, and get copies of the flight plan and the crew list for TPA 545."

"Don't we already have that?"

"No, we just have the preliminaries. By now Dan will have the finals. I want them in time for the meeting tomorrow. The office is in El Segundo."

"El Segundo? That'll take me the rest of the day."

"I know, but it's important."

He hesitated. "I think I could be more help to you if I stayed here-"

"Get going," she said. "And call me when you have them."

VIDEO IMAGING SYSTEMS
4:30 p.m.

The back room of Video Imaging Systems in Glendale was packed with row after row of humming computers, the squat purple-striped boxes of Silicon Graphics Indigo machines. Scott Harmon, his leg in a cast, hobbled over the cables that snaked across the floor.

"Okay," he said, "we should have it up in a second."

He led Casey into one of the editing bays. It was a medium-size room with a comfortable couch along the back wall, beneath movie posters. The editing console wrapped around the other three walls of the room; three monitors, two oscilloscopes, and several keyboards. Scott began punching the keys. He waved her to a seat alongside him. I

"What's the material?" he said.

"Home video."

"Plain vanilla high eight?" He was looking at an oscilloscope as he spoke. "That's what it looks like. Dolby encoded. Standard stuff."

"I guess so…"

"Okay. According to this, we got nine-forty on a sixty-minute cassette."

The screen flickered, and she saw mountain peaks shrouded in fog. The camera panned to a young American man in his early thirties, walking up a road, carrying a small baby on his shoulder. In the background was a village, beige roofs. Bamboo on both sides of the road.

"Where's this?' Harmon said.

Casey shrugged. "Looks like China. Can you fast-forward?"

"Sure."

The images flicked quickly past, streaked with static. Casey glimpsed a small house, the front door open; a kitchen, black pots and pans; an open suitcase on a bed; a train station, a woman climbing on the train; busy traffic in what looked like Hong Kong; an airport lounge at night, the young man holding the baby on his knees, the baby crying, writhing. Then a gate, tickets being taken by a flight attendant-

"Stop," she said.

He punched buttons, ran at normal speed. "This what you want?"

"Yes."

She watched as the woman, holding the baby, walked down the ramp to the aircraft. Then there was a cut, and the image showed the baby in the woman's lap. The camera panned up and showed the woman, giving a theatrical yawn. They were on the aircraft, during the flight; the cabin was lit by night lights; windows in the background were black. The steady whine of the jet engines.

"No kidding," Casey said. She recognized the woman she had interviewed in the hospital. What was her name? She had it in her notes.

Beside her at the console, Harmon shifted his leg, grunted. "That'll teach me," he said.

"What's that?"

"Not to ski black-diamond runs in chowder."

Casey nodded, kept her eyes on the video monitor. The camera panned back to the sleeping baby again, then blurred, before turning black. Harmon said, "Guy couldn't turn off the camera."

The next image showed glaring daylight. The baby was sitting up, smiling. A hand came into the frame, wiggling to get the baby's attention. The man's voice said, "Sarah… Sar-ah… Smile for Daddy. Smi-le…"

The baby smiled and made a gurgling sound

"Cute kid," Harmon said.

On the monitor, the man's voice said, "How does it feel to be going to America, Sarah? Ready to see where your parents are from?"

The baby gurgled and waved her hands in the air, reaching for the camera.

The woman said something about everybody looking weird, and the lens panned up to her. The man said, "And what about you, Mom? Are you glad to be going home?"

"Oh, Tim," she said, turning her head away. "Please."

"Come on, Em. What are you thinking?"

The woman said, "Well, what I really want-what I have dreamed about for months-is a cheeseburger."

"With Xu-xiang hot bean sauce?"

"God no. A cheeseburger," she said, "with onions and tomatoes and lettuce and pickles and mayonnaise."

Now the camera panned back down to the kid, who was tugging her foot into her mouth, slobbering over her toes.

'Taste good?" the man said, laughing. "Is that breakfast for you, Sarah? Not waiting for the stewardess on this flight?"

Abruptly, the wife jerked her head around, looking past the camera. "What was that?" she said in a worried tone.

'Take it easy, Em," the man answered, still laughing.

Casey said, "Stop the tape."

Harmon hit a key. The image froze on the wife's anxious expression.

"Run it back five seconds," Casey said.

The white frame counter appeared at the bottom of the screen. The tape ran backward, streaking jags again.

"Okay," Casey said. "Now turn the sound up."

The baby sucked its toes, the slobbering so loud, it almost sounded like a waterfall. The hum inside the cabin became a steady roar. 'Taste good?" the man said, laughing very loudly, his voice distorted. "Is that breakfast for you, Sarah? Not waiting for the stewardess on this flight?"

Casey tried to listen between the man's sentences. To hear the sounds of the cabin, the soft murmur of other voices, rustle of fabric moving, the intermittent clink of knives and forks from the forward galley…

And now something else.

Another sound?

The wife's head jerked around. "What was that?"

"Damn," Casey said.

She couldn't be sure. The roar of ambient cabin sound drowned out anything else. She leaned forward, straining to hear.

The man's voice broke in, his laugh booming: 'Take it easy, Em."

The baby giggled again, a sharp earsplitting noise.

Casey was shaking her head in frustration. Was there a low-pitched rumble or not? Perhaps they should go back, and try to hear it again. She said, "Can you put this through an audio filter?'

The husband said, "We're almost home, honey."

"Oh my God," Harmon said, staring at the tape.

On the monitor, everything seemed to be crazy angles. The baby slid forward on the mother's lap; she grabbed at the kid, clutched it to her chest. The camera was shaking and twisting. Passengers in the background were yelling, grabbing the armrests, as the plane went into a steep descent.

Then the camera twisted again, and everybody seemed to sink in the seats, the mother slumping down under the G-force, her cheeks sagging, shoulders falling, baby crying. Then the man shouted, "What the hell?" and the wife rose into the air, restrained only by the seat belt.

Then the camera flew up in the air, and there was an abrupt, crunching sound, after which the image began to spiral rapidly. When the image became steady again, it showed something white, with lines. Before she could register what it was, the camera moved and she saw an armrest from below, fingers gripping the pad. The camera had fallen in the aisle and was shooting straight up. The screams continued.

"My God," Harmon said again.

The video image began to slide, gaining speed, moving past seat after seat. But it was going aft, she realized: the plane must be climbing again. Before she could get her bearings, the camera lifted into the air.

Weightless, she thought. The plane must have reached the end of the climb, and now it was nosing over again, for a moment of weightlessness before-

The image crashed down, twisting and tumbling rapidly. There was a thunkl and she glimpsed a blurred gaping mouth, teeth. Then it was moving again, and apparently landed on a seat. A large shoe swung toward the lens, kicked it.

The image spun rapidly, settled again. It was back in the aisle, facing the rear of the plane. The briefly steady image was horrifying: arms and legs stuck out into the aisle from the rows of seats. People were screaming, clutching anything they could. The camera immediately began to slide again, this time forward.

The plane was in a dive.

The camera slid faster and faster, banging into a midships bulkhead, spinning so it was now facing forward. It raced _: toward a body lying in the aisle. An elderly Chinese woman looked up in time for the camera to strike her in the forehead, and then the camera flew into the air, tumbling crazily, and came down again.

There was a close view of something shiny, like a belt buckle, and then it was sliding forward once more, into the forward compartment, still going, banging into a woman's shoe in the aisle, twisting, racing forward.

It went into the forward galley, where it lodged for a moment. A wine bottle rolled across the floor, banged into it, and the camera spun several times, then began to fall end over end, the image flipping as the camera went all the way past the forward galley to the cockpit.

The cockpit door was open; she had a brief glimpse of sky through the flight deck windows, blue shoulders and a cap, and then with a crash the camera came to rest, giving a steady view of a uniform gray field. After a moment, she realized the camera had at this point lodged beneath the cockpit door, right where Casey had found it, and it was taping the carpet There was nothing more to see, just the gray blur of carpet, but she could hear the alarms in the cockpit, the electronic warnings, and the voice reminders coming one after another, "Airspeed… Airspeed," and "Stall… Stall." More electronic warnings, excited voices shouting in Chinese.

"Stop the tape," she said.

Harmon stopped it.

"Jesus Christ," he said.

She ran through the tape once more, and then did it in slow motion. But even in slow motion, she realized, much of the movement was an indistinguishable blur. She kept saying, "I can't see, I can't see what's happening."

Harmon, who had by now become accustomed to the sequence, said, "I can do an enhanced frame analysis for you."

"What's that?'

"I can use the computers to go in and interpolate frames where the movement is too fast."

"Interpolate?"

"The computer looks at the first frame, and the frame following, and generates an intermediate frame between the two. It's a point-mapping decision, basically. But it will slow down-"

"No," she said. "I don't want anything added by the computers. What else can you do?"

"I can double or triple the frames. In fast segments, it would give you a little jerkiness, but at least you'd be able to see. Here, look." He went to one segment, where the camera was tumbling through the air, then slowed it down. "Now here, all these frames are just a blur-it's camera movement, not subject movement-but here. See this one frame here? You get a readable image."

It showed a view looking back down the aircraft. Passengers falling over the seats, their arms and legs streaks from swift movement.

"So that's a usable frame," Harmon said. She saw what he was driving at. Even in rapid movement the camera was steady enough to create a useful image, every dozen frames or so.

"Okay," she said, "do it."

"We can do more," he said. "We can send it out, and-"

She shook her head. "Under no circumstances does this tape leave this building," she said.

"Okay."

"I need you to run me two copies of this videotape," she said. "And make sure you run it all the way to the end."

IAA/HANGAR 4
5:25 p.m.

The RAMS team was still swarming over the Transpacific aircraft in Hangar 5. Casey walked past to the next hangar in the line, and went inside. There, working in near silence in the cavernous space, Mary Ringer's team was doing Interior Artifact Analysis.

Across the concrete floor, strips of orange tape nearly three hundred feet long marked the interior walls of the Transpacific N-22. Crosswise strips indicated the principal bulkheads; parallel strips were placed for each row of seats. Here and there, white flags stood in wooden blocks, indicating various critical points.

Six feet overhead, still more strips had been pulled taut, demarcating the ceiling and upper luggage compartments of the aircraft. The total effect was a ghostly orange outline of the dimensions of the passenger cabin.

Within this outline, five women, all psychologists and engineers, moved carefully and quietly. The women were placing articles of clothing, carry-on bags, cameras, children's toys, and other personal objects on the floor. In some cases, thin blue tape ran from the object to some other location, indicating how the object had moved during the accident.

All around them on the hangar walls hung large, blowup photographs of the interior, taken on Monday. The IAA team worked in near silence, thoughtfully, referring to the photos and notes.

Interior Artifact Analysis was rarely done. It was a desperation effort, seldom yielding useful information. In the case of TPA 545, Ringer's team had been brought in from the start, because the large number of injuries carried with it the threat of litigation. Passengers literally would not know what happened to them; assertions were often wild. IAA attempted to make sense of the movement of people and objects within the cabin. But it was a slow and difficult undertaking.

She saw Mary Ringer, a heavyset, gray-haired woman of fifty, near the aft section of the plane. "Mary," she said. "Where are we on cameras?"

"I figured you'd want to know." Mary consulted her notes. "We found nineteen cameras. Thirteen still and six video. Of the thirteen still cameras, five were broken, the film exposed. Two others had no film. The remaining six were developed, and three had shots, all taken before the incident. But we're using the pictures to try and place passengers, because Transpacific still hasn't provided a seating chart."

"And videos?"

"Uh, let's see…" She consulted her notes, sighing again. "Six video cameras, two with footage on board the aircraft, none during the incident. I heard about the video on television. I don't know where that came from. Passenger must have carried it off at LAX."

"Probably."

"What about the flight data recorder? We really need it to-"

"You and everybody else," Casey said. "I'm working on it." She glanced around the aft compartment, laid out by tape. She saw the pilot's cap lying on the concrete, in the corner. "Wasn't there a name in that cap?"

"Yeah, on the inside," Mary said. "It's Zen Ching, or something like that. We got the label translated."

"Who translated it?"

"Eileen Han, in Marder's office. She reads and writes Mandarin, helps us out. Why?"

"I just had a question. Not important." Casey headed for the door.

"Casey," Mary said. "We need that flight recorder." "I know," Casey said. "I know."

She called Norma. "Who can translate Chinese for me?"

"You mean, besides Eileen?"

"Right. Besides her." She felt she should keep this away from Marder's office.

"Let me see," Norma said. "How about Ellen Fong, in Accounting? She used to work for the FAA, as a translator."

"Isn't her husband in Structure with Doherty?"

"Yeah, but Ellen's discreet."

"You sure?"

"I know," Norma said, in a certain tone.

BLDG 1O2/ACCOUNTING
5:50 p.m.

She went to the accounting department, in the basement of Building 102, arriving just before six. She found Ellen Fong getting ready to go home.

"Ellen," she said, "I need a favor."

"Sure." Ellen was a perpetually cheerful woman of forty, a mother of three.

"Didn't you used to work for the FAA as a translator?"

"A long time ago," Ellen said.

"I need something translated."

"Casey, you can get a much better translator-"

"I'd rather you do it," she said. "This is confidential."

She handed Ellen the tape. "I need the voices in the last nine minutes."

"Okay…"

"And I'd prefer you not mention this to anybody."

"Including Bill?" That was her husband.

Casey nodded. "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all." She looked at the tape in her hand. "When?"

'Tomorrow? Friday at the latest?"

"Done," Ellen Fong said.

NAIL
5:55 p.m.

Casey took the second copy of the tape to the Norton Audio Interpretation Lab, in the back of Building 24. NAIL was run by a former CIA guy from Omaha, a paranoid electronics genius named Jay Ziegler, who built his own audio filter boards and playback equipment because, he said, he didn't trust anyone to do it for him.

Norton had constructed NAIL to help the government agencies interpret cockpit voice recorder tapes. After an accident, the government took CVRs and analyzed them in Washington. This was done to prevent them from being leaked to the press before an investigation was completed. But although the agencies had experienced staff to transcribe the tapes, they were less skilled at interpreting sounds inside the cockpit-the alarms and audio reminders that often went off. These sounds represented proprietary Norton systems, so Norton had built a facility to analyze them.

The heavy soundproof door, as always, was locked. Casey pounded on it, and after a while a voice on the speaker said, "Give the password."

"It's Casey Singleton, Jay."

"Give the password."

"Jay, for Christ's sake. Open the door."

There was a click, and silence. She waited. The thick door pushed open a crack. She saw Jay Ziegler, hair down to his shoulders, wearing dark sunglasses. He said, "Oh. All right. Come ahead, Singleton. You're cleared for this station."

He opened the door a fraction wider, and she squeezed past him into a darkened room. Ziegler immediately slammed the door shut, threw three bolts in succession.

"Better if you call first, Singleton. We have a secure line in. Four-level scramble encoded."

"I'm sorry, Jay, but something's come up."

"Security's everybody's business."

She handed him the spool of magnetic tape. He glanced at it. "This is one-inch mag, Singleton."

"We don't often see this, at this station."

"Can you read it?"

Ziegler nodded. "Can read anything, Singleton. Anything you throw at us." He put the tape on a horizontal drum and threaded it. Then he glanced over his shoulder. "Are you cleared for the contents of this?"

"It's my tape, Jay."

"Just asking."

She said, "I should tell you that this tape is-"

"Don't tell me anything, Singleton. Better that way."

On all the monitors in the room, she saw oscilloscope squiggles, green lines jumping against black, as the tape began to play. "Uh… okay," Ziegler said. "We got high-eight audio track, Dolby D encoded, got to be a home video camera…" Over the speaker, she heard a rhythmic crunching sound.

Ziegler stared at his monitors. Some of them were now generating fancy data, building three-dimensional models of the sound, which looked like shimmering multicolored beads on a string. The programs were also generating slices at various hertz.

"Footsteps," Ziegler announced "Rubber-soled feet on grass or dirt. Countryside, no urban signature. Footsteps probably male. And, uh, slight dysrhythmic, he's probably carrying something. Not too heavy. But consistently off-balance."

Casey remembered the first image on the videotape: a man walking up the path, away from a Chinese village, with the child on his shoulder.

"You're right," she said, impressed.

Now there was a tweeting sound-some sort of birdcall. "Hold on, hold on," Ziegler said, punching buttons. The tweet replayed, again and again, the beads jumping on the string. "Huh," Ziegler said finally. "Not in the database. Foreign locale?"

"China."

"Oh well. I can't do everything."

The footsteps continued. There was the sound of wind. On the tape, a male voice said, "She's fallen asleep…"

Ziegler said, "American, height five-nine to six-two, mid thirties."

She nodded, impressed again.

He pushed a button, and one of the monitors showed the video image, the man walking up the path. The tape froze. "Okay," Ziegler said. "So what am I doing here?"

Casey said, "The last nine minutes of tape were shot on Flight 545. This camera recorded the whole incident."

"Really," Ziegler said, rubbing his hands together. "That should be interesting."

"I want to know what you can tell me about unusual sounds in the moments just prior to the event. I have a question about-"

"Don't tell me," he said, holding up his hand. "I don't want to know. I want to take a clean look."

"When can you have something?"

'Twenty hours." Ziegler looked at his watch. 'Tomorrow afternoon."

"Okay. And Jay? I'd appreciate if you'd keep this tape to yourself."

Ziegler looked at her blankly. "What tape?" he said.

QA
6:10 P.M.

Casey was back at her desk a little after 6 p.m. There were more telexes waiting for her.

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

F/O ZAN PING AT VANC GEN HOSPITAL FOLLOWING COMPLICATIONS FROM SURGERY REPORTED UNCONSCIOUS BUT STABLE. CARRIER REP MIKE LEE WAS AT THE HOSPITAL TODAY. I WILL TRY TO SEE F/O TOMORROW TO VERIFY HIS CONDITION AND INTERVIEW HIM IF POSSIBLE.

"Norma," she called, "remind me to call Vancouver tomorrow morning."

"I'll make a note," she said. "By the way, you got this." She handed Casey a fax.

The single sheet appeared to be a page from an in-flight magazine. The top read: "Employee of the Month," followed by an inky, unreadable photograph.

Underneath the photo was a caption: "Captain John Zhen Chang, Senior Pilot for Transpacific Airlines, is our employee of the month. Captain Chang's father was a pilot, and John himself has flown for twenty years, seven of those with Transpacific. When not in the cockpit, Captain Chang enjoys biking and golf. Here he relaxes on the beach at Lantan Island with his wife, Soon, and his children, Erica and Tom."

Casey frowned. "What's this?"

"Beats me," Norrna said.

"Where'd it come from?" There was a phone number at the top of the page, but no name.

"A copy shop on La Tijera," Norma said.

"Near the airport," Casey said.

"Yes. It's a busy place, they had no idea who sent it."

Casey stared at the photo. "It's from an in-flight magazine?'

"TransPacific's. But not this month. They pulled the contents of the seat pockets-you know, passenger announcements, safety cards, barf bags, monthly magazine-and sent it over. But that page isn't in the magazine."

"Can we get back copies?"

"I'm working on it," she said.

"I'd like to get a better look at this picture," Casey said.

"I figured," Norma said.

She went back to the other papers on her desk.

FROM: T. Korman, PROD SUPPORT TO: C. Singleton, QA/IRT

We have finalized the design parameters of the N-22 Virtual Heads-Up Display (VHUD) for use by ground personnel at domestic and foreign repair stations. The CD-ROM player now clips to the belt, and the goggles have been reduced in weight. The VHUD allows maintenance personnel to scroll Maintenance Manuals 12A/102-12 A/406, including diagrams and parts cutaways. Preliminary articles will be distributed for comments tomorrow. Production will begin 5/1.

This Virtual Heads-Up Display was part of Norton's ongoing effort to help the customers improve maintenance. Airframe manufacturers had long recognized that the majority of operational problems were caused by bad maintenance. In general, a properly maintained commercial aircraft would run for decades; some of the old Norton N-5s were sixty years old and still in service. On the other hand, an improperly maintained aircraft could get in trouble - or crash - within minutes.

Under financial pressure from deregulation, the airlines were cutting personnel, including maintenance personnel. And they were shortening the turnaround time between cycles; time on the ground had in some cases gone from two hours to less than twenty minutes. All this put intense pressure on maintenance crews. Norton, like Boeing and Douglas, saw it as in their interest to help crews work more effectively. That was why the Virtual Heads-Up Display, which projected the repair manuals on the inside of a set of glasses for maintenance people, was so important.

She went on.

Next she saw the weekly summary of parts failures, compiled to enable the FAA to track parts problems more carefully. None of the failures in the previous week was serious. An engine compressor stalled; an engine EOT indicator failed; an oil filter clog light illuminated incorrectly; a fuel heat indicator went on erroneously.

Then there were more IRT follow-up reports from past incidents. Product Support checked all incident aircraft every two weeks for the next six months, to make sure that the assessment of the Incident Review Team had been accurate, and that the aircraft was not experiencing further trouble. Then they issued a summary report, like the one she now saw on her desk:

AIRCRAFT INCIDENT REPORT

PRIVILEGED INFORMATION - FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY

report No: IRT-8-2776 today's date: 08 April

model: N-20 incident date: 04 March

operator: Jet Atlantic fuselage No: 1280

NFA reported by: J. Ramones location: PS Portugal

FSR

reference: a) AVN-SVC-08774/ADH

Subject: Main Landing Gear Wheel Failure During Takeoff

description of event:

It was reported that during takeoff roll the "Wheel Not Turning" alert came on and the flight crew aborted the takeoff. The nose landing gear (NLG) tires blew and there was a fire in the wheel well which was extinguished by fire trucks on the ground. Passengers and flight crew exited via evacuation slides. No reported injuries.

action taken:

Inspection of the aircraft revealed the following damage:

1. Both flaps sustained significant damage.

2. The Number 1 engine sustained heavy soot damage.

3. The inboard flap hinge fairing sustained minor damage.

4. The Number 2 wheel was flat spotted with approximately 30 percent missing. There was no damage to NLG axle or piston.

Review of human factors revealed the following:

1. Flight deck procedures require added carrier scrutiny.

2. Foreign repair procedures require added carrier scrutiny.

The aircraft is in the process of being repaired. Internal procedures are being reviewed by the carrier.

David Levine

Technical Integration

Product Support

Norton Aircraft Company

Burbank,CA

Summary reports were always diplomatic; in this incident, she knew, ground maintenance had been so inept that the nose wheel locked on takeoff, blowing the tires, causing what was very nearly a serious incident. But the report didn't say that; you had to read between the lines. The problem lay with the carrier, but the carrier was also the customer-and it was bad form to knock the customer.

Eventually, Casey knew, Transpacific Flight 545 would end up summarized in an equally diplomatic report. But there was much to do before then.

Norma came back. 'Transpacific's office is closed. I'll have to find that magazine tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Hon?"

"What."

"Go home."

She sighed. "You're right, Norma."

"And get some rest, will you?"

GLENDALE
9:15P.M.

Her daughter had left a message saying she was having a sleep-over at Amy's house, and that Dad said it was all right. Casey wasn't happy about it, she thought her daughter shouldn't have sleep-overs on school nights, but there was nothing she could do now. She got into bed, pulled her daughter's photograph on the bedside table over to look at it, and then turned to her work. She was going through the flight tapes of TPA 545, checking the waypoint coordinates for each leg against the written radio transcripts from Honolulu ARINC and Oakland Center, when the phone rang.

"Casey Singleton."

"Hello, Casey. John Marder here."

She sat up in bed. Marder never called her at home. She looked at the clock; it was after 9 p.m.

Marder cleared his throat. "I just got a call from Benson in PR. He's had a request from a network news crew to film inside the plant. He turned them down."

"Uh-huh…" That was standard; news crews were never allowed inside the plant

"Then he got a call from a producer on that program Newsline named Malone. She said Newsline was making the request for plant access, and insisted they be allowed in. Very pushy and full of herself. He told her to forget it."

"Uh-huh."

"He said he was nice about it."

"Uh-huh." She was waiting.

"This Malone said Newsline was doing a story on the N-22, and she wanted to interview the president. He told her Hal was overseas, and unavailable."

"Uh-huh."

"Then she suggested we reconsider her request, because the Newsline story was going to focus on flight safety concerns, two problems in two days, an engine problem and slats deployment, several passengers killed. She said she'd spoken to critics-no names, but I can guess-and she wanted to give the president an opportunity to respond."

Casey sighed.

Marder said, "Benson said he might be able to get her an interview with the president next week, and she said no, that wouldn't work, Newsline was running the story this weekend."

"This weekend?"

"That's right," Marder said. 'Timing couldn't be worse. The day before I leave for China. It's a very popular show. The whole damned country will see it."

"Yes," she said.

"Then the woman said she wanted to be fair, that it always looked bad if the company didn't respond to allegations. So if the president wasn't available to talk to Newsline, maybe some other highly placed spokesman would."

"Uh-huh…"

"So I'm seeing this twit in my office tomorrow at noon," Marder said.

"On camera?" Casey said.

"No, no. Background only, no cameras. But we'll cover the IRT investigation, so I think you'd better be there."

"Of course."

"Apparently they're going to do some terrible story on the N-22," Marder said. "It's that damn CNN tape. That's what's started it all. But we're in it now, Casey. We have to handle this as best we can."

'I'll be there," she said.