Airframe

AIRPORT MARINA
6:30 a.m.

Jennifer Malone awoke to the soft, insistent buzz of the bedside alarm. She turned it off, and looked over at the tanned shoulder of the man next to her, and felt a burst of annoyance. He was a stuntman on a TV series, she'd met him a few months back. He had a craggy face and a nice muscular body and he knew how to perform… but Jeez, she hated it when guys stayed over. She had hinted politely, after the second time. But he'd just rolled over and gone to sleep. And now here he was, snoring away.

Jennifer hated to wake up with some guy in the room. She hated everything about it, the sounds they made breathing, the smell coming off their skin, their greasy hair on the pillow. Even the catches, the celebrities who made her heart skip over candlelight, looked like soggy beached whales the next day.

It was like the guys didn't know their place. They came over; they got what they wanted; she got what she wanted; everyone was happy. So why didn't they go the fuck home?

She'd called him from the plane: Hi, I'm coming into town, what are you doing tonight? And he said, without hesitation, Doing you. Which was fine with her. It was sort of funny, sitting in an airplane seat next to some accountant bent over his laptop, the voice in her ear saying, I'm doing you tonight, in every room of your suite. Which, to his credit, he did. Not subtle, this guy, but he had lots of energy, that pure California body energy that you never found in New York. No reason to talk about anything. Just fuck.

But now, sunlight streaming through the windows…

Damn.

She got up from the bed, feeling the cold air-conditioned air on her naked skin, and went to the closet to choose the clothes she would wear. She was doing pretty straight types, so she picked jeans, a white Agnes B. T-shirt, and a navy Jil Sander jacket. She carried them into the bathroom, ran a shower. While the water was getting warm, she called the cameraman and told him to have the crew ready in the lobby in an hour.

While she took her shower, she reviewed the coming day. Barker first at nine, she'd film him briefly with some aviation background to warm him up, then break to do the rest at his office.

Next the reporter, Rogers. No time to do him at his newsroom in Orange County; she'd start him at Burbank, another airport, different look. He'd talk about Norton with the Norton buildings behind him.

Then at noon, she'd talk to the Norton guy. By then she'd already know the arguments from the other two guys, and she'd try to scare Norton enough that they'd give her access to the president

And then… let's see. The ambulance chaser later in the day, briefly. Someone from the FAA on Friday, for balance. Someone from Norton on Friday, as well. Marty would do a stand-up outside Norton, the script wasn't prepared but all she needed was the intro and the rest was voice-over. B-roll of passengers boarding, going to their doom. Takeoffs and landings, then some good crash shots.

And she was done.

This segment was going to work, she thought, as she stepped out of the shower. There was only one thing that troubled her.

That damned guy in the bed.

Why didn't he go home?

QA
6:40 a.m.

As Casey came into the QA offices, Norma glanced up at her, then pointed down the hall.

Casey frowned.

Norma jerked her thumb. "He was here when I came in this morning," she said. "Been on the phone for an hour solid. Mr. Sleepyhead's suddenly not so sleepy."

Casey went down the hall. As she came to Richman's office, she heard him say, "Absolutely not. We are very confident of how this will turn out No. No. I'm sure. Hasn't a clue. No idea."

Casey stuck her head in.

Richman was leaning back in his chair, with his feet up on the desk, while he spoke on the phone. He appeared startled when he saw her. He put his hand over the phone. "I'll just be a minute here."

"Fine." She went back to her office, shuffled through papers. She didn't want him around. It was time for another errand, she thought

"Good morning," he said as he came in. He was very cheerful, big smile. "I got those FAA documents you wanted. I left them on your desk."

"Thank you," she said. 'Today I need you to go to Trans-Pacific's main office."

'Transpacific? Isn't that at the airport?'

"Actually, I think they're in downtown LA. Norma will get you the address. I need you to pick up back issues of their inflight magazine. As far back as they go. At least a year."

"Gee," Richman said. "Couldn't we have a messenger do that?"

"This is urgent," Casey said.

"But I'll miss the IRT."

"You're not needed at the IRT. And I want these magazines as soon as possible."

"In-flight magazines? What are they for?" he said.

"Bob," she said. "Just get them."

He gave a crooked smile. "You're not trying to get rid of me, are you?"

"Pick up the magazines, get them to Norma, and call me."

WAR ROOM
7:30 a.m.

John Marder was late. He came striding into the room with an irritable, distracted look, and dropped into a seat. "All right," he said. "Let's have it Where are we on Flight 545? Flight recorder?"

"Nothing yet," Casey said.

"We need that data-make it happen, Casey. Structure?'

"Well it's very difficult very difficult indeed," Doherty said, dolefully. "I still worry about that bad locking pin. I think we ought to be more cautious-"

"Doug," Marder said. "I already told you. We'll check it at Flight Test. Now what about hydraulics?"

"Hydraulics are fine."

"Cable rigging?"

"Fine. Of course we're at ambient. Have to cold soak to be sure."

"Okay. We'll do that at Right Test. Electrical?"

Ron said, "We've scheduled the Cycle Electrical Test beginning at 6 p.m., running through the night. If there's a problem we'll know in the morning."

"Any suspicions now?"

"Just those proximity sensors, in the right wing."

"Have we functioned them?"

"Yes, and they appear normal. Of course, to really check them we'd have to remove the sensors from the housings, take them out of the wing, and that means-"

"Delaying everything," Marder said. "Forget it. Powerplant?"

"Zip," Kenny Burne said. "Engines are fine. Some seals on the cooling system were installed backward. And we got a counterfeit reverser cowl. But it's nothing that would cause the accident."

"Okay. Powerplant is eliminated. Avionics?"

Trung said, "Avionics check out within normal limits."

"What about the autopilot? The pilot fighting to override?"

"Autopilot is fine."

"I see." Marder looked around the room. "So we have nothing, is that right? Seventy-two hours into this investigation and we have no damned idea what happened to Flight 545? Is that what you're telling me?"

There was silence around the table.

"Christ," Marder said, disgusted. He pounded the table. "Don't you people understand? I want this fucking thing solved?'

SEPULVEDA BLVD
10:10 a.m.

Fred Barker was solving all her problems.

To start, Jennifer needed a walk-to-work shot for Marty's voice-over intro ("We talked to Frederick Barker, a former FAA official, now a controversial crusader for aircraft safety"). Barker suggested a location on Sepulveda, with a sweeping view of the south runways of Los Angeles International Airport. It was perfect, and he was careful to mention that no other film crew had used it before.

Next she needed an at-work shot, again for voice-over ("Since leaving the FAA, Barker has worked tirelessly to bring defective aircraft designs to the public's attention- particularly the design of the Norton N-22"). Barker suggested a corner of his office, where he placed himself in front of a bookshelf of thick FAA documents, at a desk heaped nigh with technical-looking pamphlets, which he thumbed through for camera.

Next she needed his basic spiel, in the kind of detail that Reardon wouldn't have time to bother with during the interview. Barker was ready for this, too. He knew where the switches were for the air-conditioning, the refrigerator, the telephones, and all the other noise sources they'd need to turn off for filming. Barker also had a video monitor ready, to replay the CNN tape from Flight 545 while he commented on it. The monitor was a studio-grade Trinitron, placed in a dark corner of the room, so they could get an image off it. There was a V-plug so they could take the feed directly, to sync his audio comments. And Barker was running one-inch tape, so image quality was excellent. He even had a large model of the N-22 aircraft, with moving parts on the wing and tail that he could use to demonstrate what had gone wrong in flight. The model sat on a stand on his desk, so it didn't look like a prop. And Barker was dressed for the part: informal shirtsleeves and tie, reminiscent of an engineer, an authoritative look.

Barker was good on camera, too. He appeared relaxed. He didn't use jargon; his answers were short. He seemed to understand how she would cut the tape together, so he didn't lock her into anything. For example, he didn't reach for the model airplane in the middle of an answer. Instead, he gave his answer, then said, "At this point, I'd like to refer to the model." When she agreed, he repeated the previous answer, picking up the model at the same time. Everything he did was smooth, with no fumbling or awkwardness.

Of course Barker was experienced, not only on television but in the courtroom. The only problem was that he didn't give her strong emotion-no shock, no outrage. On the contrary, his tone, his manner, his body language, suggested profound regret. It was unfortunate that this situation arose. It was unfortunate that steps hadn't been taken to correct the problem. It was unfortunate that authorities hadn't listened to him for all these years.

"There have been eight previous problems with slats on the airplane," he said. He held the model up, near his face, turned it so that it didn't gleam in the crew lights. "These are the slats," he said, pulling out a sliding panel from the front of the wing. He took his hand away, and said, "You get that in close-up?"

"I was late," the cameraman said "Could you do it again?'

"Sure. Are you starting wide?"

'Two Ts," the cameraman said.

Barker nodded. He paused, then began again. "There have been eight previous problems with slats on this airplane." Again he held the model up, this time already correctly turned so it didn't reflect in the light. "These are the slats," he said, and pulled out the panel in front of the wing. Then he paused again.

"Got it that time," the cameraman said.

Barker continued. "The slats are only deployed for takeoff and landing. During flight, they are tucked back in the wing. But on the Norton N-22, the slats have been known to extend by themselves during flight. It's a design error." Another pause. "I'm going to demonstrate what happens now, so you may want to be wide enough to see the whole plane."

"Widening," the cameraman said.

Barker waited patiently for a moment, then said, "The consequence of this design error is that when the slats extend, the airplane noses upward, like this, threatening to stall." He tilted the model up slightly. "At this point, it is almost impossible to control. If the pilot tries to restore the plane to level flight, the plane overcompensates, and goes into a dive. Again, the pilot corrects, to come out of the dive. The plane climbs. Then dives. Then climbs again. That is what happened to Flight 545. That is why people died."

Barker paused.

"Now we're through with the model," he said. "So I'm going to put it down."

"Okay," Jennifer said She had been watching Barker on the monitor on the floor, and now she was thinking that she might nave difficulty cutting from the wider shot to a shot of putting the model down. What she really needed was a repetition of-

Barker said, "The plane dives. Then climbs. Then dives again. That is what happened to Flight 545. That is why people died." With a regretful look, he put the model down. Although he did it gently, his very gesture seemed to suggest a crash.

Jennifer had no illusions about what she was watching. This wasn't an interview; it was a performance. But a skilled approach was not rare these days. More and more interview subjects seemed to understand camera angles and editing sequences. She had seen executives show up in full makeup for an interview. At first, television people had been alarmed by this new sophistication. But lately, they'd become used to it. There was never enough time; they were always rushing from one location to the next. A prepared subject made their work so much easier.

But just because Barker was smooth and camera savvy, she wasn't going to let him get away without a little probing. The final part of her job today was to cover the basic questions, in case Marty ran out of time, or forgot to ask them.

She said, "Mr. Barker?"

"Yes?" He turned toward her.

"Check the look," she said to the cameraman.

"His look is wide. Move a little closer to camera."

Jennifer slid her chair over so she was right beside the lens. Barker turned slightly to face her, at her new position.

"His look is fine, now."

"Mr. Barker," Jennifer said, "you are a former FAA employee…"

"I used to work for the FAA," Barker said, "but I left the agency because I disagreed with their hands-off attitude toward manufacturers. The Norton plane is a result of those lax policies."

Barker was again demonstrating his skill: his answer was a complete statement. He knew that he was more likely to get his comments on camera if they were not responses to a question.

Jennifer said, "There is some controversy surrounding your departure."

"I am familiar with some of the allegations about why I left the FAA," Barker said, again making a statement "But the fact is my departure was an embarrassment to the agency. I criticized the way they worked, and when they refused to respond, I left. So I'm not surprised they are still trying to discredit me."

She said, "The FAA claims you leaked materials to the press. They say they fired you for that."

"There's never been any proof of the allegations the FAA has made about me. I have never seen any FAA official produce one shred of evidence to back their criticisms of me."

"You work for Bradley King, the attorney?'

"I have served as an expert aviation witness on a number of legal cases. I think it's important that somebody with knowledge speak out."

"You are paid by Bradley King?'

"Any expert witness is reimbursed for time and expenses. That's standard procedure."

"Isn't it true that you're a full-time employee of Bradley King? That your office, everything in this room, everything we see here, is paid for by King?'

"I am funded by the non-profit Institute for Aviation Research in Washington. My job is to promote safety in civil aviation. I do whatever I can to make the skies safe for travelers."

"Mr. Barker, come on: Aren't you an expert for hire?'

"I certainly have strong opinions about air safety. It's only natural that I would be hired by employers who share my concerns."

"What is your opinion of the FAA?'

"The FAA is well intentioned, but it has a dual mandate, both to regulate air travel and to promote it. The agency needs complete reform. It is much too cozy with the manufacturers."

"Can you give me an example?' It was a feed; she knew from previous conversations what he would say.

Again, Barker made a statement. "One good example of this cozy relationship is the way the FAA treats certification. The documents required to certify a new airplane are not maintained by the FAA, but by the manufacturers themselves. This hardly seems proper. The fox is guarding the chicken coop."

"Is the FAA doing a good job?"

"I'm afraid the FAA is doing a very poor job. American lives are needlessly put at risk. Frankly it's time for a thorough overhaul. Otherwise I am afraid passengers will continue to die, as they did on this Norton aircraft." He gestured-slowly, so the camera could follow-to the model on his desk. "In my opinion," he said, "what happened on that airplane… is a disgrace."

The interview ended. While her crew was packing up, Barker came over to her. "Who else are you seeing?"

"Jack Rogers is next."

"He's a good man."

"And someone from Norton." She consulted her notes. "A John Marder."

"Ah."

"What does that mean?'

"Well, Marder is a fast-talker. He'll give you a lot of double-talk about Airworthiness Directives. A lot of FAA jargon. But the fact is that he was the program manager on the N-22. He supervised the development of that aircraft. He knows there's a problem-he's part of it."

OUTSIDE NORTON

After the practiced smoothness of Barker, the reporter, Jack Rogers, was a bit of a shock. He showed up wearing a lime-green sport coat that screamed Orange County, and his check-patterned tie jumped on the monitor. He looked like a golf pro, spruced up for a job interview.

Jennifer said nothing at first; she just thanked the reporter for coming, and positioned him in front of the chain-link fence, with Norton Aircraft in the background. She went over her questions with him; he gave tentative little answers, excited, eager to please.

"Gee, it's hot," she said. She turned to the cameraman. "How we coming, George?"

"Almost there."

She turned back to Rogers. The sound guy unbuttoned Rogers's shirt, threaded the microphone up to his collar. As preparations continued, Rogers began to sweat. Jennifer called for the makeup girl to wipe him down. He seemed relieved. Then, pleading the heat, she convinced Rogers to remove his sport coat and sling it over his shoulder. She said it would give him a working-journalist look. He gratefully agreed. She suggested he loosen his tie, which he did.

She went back to the cameraman. "How is it?"

"Better without the jacket. But that tie is a nightmare."

She returned to Rogers, smiled. "This is working so well," she said. "How would it be if you take off the tie, and roll up your sleeves?"

"Oh, I never do that," Rogers said. "I never roll up my sleeves."

"It would give you that strong but casual look. You know, rolled-up shirtsleeves, ready to fight. Hard-hitting journalist. That idea."

"I never roll up my sleeves."

She frowned. "Never?"

"No. I never do."

"Well, it's just a look we're talking about here. You'd come off stronger on camera. More emphatic, more forceful."

"I'm sorry."

She thought: What is this? Most people would do anything to get on Newsline. They'd do the interview in their underwear, if she asked them to. Several had. And here was this fucking print journalist, what did he make, anyway? Thirty grand a year? Less than Jennifer's monthly expense account.

"I, uh, can't," Rogers said, "because, uh, I have psoriasis."

"No problem. Makeup!"

Standing with his jacket slung over his shoulder, his tie removed, shirtsleeves rolled up. Jack Rogers answered her questions. He rambled, speaking thirty, forty seconds at a time. If she asked him the same question twice, hoping for a shorter answer, he just started to sweat, and gave a longer answer.

They had to keep breaking for makeup to wipe him down. She had to reassure him again and again that he was doing great, just great. That he was giving her really good stuff.

And he was, but he couldn't punch it. He didn't seem to understand she was making an assembled piece, that the average shot would be less than three seconds, and they would cut to him for a sentence, or a fragment of a sentence, before they cut to something else. Rogers was earnest, trying to be helpful, but he was burying her in detail she couldn't use, and background she didn't care about.

Finally she began to worry that she couldn't use any of the interview, that she was wasting her time with this guy. So she followed her usual procedure in a situation like this.

"That's all perfect," she said. "Now we're coming to the conclusion of the piece. We need something punchy"-she made a fist-"to close. So I'll ask you a series of questions, and you answer them with one punchy sentence."

"Okay," Rogers said.

"Mr. Rogers, could the N-22 cost Norton the China sale?"

"Given the frequency of incidents involving-"

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just need a simple sentence. Could the N-22 cost Norton the China sale?"

"Yes, it certainly could."

"I'm sorry," she said again. "Jack, I need a sentence like, 'The N-22 might very well cost Norton the China sale.'"

"Oh. Okay." He swallowed.

"Could the N-22 cost Norton the China sale?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I have to say that it might cost the China sale."

Jesus, she thought.

"Jack, I need you to say 'Norton' in the sentence. Otherwise we won't know what you're referring to."

"Oh."

"Go ahead."

"The N-22 might very well cost Norton the China sale, in my opinion."

She sighed. It was dry. No emotional force. He might as well be talking about his phone bill. But she was running out of time. "Excellent," Jennifer said. "Very good. Let's go on. Tell me: Is Norton a troubled company?"

"Absolutely," he said, nodding and swallowing.

She sighed. "Jack."

"Oh. Sorry." He took a breath. Then, standing there, he said, "I think that-"

"Wait a minute," she said. "Put your weight on your forward foot. So you're leaning in toward camera."

"Like this?" He shifted his body weight, turned slightly.

"Yeah, that's it. Perfect. Now go ahead."

Standing there, in front of the fence outside Norton Aircraft, with his jacket slung over his shoulder, and his shirtsleeves rolled up, reporter Jack Rogers said, "I think there's no doubt that Norton Aircraft is a company in serious trouble."

Then he paused. He looked at her.

Jennifer smiled. "Thank you very much," she said. "You were great."

NORTON ADMINISTRATION
11:55 a.m.

Casey came into John Marder's office a few minutes before noon, and found him smoothing his tie, shooting his cuffs. "I thought we would sit here," he said, pointing to a coffee table with chairs in the corner of his office. "You all set for this?"

"I think so," Casey said.

"Just let me take it, at the beginning," Marder said. "I'll turn to you for assistance if I need it."

"Okay."

Maider continued to pace. "Security says there was a film crew out by the south fence," he said. "They were doing an interview with Jack Rogers."

"Uh-huh," Casey said.

"That idiot Christ. I can imagine what he had to say."

"Did you ever talk to Rogers?" Casey said.

The intercom buzzed. Eileen said, "Ms. Malone is here, Mr. Marder."

"Send her in," Marder said.

And he strode to the door, to greet her.

Casey was shocked by the woman who walked in. Jennifer Malone was a kid, hardly older than Richman. She couldn't be more than twenty-eight or -nine, Casey thought. Malone was blond, and quite pretty-in an uptight. New York sort of way. She had short bobbed hair that downplayed her sexuality, and she was dressed very casually: jeans and a white T-shirt, and a blue blazer with a weird collar. The trendy Hollywood look.

Casey felt uncomfortable, just looking at her. But now Marder had turned, and was saying, "Ms. Malone, I'd like to introduce Casey Singleton, our Quality Assurance specialist on the Incident Review Team."

The blond kid smirked.

Casey shook her hand.

You got to be kidding, Jennifer Malone thought. This is a captain of industry? This jumpy guy with slicked back hair and a bad suit? And who was this woman out of a Talbots catalog? Singleton was taller than Jennifer-which Jennifer resented- and good-looking in a wholesome, midwestern way. She looked like an athlete, and she seemed to be in pretty good shape-although she was long past the age where she could get by with the minimal makeup she wore. And her features were strained, tense. Under pressure.

Jennifer felt disappointed. She had been preparing for this meeting all day, honing her arguments. But she had imagined a much more commanding adversary. Instead, she was back in high school-with the assistant principal and the timid librarian. Little people with no style.

And this office! Small, with gray walls and cheap, utilitarian furniture. It had no character. It was just as well she wasn't filming here, because this room wouldn't photograph. Did the president's office look like this, too? If so, they would have to tape his interview somewhere else. Outside, or on the assembly line. Because these shabby little offices just didn't work for the show. Airplanes were big and powerful. The audience wouldn't believe that they were made by crummy little people in drab offices.

Marder led her to a seating arrangement, to one side. He gestured grandly, as if he were taking her to a banquet. Since he gave her a choice of where to sit, she took a chair with her back to the window, so the sun would be in their eyes.

She got out her notes, shuffled through them. Marder said, "Would you like something to drink? Coffee?"

"Coffee would be great."

"How do you take it?"

"Black," Jennifer said.

Casey watched as Jennifer Malone set out her notes. "I'll be frank," Malone said. "We've gotten some damning material on the N-22 from critics. And on the way this company operates. But there are two sides to every story. We want to make sure we include your response to the criticism."

Marder said nothing, just nodded. He was sitting with his legs crossed, a notepad on his lap.

'To begin," Malone said, "we know what happened on the Transpacific flight."

Really? Casey thought. Because we don't.

Malone said, "The slats came out-deployed?-in midair, and the airplane became unstable, went up and down, killing passengers. Everyone has seen the film of that tragic accident We know passengers have filed lawsuits against the company. We also know the N-22 has a long history of slats problems, which neither the FAA nor the company has been willing to deal with. This, despite nine separate incidents in recent years."

Malone paused for a moment, then went on. "We know that the FAA is so lax in its regulatory policies that it doesn't even require certification documents to be submitted. The FAA has allowed Norton to keep the certification documents here."

Jesus, Casey thought She doesn't understand anything.

"Let me dispose of your last point first," Marder said. "The FAA doesn't have physical possession of certification documents from any manufacturer. Not Boeing, not Douglas, not Airbus, not us. Frankly, we'd prefer the FAA do the warehousing. But the FAA can't store them, because the documents contain proprietary information. If they were in possession of the FAA, our competitors could obtain

this information under the Freedom of Information Act. Some of our competitors would like nothing better. Airbus in particular has been lobbying for a change in FAA policy-for the reasons I've just explained. So I presume you got this idea about the FAA from someone at Airbus."

Casey saw Malone hesitate, glance down at her papers. It was true, she thought. Marder had nailed her source. Airbus had fed her that tidbit, probably through its publicity arm, the Institute for Aviation Research. Did Malone realize the Institute was an Airbus front?

"But don't you agree," Malone said coolly, "that the arrangement is a little too cozy if the FAA lets Norton store its own documents?"

"Ms. Malone," Marder said, "I've already told you we'd prefer the FAA do the storage. But we didn't write the Freedom of Information Act. We don't make the laws. We do think that if we spend billions of dollars developing a proprietary design, it should not be made available free of charge to our competitors. As I understand it, FOIA wasn't enacted to enable foreign competitors to pillage American technology."

"So you oppose the Freedom of Information Act?'

"Not at all. I'm simply saying that it was never designed to facilitate industrial espionage." Marder shifted in his chair. "Now, you mentioned Flight 545."

"Yes."

"First of all, we don't agree that the accident was the result of slats deployment."

Uh-oh, Casey thought. Marder was going out on a limb. What he was saying wasn't true, and it might very well-

Marder said, "We're currently investigating this situation, and although it's premature for me to discuss the findings of our inquiry, I believe you have been misinformed on the situation. I presume you've gotten this slats information from Fred Barker."

"We are talking to Mr. Barker, among others…"

"Have you spoken to the FAA about Mr. Barker?" Marder said.

"We know he's controversial…"

'To put it mildly. Let's just say he adopts an advocacy position that is factually incorrect"

"You believe it is incorrect"

"No, Ms. Malone. It is factually incorrect," Marder said, testily. He pointed to the papers Malone had spread out on the table. "I couldn't help noticing your list of slats incidents. Did you get that from Barker?"

Malone hesitated a fraction. "Yes."

"May I see it?'

"Sure."

She handed the paper to Marder. He glanced at it.

Malone said, "Is it factually incorrect, Mr. Marder?'

"No, but it's incomplete and misleading. This list is based on our own documents, but it is incomplete. Do you know about Airworthiness Directives, Ms. Malone?"

"Airworthiness Directives?"

Marder got up, went to his desk. "Every time there is an inflight incident involving our aircraft, we review the incident thoroughly, to find out what happened and why. If there's a problem with the aircraft, we issue a Service Bulletin; if the FAA feels compliance with our bulletin should be mandatory, it then issues an Airworthiness Directive. After the N-22 went into active service, we discovered a slats problem, and an Airworthiness Directive was issued to correct the problem. Domestic carriers are required by law to fix the airplanes, to prevent further occurrences."

He came back with another sheet of paper, which he handed to Malone. "This is a complete list of incidents."

Slats Events of Norton N-22

1. January 4,1992. (DO) Slats deployed at FL350, at.84 Mach. The flap/slat handle moved inadvertently. A/D 44-8 was issued as a result of this incident

2. April 2,1992. (DO) Slats deployed while the airplane was in cruise at.81 Mach. A clipboard reportedly fell on the flap/slat handle. A/D 44-8 was not accomplished but would have prevented this occurrence.

3. July 17,1992. (DO) Initially reported as severe turbulence, it was later learned that the slats had extended as a result of inadvertent flap/slat handle movement. A/D 44-8 was not incorporated and would have prevented this occurrence.

4. December 20,1992. (DO) Slats extended in cruise flight without movement of the flap/slat handle in cockpit. Confirmed slat cable rigging was out of tolerance in three places. A/D 51-29 was issued as a result of this incident.

5. March 12,1993. (FO) 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. A/D 51-29 was not incorporated and would have prevented this occurrence.

6. April 4,1993. (FO) First officer rested his arm on the flap/slat handle as he was operating the autopilot and the action moved the handle down, extending the slats. A/D 44-8 was not incorporated and would have prevented this occurrence.

7. July 4,1993. (FO) Pilot reported the flap/slat handle moved and slats extended. Aircraft was in cruise flight at.81 Mach. A/D 44-8 was not incorporated and would have prevented this occurrence.

8. June 10,1994. (FO) The slats extended while the airplane was in cruise flight without movement of the flap/slat handle. Confirmed slat cable rigging was out of tolerance. A/D 51-29 was not incorporated and would have prevented this occurrence.

"The underlined sentences," Marder said, "are what Mr. Barker omitted from the document he gave you. After the first slats incident, the FAA issued an Airworthiness Directive to change cockpit controls. The airlines had a year to comply. Some did it immediately, others didn't. As you can see, the subsequent incidents all occurred in aircraft which had not yet made the change."

"Well, not quite…"

"Please let me finish. In December of 1992, we discovered a second issue. The cables running to the slats sometimes became slack. Maintenance crews weren't catching the problem. So we issued a second Service Bulletin, and added a tension measurement device, so ground crews could check more easily whether cable rigging was within spec. That solved it. By December, everything was resolved."

"Clearly not, Mr. Marder," Malone said, pointing to the list "You have more incidents in 1993 and in 1994."

"Only on foreign carriers," Marder said. "You see that notation, DO and FO? That stands for 'domestic operator' or 'foreign operator.' The domestic operators must make the changes called for in the FAA Airworthiness Directives. But foreign operators aren't under FAA jurisdiction. And they don't always make the changes. Since 1992, all incidents have involved foreign carriers that hadn't made the retrofits."

Malone scanned the list. "So you knowingly allow carriers to fly unsafe airplanes? You just sit back and let it happen, is that what you're telling me?"

Marder sucked in his breath. Casey thought he was going to blow, but he didn't. "Ms. Malone, we build airplanes, we don't operate them. If Air Indonesia or Pakistani Air won't follow the Airworthiness Directives, we can't force them to."

"All right. If all you do is build airplanes, let's talk about how well you do that," Malone said. "Looking at this list here, you had how many design changes on the slats? Eight?"

Casey thought, She doesn't understand. She's not listening. She doesn't get what she's being told.

"No. Two retrofits," Marder said.

"But there are eight incidents here. You'd agree to that…"

"Yes," Marder said irritably, "but we're not talking about incidents, we're talking about ADs, and there are only two ADs." He was getting angry, his face flushed.

"I see," Malone said. "So. Norton had two design problems on the slats for this aircraft."

"There were two corrections."

"Two corrections of your original erroneous design," Malone said. "And that's just for slats. We haven't gotten to the flaps or the rudder or the fuel tanks and the rest of the airplane. Just in this one tiny system, two corrections. Didn't you test this aircraft, before you sold it to unsuspecting customers?"

"Of course we tested it," Marder said, through clenched teeth. "But you have to realize-"

"What I realize," Malone said, "is that people have died because of your design errors, Mr. Marder. That plane is a deathtrap. And you don't seem to care about that at all."

"Oh for Christ's fucking sake!" Marder threw up his hands and jumped out of his seat. He stomped around the room. "I can't fucking believe this!"

It was almost too easy, Jennifer thought. In fact, it was too easy. She was suspicious of Marder's histrionic outburst. During the interview, she'd formed a different impression of this man. He wasn't the assistant principal. He was much smarter than that. She realized it from watching his eyes. Most people made an involuntary eye movement when asked a question. They looked up, down, or sideways. But Marder's gaze was steady, calm. He was completely in control.

And she suspected he was in control now, deliberately losing his temper. Why?

She didn't really care. Her goal from the beginning had been to blow these people out. To make them worried enough to pass her on to the president. Jennifer wanted Marty Reardon to interview the president.

This was vital to her story. It would undermine the segment if Newsline made serious charges against the N-22, and the company fielded a middle-level flunky or a press nerd to respond. But if she could get the president on camera, her whole segment attained a new level of credibility.

She wanted the president.

Things were going well.

Marder said, "You explain it, Casey."

Casey had been appalled by Marder's explosion. Marder was famously bad tempered, but it was a major tactical error to blow up in front of a reporter. And now, still red faced and huffing behind his desk, Marder said, "You explain it, Casey."

She turned to face Malone.

"Ms. Malone," Casey said, "I think everyone here is deeply committed to flight safety." She hoped that would explain Marder's outburst. "We're committed to product safety, and the N-22 has an excellent safety record. And if something does go wrong with one of our planes-"

"Something did go wrong," Malone said, looking evenly at Casey.

"Yes," Casey said. "And we're investigating that incident now. I'm on the team conducting that investigation, and we are working around the clock to understand what happened."

"You mean why the slats extended? But you must know. It's happened so many times before."

Casey said, "At this point-"

"Listen," Marder said, breaking in, "it wasn't the damn slats. Frederick Barker is a hopeless alcoholic and a paid liar who works for a sleazebag lawyer. No one in his right mind would listen to him."

Casey bit her lip. She couldn't contradict Marder in front of the reporter, but-

Malone said, "If it wasn't the slats-"

"It wasn't the slats," Marder said firmly. "We'll issue a preliminary report in the next twenty-four hours that will conclusively demonstrate that."

Casey thought: What? What was he saying? There was no such thing as a preliminary report.

"Really," Malone said, softly.

"That's right," Marder said. "Casey Singleton's the press liaison on the IRT. We'll be getting back to you, Ms. Malone."

Malone seemed to realize that Marder was terminating the interview. She said, "But there's much more, we need to go over, Mr. Marder. There is also the Miami rotor burst. And union opposition to the China sale-"

"Oh, come on," Marder said.

"Given the seriousness of these charges," she continued, "I think that you may want to consider our offer to give your president, Mr. Edgarton, an opportunity to respond."

"That's not going to happen," Marder said.

"It's for your own benefit," Malone said. "If we have to say that the president refused to talk to us, that sounds-"

"Look," Marder said. "Let's cut the crap. Without Trans-Pacific, you have no story. And we are going to issue a preliminary report on Transpacific tomorrow. You'll be informed when. That's all we have for the moment, Ms. Malone. Thank you for coming by."

The interview was over.

NORTON ADMINISTRATION
12:43 p.m.

"I can't believe that woman," Marder said, after Malone had gone. "She isn't interested in the facts. She isn't interested in the FAA. She isn't interested in how we build airplanes. She's just doing a hatchet job. Is she working for Airbus? That's what I want to know."

"John," Casey said, "about the preliminary finding-" "Forget it," Marder snapped. "I'll deal with it. You go back to work. I'll talk to the tenth floor, get some input, arrange a few things. We'll talk later today." "But John," Casey said, "you told her it wasn't the slats." "It's my problem," Marder said. "You go back to work."

When Casey was gone, Marder called Edgarton.

"My flight's in an hour," Edgarton said. "I'm going to Hong Kong to show my concern for the families of the deceased by personally visiting them. Talk to the carrier, express my sympathies to the relatives."

"Good idea, Hal," Marder said.

"Where are we on this press thing?"

"Well, it's as I suspected," Marder said. "Newsline is putting together a story that's extremely critical of the N-22."

"Can you stop it?'

"Absolutely. No question," Marder said.

"How?" Edgarton said.

"We'll issue a preliminary report that it wasn't slats. Our preliminary will say the accident was caused by a counterfeit cowl on the thrust reversers."

"Is there a bad cowl on the plane?"

"Yes. But it didn't cause the accident"

"That's fine," Edgarton said. "A bad part is fine. Just so it's not a Norton problem."

"Right," Marder said.

"And the girl's going to say that?"

"Yes," Marder said.

"She better," Edgarton said. "Because it can be tricky talking to these pricks."

"Reardon," Marder said. "It's Marty Reardon."

"Whatever. She knows what to say?"

"Yes."

"You've briefed her?"

"Yes. And I'll go over it with her again later."

"Okay," Edgarton said. "I also want her to see that media training woman."

"I don't know, Hal, do you really think-"

"Yes, I do," Edgarton said, cutting in. "And so do you. Singleton should be fully prepared for the interview."

"Okay," Marder said.

"Just remember," Edgarton said. "You fuck this up, you're dead."

He hung up.

OUTSIDE NORTON ADMINISTRATION
1:04 p.m.

Outside the Administration building, Jennifer Malone got into her car, more distressed than she cared to admit. She now felt it was unlikely the company would produce the president. And she was worried-she had the feeling-that they might make Singleton their spokesperson.

That could alter the emotional tenor of the segment. The audience wanted to see beefy, arrogant captains of industry get their just deserts. An intelligent, earnest, attractive woman wouldn't play nearly as well. Were they smart enough to know that?

And, of course, Marty would attack her.

That wouldn't look so good, either.

Just imagining the two of them together gave Jennifer the shivers. Singleton was bright, with an appealing, open quality. Marty'd be attacking motherhood and apple pie. And you couldn't hold Marty back. He'd go for the throat.

But beyond that, Jennifer was starting to worry that the entire segment was weak. Barker had been so convincing when she interviewed him; she had felt elated afterward. But if these ADs were for real, then the company was on solid ground. And she worried about Barker's record. If the FAA had the goods on him, then his credibility was shot. They'd look foolish giving him airtime.

The reporter, Jack Whatshisname, was disappointing. He didn't play well on camera, and his material was thin. Because in the end, nobody gave a damn about drugs on the factory floor. Every company in America had drug problems. That wasn't news. And it didn't prove the airplane was bad-which was what she needed. She needed vivid, persuasive visuals to demonstrate that airplane was a deathtrap.

She didn't have them.

So far, all she had was the CNN tape, which was old news, and the Miami rotor burst, which was not very compelling visually. Smoke coming out from a wing.

Big deal.

Worst of all, if the company really was going to issue a preliminary finding that contradicted Barker-

Her cell phone rang.

"Speak to me," Dick Shenk said.

"Hi, Dick," she said.

"So? Where are we?" Shenk said. "I'm looking at the board right now. Marty finishes with Bill Gates in two hours."

Some part of her wanted to say, Forget it. The story's flaky. It isn't coming together. I was dumb to think I could nail it in two days.

"Jennifer? Do I send him, or not?"

But she couldn't say no. She couldn't admit she had been wrong. He'd kill her if she backed off the story now. Everything about the way she had made her proposal, and the cool way she had walked out of his office, forced her hand now. There was only one possible answer.

"Yes, Dick. I want him."

"You'll have the piece for Saturday?"

"Yes, Dick."

"And it's not a parts story?"

"No, Dick."

"Because I don't want sloppy seconds on 60 Minutes, Jennifer. It better not be a parts story."

"It's not, Dick."

"I don't hear confidence," he said.

"I'm confident, Dick. I'm just tired."

"Okay. Marty leaves Seattle at four. He'll be at the hotel about eight. Have the shoot schedule ready when he arrives and fax me a copy at home. You've got him all tomorrow."

"Okay, Dick."

"Nail it, babe," he said, and hung up.

She flipped the phone shut, and sighed.

She turned on the ignition, and put the car in reverse.

Casey saw Malone backing out of the parking lot. She was driving a black Lexus, the same car Jim drove. Malone didn't see her, which was just as well. Casey had a lot on her mind.

She was still trying to figure out what Marder was doing. He had blown up at the reporter, told her it wasn't a slats incident, and told her there was going to be a preliminary finding from the IRT. How could he say that? Marder had bravado to spare, but this time he was digging a hole. She didn't understand how his behavior could do anything but damage the company-and himself.

And John Marder, she knew, never damaged himself.

QA
2:10 p.m.

Norma listened to Casey for several minutes without interruption. Finally she said, "And what's your question?'

"I think Marder's going to make me the spokesman for the company."

"Par for the course," Norma said. "The big guys always run for cover. Edgarton will never do it. And Marder won't, either. You're the press liaison for the IRT. And you're a vice-president of Norton Aircraft. That's what it will say at the bottom of the screen."

Casey was silent.

Norma looked at her. "What's your question?" she said again.

"Marder told the reporter that TPA 545 wasn't a slats problem," she said, "and that we were going to have a preliminary report by tomorrow."

"Hrnmm."

"It's not true."

"Hmmm."

"Why is Marder doing this?" Casey said. "Why did he set me up for this?"

"Saving his skin," Norma said. "Probably avoiding a problem he knows about, and you don't."

"What problem?"

Norma shook her head. "My guess is something about the plane. Marder was program manager on the N-22. He knows more about that aircraft than any other person in the company. There may be something he doesn't want to come out."

"So he announces a phony finding?"

"That's my guess."

"And I'm the one carrying the water?"

"Looks like it," Norma said.

Casey was silent. "What should I do?'

"Figure it out," Norma said, squinting through the smoke of her cigarette.

"There's no time…."

Norma shrugged. "Find out what happened to that flight. Because your tail is on the line, honey. That's how Marder's set it up."

Walking down the hall, she saw Richman.

"Well, hi-"

"Later," she said.

She went into her office and shut the door. She picked up a photograph of her daughter and stared at it In the picture, Allison had just emerged from a neighbor's swimming pool. She stood with another girl her age, both of them in swimming suits, dripping water. Sleek young bodies, smiling gap-toothed faces, carefree and innocent.

Casey pushed the picture aside, turned to a large box on her desk; opening it, she removed a black portable CD player, with a neoprene sling. There were wires that ran to a strange pair of goggles. They were oversize, and looked like safety goggles, except they didn't wrap around. And there was a funny coating on the inside of the lenses, sort of shimmery in the light This, she knew, was the maintenance Heads-Up Display. A card from Tom Korman fell out of the box'. It said, "First test of VHUD. Enjoy!"

Enjoy.

She pushed the goggles aside, looked at the other papers on her desk. The CVR transcript of cockpit communications had finally come in. She also saw a copy of Transpacific Flight-lines. There was a postit on one page.

She flipped it open to the picture of John Chang, employee of the month. The picture was not what she had imagined from the fax. John Chang was a very fit man in his forties. His wife stood beside him, heavier, smiling. And the children, crouched at the parents' feet, were fully grown: a girl in her late teens, and a boy in his early twenties. The son resembled his father, except he was a little more contemporary; he had extremely closely cropped hair, a tiny gold stud in his ear.

She looked at the caption: "Here he relaxes on the beach at Lantan Island with his wife, Soon, and his children, Erica and Tom."

In front of the family a blue towel was spread across the sand; nearby, a wicker picnic basket, with blue-checked cloth peeking out. The scene was mundane and uninteresting.

Why would anyone fax this to her?

She looked at the date on the magazine. January, three months ago.

But someone had had a copy of that magazine, and had faxed it to Casey. Who? An employee of the airline? A passenger? Who?

And why?

What was it supposed to tell her?

As Casey looked at the magazine picture, she was reminded of the unresolved threads of the investigation. There was a great deal of checking still to do, and she might as well get started.

Norma was right.

Casey didn't know what Marder was up to. But maybe it didn't matter. Because her job was still the same as it had always been: to find out what happened to Flight 545.

She came out of the office. "Where's Richman?" Norma smiled. "I sent him over to Media Relations to see Benson. Pick up some standard press packets, in case we need them."

"Benson's got to be pissed off about this," Casey said.

"Uh-huh," Norma said. "Might even give Mr. Richman a hard time." She smiled, looked at her watch. "But I'd say you've got an hour or so, to do what you want. So get going."

NAIL
3:05 p.m.

"So. Singleton," Ziegler said, waving her to a seat. After five minutes of pounding on the soundproof door, she had been admitted to the Audio Lab. "I believe we found what you were looking for," Ziegler said.

On the monitor in front of her she saw a freeze-frame of the smiling baby, sitting on the mother's lap.

"You wanted the period just prior to the incident," Ziegler said. "Here we're approximately eighteen seconds prior. I'll start with full audio, and then cut in the filters. Ready?"

"Yes," she said.

Ziegler ran the tape. At high volume, the baby's slobbering was like a bubbling brook. The hum inside the cabin was a constant roar. 'Taste good?" the man's voice said to the baby, very loudly.

"Cutting in," Ziegler said. "High-end bypass."

The sound got duller.

"Cabin ambient bypass."

The slobbering was suddenly loud against a silent background, the cabin roar gone.

"High delta-V bypass."

The slobbering was diminished. What she heard now were mostly background sounds-silverware clinking, fabric movement.

The man said, "Is-at-akfast-or you-arah?" His voice cut in and out.

"Delta-V bypass is no good for human speech," Ziegler said. "But you don't care, right?"

"No," Casey said.

The man said, "Not-ailing-or-ewardess-on-is- ightr

When the man finished, the screen became almost silent again, just a few distant noises.

"Now," Ziegler said. "It starts."

A counter appeared on the screen. The timer ran forward, red numerals flickering fast, counting tenths and hundredths of a second.

The wife jerked her head around. "What-wa-at?"

"Damn," Casey said.

She could hear it now. A low rumble, a definite shuddering bass sound.

"It's been thinned by the bypass," Ziegler said. "Deep, low rumble. Down in the two to five hertz range. Almost a vibration."

No question, Casey thought. With the filters in place, she could hear it. It was there.

The man's voice broke in, a booming laugh: "Ake it- easy-Em."

The baby giggled again, a sharp earsplitting crackle.

The husband said,"-ost-ome-oney."

The low-pitched rumbling ended.

"Stop!" Casey said.

The red numerals froze. The numbers were big on the screen-11:59:32.

Nearly twelve seconds, she thought. And twelve seconds was the time it took for the slats to fully deploy.

The slats had deployed on Flight 545.

By now, the tape was showing the steep descent, the baby sliding on the mother's lap, the mother clutching it, her panicked face. The passengers anxious in the background. With the filters in place, all their shouts produced unusual clipped-off noise, almost like static.

Ziegler stopped the tape.

"There's your data, Singleton. Unequivocal, I'd say."

"The slats deployed."

"Sure sounds like it. It's a fairly unique signature."

"Why?" The aircraft was in cruise flight. Why would they deploy? Was it uncommanded, or had the pilot done it? Casey wished again for the flight data recorder. All these questions could be answered in a few minutes, if they just had the data from the FDR. But it was going very slowly.

"Did you look at the rest of the tape?"

"Well, the next point of interest is the cockpit alarms," Ziegler said. "Once the camera jams in the door, I can listen to the audio, and assemble a sequence of what the aircraft was telling the pilot. But that'll take me another day."

"Stay with it," she said. "I want everything you can give me."

Then her beeper went off. She pulled it off her belt, looked at it.

••• JM ADMIN ASAP BTOYA

John Marder wanted to see her. In his office. Now.

NORTON ADMINISTRATION
5:00 p.m.

John Marder was in his calm mood-the dangerous one.

"Just a short interview," he said. 'Ten, fifteen minutes at most. You won't have time to go into specifics. But as the head of the IRT, you're in the perfect position to explain the company's commitment to safety. How carefully we review accidents. Our commitment to product support. Then you can explain that our preliminary report shows the accident was caused by a counterfeit thruster cowl, installed at a foreign repair station, so it could not have been a slats event. And blow Barker out of the water. Blow Newsline out of the water."

"John," she said. "I just came from Audio. There's no question-the slats deployed."

"Well, audio's circumstantial at best," Marder said. "Ziegler's a nut. We have to wait for the flight data recorder to know precisely what happened. Meanwhile, the IRT has made a preliminary finding which excludes slats."

As if hearing her own voice from a distance, she said, "John, I'm uncomfortable with this."

"We're talking about the future, Casey."

"I understand, but-"

"The China sale will save the company. Cash flow, stretch development, new aircraft, bright future. That's what we're talking about here, Casey. Thousands of jobs."

"I understand, John, but-"

"Let me ask you something, Casey. Do you think there's anything wrong with the N-22?"

Absolutely not."

"You think it's a deathtrap?"

"No."

"What about the company? Think it's a good company?"

"Of course."

He stared at her, shaking his head. Finally he said, "There's someone I want you to talk to."

Edward Fuller was the head of Norton Legal. He was a thin, ungainly man of forty. He sat uneasily in the chair in Marder's office.

"Edward," Marder said, "we have a problem. Newsline is going to run a story on the N-22 this weekend on prime-time television, and it is going to be highly unfavorable."

"How unfavorable?"

They're calling the N-22 a deathtrap."

"Oh dear," Fuller said. "That's very unfortunate."

"Yes, it is," Marder said. "I brought you in because I want to know what I can do about it."

"Do about it?" Fuller said, frowning.

"Yes," Marder said. "We feel Newsline is being crudely sensationalistic. We regard their story as uninformed, and prejudicial to our product. We believe they are deliberately and recklessly defaming us."

"I see."

"So," Marder said. "What can we do? Can we prevent them from running the story?'

"No."

"Can we get a court injunction barring them?"

"No. That's prior restraint. And from a publicity standpoint, it's ill advised."

"You mean it'd look bad."

"An attempt to muzzle the press? Violate the First Amendment? That would suggest you have something to hide."

"In other words," Marder said, "they can run the story, and we are powerless to stop them."

"Yes."

"Okay. But I think Newsline's information is inaccurate and biased. Can we demand they give equal time to our evidence?"

"No," Fuller said. "The fairness doctrine, which included the equal-time provision, was scrapped under Reagan. Television news programs are under no obligation to present all sides of an issue."

"So they can say anything they want? No matter how unbalanced?"

"That's right."

"That doesn't seem proper."

"It's the law," Fuller said, with a shrug.

"Okay," Marder said. "Now, this program is going to air at a very sensitive moment for our company. Adverse publicity may very well cost us the China sale."

"Yes, it might."

"Suppose we lost business as a result of their show. If we can demonstrate that Newsline presented an erroneous view- and we told them it was erroneous-can we sue them for damages?"

"As a practical matter, no. We would probably have to show they proceeded with 'reckless disregard' for the facts known to them. Historically, that has been extremely difficult to prove."

"So Newsline is not liable for damages?"

"No."

"They can say whatever they want, and if they put us out of business, it's our tough luck?"

"That's correct."

"Is there any restraint at all on what they say?"

"Well." Fuller shifted in the chair. "If they falsely portrayed the company, they might be liable. But in this instance, we have a lawsuit brought by an attorney for a passenger on 545.

So Newsline is able to say they're just reporting the facts: that an attorney has made the following accusations about us."

"I understand," Marder said. "But a claim filed in a court has limited publicity. Newsline is going to present these crazy claims to forty million viewers. And at the same time, they'll automatically validate the claims, simply by repeating them on television. The damage to us comes from their exposure, not from the original claims."

"I take your point," Fuller said. "But the law doesn't see it that way. Newsline has the right to report a lawsuit."

"Newsline has no responsibility to independently assess the legal claims being made, no matter how outrageous? If the lawyer said, for example, that we employed child molesters, Newsline could still report that, with no liability to themselves?"

"Correct."

"Let's say we go to trial and win. It's clear that Newsline presented an erroneous view of our product, based on the attorney's allegations, which have been thrown out of court. Is Newsline obligated to retract the statements they made to forty million viewers?"

"No. They have no such obligation."

"Why not?"

"Newsline can decide what's newsworthy. If they think the outcome of the trial is not newsworthy, they don't have to report it. It's their call."

"And meanwhile, the company is bankrupt," Marder said. "Thirty thousand employees lose their jobs, houses, health benefits, and start new careers at Burger King. And another fifty thousand lose their jobs, when our suppliers go belly up in Georgia, Ohio, Texas, and Connecticut. All those fine people who've devoted their lives working to design, build, and support the best airframe in the business get a firm handshake and a swift kick in the butt. Is that how it works?"

Fuller shrugged. "That's how the system works. Yes."

"I'd say the system sucks."

"The system is the system," Fuller said.

Marder glanced at Casey, then turned back to Fuller. "Now Ed," he said. "This situation sounds very lopsided. We make a superb product, and all the objective measures of its performance demonstrate that it's safe and reliable. We've spent years developing and testing it. We've got an irrefutable track record. But you're saying a television crew can come in, hang around a day or two, and trash our product on national TV. And when they do, they have no responsibility for their acts, and we have no way to recover damages."

Fuller nodded.

"Pretty lopsided," Marder said.

Fuller cleared his throat. "Well, it wasn't always that way. But for the last thirty years, since Sullivan in 1964, the First Amendment has been invoked in defamation cases. Now the press has a lot more breathing room."

"Including room for abuse," Marder said.

Fuller shrugged. "Press abuse is an old complaint," he said. "Just a few years after the First Amendment was passed, Thomas Jefferson complained about how inaccurate the press was, how unfair-"

"But Ed," Marder said. "We're not talking about two hundred years ago. And we're not talking about a few nasty editorials in colonial newspapers. We're talking about a television show with compelling images that goes instantaneously to forty, fifty million people-a sizable percentage of the whole country-and murders our reputation. Murders it. Unjustifiably. That's the situation we're talking about here. So," Marder said, "what do you advise us to do, Ed?"

"Well." Fuller cleared his throat again. "I always advise my clients to tell the truth."

"That's fine, Ed. That's sound counsel. But what do we doT

"It would be best," he said, "if you were prepared to explain what occurred on Flight 545."

"It happened four days ago. We don't have a finding yet." Fuller said, "It would be best if you did."

After Fuller had left, Marder turned to Casey. He didn't say anything. He just looked at her.

Casey stood there for a moment. She understood what Marder and the lawyer were doing. It had been a very effective performance. But the lawyer was also right, she thought. It would be best if they could tell the truth, and explain the flight. As she listened to him, she had begun to think that somehow she might find a way to tell the truth-or enough of the truth-to make this work. There were enough loose ends, enough uncertainties, that she might pull them together to form a coherent story.

"All right, John," she said. "I'll do the interview." "Excellent," Marder said, smiling and rubbing his hands together. "I knew you'd do the right thing, Casey. Newsline has scheduled a slot at four p.m. tomorrow. Meantime I want you to work briefly with a media consultant, someone from outside the company-" "John," she said. "I'll do it my way." "She's a very nice woman, and-" "I'm sorry," Casey said. "I don't have time." "She can help you, Casey. Give you a few pointers." "John," she said. "I have work to do." And she left the room.

DIGITAL DATA CENTER
6:15 p.m.

She had not promised to say what Marder wanted her to say; she had only promised to do the interview. She had less than twenty-four hours to make significant progress in the investigation. She was not so foolish as to imagine she could determine what had happened in that time. But she could find something to tell the reporter.

There were still many dangling leads: the possible problem with the locking pin. The possible problem with the proximity sensor. The possible interview with the first officer in Vancouver. The videotape at Video Imaging. The translation Ellen Fong was doing. The fact that the slats had deployed, but had been stowed immediately afterward-what exactly did that mean?

Still so much to check.

"I know you need the data," Rob Wong said, spinning in his chair. "I know, believe me." He was in the Digital Display Room, in front of the screens filled with data. "But what do you expect me to do?"

"Rob," Casey said. "The slats deployed. I have to know why-and what else happened on the flight. I can't figure it out without the flight recorder data."

"In that case," Wong said, "you better face the facts. We've been recalibrating all the one hundred and twenty hours of data. The first ninety-seven hours are okay. The last twenty-three hours are anomalous."

"I'm only interested in the last three hours."

"I understand," Wong said. "But to recalibrate those three hours, we have to go back to where the bus blew, and work forward. We have to calibrate twenty-three hours of data. And it's taking us about two minutes a frame to recalibrate."

She frowned. "What are you telling me?" But she was already calculating it in her head.

'Two minutes a frame means it'll take us sixty-five weeks."

"That's more than a year!"

"Working twenty-four hours a day. Real world, it'd take us three years to generate the data."

"Rob, we need this now."

"It just can't be done, Casey. You're going to have to work this without the FDR. I'm sorry, Casey. That's the way it is."

She called Accounting. "Is Ellen Fong there?"

"She didn't come in today. She said she was working at home."

"Do you have her number?"

"Sure," the woman said. "But she won't be there. She had to go to a formal dinner. Some charity thing with her husband."

'Tell her I called," Casey said.

She called Video Imaging in Glendale, the company that was working on the videotape for her. She asked for Scott Harmon. "Scott's gone for the day. He'll be in at nine tomorrow morning."

She called Steve Nieto, the Fizer in Vancouver, and got his secretary. "Steve's not here," she said. "He had to leave early. But I know he wanted to talk to you. He said he had bad news."

Casey sighed. That seemed to be the only kind of news she was getting. "Can you reach him?"

"Not until tomorrow." "Tell him I called."

Her cell phone rang.

"Jesus, that Benson is unpleasant," Richman said. "What's his problem? I thought he was going to hit me."

"Where are your

"At the office. Want me to come to you?"

"No," Casey said. "It's after six. You're done for today."

"But-"

"See you tomorrow, Bob."

She hung up.

On the way out of Hangar 5, she saw the electrical crews rigging TPA 545 for the CET that night. The entire aircraft had been raised ten feet into the air, and now rested on heavy blue metal fixtures beneath each wing, and fore and aft on the fuselage. The crews had then slung black safety webbing beneath the underside of the aircraft, some twenty feet above the ground. All along the fuselage, doors and accessory panels were open, and electricians standing on the webbing were running cables from the junction boxes back to the main CET test console, a six-foot square box that was placed in the center of the floor to one side of the aircraft.

The Cycle Electrical Test, as it was known, consisted of sending electrical impulses to all parts of the aircraft's electrical system. In rapid succession, every component was tested-everything from cabin lights to reading lights, cockpit display panels, engine ignition, and landing-gear wheels. The full test cycle ran two hours. It would be repeated a dozen times, throughout the night

As she passed the console, she saw Teddy Rawley. He gave her a wave, but didn't approach her. He was busy; undoubtedly he'd heard that Flight Test was scheduled three days from now, and he would want to be sure the electrical test was performed correctly.

She waved to Teddy, but he had already turned away. Casey headed back to her office.

Outside, it was growing dark, the sky a deep blue. She walked back toward Administration, hearing the distant rush of take-offs from Burbank airport. On the way, she saw Amos Peters, shuffling toward his car, carrying a stack of papers under his arm. He looked back and saw her.

"Hey, Casey."

"Hi, Amos."

He dropped his papers with a thud on the roof of his car, bent to unlock the door. "I hear they're putting the screws to you."

"Yeah." She was not surprised he knew. The whole plant probably knew by now. It was one of the first things she had learned at Norton. Everyone knew everything, minutes after it happened.

"You going to do the interview?"

"I said I would."

"You going to say what they want you to say?"

She shrugged.

"Don't get high and mighty," he said. "These are television people. They're beneath pond scum on the evolutionary scale. Just lie. Hell with it"

"We'll see."

He sighed. "You're old enough to know how it works," he said. "You going home now?"

"Not for a while."

"I wouldn't be hanging around the plant at night Casey."

"Why not?"

"People are upset" Amos said. "Next few days, it'd be better to go home early. You know what I mean?"

"I'll bear it in mind."

"Do that Casey. I mean it"

He got in his car, and drove off.

QA
7:20 p.m.

Norma was gone. The QA office was deserted. The cleaning crews had already started in the back offices; she heard a tinny portable radio playing "Run Baby Run."

Casey went to the coffeemaker, poured a cup of cold coffee, and took it into her own office. She flicked on the lights, stared at the stack of papers waiting on her desk.

She sat down and tried not to be discouraged by the way things were going. She had twenty hours until the interview, and her leads were falling apart

Just lie. Hell with it.

She sighed. Maybe Amos was right

She stared at the papers, pushing aside the picture of John Chang and his smiling family. She didn't know what to do, except go through the papers. And check.

She again came to the charts of the flight plan. Again, they teased her. She remembered she had had an idea, just before Marder called her the night before. She had a feeling… but what was it?

Whatever it was, it was gone now. She set the flight plan aside, including the General Declaration (Outward/Inward) that had been filed with it which listed the crew:

John Zhen Chang, Captain 5/7/51 M

Leu Zan Ping, First Officer 3/11/59 M

Richard Yong, First Officer 9/9/61 M

Gerhard Reimann, First Officer 7/23/49 M

Thomas Chang, First Officer 6/29/70 M

Henri Marchand, Engineer 4/25/69 M

Robert Sheng, Engineer 6/13/62 M

Harriet Chang, Flight Attendant 5/12/77 F

Linda Ching, Flight Attendant 5/18/76 F

Nancy Morley, Flight Attendant 7/19/75 F

Kay Liang, Flight Attendant 6/4/67 F

John White, Flight Attendant 1/30/70 M

M. V. Chang, Flight Attendant 4/1/77 F

Sha Van Hao, Flight Attendant 3/13/73 F

Y. Jiao, Flight Attendant 11/18/76 F

Harriet King, Flight Attendant 10/10/75 F

B. Choi, Flight Attendant 11/18/76 F

Yee Chang, Flight Attendant 1/8/74 F

She paused, sipped the cold coffee. There was something odd about this list she thought. But she couldn't put her finger on it

She set the list aside.

Next a transcript of communications from Southern California Air Traffic Approach Control. As usual it was printed without punctuation, the transmission to 545 intermixed with transmissions to several other aircraft:

0543:12 UAH198 three six five ground thirty five thousand

0543:17 USA2585 on frequency again changed radios sorry about that

0543:15 ATAC one nine eight copy

0543:19 AAL001 fuel remaining four two zero one

0543:22 ATAC copy that two five eight five no problem we have you now

0543:23 TPA545 this is transpacific five four five we have an emergency

0543:26 ATAC affirmative zero zero one

0543:29 ATAC go ahead five four five

0543:31 TPA545 request priority clearance for emergency landing in los angeles

0543:32 AAL001 down to twenty nine thousand

0543:35 ATAC okay five four five understand you request priority clearance to land

0543:40 TPA545 affirmative

0543:41 ATAC say the nature of your emergency

0543:42 UAH 198 three two one ground thirty two thousand

0543:55 AALOOl holding two six nine

0544:05 TPA545 we have a passenger emergency we need ambulances on the ground i would say thirty or forty ambulances maybe more

0544:10 ATAC tpa five four five say again are you asking for forty ambulances

0544:27 UAH 198 turn one two four point niner

0544:35 TPA545 affirmative we encountered severe turbulence during flight we have injuries of passengers and flight crew

0544:48 ATAC copy one nine eight good day

0544:50 ATAC transpacific i copy your ground request for forty ambulances

0544:52 UAH198 thank you

Casey puzzled over the exchanges. Because they suggested very erratic behavior by the pilot.

For example, the Transpacific incident had occurred shortly after five in the morning. At that time, the plane was still in radio contact with Honolulu ARINC. With so many injuries, the captain could have reported an emergency to Honolulu.

But he hadn't done that.

Why not?

Instead, the pilot continued to Los Angeles. And he had waited until he was about to land before reporting an emergency.

Why had he waited so long?

And why would he say the incident had been caused by turbulence? He knew that wasn't true. The captain had told the stewardess the slats deployed. And she knew, from Ziegler's audio, that the slats had deployed. So why hadn't the pilot announced it? Why lie to approach control?

Everyone agreed John Chang was a good pilot. So what was the explanation for his behavior? Was he in shock? Even the best pilots sometimes behaved oddly in a crisis. But there seemed to be a pattern here-almost a plan. She looked ahead:

0544:59 ATAC do you need medical personnel too what is the nature of the injuries you are bringing in

0545:10 TPA545 i am not sure

0545:20 ATAC can you give us an estimate

0545:30 TPA545 i am sorry no an estimate is not possible

0545:32 AALOOl two one two niner clear

0545:35 ATAC is anyone unconscious

0545:40 TPA545 no i do not think so but two are dead

The captain seemed to report the fatalities as an afterthought. What was really going on?

0545:43 ATAC copy zero zero one

0545:51 ATAC tpa five four five what is the condition of your aircraft

0545:58 TPA545 we have damage to the passenger cabin minor damage only

Casey thought, Minor damage only? That cabin had sustained millions of dollars of damage. Hadn't the captain gone back to look for himself? Did he not know the extent of the damage? Why would he say what he did?

0546:12 ATAC what is the condition of the flight deck

0546:22 TPA545 flight deck is operational fdau is nominal

0546:31 ATAC copy that five four five what is the condition of your flight crew

0546:38 TPA545 captain and first officer in good condition

At that moment one of the first officers had been covered in blood. Again, did the pilot not know? She glanced at the rest of the transcript, then pushed it aside. She'd show it to Felix tomorrow, and get his opinion.

She went on, looking through the Structure Reports, the Interior Cabin Reports, the relevant PMA records for the counterfeit slats locking pin and the counterfeit thruster cowl. Steadily, patiently, she worked on into the night

It was after ten o'clock when she again turned to the faults printout from Flight 545. She had been hoping she could skip this, and use the flight recorder data instead. But now there was nothing to do but slog through it.

Yawning, tired, she stared at the columns of numbers on the first page:

A/S PWR TEST 00000010000

AIL SERVO COMP 00001001000

AOA INV 10200010001

CFDS SENS FAIL 00000010000

CRZ CMD MON INV 10000020100

EL SERVO COMP 00000000010

EPR/N1 TRA-1 00000010000

FMS SPEED INV 00000040000

.PRESS ALT INV 00000030000

G/S SPEED ANG 00000010000

SLAT XSIT T/O 00000000000

G/S DEV INV 00100050001

GND SPD INV 00000021000

TAS INV 00001010000

TAT INV 00000010000

AUX 1 00000000000

AUX 2 00000000000

AUX 3 00000000000

AUX COA 01000000000

A/S ROX-P 00000010000

RDR PROX-1 00001001000

AOA BTA 10200000001

FDS RG 00000010000

F-CMD MON 10000020100

She didn't want to do this. She hadn't eaten dinner yet, and she knew she should eat. Anyway, the only questions she had about these fault listings were the AUX readings. She had asked Ron, and he had said the first was the auxiliary power unit, the second and third were unused, and the fourth, AUX COA, was a customer installed line. But there wasn't anything on those lines, Ron said, because a zero reading was normal. It was the default reading.

So she was really finished with this listing.

She was done.

Casey stood up at her desk, stretched, looked at her watch. It was ten-fifteen. She'd better get some sleep, she thought. After all, she was going to appear on television tomorrow. She didn't want her mother to call afterward saying, "Dear, you looked so tired…."

Casey folded up the printout, and put it away.

Zero, she thought, was the perfect default value. Because that was what she was coming up with, on this particular night's work.

A big zero.

Nothing.

"A big fat zero," she said aloud. "Means nothing on the line."

She didn't want to think what it meant-that time was running out, that her plan to push the investigation had failed, and that she was going to end up in front of a television camera tomorrow afternoon, with the famous Marty Reardon asking her questions, and she would have no good answers to give him. Except the answers that John Marder wanted her to give.

Just lie. Hell with it.

Maybe that was how it was going to turn out.

You 're old enough to know how it works.

Casey turned out her desk light, and started for the door.

She said good night to Esther, the cleaning woman, and went out into the hallway. She got into the elevator, and pushed the button to go down to the ground floor.

The button lit up when she touched it.

Glowing"1"

She yawned as the doors started to close. She was really very tired. It was silly to work this late. She'd make foolish mistakes, overlook things.

She looked at the glowing button.

And then it hit her.

"Forget something?" Esther said, as Casey came back into the office.

"No," Casey said.

She rifled through the sheets on her desk. Fast, searching. Tossing papers in all directions. Letting them flutter to the floor.

Ron had said the default was zero, and therefore when you got a zero you didn't know if the line was used or not. But if there was a 1… then that would mean… She found the listing, ran her finger down the columns of numbers:

AUX 1 00000000000

AUX 2 00000000000

AUX 3 00000000000

AUX COA 01000000000

There was a numeral 1! AUX COA had registered a fault, on the second leg of the flight That meant the AUX COA line was being used by the aircraft.

But what was it used for?

She sucked in her breath.

She hardly dared to hope.

Ron said that AUX COA was a line for Customer Optional Additions. The customer used it for add-ons, like a QAR.

The QAR was the Quick Access Recorder, another flight data recorder installed to help the maintenance crews. It recorded many of the same parameters as a regular DFDR. If a QAR was on this aircraft, it could solve all her problems.

But Ron insisted this plane didn't have a QAR.

He said he'd looked in the tail, which was where it was usually installed on an N-22. And it wasn't there.

Had he ever looked anywhere else?

Had he really searched the plane?

Because Casey knew an optional item like the QAR was not subject to FAA regulation. It could be anyplace in the aircraft the operator wanted it-in the aft accessory compartment, or the cargo hold, or the radio rack beneath the cockpit… It could be just about anywhere.

Had Ron really looked?

She decided to check for herself.

She spent the next ten minutes thumbing through thick Service Repair Manuals for the N-22, without any success. The manuals didn't mention the QAR at all, or at least she couldn't find any reference. But the manuals she kept in her office were her personal copies; Casey wasn't directly involved in maintenance, and she didn't have the latest versions. Most of the manuals dated back to her own arrival at the company; they were five years old.

That was when she noticed the Heads-Up Display, sitting on her desk.

Wait a minute, she thought. She grabbed the goggles, slipped them on. She plugged them into the CD player. She pressed the power switch.

Nothing happened.

She fiddled with the equipment for a few moments, until she realized there was no CD-ROM in the machine. She looked in the cardboard box, found a silver platter, and slid it into the player. She pressed the power button again.

The goggles glowed. She was staring at a page from the first maintenance manual, projected onto the inside of the goggles. She wasn't quite sure how the system worked, because the goggles were just an inch from her eyes, but the projected page appeared to float in space, two feet in front of

her. The page was almost transparent; she could see right through it.

Korman liked to say that virtual reality was virtually useless, except for a few specialized applications. One was maintenance. Busy people working in technical environments, people who had their hands full, or covered in grease, didn't have the time or inclination to look through a thick manual. If you were thirty feet up in the air trying to repair a jet engine, you couldn't carry a stack of five-pound manuals around with you. So virtual displays were perfect for those situations… And Korman had built one.

By pressing buttons on the CD player, Casey found that she could scroll through the manuals. There was also a search function, that flashed up a keyboard hanging in space; she had to repeatedly press another button to move a pointer to the letter Q, then A, then R. It was clumsy.

But it worked.

After a moment of whirring, a page hung in the air before her:

N-22

QUICK ACCESS RECORDER (QAR)

RECOMMENDED LOCATIONS

Pressing more buttons, she scrolled through a sequence of diagrams, showing in detail all the places where the QAR could be located on the N-22 aircraft.

There were about thirty places in all.

Casey clipped the player onto her belt, and headed for the door.

AIRPORT MARINA
10:20 p.m.

Marty Reardon was still in Seattle.

His interview with Gates had run long, and he'd missed his plane. Now he was coming down in the morning. Jennifer had to revise the schedule.

It was going to be a difficult day, she realized She'd hoped to start at nine. Now she couldn't begin until ten at the earliest. She sat in the hotel room with her laptop, figuring it out.

9:00-10:00 Transfer from LAX

10:00-10:45 Barker at ofc

11:00-11:30 King at airport

11:30-12:00 FAA at airport

12:15-1:45 Transfer to Burbank

2:00-2:30 Rogers at Burbank

2:30-3:30 Stand-up outside Norton

4:00-4:30 Singleton at Norton

4:30-6:00 Transfer to LAX

Too tight. No time for lunch, for traffic delays, for normal production screwups. And tomorrow was Friday; Marty would want to make the six o'clock plane back to New York. Marty had a new girlfriend, and he liked to spend the weekend with her. Marty would be very pissy if he missed the flight.

And he was definitely going to miss it.

The problem was that by the time Marty finished with Singleton in Burbank, it would be rush hour. He'd never make his plane. He really should leave Burbank by two-thirty. Which meant pushing Singleton up, and holding off the lawyer. She was afraid she'd lose the FAA guy if she changed him at the last minute. But the lawyer would be flexible. He'd wait until midnight if they asked him to.

She'd talked with the lawyer earlier. King was a blowhard, but he was plausible in short bites. Five, ten seconds. Punchy. Worth doing.

9:00-10:00 Transfer from LAX

10:00-10:45 Barker at ofc

11:00-11:30 FAA at airport

11:30-12:30 Transfer to Burbank

12:30-1:00 Rogers at Burbank

1:00-2:00 Stand-up outside Norton

2:00-2:30 Singleton at Norton

2:30-4:00 Transfer to LAX

4:00-4:30 King at airport

5:00-6:00 Pad

That would work. In her mind, she reviewed her pullouts. If the FAA guy was good (Jennifer hadn't met him yet, just talked on the phone), then Marty might run over with him. If it took too long to transfer to Burbank, she'd blow off Rogers, who was weak anyway, and go right to Marty's stand-up. Singleton would be fast-Jennifer wanted to keep Marty moving there, so he didn't attack the woman too much. A tight schedule would help.

Back to LAX, finish with King, Marty'd leave at six, and Jennifer would have her tape. She'd go to an editing bay at the O and O, cut the segment, and uplink to New York that night. She'd call in and get Dick's comments Saturday morning, revise it, and uplink it again about noon. That was plenty of time to make air.

She made a note to call Norton in the morning and tell them she needed to move Singleton up two hours.

Finally she turned to the stack of faxed background documents Norton had sent her office, for Deborah's research. Jennifer had never bothered to look at these, and she wouldn't bother now, except she had nothing better to do. She thumbed through them quickly. It was what she expected- self-justifying papers that said the N-22 was safe, that it had an excellent record…

Flipping from page to page, she suddenly stopped.

She stared.

"They've got to be kidding," she said.

And she closed the file.

HANGAR 5
10:30 p.m.

At night, the Norton plant appeared deserted, the parking lots nearly empty, the perimeter buildings silent. But it was brightly lit. Security kept floodlights on all night. And there were video monitors mounted on the corners of all the buildings. As she crossed from Administration to Hangar 5, she heard her footsteps clicking on the asphalt.

The big doors to Hangar 5 were pulled down and locked. She saw Teddy Rawley, standing outside, talking to one of the electrical team. A wisp of cigarette smoke rose up toward the floodlights. She went over to the side door.

"Hey, babe," Teddy said. "Still here, huh?"

"Yeah," she said.

She started through the door. The electrical guy said, "The building's closed. Nobody's allowed in. We're doing the GET now."

"It's okay," she said.

"I'm sorry, you can't," the guy said. "Ron Smith gave strict orders. Nobody's to go inside. If you touch anything on the airplane-"

"I'll be careful," she said.

Teddy looked at her, walked over. "I know you will," he said, "but you're going to need this." He handed her a heavy flashlight, three feet long. "It's dark in there, remember?"

The electrical guy said, "And you can't turn the lights on, we can't have change in the ambient flux-"

"I understand," she said The test equipment was sensitive; turning on the overhead fluorescents might change readings.

The electrician was still fretting. "Maybe I better call Ron and tell him you're going in."

"Call whoever you want," Casey said.

"And don't touch the handrails, because-"

"I won't," she said. "For Christ's sake, I know what I'm doing."

She went into the hangar.

Teddy was right; it was dark inside. She felt, rather than saw, the large space around her. She could barely discern the outlines of the plane, looming above her, all its doors and compartments were open, cabling hanging down everywhere. Beneath the tail, the test box sat in a pool of faint blue light. The CRT screen flickered, as systems were activated in sequence. She saw the cockpit lights go on, then off. Then the forward cabin lights, brightly lit, thirty feet above her. Then darkness again. A moment later, the beacon lights on the wing tips and the tail came on, sending hot white strobe flashes through the room. Then darkness again.

The front headlights suddenly glared brightly from the wing, and the landing gear began to retract. Because the plane was mounted above the ground, the landing gear was free to retract and extend. It would happen a dozen times that night.

Outside the hangar, she heard the electrician, still talking in a worried tone. Teddy laughed, and the electrician said something else.

Casey turned on her flashlight and moved forward. The flashlight cast a powerful glow. She twisted the rim, spreading the beam wider.

Now the landing gear was fully raised. Then the gear doors opened, and the landing gear began to extend, the big rubber wheels coming down flat, then turning with a hydraulic whine. A moment later, the insignia light shone up at the rudder, illuminating the tail. Then it went off again.

She headed for the aft accessory compartment in the tail.

She knew Ron had said the QAR wasn't there, but she felt she had to check again. She climbed the broad stairs rolled up to the back of the plane, being careful not to touch the handrails. Electrical test cables were taped to the handrails; she didn't want to disturb them, or to cause field fluctuation from the presence of her hand.

The aft accessory compartment, built into the upward slope of the tail, was directly above her head. The compartment doors were open. She shone her light in. The upper surface of the compartment was taken up by the underside of the APU, the turbine generator that served as the auxiliary power unit: a maze of semicircular pipes and white couplings wrapped around the main unit. Below was a cramped series of readout meters, rack slots, and black PCS boxes, each with the milled vanes for heat transfer. If there was a QAR in here as well, she might easily miss it; the QARs were only about eight inches square.

She paused to put on her goggles, and turned on the CD player. Immediately a diagram of the aft accessory compartment hung in space before her eyes. She could see through the diagram to the actual compartment behind. The rectangular block marking the QAR was outlined in red on the diagram. In the actual compartment, the space was taken up by an extra readout meter: hydraulic pressure for a flight control system.

Ron was right.

There was no QAR here.

Casey climbed back down the stairs to the floor, and walked beneath the plane to the forward accessory compartment, just behind the nose wheel. It, too, was open. Standing on the ground, she shone her flashlight up into the compartment, and flicked to the correct manual page. A new image hung in the air. It snowed the QAR located in the right anterior electrical rack, next to the hydraulic activator buses.

It wasn't there. The slot was empty, the round connector plug exposed at the back, the shiny metal contact points glinting.

It had to be somewhere inside the plane.

She headed off to the right, where a roll-up staircase led up thirty feet to the passenger door, just behind the cockpit. She heard her feet ring on the metal as she entered the aircraft.

It was dark; she shone her flashlight aft, the beam moving over the cabin. The passenger cabin looked worse than before; hi many places her beam caught the dull silver of the insulation pads. The electrical crews had pulled the ulterior panels around the windows, to get at junction boxes along the walls. She noticed a lingering faint odor of vomit; someone had tried to mask it with a sweet floral spray.

Behind her, the cockpit suddenly glowed. The overhead map lights came on, softly illuminating the two seats; then the row of video display screens, the twinkling lights of the overhead panels. The FDAU printer on the pedestal buzzed, printing out a couple of test lines, then was silent. All the cockpit lights went out

Dark again.

Cycling.

Immediately, the forward galley lights just ahead of her came on; the illuminators for heating and microwaves flashed; the overheat and timer warnings beeped. Then everything went off. Silence.

Dark again.

Casey was still standing just inside the door, fiddling with the CD player at her waist when she thought she heard footsteps. She paused, listening.

It was difficult to tell; as the electrical systems cycled through, there was a continuous succession of soft buzzes and clicks from relays and solenoids in the avionics racks around her. She listened hard.

Yes, she was sure of it now.

Footsteps.

Someone was walking slowly, steadily, through the hangar.

Frightened, she leaned out the door and called loudly, 'Teddy? Is that you?"

She listened.

No more footsteps.

Silence.

The clicking of the relays.

The hell with it she decided. She was up here, alone inside this torn-up airplane, and it was getting on her nerves. She was tired. She was imagining things.

She walked around the galley to the left side, where the display showed an additional electrical storage panel, down near the floor. The panel cover had already been removed. She looked at it through the transparent diagram. This was mostly taken up with secondary avionics boxes, and there was little room…

No QAR.

She moved down the cabin, to the midships bulkhead. There was a small storage compartment here, built into the bulkhead frame, just below a slot for magazines. It was a foolish place to install a QAR, she thought, and she was not surprised when she didn't find one there, either.

Four down. Twenty-six to go.

Now she moved toward the tail, to the aft interior storage compartment. This was a more likely place: a square service panel that was just to the left of the rear exit door, on the side of the aircraft. The panel didn't screw down; it flipped up on a hinge, which made it more accessible for crews in a hurry.

She came to the door, which was open. She felt a cool breeze. Darkness outside: she couldn't see the ground, forty feet below. The panel was just to the left of the door, and it was already open. She looked, seeing it through the diagram. If the QAR was there, it would be in the lower-right corner, next to the breaker switches for the cabin lights and the crew intercom.

It wasn't there.

The wing tip lights came on, brilliant strobes flashing repeatedly. They cast harsh shadows in the interior, through the open door and the row of windows. Then off again.

Clink.

She froze.

The sound had come from somewhere near the cockpit. It was a metallic sound, like a foot kicking a tool.

She listened again. She heard a soft tread, a creak.

Someone was in the cabin,

She pulled the goggles off her head, leaving them hanging around her neck. Silently, she slid to her right, crouching behind a row of seats at the rear of the plane.

She heard footsteps coming closer. A complicated pattern of sound. A murmur. Was there more than one?

She held her breath.

The cabin lights came on, first in front, then midships, then aft. But most of the ceiling lights were hanging, so they cast odd shadows, then went off again.

She gripped the flashlight. The weight felt comforting in her hand. She moved her head to the right, so she could peer between the seats.

She heard the footsteps again, but could see nothing.

Then the landing lights came on, and in their reflected glare, a row of hot ovals appeared on the ceiling, from the windows along both sides. And a shadow, blotting out the ovals, one after another.

Someone walking down the aisle.

Not good, she thought.

What could she do? She had the flashlight in her hand, but she had no illusions about her ability to defend herself. She had her cell phone. Her beeper. Her-

She reached down, and silently flicked the beeper off.

The man was close now. She edged forward, her neck aching, and she saw him. He was almost to the rear of the plane, looking in every direction. She could not see his face, but in the reflected landing lights, she could see his red-checked shirt.

The landing lights went out.

Darkness in the cabin.

She held her breath.

She heard the faint thunk of a relay, coming from somewhere in the forward compartment. She knew it was electrical, but apparently the man in the red shirt did not. He grunted softly, as if surprised, and moved forward quickly.

She waited.

After a while, she thought she heard the sound of footsteps on the metal stairs, going down. She wasn't sure, but she thought so.

The airplane was silent around her.

Cautiously, she came out from behind the seat. It was time to get out of here, she thought. She moved to the open door, listening. There was no question, the footsteps walking away, the sound diminishing. The nose lights came on, and she saw a long streak of shadow. A man.

Walking away.

A voice inside said, Get out of here, but she felt the goggles around her neck, and hesitated. She ought to give the man plenty of time to leave the hangar-she didn't want to go down and find him on the floor. So she decided to look in another compartment.

She pulled on the goggles, pressed the button on the unit. She saw the next page.

The next compartment was nearby, located just outside the rear door, where she was standing. She leaned out the door and, holding on with her right hand, found she could easily look into the panel box. The cover was already open. There were three vertical rows of electrical buses, which probably controlled the two rear doors; they were overrides. And at the bottom…

Yes.

The Quick Access Recorder.

It was green, with a white stripe around the top. Stenciled lettering: MAINT QAR 041/B MAINT. A metal box about eight inches square, with a plug facing outward. Casey reached in, gripped the box, and pulled gently. With a metallic click it came free of the inner coupling. And she had it in her hand.

All right!

She stepped back inside the doorway, holding die box in both hands now. She was so excited she was trembling. This changed everything!

She was so excited, she did not hear the rush of footsteps behind her until it was too late. Strong hands shoved against her, she grunted, and her hands slipped away, and then her body fell through the door, into space.

Falling.

To the floor thirty feet below.

Too soon-much too soon-she felt a sharp pain on her cheek-and then her body landed, but something was wrong. There were strange pressure points all over her body. She was no longer falling, but rising. Then falling again. It was like a giant hammock.

The webbing.

She'd hit the safety webbing.

She couldn't see it in the darkness, but the black safety webbing was hung beneath the plane, and she had fallen into it. Casey rolled over onto her back, saw a silhouette at the door. The figure turned and ran through the airplane. She scrambled to her feet, but it was difficult to balance. The webbing was slowly undulating.

She moved forward, toward the dull metal expanse of the wing. She heard footsteps clattering on the metal stairs, somewhere forward. The man was coming.

She had to get out.

She had to get off the webbing before he caught her. She moved closer to the wing, and then she heard a cough. It had come from the far edge of the wing, somewhere off to her left.

Someone else was here.

Down on the floor.

Waiting.

She paused, feeling the gentle swaying of the webbing beneath her. In a moment, she knew, more lights would come on. Then she could see where the man was.

Suddenly, the hot strobe lights above the tail flickered rapidly. They were so bright, they illuminated the entire hangar.

Now she could see who had coughed.

It was Richman.

He wore a dark blue windbreaker and dark slacks. The lazy, collegiate manner was gone. Richman stood near the wing, tense, alert. He looked left and right carefully, scanning the floor.

Abruptly, the strobe lights went out, plunging the hangar into darkness. Casey moved forward, hearing the webbing creak beneath her feet. Would Richman hear? Could he figure out where she was?

She came to the wing, stretching forward in darkness.

She grabbed it with her hand, moved outward to the edge. Sooner or later, she knew, the webbing would end. Her foot struck a thick cord; she bent down, felt knots.

Casey lay down on the webbing, gripped the edge in both hands, and rolled over the side, falling. For a moment she hung by one arm, the webbing stretching downward. She was surrounded by blackness. She did not know how far it was to the floor. Six feet? Ten feet?

Running footsteps.

She released the webbing, and fell.

She hit the ground standing, dropped to her knees. Sharp pain in her kneecap as she banged into concrete. She heard Richman cough again. He was very close, off to her left. She got up and began to run toward the exit door. The landing lights came on again, harsh and strong. In their glare she saw Richman throw up his hands to cover his eyes. She knew he would be blinded for a few seconds. Not long.

But perhaps enough. Where was the other man? She ran.

She hit the wall of the hangar with a dull metallic thud. Someone behind her said, "Hey!" She moved along the wall feeling for the door. She heard running footsteps.

Where? Where?

Behind her, running footsteps.

Her hand touched wood, vertical runners, more wood, then the metal bar. The door latch. She pushed.

Cool air.

She was outside.

Teddy turned. "Hey, babe," he said, smiling. "How's it going

She fell to her knees, gasping for breath. Teddy and the electrical guy came running over. "What is it? What's the matter?"

They were standing over her, touching her, solicitous. She tried to catch her breath. She managed to gasp, "Call Security."

"What?"

"Call Security! Someone's inside!"

– The electrical guy ran to the phone. Teddy stayed with her. Then she remembered the QAR. She had a moment of sudden panic. Where was it?

She stood. "Oh no," she said. "I dropped it."

"Dropped what, babe?"

"That box…" She turned, looking back at the hangar. She'd have to get them to go back inside, to-

"You mean the one in your hand?" Teddy said.

She looked at her left hand.

The QAR was there, clutched so tightly her fingers were white.

GLENDALE
11:30 p.m.

"Come on, now," Teddy said, arm around her, walking her into the bedroom. "Everything's fine, babe."

'Teddy," she said, "I don't know why…"

"We'll find out tomorrow," he said soothingly.

"But what was he doing…"

'Tomorrow," Teddy said.

"But what was he…"

She couldn't finish her sentences. She sat on the bed, suddenly feeling her exhaustion, overwhelmed by it.

"I'll stay on the couch," he said. "I don't want you alone tonight." He looked at her, chucked her on the chin. "Don't worry about a thing, babe."

He reached over, and took the QAR out of her hand. She released it unwillingly. "We'll just put this right here," he said, setting it on the bedside table. He was talking to her as to a child

'Teddy, it's important…"

"I know. It'll be there, when you wake up. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Call if you need anything." He left, closing the door.

She looked at the pillow. She had to get out of her clothes, to get ready for bed. Her face hurt; she didn't know what had happened to it She needed to look at her face.

She picked up the QAR and stuck it behind the pillow. She stared at the pillow, then lay down on it, and closed her eyes.

Just for a moment, she thought.