Airframe

GLENDALE
6:30 a.m.

Something was wrong.

Casey sat up quickly. Pain streaked through her body; she gasped. She felt a burning sensation in her face. She touched her cheek, and winced.

Sunlight poured through her window onto the foot of the bed. She looked down at twin arcs of grease on the bedspread. She still had her shoes on. She still had her clothes on.

She was lying on top of the bedspread, fully dressed.

Groaning, she twisted her body, swung her feet to the floor. Everything hurt. She looked down at the bedside table. The clock said six-thirty.

She reached behind the pillow, brought out the green metal box with a white stripe.

The QAR.

She smelled coffee.

The door opened, and Teddy came in in his boxer shorts, bringing her a mug. "How bad is it?"

"Everything hurts."

"I figured." He held the coffee out to her. "Can you handle this?"

She nodded, took the mug gratefully. Her shoulders hurt as she lifted it to her lips. The coffee was hot and strong.

"Face isn't too bad," he said, looking at her critically. "Mostly on the side. I guess that's where you hit the mesh…"

She suddenly remembered: the interview.

"Oh Jesus," she said. She got off the bed, groaning again.

"Three aspirins," Teddy said, "and a very hot bath."

"I don't have time."

"Make time. Hot as you can stand."

She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She looked in the mirror. Her face was streaked with grime. There was a purple bruise that started by her ear and ran back behind her neck. Her hair would cover it, she thought. It wouldn't show.

She took another drink of coffee, removed her clothes, got into the shower. She had bruises on her elbow, on her hip, on her knees. She couldn't remember how she had gotten them. The stinging hot spray felt good.

When she came out of the shower, the telephone was ringing. She pushed open the door.

"Don't answer that," Casey said.

"Are you sure?"

"There's no time," she said. "Not today."

She went into the bedroom to dress.

She had only ten hours until her interview with Marty Reardon. Between now and then, she had only one thing she wanted to do.

Clear up Flight 545.

NORTON/DOS
7:40 a.m.

Rob Wong placed the green box on the table, attached a cable, pressed a key on his console. A small red light glowed on the QAR box.

"It's got power," Wong said. He sat back in his chair, looked at Casey. "You ready to try this?"

"I'm ready," she said.

"Keep your fingers crossed," Wong said. He pushed a single key on the keyboard.

The red light on the QAR box began to flicker rapidly.

Uneasily, Casey said, "Is that…"

"It's okay. It's downloading."

After a few seconds, the red light glowed steadily again.

"Now what?"

"It's done," Wong said. "Let's see the data." His screen began to show columns of numbers. Wong leaned forward, looking closely. "Uh… looks pretty good, Casey. This could be your lucky day." He typed rapidly at the keyboard for several seconds. Then he sat back.

"Now we see how good it is."

On the monitor, a wire-frame aircraft appeared and rapidly filled in, becoming solid, three-dimensional. A sky-blue background appeared. A silver aircraft, seen horizontally in profile. The landing gear down.

Wong punched keys, moving the aircraft around so they saw it from the tail. He added a green field running to the horizon, and a gray runway. The image was schematic but effective. The airplane began to move, going down the runway. It changed attitude, the nose raising up. The landing gear folded into the wings.

"You just took off," Wong said. He was grinning.

The aircraft was still rising. Wong hit a key, and a rectangle opened on the right side of the screen. A series of numbers appeared, changing quickly. "It's not a DFDR, but it's good enough," Wong said. "All the major stuff is here. Altitude, airspeed, heading, fuel, deltas on control surfaces-flaps, slats, ailerons, elevators, rudder. Everything you need. And the data's stable, Casey."

The aircraft was still climbing. Wong hit a button, and white clouds appeared. The plane continued upward, through the clouds.

"I figure you don't want to real time this," he said. "You know when the accident occurred?"

"Yes," she said. "It was about nine-forty into the flight."

"Nine-forty elapsed?"

"Right."

"Coming up."

On the monitor, the aircraft was level, the rectangle of numbers on the right stable. Then a red light began to flash among the numbers.

"What's that?"

"Fault recording. It's, uh, slats disagree."

She looked at the aircraft on the screen. Nothing changed.

"Slats extending?"

"No," Wong said. "Nothing. It's just a fault."

She watched a moment longer. The aircraft was still level. Five seconds passed. Then the slats emerged from the leading edge.

"Slats extending," Wong said, looking at the numbers. And then, "Slats fully extended."

Casey said, "So there was a fault first? And then the slats extended afterward?"

"Right."

"Uncommanded extension?"

"No. Commanded. Now, plane goes nose up, and- uh-oh-exceeding buffet boundary-now here's the stall warning, and-"

On the screen, the airplane nosed over into a steep dive. The white clouds streaked past, faster and faster. Alarms began to beep, flashing on the screen.

"What's that?" Casey said.

"The plane's exceeding the G-load envelope. Jeez, look at him."

The airplane pulled out of the dive, and began a steep climb. "He's going up at sixteen… eighteen… twenty-one degrees," Wong said, shaking his head. 'Twenty-one degrees!"

On commercial flights, a standard rate of climb was three to five degrees. Ten degrees was steep, used only in takeoffs. At twenty-one degrees, passengers would feel as if the plane were going straight up.

More alarms.

"Exceedences," Wong said again, in a flat voice. "He's stressing the hell out of the airframe. It's not built to take that. You guys do a structure inspect?"

As they watched, the plane went into a dive again.

"I can't believe this," Wong said. "The autopilot's supposed to prevent that-"

"He was on manual."

"Even so, these wild oscillations would kick in the autopilot." Wong pointed to the box of data to one side. "Yeah, there it is. The autopilot tries to take over. Pilot keeps punching it back to manual. That's crazy."

Another climb.

Another dive.

In all, they watched aghast as the aircraft went through six cycles of dive and climb, until suddenly, abruptly, it returned to stable flight.

"What happened?" she said.

"Autopilot took over. Finally." Rob Wong gave a long sigh. "Well, I'd say you know what happened to this airplane, Casey. But I'm damned if I know why."

WAR ROOM
9:00 a.m.

A cleaning crew was at work in the War Room. The big windows overlooking the factory floor were being washed, the chairs and the Formica table wiped down. In the far corner, a woman was vacuuming the carpet.

Doherty and Ron Smith were standing near the door, looking at a printout.

"What's going on?" she said.

"No IRT today," Doherty said. "Marder canceled it."

Casey said, "How come nobody told me that-"

Then she remembered. She'd turned her beeper off, the night before. She reached down, turned it back on.

"CET test last night was damn near perfect," Ron said. "Just as we said all along, that's an excellent airplane. We only got two repeated faults. We got a consistent fault on AUX COA, starting five cycles in, around ten-thirty; I don't know why that happened." He looked at her, waiting. He must have heard that she had been inside the hangar the night before, at about that time.

But she wasn't going to explain it to him. At least, not right now. She said, "And what about the proximity sensor?"

"That was the other fault," Smith said. "Out of twenty-two cycles we ran during the night, the wing proximity sensor faulted six times. It's definitely bad."

"And if that proximity sensor faulted during flight…"

"You'd get a slats disagree in the cockpit."

She turned to leave.

"Hey," Doherty said. "Where are you going?"

"I've got to look at some video."

"Casey: Do you know what the hell is going on?"

"You'll be the first to know," she said. And she walked away.

As swiftly as the investigation had stalled the day before, she felt it coming together. The QAR had been the key. At last she could reconstruct the sequence of events on Right 545. And with that, the pieces of the puzzle were falling rapidly into place.

As she walked to her car, she called Norma on her cell phone. "Norma, I need a route schedule for Transpacific."

"Got one right here," Norma said. "It came over with the FAA packet. What do you want to know?"

"Flight schedule to Honolulu."

"I'll check." There was a pause. "They don't go into Honolulu," Norma said. "They only go to-"

"Never mind," Casey said. "That's all I need to know." It was the answer she had expected.

"Listen," Norma said, "Marder has called three times for you already. He says you're not answering your pager."

'Tell him you can't reach me."

"And Richman has been trying to-"

"You can't reach me," Casey said.

She hung up, and hurried to her car.

Driving in the car, she called Ellen Fong in Accounting. The secretary said Ellen was working at home again today. Casey got the number, and called.

"Ellen, it's Casey Singleton."

"Oh yes, Casey." Her voice was cool. Careful.

"Did you do the translation?" Casey said.

"Yes." Flat. No expression.

"Did you finish it?'

"Yes. I finished it."

"Can you fax it to me?" Casey said. There was a pause. "I don't think I should do that," Ellen said. "All right…"

"Do you know why?" Ellen Fong asked. "I can guess."

"I will bring it to your office," Ellen said. 'Two o'clock?" "Fine," Casey said.

The pieces were coming together. Fast.

Casey was now pretty sure she could explain what happened on Flight 545. She could almost lay out the entire chain of causal events. With luck, the tape at Video Imaging would give her final confirmation.

Only one question remained.

What was she going to do about it?

SEPULVEDA BOULEVARD
10:45 a.m.

Fred Barker was sweating. The air conditioner was turned off in his office, and now, under Marty Reardon's insistent questioning, sweat trickled down his cheeks, glistened in his beard, dampened his shirt

"Mr. Barker," Matty said, leaning forward. Marty was forty-five, handsome in a thin-lipped, sharp-eyed way. He had the air of a reluctant prosecutor, a seasoned man who'd seen it all. He spoke slowly, often in short fragments, with the appearance of reasonableness. He was giving the witness every possible break. And his favorite tone was that of disappointment. Dark eyebrows up: How could this be? Marty said, "Mr. Barker, you've described 'problems' with the Norton N-22. But the company says Airworthiness Directives were issued that fixed the problems. Are they right?"

"No." Under Marty's probing, Barker had dropped the full sentences. He now said as little as possible.

"The Directives didn't work?'

"Well, we just had another incident, didn't we. Involving slats."

"Norton told us it wasn't slats."

"I think you'll find it was."

"So Norton Aircraft is lying?"

"They're doing what they always do. They come up with some complicated explanation that conceals the real problem."

"Some complicated explanation," Marty repeated. "But aren't aircraft complicated?"

"Not in this case. This accident is the result of their failure to redress a long-standing design flaw." "You're confident of that." "Yes."

"How can you be so sure? Are you an engineer?" "No."

"You have an aerospace degree?" "No."

"What was your major in college?" "That was a long time ago…"

"Wasn't it music, Mr. Barker? Weren't you a music major?"

"Well, yes, but, uh…"

Jennifer watched Marty's attack with mixed feelings. It was always fun to see an interview squirm, and the audience loved to watch pompous experts cut down to size. But Marty's attack threatened to devastate her entire segment. If Marty I destroyed Barker's credibility…

Of course, she thought, she could work around him. She didn't have to use him.

"A Bachelor of Arts. In music," Marty said, in his reasonable tone. "Mr. Barker, do you think that qualifies you to judge aircraft?"

"Not in itself, but-" "You have other degrees?"

"No."

"Do you have any scientific or engineering training at all?" Barker tugged at his collar. "Well, I worked for the FAA…"

"Did the FAA give you any scientific or engineering training? Did they teach you, say, fluid dynamics?" "No."

"Aerodynamics?" "Well, I have a lot of experience-"

"I'm sure. But do you have formal training in aerodynamics, calculus, metallurgy, structural analysis, or any of the other subjects involved in making an airplane?"

"Not formally, no."

"Informally?"

"Yes, certainly. A lifetime of experience."

"Good. That's fine. Now, I notice those books behind you, and on your desk." Reardon leaned forward, touched one of the books that lay open. "This one here. It's called Advanced Structural Integrity Methods for Airframe Durability and Damage Tolerance. Pretty dense. You understand this book?"

"Most of it, yes."

"For example." Reardon pointed to the open page, turned it to read. "Here on page 807, it says, 'Leevers and Radon introduced a biaxiality parameter B that relates the magnitude of the T stress as in equation 5.' You see that?"

"Yes." Barker swallowed.

"What is a 'biaxiality parameter'?"

"Uh, well, it's rather difficult to explain briefly…"

Marty jumped: "Who are Leevers and Radon?"

"They're researchers in the field."

"You know them?"

"Not personally."

"But you're familiar with their work."

"I've heard their names."

"Do you know anything about them at all?"

"Not personally, no."

"Are they important researchers in the field?"

"I've said I don't know." Barker tugged at his collar again.

Jennifer realized she had to put a stop to this. Marty was doing his attack-dog routine, snarling at the smell of fear. Jennifer couldn't use any of this stuff; the significant fact was that Barker had been on a crusade for years, he had a track record, he was committed to the fight. In any case she already had his slats explanation from the day before, and she had softball answers to the questions she had asked herself. She tapped Marty on the shoulder. "We're running late," she said.

Marty responded instantly; he was bored. He jumped up. "I'm sorry, Mr. Barker, we have to cut this short. We appreciate your time. You've been very helpful."

Barker appeared to be in shock. He mumbled something. The makeup girl came up to him with wipes in her hand and said, "I'll help you get the makeup off…"

Marty Reardon turned to Jennifer. In a low voice he said, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Marty," she said, answering him in the same low tones, "the CNN tape is dynamite. The story's dynamite. The public's scared to get on airplanes. We're fleshing out the controversy. Performing a public service."

"Not with this clown you're not," Reardon said. "He's a litigator's stooge. All he's good for is an out-of-court settlement. He doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about."

"Marty. Whether you like this guy or not, the plane has a history of problems. And the tape is fabulous."

"Yes, and everybody's seen the tape," Reardon said. "But what's the story! You better show me something, Jennifer."

"I will, Marty."

"You better."

Left unstated was the rest of the sentence: Or I'm going to call Dick Shenk and pull the plug.

AVIATION HIGHWAY
11:15 a.m.

For a different look, they shot the FAA guy on the street, with the airport as background. The FAA guy was skinny and wore glasses. He blinked rapidly in the sun. He looked weak and bland. He was such a non-entity, Jennifer couldn't even remember his name. She felt confident he wouldn't hold up well.

Unfortunately, he was devastating about Barker.

"The FAA handles a great deal of sensitive information. Some is proprietary. Some is technical. Some is industry sensitive, and some is company sensitive. Since the candor of all parties is critical to our function, we have very strict rules about the dissemination of this information. Mr. Barker violated those rules. He seemed to have a great desire to see himself on television, and his name in the newspapers."

"He says, not true," Marty replied. "He says, the FAA wasn't doing its job, and he had to speak out."

'To attorneys?"

Marty said, "Attorneys?"

"Yes," the FAA guy said. "Most of his leaks were to attorneys bringing cases against carriers. He released confidential information to attorneys, incomplete information about investigations in progress. And that's illegal."

"Did you prosecute?"

"We're not able to prosecute. We don't have that authority. But it was clear to us that he was being paid under the table by lawyers to give them information. We turned his case over to the Justice Department, which failed to pursue it. We were pretty upset about it. We thought he should go to jail, and the attorneys with him."

"Why didn't that happen?"

"You'd have to ask Justice. But the Justice Department is made up of attorneys. And attorneys don't like to send other attorneys to jail. Sort of professional courtesy. Barker worked for attorneys, and they got him off. Barker still works for attorneys. Everything he says is designed to support or incite a frivolous lawsuit. He has no real interest in aviation safety. If he did, he'd still be working for us. Trying to serve the public, instead of trying to make a lot of money."

Marty said, "As you know, the FAA is currently under fire…"

Jennifer thought she'd better stop Marty now. There wasn't any point in continuing. She already intended to drop most of this interview. She'd use just the early statement where the FAA guy said Barker wanted publicity. That was the least damaging comment, and it would constitute a balanced response in the segment.

Because she needed Barker.

"Marty, I'm sorry, we have to get across town."

Marty nodded, thanked the guy immediately-another indication he was bored-signed an autograph for the guy's kid, and climbed into the limo ahead of Jennifer.

"Jesus," Marty said, as the limo pulled away.

He waved good-bye to the FAA guy through the window, smiled to him. Then he flopped back in the seat. "I don't get it, Jennifer," he said ominously. "Correct me if I'm wrong. But you don't have a story. You got some bullshit allegations by lawyers and their paid stooges. But you've got nothing of substance."

"We've got a story," she said. "You'll see." She tried to sound confident.

Marty grunted unhappily.

The car pulled out, and headed north to the Valley, toward Norton Aircraft.

VIDEO IMAGING SYSTEMS
11:17 a.m.

'Tape's coming up now," Harmon said. He drummed his fingers on the console.

Casey shifted her body in the chair, feeling twinges of pain. She still had several hours before the interview. And she still couldn't decide how she would handle it.

The tape began to run.

Harmon had tripled the frames, the image moving in a jerky slow motion. The change made the sequence appear even more horrifying. She watched in silence as the bodies tumbled, the camera spun and fell, and finally came to rest at the cockpit door.

"Go back."

"How far?"

"As slow as you can."

"One frame at a time?"

"Yes."

The images ran backward. The gray carpet. The blur as the camera jumped away from the door. The glint of light off the open cockpit door. The hot glare from the cockpit windows, the shoulders of the two pilots on either side of the pedestal, captain on the left, first officer on the right

The captain reaching toward the pedestal.

"Stop."

She stared at the frame. The captain was reaching, no hat, the face of the first officer turned forward, away from him.

The captain reaching his hand out.

Casey rolled her chair toward the console, and peered at the monitor. Then she stood, moved very close to the screen, seeing the scan lines.

There it is, she thought. In living color.

But what was she going to do about it?

Nothing, she realized. There was nothing she could do. She had the information now, but she could not possibly release it, and hold on to her job. But she realized she was probably going to lose her job anyway. Marder and Edgarton had set her up to do the press. Whether she lied, as Marder wanted her to do, or whether she told the truth, she was in trouble. There was no way out.

The only possible solution that Casey could see was not to do the interview. But she had to do it. She was caught in the middle.

"Okay," she said, sighing. "I've seen enough."

"What do you want to do?'

"Run another copy."

Harmon pressed a button on the console. He shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable. "Ms. Singleton," he said. "I feel I have to mention something. The people who work here have seen this tape, and frankly, they're pretty upset."

"I can imagine," Casey said.

"They've all seen that guy on television, the attorney, who says you're covering up the real cause of the accident…"

"Uh-huh…"

"And one person in particular, a woman in reception, dunks we should turn this tape over to the authorities, or to the television stations. I mean, it's like the Rodney King thing. We're sitting on a bomb here. People's lives are at risk."

Casey sighed. She was not really surprised. But it presented a new issue, and she would have to deal with it. "Has that already happened? Is that what you're telling me?'

"No," Harmon said. "Not yet"

"But people are concerned"

"Yes."

"And what about you? What do you think?"

"Well. To tell you the truth, I'm bothered, as well," Harmon said. "I mean, you work for the company, you have your loyalties. I understand that. But if there really is something wrong with this airplane and people died because of it…"

Casey's mind was working fast again, thinking through the situation. There was no way to know how many copies of the tape had already been made. There was no way to contain or control events, now. And she was tired of the intrigue-with the carrier, with the engineers, with the union, with Marder, with Richman. All these conflicting agendas, while she was caught in the middle, trying to hold it together.

And now the damn tape company!

She said, "What's the name of the woman in reception?"

"Christine Barron."

"Does she know your company has signed a non-disclosure agreement with us?'

"Yeah, but… I guess she thinks her conscience takes precedence."

"I need to make a call," Casey said. "On a private line."

He took her to an office that wasn't being used. She made two telephone calls. When she came back, she said to Harmon, "The tape is Norton property. It is not to be released to anyone without our authorization. And you have signed a nondisclosure agreement with us."

"Doesn't your conscience bother you?' Harmon said.

"No," Casey said. "It doesn't. We're investigating this, and we'll get to the bottom of it. All you're doing is talking about things you don't understand. If you release this tape, you'll help a bottom-feeder lawyer sue us for damages. You signed an NDA with us. You violate it, and you're out of business. Keep it in mind."

She took her copy of the tape, and walked out of the room.

NORTON QA
11:50 a.m.

Frustrated and angry, Casey stormed into her office at QA. An elderly woman was waiting for her. She introduced herself as Martha Gershon, in "media training." In person, she looked like a kindly grandmother: gray hair, tied up in a bun, and a beige, high-necked dress.

Casey said, "I'm sorry, I'm very busy. I know Marder asked you to see me, but I'm afraid that-"

"Oh, I realize how busy you are," Martha Gershon said. Her voice was calm, reassuring. "You don't have time for me, especially today. And you don't really want to see me, do you? Because you don't much care for John Marder."

Casey paused.

She looked again at this pleasant lady, standing there in her office, smiling.

"You must feel you've been manipulated by Mr. Marder. I understand. Now that I've met him, I must say I don't get a strong feeling of integrity from him. Do you?"

"No," Casey said.

"And I don't think he likes women much," Gershon continued. "And I suspect he's arranged for you to speak to the television cameras, in the hope that you would fail. Gosh, I'd hate to see that happen."

Casey stared at her. "Please sit down," she said.

"Thank you, dear." The woman sat on the couch, her beige dress billowing around her. She folded her hands neatly in her lap. She remained utterly calm. "I won't take long," she said.

"But perhaps you'd be more comfortable if you sat down, too."

Casey sat down.

"There's just a few things I'd like to remind you of," Gershon said, "before your interview. You know you'll be speaking to Martin Reardon."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes," she said, "which means you'll be dealing with his distinctive interviewing style. That will make it easier."

"I hope you're right."

"I am, dear," she said. "Are you comfortable now?"

"I think so."

"I'd like to see you sit back in your chair. There you go. Sit back. When you lean forward you appear too eager, and your body gets tense. Sit back, so you can take in what is said to you, and be relaxed. You might want to do that in the interview. Sit back, I mean. And be relaxed."

"All right," Casey said, sitting back.

"Relaxed now?"

"I think so," Casey said.

"Do you clasp your hands together like that on the desk, usually? I'd like to see what happens if you place your hands apart. Yes. Rest them on the desk, just like you're doing. If you close your hands, it makes you tense. It's so much better when you just stay open. Good. Does that feel natural?"

"I guess so."

"You must be under great strain now," Gershon said, clucking sympathetically. "But I've known Martin Reardon since he was a young reporter. Cronkite disliked him. Thought Martin was cocky and insubstantial. I fear that assessment has proved accurate. Martin is all tricks and no substance. He's not going to give you any trouble, Katharine. Not a woman of your intelligence. You'll have no trouble at all."

Casey said, "You're making me feel wonderful."

"I'm just telling you how it is," Gershon said lightly. "The most important thing to remember with Reardon is that you know more than he does. You've worked in this business for years. Reardon has literally just arrived. He probably flew in this morning, and he will fly out again tonight. He's bright, facile, and a quick study, but he does not have your depth of knowledge. Remember that: you know more than he does."

"Okay," Casey said.

"Now, because Reardon has almost no information at his disposal, his chief skill is manipulating the information you give him. Reardon has a reputation as a hatchet man, but if you watch how he behaves, he's actually a one-trick performer. And this is his trick. He gets you to agree with a series of statements, so you are nodding, yes, yes-and then he hits you with something out of left field. Reardon's done that his whole life. It's amazing people haven't caught on.

"He'll say, You're a woman. Yes. You live in California. Yes. You have a good job. Yes. You enjoy life. Yes. So why did you steal the money? And you've been nodding along, and suddenly you're flustered, you're off-balance-and he's got a reaction he can use.

"Remember, all he wants is that one-sentence reaction. If he doesn't get it, he'll double back, and ask the question another way. He may return to a subject again and again. If he keeps raising a particular topic, you'll know he hasn't gotten what he wants."

"Okay."

"Martin has another trick. He will make a provocative statement, and then pause, waiting for you to fill the vacuum. He'll say, Casey, you make airplanes, so you must know the planes are unsafe… And wait for you to answer. But notice he hasn't actually asked a question."

Casey nodded.

"Or he will repeat what you say, in a tone of disbelief."

"I understand," Casey said.

"You understand!" Gershon said, surprised, raising her eyebrows. It was a pretty good imitation of Reardon. "You see what I mean. You will be goaded to defend yourself. But you don't have to. If Martin doesn't ask a question, you needn't say anything."

Casey nodded. Not saying anything.

"Very good." Gershon smiled. "You'll do just fine. Just remember to take all the time you want. The interview is taped, so they'll cut out any pauses. If you don't understand a question, ask him to clarify it. Martin is extremely good at asking vague questions that provoke specific answers. Remember: he doesn't really know what he's talking about. He's just here for the day."

"I understand," Casey said.

"Now. If you're comfortable looking at him, do that. If you're not, you might choose a point somewhere near his head, like the corner of a chair, or a picture on the wall behind him. And focus on that instead. The camera won't be able to tell you're not really looking at him. Just do whatever you need to do to keep your concentration."

Casey tried it, looking just past Gershon's ear.

"That's good," Gershon said. "You'll do fine. There's only one more thing I can tell you, Katherine. You work in a complex business. If you try to explain that complexity to Martin, you'll be frustrated. You'll feel he isn't interested. He'll probably cut you off. Because he isn't interested. A lot of people complain that television lacks focus. But that's the nature of the medium. Television's not about information at all. Information is active, engaging. Television is passive. Information is disinterested, objective. Television is emotional. It's entertainment. Whatever he says, however he acts, in truth Martin has absolutely no interest in you, or your company, or your airplanes. He's paid to exercise his one reliable talent: provoking people, getting them to make an emotional outburst, to lose their temper, to say something outrageous. He doesn't really want to know about airplanes. He wants a media moment. If you understand that, you can deal with him."

And she smiled, her grandmotherly smile. "I know you'll do just fine, Casey."

Casey said, "Will you be there? At the interview?' "Oh no," Gershon said, smiling. "Martin and I have a long history. We don't much care for each other. On the rare occasions we find ourselves in the same location, I'm afraid we tend to spit."

ADMINISTRATION
1:00 p.m.

John Marder was sitting at his desk, arranging the documents-props-for Casey to use in her interview. He wanted them complete, and he wanted them in order. First, the parts record for the counterfeit thruster cowl on the number-two engine. Finding that part had been a stroke of luck. Kenny Burne, for all his bluster, had done something right. A thruster cowl was a big-bone part, something everybody could relate to. And it was definitely counterfeit. Pratt and Whitney would scream when they saw it: the famous eagle on their logo had been printed backward. More important, the presence of a counterfeit part could throw the entire story in that direction, and it would take the heat off-

His private phone rang.

He picked it up. "Marder."

He heard the hissing crackle of a satellite phone. Hal Edgarton, calling from the company jet on his way to Hong Kong. Edgarton said, "Has it happened yet?"

"Not yet, Hal. Another hour."

"Call me, as soon as it's over."

"I will, Hal."

"And it better be good news," Edgarton said, and he hung up.

BURBANK
1:15 p.m.

Jennifer was fretting. She had had to leave Marty alone for a while. And it was never a good idea to leave Marty alone during a shoot: he was a restless, high-energy guy, and he needed constant attention. Someone had to hold his hand and fuss over him. Marty was like all the on-camera talent at Newsline-they might once have been reporters, but now they were actors, and they had all the traits of actors. Self-centered, vain, demanding. They were a pain in the ass, is what they were.

She also knew that Marty, for all his bitching about the Norton story, was at bottom just worried about appearances. He knew the segment had been put together fast. He knew it was down and dirty. And he was afraid that when the segment was cut, he'd be fronting a lame story. He was afraid his friends would make snide comments about the story over lunch at the Four Seasons. He didn't care about journalistic responsibility. He just cared about appearances.

And the proof, Jennifer knew, was in her hands. She had only been gone twenty minutes, but as her Town Car rolled up to the location, she saw Marty pacing, head down. Troubled and unhappy.

Typical Marty.

She got out of the car. He came right over to her, started to make his complaint, started to say he thought they should bail on the segment, call Dick, tell him it wasn't working… She cut him off.

"Marty. Look at this."

She took the videotape she was carrying, gave it to the cameraman, and told him to play it back. The cameraman popped it into the camera while she went over to the small playback monitor that sat on the grass.

"What is it?" Marty said, standing over the monitor.

"Watch."

The tape began to play. It started with a baby on the mother's lap. Goo-goo. Ga-ga. Baby sucking her toes.

Marty looked at Jennifer. His dark eyebrows went up.

She said nothing.

The tape continued.

With the glare of the sun on the monitor, it was hard to see in detail, but it was clear enough. Bodies suddenly tumbling through the air. Marty sucked in his breath as he watched, excited.

"Where did you get this?"

"Disgruntled employee."

"An employee of?"

"A video shop that does work for Norton Aircraft. A solid citizen who thought it should be released. She called me."

"This is a Norton tape?"

"They found it on the plane."

"Unbelievable," Marty said, watching the tape. "Unbelievable." Bodies tumbling, the camera moving. "This is shocking."

"Isn't it fabulous?"

The tape continued. It was good. It was all good-even better than the CNN tape, more kinetic, more radical. Because the camera broke free and bounced around, this tape conveyed a better sense of what must have happened on the flight.

"Who else has this?" Marty said.

"Nobody."

"But your disgruntled employee may…"

"No," Jennifer said. "I promised we'd pay her legal bills, as long as she didn't give it to anybody else. She'll sit tight."

"So this is our exclusive."

"Right."

"An actual tape from inside Norton Aircraft."

"Right."

"Then we've got a fabulous segment here," Marty said.

Back from the dead! Jennifer thought, as she watched Marty go over to the fence, and start to prepare for his stand-up. The segment was saved!

She knew she could count on Marty to cut the crap. Because, of course, this new tape added nothing to the information already in the can. But Marty was a pro. He knew their segments lived and died on the visuals. If the visuals worked, nothing else mattered.

And this tape was a grabber.

So Marty was cheerful now, pacing back and forth, glancing at Norton Aircraft through the fence. The whole situation was perfect for Marty, a tape obtained from inside the company, with all the innuendo of stonewall and cover-up. Marty could milk that for all it was worth.

While the makeup girl retouched his neck, Marty said, "We should probably send that tape to Dick. So he can tease it."

"Done," Jennifer said, pointing to one of the cars heading down the road.

Dick would have it within an hour. And he would cream when he saw it.

Of course he would tease it He'd use bits of it to promote Saturday's show. "Shocking new film of the Norton disaster! Terrifying footage of death in the skies! Only on Newsline, Saturday at ten!"

They'd run that sucker every half hour until showtime. By Saturday night, the whole country would be watching.

Marty ad-libbed his stand-up, and he did it well. Now they were back in the car, heading toward the Norton gate. They were even a few minutes ahead of schedule.

"Who's the company contact?" he said.

"Woman named Singleton."

"A woman?" Dark eyebrows up again. "What's the deal?"

"She's a vice-president. Late thirties. And she's on the investigation team."

Marty held out his hand. "Give me the file and the notes." He started to read through them, in the car. "Because you realize what we have to do now, don't you, Jennifer? The segment's all moved around. That tape runs maybe four, four-thirty. And you may show parts of it twice-I would. So you won't have much time for Barker and the others. It's going to be the tape, and the Norton spokesman. That's the core of the piece. So there isn't any choice. We have to nail this woman cold."

Jennifer said nothing. She waited, while Marty thumbed through the file.

"Wait just a minute here," Marty said. He was staring at the file. "Are you kidding me?"

"No," Jennifer said.

"This is dynamite," Reardon said. "Where'd you get it?"

"Norton sent it to me in a background package, three days ago, by accident."

"Bad accident," Marty said. "Especially for Ms. Singleton."

WAR ROOM
2:15 p.m.

Casey was crossing the plant, heading over to IAA, when her cell phone rang. It was Steve Nieto, the Fixer in Vancouver.

"Bad news," Nieto said. "I went to the hospital yesterday. He's dead. Cerebral edema. Mike Lee wasn't around, so they asked me if I could identify the body, and-"

"Steve," she said. "Not on a cell phone. Send me a telex."

"Okay."

"But don't send it here. Send it to FT in Yuma."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

She hung up and entered Hangar 4, where the tape strips were laid out on the floor. She wanted to talk to Ringer about the pilot's hat they'd found. That hat was critical to the story, as it was now becoming clear to Casey.

She had a sudden thought, and called Norma. "Listen, I think I know where that fax came from about the in-flight magazine."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. Call Centinela Hospital at the airport. Ask for a stewardess named Kay Liang. And this is what I want you to ask her. Better write it down."

She spoke to Norma for several minutes, then hung up. Immediately, her cell phone rang again.

"Casey Singleton."

Marder screamed, "Where are you, for Chrissakes?"

"Hangar Four," she said, "I'm trying to-"

"You're supposed to be here" Marder screamed. "For the interview."

"The interview's four o'clock."

"They moved it up. They're here now"

"Now?"

"Yes, they're all here, the crew, everybody, they're setting up. They're all waiting for you. It's now, Casey."

Which was how she found herself in the War Room, sitting in a chair, with a makeup woman daubing at her face. The War Room was full of people, there were guys setting up big lights on stands, and taping sheets of cardboard to the ceiling. Other men were taping microphones to the table, and to the walls. There were two camera crews setting up, each with two cameras-four cameras in all, pointing in opposite directions. Two chairs had been arranged at opposite sides of the table, one for her, one for the interviewer.

She thought it was inappropriate that they were taping in the War Room; she didn't know why Marder had agreed to it. She thought it was disrespectful that this room, where they worked and argued and struggled to understand what happened to planes in flight, had been turned into a prop for a television show. And she didn't like it.

Casey was off-balance; everything was happening too fast. The makeup woman kept asking her to keep her head still, to close her eyes, then open them. Eileen, Marder's secretary, came over and thrust a manila folder in her hands. "John wanted to make sure you had this," she said.

Casey tried to look at the folder.

"Please," the makeup woman said, "I need you to look up for a minute. Just a minute, then you can go."

Jennifer Malone, the producer, came over with a cheerful smile. "How's everything today, Ms. Singleton?"

"Fine, thanks," Casey said. Still looking up for makeup.

"Barbara," Malone said, to the makeup woman. "Make sure you get the, uh…" And she waved her hand toward Casey, a vague gesture.

"I will," the makeup woman said.

"Get the what?" Casey said.

"A touchup," the makeup woman said. "Nothing."

Malone said, "I'll give you a minute to finish here, and then Marty should be in to meet you, and we'll go over the general areas we're covering, before we start."

"Okay."

Malone went away. The makeup woman, Barbara, continued to daub at Casey's face. "I'm going to give you a little under the eyes," she said. "So you don't look so tired."

"Ms. Singleton?"

Casey recognized the voice at once, a voice she'd heard for years. The makeup woman jumped back, and Casey saw Marty Reardon standing in front of her. Reardon was in shirtsleeves and a tie. He had Kleenex around his collar. He held out his hand. "Marty Reardon. Nice to meet you."

"Hi," she said.

"Thanks for your help with this," Reardon said. "We'll try to make it as painless as possible."

"Okay…"

"You know of course we're on tape," Reardon said. "So if you have a bobble or something, don't worry; we'll just cut it. If at any time you want to restate an answer, go ahead and do that. You can say exactly what you want to say."

"Okay."

"Primarily we'll be talking about the Transpacific flight. But I'm going to have to touch on some other matters as well. Somewhere along the line, I'll ask about the China sale. And there'll probably be some questions about the union response, if we have time. But I don't really want to get into those other issues. I want to stay with Transpacific. You're a member of the investigation team?"

"Yes."

"All right, fine. I have a tendency to jump around in my questions. Don't let that bother you. We're really here to understand the situation as best we can."

"Okay."

"I'll see you later, then," Reardon said. He smiled, and turned away.

The makeup woman moved back in front of her again. "Look up," she said. Casey stared at the ceiling. "He's very nice," the makeup woman said. "A sweet man, underneath it all. Dotes on his children."

She heard Malone call out, "How much more time, guys?"

Someone said, "Five minutes."

"Sound?"

"We're ready. Just give us the bodies."

The makeup woman began to powder Casey's neck. Casey winced, feeling twinges of pain. "You know," the woman said, "I have a number you can call."

"For what?"

"It's a very good organization, very good people. Psychologists mostly. And extremely discreet. They can help you."

"With what?"

"Look left, please. He must have hit you pretty hard."

Casey said, "I fell."

"Sure, I understand. I'll leave my card, in case you change your mind," the makeup woman said, using the powder puff. "Hmm. I better get some base on that, to take the blue out." She turned back to her box, got a piece of sponge with makeup on it. She began to daub it onto Casey's neck. "I can't tell you how much I see, in my line of work, and the woman always denies it. But domestic violence has to be stopped."

Casey said, "I live alone."

"I know, I know," the makeup woman said. "Men count on your silence. My own husband, Jeez, he wouldn't go into counseling. I finally left with the kids."

Casey said, "You don't understand."

"I understand that when this violence is going on, you think there's nothing you can do. That's part of the depression, the hopelessness," the makeup woman said. "But sooner or later, we all face the truth."

Malone came over. "Did Marty tell you? We're mostly doing the accident, and he'll probably start with that. But he may mention the China sale, and the unions. Just take your time. And don't worry if he jumps around from one thing to another. He does that."

"Look right," the makeup woman said, doing the other side of her neck. Casey turned to the right. A man came over and said, "Ma'am? Can I give you this?" and he thrust a plastic box into her hands, with a dangling wire.

"What is it?" Casey said.

"Look right, please," the makeup woman said. "It's the radio mike. I'll help you with it in a minute."

Her cell phone rang, in her purse on the floor beside her chair.

'Turn that off!" someone shouted.

Casey reached for it, flipped it open. "It's mine."

"Oh, sorry."

She brought the phone to her ear. John Marder said, "Did you get the folder from Eileen?"

"Yes."

"Did you look at it?"

"Not yet," she said.

"Just lift your chin a little," the makeup woman said.

On the telephone, Marder said, "The folder documents everything we talked about Parts report on the reverser cowl, everything. It's all there."

"Uh-huh… Okay…"

"Just wanted to make sure you're all set."

"I'm all set," she said.

"Good, we're counting on you."

She clicked the phone off, turning the power switch off.

"Chin up," the makeup woman said. 'That's a girl."

When makeup was finished, Casey stood, and the woman brushed her shoulders with a little brush, and put hair spray in her hair. Then she took Casey into the bathroom, and showed her how to thread the mike wire up under her blouse, through her bra, and clip it to her lapel. The wire ran back down inside her skirt, then back up to the radio box. The woman hooked the box to the waistband of Casey's skirt, and turned the power on.

"Remember," she said. "From now on, you're live. They can hear whatever you say."

"Okay," Casey said. She adjusted her clothes. She felt the box pinching at her waist, the wire against the skin of her chest She felt cramped and uncomfortable.

The makeup woman led her back into the War Room, holding her by the elbow. Casey felt like a gladiator being taken into the arena.

Inside the War Room, the lights were glaring. The room was very hot. She was led to her seat at the table, told to watch she didn't trip over the camera cables, and helped to sit down. There were two cameras behind her. There were two cameras facing her. The cameraman behind her asked her to please move her chair an inch to the right. She did. A man came over and adjusted her microphone clip, because he said there was clothing noise.

On the opposite side, Reardon was attaching his own microphone without assistance, chatting with the cameraman. Then he slipped easily into his chair. He looked relaxed, and casual. He faced her, smiled at her.

"Nothing to worry about," he said. "Piece of cake."

Malone said, "Let's go, guys, they're in the chairs. It's hot in here."

"A camera ready."

"B camera ready."

"Sound ready."

"Let's have the lights," Malone said.

Casey had thought the lights were already on, but suddenly, new harsh lights blazed down at her, from all directions. She felt as if she were in the middle of a glaring furnace.

"Camera check," Malone said.

"Fine here."

"We're fine."

"All right," Malone said. "Roll tape."

The interview began.

WAR ROOM
2:33 p.m.

Marty Reardon met her eyes, smiled, and gestured to the room. "So. This is where it all happens."

Casey nodded.

"This is where the Norton specialists meet to analyze aircraft accidents."

"Yes."

"And you're part of that team."

"Yes."

"You're vice-president of Quality Assurance at Norton Aircraft."

"Yes."

"Been with the company five years."

"Yes."

"They call this room the War Room, don't they?"

"Some do, yes."

"Why is that?"

She paused. She couldn't think of any way to describe the arguments in this room, the flares of temper, the outbursts that accompanied every attempt to clarify an aircraft incident, without saying something he could take out of context.

She said, "It's just a nickname."

"The War Room," Reardon said. "Maps, charts, battle plans, pressure. Tension under siege. Your company, Norton Aircraft, is under siege at the moment, isn't it?"

"I'm not sure what you're referring to," Casey said.

Reardon's eyebrows went up. "The JAA, Europe's Joint Aviation Authority, is refusing to certify one of your aircraft, the N-22, because they say it's unsafe."

"Actually, the plane's already certified but-"

"And you're about to sell fifty N-22s to China. But now the Chinese, too, are said to be concerned about the safety of the plane."

She didn't get angry at the innuendo; she focused on Reardon. The rest of the room seemed to fade away.

She said, "I'm not aware of any Chinese concerns."

"But you are aware," Reardon said, "of the reason behind these safety concerns. Earlier this week, a very serious accident. Involving an N-22 aircraft."

"Yes."

'Transpacific Flight 545. An accident in midair, over the Pacific Ocean."

"Yes."

"Three people died. And how many injured?"

"I believe fifty-six," she said. She knew it sounded awful, no matter how she said it

"Fifty-six injured," Reardon intoned. "Broken necks. Broken limbs. Concussions. Brain damage. Two people paralyzed for life…"

Reardon trailed off, looking at her.

He hadn't asked a question. She said nothing. She waited, in the glaring heat of the lights.

"How do you feel about that?"

She said, "I think everyone at Norton feels very great concern for air safety. That's why we test our airframes to three times the design life-"

"Very great concern. Do you think that's an adequate response?"

Casey hesitated. What was he saying? "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm afraid I don't follow-"

"Doesn't the company have an obligation to build safe aircraft?"

"Of course. And we do."

"Not everyone agrees," Reardon said. "The JAA doesn't agree. The Chinese may not agree… Doesn't the company have an obligation to fix the design of an aircraft which it knows to be unsafe?"

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean," Reardon said, "is that what happened to Flight 545 has happened before. Many times before. On other N-22s. Isn't that true?'

"No," Casey said.

"No?" Reardon's eyebrows shot up.

"No," Casey said, firmly. This was the moment, she thought. She was stepping off the cliff.

"This is the first time?"

"Yes."

"Well then," Reardon said, "perhaps you can explain this list." He produced a sheet of paper, held it up. She knew from across the room what it was. "This is a list of slats episodes on the N-22, going back to 1992, right after the plane was introduced. Eight episodes. Eight separate episodes. Transpacific is the ninth."

"That's not accurate."

"Well, tell me why."

Casey went through, as briefly as she could, the way Airworthiness Directives worked. She explained why they had been issued for the N-22. How the problem had been solved, except for foreign carriers that had failed to comply. How there had not been a domestic incident since 1992.

Reardon listened with continuously raised eyebrows, as if he had never heard such an outlandish thing before.

"So let me see if I understand," he said. "In your view, the company has followed the rules. By issuing these air directives, which are supposed to fix the problem."

"No," Casey said. "The company has fixed the problem."

"Has it? We're told slats deployment is the reason people died on Flight 545."

"That's incorrect" She was now dancing on a tightrope, working a fine and technical line, and she knew it If he asked her, Did the slats deploy? she would be in trouble. She waited breathlessly for the next question.

Reardon said, "The people who told us the slats deployed are wrong?"

"I don't know how they'd know," Casey said. She decided to go farther. "Yes, they're wrong."

"Fred Barker, former FAA investigator, is wrong."

"Yes."

"The JAA is wrong."

"Well, as you know, the JAA is actually delaying certification over noise emissions, and-"

"Let's just stay with this for a moment," Reardon said.

She remembered what Gershon had said: He's not interested in information.

"The JAA is wrong?" he said, repeating the question.

This called for a complicated answer, she thought. How could she put it briefly? "They're wrong to say the aircraft is unsafe."

"So in your opinion," Reardon said, "there is absolutely no substance to these criticisms of the N-22."

"That's correct. It is an excellent aircraft."

"A well-designed aircraft."

"Yes."

"A safe aircraft."

"Absolutely."

"You'd fly in it"

"Whenever possible."

"Your family, your friends…"

"Absolutely."

"No hesitation whatsoever?"

"That's right."

"So what was your reaction, when you saw the tape on television from Flight 545?"

He 'II get you saying yes, then hit you from left field,

But Casey was ready for it. "All of us here knew that it was a very tragic accident. When I saw the tape, I felt very sad for the people involved."

"You felt sad."

"Yes."

"Didn't it shake your conviction about the aircraft? Make you question the N-22?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because the N-22 has a superb safety record. One of the best in the industry."

"One of the best in the industry…." Reardon smirked.

"Yes, Mr. Reardon," she said. "Let me ask you. Last year, forty-three thousand Americans died in automobile accidents. Four thousand people drowned. Two thousand people choked to death on food. Do you know how many died in domestic commercial transports?"

Reardon paused. He chuckled. "I must admit you've stumped the panel."

"It's a fair question, Mr. Reardon. How many died in commercial aircraft last year?"

Reardon frowned. "I'll say… I'll say a thousand."

"Fifty," Casey said. "Fifty people died. Do you know how many died the year before that? Sixteen. Fewer than were killed on bicycles."

"And how many of those died on the N-22?" Reardon asked, eyes narrowed, trying to recover.

"None," Casey said.

"So your point is…"

"We have a nation in which forty-three thousand people die every year in cars, and nobody worries about it at all. They get into cars when they're drunk, when they're tired-without a second thought. But these same people are panicked at the thought of getting on an airplane. And the reason," Casey said,"is that television consistently exaggerates the real dangers involved. That tape will make people afraid to fly. And for no good reason."

"You think the tape shouldn't have been shown?"

"I didn't say that."

"But you said it will make people afraid-for no good reason."

"Correct."

"Is it your view tapes such as these should not be shown?"

She thought: Where is he going? Why is he doing this?

"I didn't say that"

"I'm asking you now."

"I said," Casey replied, "that those tapes create an inaccurate perception of the danger of air travel."

"Including the danger of the N-22?"

"I've already said I think the N-22 is safe."

"So you don't think such tapes should be shown to the public."

What the hell was he doing? She still couldn't figure it out. She didn't answer him; she was thinking hard. Trying to see where he was going with this. She had a sinking feeling she knew.

"In your view, Ms. Singleton, should such tapes be suppressed?"

"No," Casey said.

"They should not be suppressed."

"No."

"Has Norton Aircraft ever suppressed any tapes?"

Uh-oh, she thought She was trying to figure out how many people knew of the tape. A lot, she decided: Ellen Fong, Ziegler, the people at Video Imaging. Maybe a dozen people, maybe more…

"Ms. Singleton," Reardon said, "are you personally aware of any other tape of this accident?"

Just lie, Amos had said.

"Yes," she said. "I know of another tape."

"And have you seen the tape?"

"I have."

Reardon said, "It's upsetting. Horrifying. Isn't it?'

She thought: They have it. They'd gotten the tape. She would have to proceed very carefully now.

"It's tragic," Casey said. "What happened on Flight 545 is a tragedy." She felt tired. Her shoulders ached from tension.

"Ms. Singleton, let me put it to you directly: Did Norton Aircraft suppress this tape?"

"No-Eyebrows up, the look of surprise. "But you certainly didn't release it, did you."

"No."

"Why not?"

"That tape was found on the aircraft," Casey said, "and is being used in our ongoing investigation. We didn't feel it appropriate to release it until our investigation is completed."

"You weren't covering up the well-known defects of the N-22?"

"No."

"Not everyone agrees with you about that, Ms. Singleton. Because Newsline obtained a copy of that tape, from a conscience-stricken Norton employee who felt that the company was covering up. Who felt the tape should be made public."

Casey held herself rigid. She didn't move.

"Are you surprised?" Reardon said, his lips in a curl.

She didn't answer. Her mind was spinning. She had to plan her next move.

Reardon was smirking, a patronizing smile. Enjoying the moment.

Now.

"Have you yourself actually seen this tape, Mr. Reardon?" She asked the question in a tone that implied the tape didn't exist, that Reardon was making it all up.

"Oh yes," Reardon said solemnly, "I have seen the tape. It's

difficult, painful to watch. It is a terrible, damning record of what happened on that N-22 aircraft."

"You've seen it all the way through?"

"Of course. So have my associates in New York."

So it had already gone to New York, she thought.

Careful.

Careful.

"Ms. Singleton, was Norton ever planning to release that taper

"It's not ours to release. We'd return it to the owners, after the investigation was completed. It would be up to the owners to decide what to do with it."

"After the investigation was completed…" Reardon was shaking his head. "Forgive me, but for a company you say is committed to flight safety, there seems to be a consistent pattern of cover-ups here."

"Cover-ups?"

"Ms. Singleton, if there was a problem with the airplane-a serious problem, an ongoing problem, a problem the company knew about-would you tell us?"

"But there is no problem."

"Isn't there?' Reardon was looking down now, at the papers in front of him. "If the N-22 is really as safe as you say, Ms. Singleton, then how do you explain this?"

And he handed her a sheet of paper.

She took it, glanced at the paper.

"Jesus Christ," she said.

Reardon had his media moment. He had gotten her unguarded, off-balance reaction. She knew it would look bad. She knew there was no way for her to recover from it, no matter what she said from this point on. But she was focused on the paper in front of her, stunned to see it now.

It was a Xerox of the cover sheet of a report done three years ago.

–

privileged information -for internal use only

norton aircraft

internal review action committee

executive summary

unstable flight characteristics of N-22 aircraft

And following was a list of the names of the committee members. Beginning with her name, since she had chaired the committee.

Casey knew that there was nothing improper about the study, nothing improper in its findings. But everything about it, even the name-"Unstable Flight Characteristics"- appeared damning. It was going to be very difficult for her to explain.

He's not interested in information.

And this was an internal company report, she thought. It should never have been released. It was three years old-not that many people would even remember it existed. How had Reardon gotten it?

She glanced at the top of the page, saw a fax number, and the name of the sending station: NORTON QA.

It had come from her own office.

How?

Who had done it?

Richman, she thought, grimly.

Richman had placed this report in the packet of press material on her desk. The material Casey had told Norma to fax to Newsline.

How had Richman known about it?

Marder.

Marder knew all about the study. Marder had been program manager on the N-22; he'd ordered it. And now Marder had arranged for the study to be released while she was on television, because-

"Ms. Singleton?" Reardon said.

She looked up. Back into the lights. "Yes." "Do you recognize this report?" "Yes, I do," she said.

"Is that your own name at the bottom?"

"Yes."

Reardon handed her three other sheets, the rest of the executive summary. "In fact, you were the chairman of a secret committee inside Norton that investigated 'flight instabilities' of the N-22. Isn't that right?"

How was she going to do this? she thought.

He's not interested in information.

"It wasn't a secret," she said. 'It's the kind of study we frequently conduct on operational aspects of our aircraft, once they're in service."

"By your own admission, it's a study of flight instabilities."

"Look," she said, "this study is a good thing."

"A good thing?" Eyebrows up, astonished.

"Yes," she said. "After the first slats incident four years ago, there was a question about whether the aircraft had unstable handling characteristics, in certain configurations. We didn't avoid that question. We didn't ignore it. We addressed it head-on-by forming a committee, to test the aircraft in various conditions, and see if it were true. And we concluded-"

"Let me read," Reardon said, "from your own report. "The aircraft relies upon computers for basic stabilization.'"

"Yes," she said. "All modern aircraft use-"

'"The aircraft has demonstrated marked sensitivity to manual handling during attitude change!'"

Casey was looking at the pages now. Following his quotes. "Yes, but if you'll read the rest of the sentence, you will-"

Reardon cut in: " 'Pilots have reported the aircraft cannot be controlled.'"

"But you're taking all this out of context"

"Am I?" Eyebrows up. "These are all statements from your report. A secret Norton report."

"I thought you said you wanted to hear what I had to say." She was starting to get angry. She knew it showed, and didn't care.

Reardon leaned back in his chair, spread his hands. The picture of reason. "By all means, Ms. Singleton."

"Then let me explain. This study was carried out to determine whether the N-22 had a stability problem. We concluded it did not, and-"

"So you say."

"I thought I was going to be allowed to explain."

"Of course."

"Then let me put your quotes in context," Casey said. "The report says the N-22 relies on computers. All modem aircraft rely on computers for stabilization in flight. The reason is not because they can't be flown by pilots. They can. There's no problem with that But the carriers now want extremely fuel-efficient aircraft. Maximum fuel efficiency comes from minimal drag, as the aircraft flies through the air."

Reardon was waving his hand, a dismissing gesture. "I'm sorry, but all this is beside-"

'To minimize drag," Casey continued, "the aircraft has to hold a very precise altitude, or position in the air. The most efficient position is slightly nose up. The computers hold the aircraft in this position during ordinary flight. None of this is unusual."

"Not unusual? Flight instabilities!" Reardon said.

He was always shifting the subject never letting her catch up. "I'm coming to that."

"We're eager to hear." Open sarcasm.

She struggled to control her temper. However bad things were now, it would be worse if she lost her temper. "You read a sentence before," she said. "Let me finish it. 'The aircraft has demonstrated marked sensitivity to manual handling during attitude change, but this sensitivity is entirely within designparameters and presents no difficulty to properly certified pilots.' That's the rest of the sentence."

"But you've admitted there is sensitive handling. Isn't that just another word for instability?"

"No," she said. "Sensitive does not mean unstable."

"The plane can't be controlled," Reardon said, shaking his head

"It can."

"You did a study because you were worried."

"We did a study because it's our job to make sure the aircraft is safe," she said. "And we are sure: it is safe."

"A secret study."

"It wasn't secret."

"Never distributed. Never shown to the public…"

"It was an internal report," she said.

"You have nothing to hide?"

"No," she said.

"Then why haven't you told us the truth about Transpacific Flight 545?'

"The truth?"

"We're told your accident team already has a preliminary finding on the probable cause. Is that not true?"

"We're close," she said.

"Close… Ms. Singleton, do you have a finding, or not?"

Casey stared at Reardon. The question hung in the air.

"I'm very sorry," the cameraman said, behind her. "But we have to reload."

"Camera reloading!"

"Reloading!"

Reardon looked as if he had been slapped. But almost immediately he recovered. 'To be continued," he said, smiling at Casey. He was relaxed; he knew he had beaten her. He got up from his chair, turned his back to her. The big lights clicked off; the room seemed suddenly almost dark. Somebody turned the air-conditioning back on.

Casey got up, too. She pulled the radio mike off her waist. The makeup woman came running over to her, holding out a powder puff. Casey held up her hand. "In a minute," she said.

With the lights off, she saw Richman, heading for the door.

Casey hurried after him.

BLDG 64
3:01 p.m.

She caught him in the hallway, grabbed him by the arm, spun him around. "You son of a bitch."

"Hey," Richman said. 'Take it easy." He smiled, nodded past her shoulder. Looking back, she saw the soundman and one of the cameramen coming out into the hallway.

Furious, Casey pushed Richman backward, shoving him through the door to the women's room. Richman started to laugh. "Jeez, Casey, I didn't know you cared-"

Then they were in the bathroom. She pushed him back against the row of sinks. "You little bastard," she hissed, "I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but you released that report, and I'm going to-"

"You're going to do nothing," Richman said, his voice suddenly cold. He threw her hands off him. "You still don't get it, do you? It's over, Casey. You just blew the China sale. You're finished."

She stared at him, not understanding. He was strong, confident-a different person.

"Edgarton's finished. The China sale's finished. And you're finished." He smiled. "Just the way John said it would happen."

Marder, she thought. Marder was behind it. "If the China sale goes, Marder will go, too. Edgarton will see to that."

Richman was shaking his head, pityingly. "No, he won't. Edgarton's sitting on his ass in Hong Kong, he'll never know what hit him. By noon Sunday, Marder'll be the new president of Norton Aircraft. It'll take him ten minutes with the Board. Because we've made a much bigger deal with Korea. A hundred and ten aircraft firm, and an option on thirty-five more. Sixteen billion dollars. The Board will be thrilled."

"Korea," Casey said. She was trying to put it together. Because it was a huge order, the biggest in the history of the company. "But why would-"

"Because he gave them the wing," Richman said. "And in return, they're more than happy to buy a hundred and ten aircraft. They don't care about sensationalistic American press. They know the plane's safe."

"He's giving them the wing?"

"Sure. It's a killer deal."

"Yeah," Casey said. "It kills the company."

"Global economy," Richman said. "Get with the program."

"But you're gutting the company," she said,

"Sixteen billion dollars," Richman said. "The minute that's announced, Norton stock'll go through the roof. Everybody gets well."

Everybody but the people in the company, she thought.

"This is a done deal," Richman said. "All we needed was somebody to publicly trash the N-22. And you just did that for us."

Casey sighed. Her shoulders dropped.

Looking past Richman, she saw herself in the mirror. Makeup was pancaked around her neck, and now it was cracking. Her eyes were dark. She looked haggard, exhausted. Defeated.

"So I suggest," Richman said, "that you ask me, very politely, what you should do next. Because your only choice now is to follow orders. Do as you're told, be a good girl, and maybe John will give you severance. Say, three months. Otherwise, you're out on your fucking ass."

He leaned close to her.

"Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes," Casey said.

"I'm waiting. Ask politely."

In her exhaustion, her mind raced, examining the options, trying to see a way out But she could see no way out. Newsline would run the story. Marder's plan would succeed. She was defeated. She had been defeated from the very beginning. Defeated from the first day Richman had shown up.

"I'm still waiting," Richman said.

She looked at his smooth face, smelled his cologne. The little bastard was enjoying this. And in a moment of fury, of deep outrage, she suddenly saw another possibility.

From the beginning, she had tried so hard to do the right thing, to solve the problem of 545. She had been honest, she had been straight, and it had just gotten her into trouble.

Or had it?

"You have to face facts, here," Richman said. "It's over. There's nothing you can do."

She pushed away from the sink.

"Watch me," she said.

And she walked out of the room.

WAR ROOM
3:15 p.m.

Casey slipped into her seat. The soundman came over and clipped the radio pack to the waist of her dress. "Say a few words for me, will you please? Just for level."

'Testing, testing, I'm getting tired," she said.

"That's fine. Thank you."

She saw Richman slip into the room, and stand with his back to the far wall. He had a faint smile on his face. He didn't look worried. He was confident there was nothing she could do. Marder had made a huge deal, he was shipping the wing, he was gutting the company, and he'd used Casey to do it.

Reardon dropped into his seat opposite her, shrugged his shoulders, adjusted his tie. He smiled at her. "How you holding up?"

"I'm okay."

"Hot in here, isn't it?" he said. He glanced at his watch. "We're almost finished."

Malone came over, and whispered in Reardon's ear. The whispering continued for some time. Reardon said, "Really?" and his eyebrows went up, then he nodded several times. Finally he said, "Got it." He began to shuffle his papers, going through the folder in front of him.

Malone said, "Guys? We ready?"

''A camera ready."

"B camera ready."

"Sound ready."

"Roll tape," she said.

This is it Casey thought She took a deep breath, looked expectantly at Reardon.

Reardon smiled at her.

"You're an executive at Norton Aircraft"

"Yes."

"Been here five years."

"Yes."

"You're a trusted, highly placed executive."

She nodded. If he only knew.

"Now there is an incident Flight 545. Involving an aircraft you say is perfectly safe."

"Correct"

"Yet three people died, and more than fifty were injured."

"Yes."

"The footage, which we've all seen, is horrifying. Your Incident Review Team has been working around the clock. And now we hear you have a finding."

"Yes," she said

"You know what happened on that flight"

Careful.

She had to do this very, very carefully. Because the truth was she didn't know; she just had a very strong suspicion. They still had to put the sequence together, to verify that things had happened in a certain order, the chain of causation. They didn't know for sure.

"We are close to a finding," Casey said.

"Needless to say, we're eager to hear."

"We will announce it tomorrow," Casey said

Behind the lights, she saw Richman's startled reaction. He hadn't been expecting that The little bastard was trying to see where she was going.

Let him try.

Across the table from her, Reardon turned aside, and Malone whispered in his ear. Reardon nodded turned back to Casey. "Ms. Singleton, if you know now, why wait?"

"Because this was a serious accident, as you yourself said.There's already been a great deal of unwarranted speculation from many sources. Norton Aircraft feels it is important to act responsibly. Before we say anything publicly, we have to confirm our findings at flight Test using the same aircraft that was involved in the accident."

"When will you flight test?'

'Tomorrow morning."

"Ah." Reardon sighed regretfully. "But that's too late for our broadcast. You understand that you're denying your company the opportunity to respond to these serious charges."

Casey had her answer ready. "We've scheduled the flight test for five a.m.," she said. "We'll hold a press conference immediately afterward-tomorrow at noon."

"Noon," Reardon said.

His expression was bland, but she knew he was working it out Noon in LA was 3:00 p.m. in New York. Plenty of time to make the evening news in both New York and Los Angeles. Norton's preliminary finding would be widely reported on both local and network news. And Newsline, which aired at 10:00 p.m. Saturday night, would be out-of-date. Depending on what emerged from the press conference, the Newsline segment, edited the night before, would be ancient history. It might even be embarrassing.

Reardon sighed. "On the other hand," he said, "we want to be fair to you."

"Naturally," Casey said.

NORTON ADMINISTRATION
4:15 p.m.

"I don't know," Richman said. "I think she may be planning something. She's pretty smart, John." "Not smart enough," Marder said.

"Fuck her," Marder said to Richman. "It doesn't make any difference what she does now."

"But if she's scheduling a flight test-"

"Who cares?" Marder said.

"And I think she's going to let the news crews film it"

"So what? Flight Test will only make the story worse. She has no idea what caused the accident And she has no idea what will happen if she takes that Transpacific plane up. They probably can't reproduce the event And there may be problems nobody knows about"

"Like what?"

_ "That aircraft went through very severe G-force loads," Marder said. "It may have undetected structural damage. Anything can happen, when they take that plane up." Marder made a dismissive wave. "This changes nothing. Newsline airs from ten to eleven Saturday night. Early Saturday evening I'll notify the Board that some bad publicity is coming our way, and we have to schedule an emergency meeting Sunday morning. Hal can't get back from Hong Kong in time. And his friends on the Board will drop him when they hear about a sixteen-billion-dollar deal. They've all got stock. They know what the announcement will do to their shares. I'm the next president of this company, and nobody can do a thing to stop it. Not Hal Edgarton. And certainly not Casey Singleton."

WAR ROOM
4:20 p.m.

The cameras were packed up; the white foam sheets removed from the ceiling, the microphones unclipped; the electrical boxes and camera cases removed. But the negotiations dragged on. Ed Fuller, the lanky head of Legal, was there; so was Teddy Rawley, the pilot; and two engineers who worked on FT, to answer technical questions that arose.

For Newsline, Malone now did all of the talking; Reardon paced in the background, occasionally stopping to whisper in her ear. His commanding presence seemed to have vanished with the bright lights; he now appeared tired, fretful, and impatient.

Malone began by saying that since Newsline was doing an entire segment on the Norton N-22, it was in the interest of the company to allow Newsline to film the flight test.

Casey said that presented no problem. Flight tests were documented with dozens of video cameras, mounted both inside and outside the plane; the Newsline people could watch the entire test on monitors, on the ground. They could have the film afterward, for their broadcast

No, Malone said. That wouldn't be sufficient. Newsline's crews had to actually be on the plane.

Casey said mat was impossible, that no airframe manufacturer had ever allowed an outside crew on a flight test. She was, she said, already making a concession to let them see the video on the ground

Not good enough, Malone said.

Ed Fuller broke in to explain it was a question of liability. Norton simply couldn't allow uninsured nonemployees on the test. "You realize, of course, there is inherent danger in flight test. It's simply inescapable."

Malone said that Newsline would accept any risk, and sign waivers of liability.

Ed Fuller said he would have to draw up the waivers, but that Newsline's lawyers would have to approve them, and there wasn't time for that.

Malone said she could get approval from Newsline's lawyers in an hour. Any time of the day or night.

Fuller shifted ground. He said if Norton was going to let Newsline see the flight test, he wanted to be sure that the results of that test were accurately reported. He said he wanted to approve the edited film.

Malone said that journalistic ethics forbade that, and in any case there wasn't time. If the flight test ended around noon, she would have to cut film in the truck and transmit it to New York at once.

Fuller said the problem for the company remained. He wanted the flight test portrayed accurately.

They went back and forth. Finally Malone said she would include thirty seconds of unedited comment on the outcome of the flight by a Norton spokesperson. This would be taken from the press conference.

Fuller demanded a minute.

They compromised on forty seconds.

"We have another problem," Fuller said. "If we let you film the flight test, we don't want you to use the tape you obtained today, showing the actual incident."

No way, Malone said. The tape was going to be aired.

"You characterized the tape as having been obtained from a Norton employee," Fuller said. "That's incorrect. We want the provenance accurately stated."

"Well, we certainly got it from someone who works for Norton."

"No," Fuller said, "you didn't"

"It's one of your subcontractors."

"No, it's not I can provide you with the IRS definition of a subcontractor, if you like."

"This is a fine point…"

"We have already obtained a sworn statement from the receptionist, Christine Barron. She is not an employee of Norton Aircraft. She is not, in fact, an employee of Video Imaging. She is a temp from an agency."

"What's the point here?"

"We want you to state the facts accurately: that you obtained the tape from sources outside the company."

Malone shrugged. "As I said, this is a fine point."

"Then what's the problem?"

Malone thought for a minute. "Okay," she said.

Fuller slid a piece of paper across the table. "This brief document conveys that understanding. Sign it."

Malone looked at Reardon. Reardon shrugged.

Malone signed it. "I don't understand what all the fuss is about." She started to push it back to Fuller, and paused.

'Two crews, on the aircraft, during the flight test. Is that our agreement?"

"No," Fuller said. "That was never the agreement. Your crews will watch the test on the ground."

"That won't work for us."

Casey said that the Newsline crews could come to the test area; they could film the preparations, the takeoff and landing. But they couldn't actually come on the plane during the flight.

"Sorry," Malone said.

Teddy Rawley cleared his throat. "I don't think you understand the situation, Ms. Malone," he said. "You can't be walking around filming inside the airplane, during a flight test. Everybody on board has to be strapped in in a four-point harness. You can't even get up to pee. And you can't have lights or batteries, because they generate magnetic fields that might disrupt our readings."

"We don't need lights," she said. "We can shoot available light."

"You don't understand," Rawley said. "It can get pretty hairy up there."

"That's why we have to be mere," Malone said.

Ed Fuller cleared his throat. "Let me be entirely clear, Ms. Malone," he said. "Under no circumstances is this company going to allow your film crew on board that aircraft. It is absolutely out of the question."

Malone's face was rigid, set.

"Ma'am," Rawley said, "you've got to realize, there's a reason we test over the desert. Over large uninhabited spaces?"

"You mean it might crash."

"I mean we don't know what might happen. Trust me on this: you want to be on the ground."

Malone shook her head. "No. We must have our crews on board."

"Ma'am, there's going to be big G-forces-"

Casey said, "There'll be thirty cameras all over the plane. They'll cover every possible angle-cockpit, wings, passenger cabin, everywhere. You're getting exclusive use of the film. No one will know your cameras aren't getting the footage."

Malone glowered, but Casey knew that she had made the point. The woman only cared about the visuals.

"I want to place the cameras," she said.

"Uh-uh," Rawley said.

"I have to be able to say our cameras are on board," Malone said. "I have to be able to say that."

In the end, Casey hammered out a compromise. Newsline would be allowed to position two locked-down cameras, anywhere in the plane, to cover the test flight They would take the feed directly from these cameras. In addition, they would be allowed to use footage from other cameras mounted in the interior. Finally, Newsline would be allowed to shoot a stand-up with Reardon outside Building 64, where the assembly line was located.

Norton would provide transportation for the Newsline crews to the Arizona test facility later in the day; would put them up in a local motel; would transport them to the test facility in the morning; and back to LA in the afternoon.

Malone pushed the paper back to Fuller. "Deal," she said.

Reardon was looking fretfully at his watch as he left with Malone to shoot the stand-up. Casey was alone with Rawley and Fuller in the War Room.

Fuller sighed. "I hope we've made the right decision." He turned to Casey. "I did what you asked, when you called me earlier from the video company."

"Yes, Ed," she said. "You were perfect."

"But I saw the tape," he said. "It's dreadful. I'm afraid that whatever the flight test shows, that tape will be the only thing anybody remembers."

Casey said, "If anybody ever sees that tape."

"My concern," Fuller said, "is that Newsline will run that tape no matter what."

"I think they won't," Casey said. "Not when we get through with them."

Fuller sighed. "I hope you're right. High stakes."

"Yes," she said. "High stakes."

Teddy said, "You better tell them to bring warm clothing. You, too, babe. And another thing: I watched that woman. She thinks she's going to get on the plane tomorrow."

"Yeah, probably."

"And you, too, right?" Teddy said.

"Maybe," Casey said.

"You better think about this real good," Teddy said. "Because you saw the QAR video, Casey. That airplane exceeded its design G-loads by a hundred and sixty percent. That guy subjected the airframe to forces it was never built to withstand. And tomorrow I'm going to go up and do it again."

She shrugged. "Doherty checked the fuse," she said, "they've X-rayed and-"

"Yeah, he checked," Teddy said. "But not thoroughly. Ordinarily, we'd go over that fuselage for a month, before we put it back in active service. We'd X-ray every join on the plane. That hasn't been done."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," Teddy said, "that when I put that aircraft through those same G-force loads, there's a chance that the airframe will fail."

"You trying to scare me?" Casey said.

"No, I'm just telling you. This is serious, Casey. Real world. It could happen."

OUTSIDE BLDG 64
4:55 p.m.

"No aircraft company in history," Reardon said, "has ever permitted a television crew on a flight test. But so important is this test to the future of Norton Aircraft, so confident are they of the outcome, that they have agreed to allow our crews to film. So today, for the first time, we will be seeing footage of the actual plane involved in Flight 545, the controversial Norton N-22 aircraft. Critics say it's a deathtrap. The company says it's safe. The flight test will prove who's right"

Reardon paused.

"Done," Jennifer said.

"You need something for the cut?'

"Yeah."

"Where do they do the test, anyway?"

"Yuma."

"Okay," Reardon said.

Standing in afternoon sun, before Building 64, he looked down at his feet and said, in a low, confidential voice, "We are here, at the Norton test facility in Yuma, Arizona. It's five o'clock in the morning, and the Norton team is making final preparations to take Flight 545 into the air." He looked up. "What time's dawn?"

"Damned if I know," Jennifer said. "Cover it."

"All right," Reardon said. He looked down at his feet again, and intoned. "In the early predawn, tension mounts. In the predawn darkness, tension mounts. As dawn breaks, tension mounts."

"That should do it," Jennifer said.

"How do you want to handle the wrap?" he said.

"You've got to cover it both ways, Marty."

"I mean do we win, or what?"

"Cover it both ways to be sure."

Reardon looked down at his feet again. "As the aircraft lands, the team is jubilant. Happy faces all around. The flight is successful. Norton has made its point. At least for now." He took a breath. "As the aircraft lands, the team is muted. Norton is devastated. The deadly controversy over the N-22 continues to rage." He looked up. "Enough?"

She said, "You better give me an on-camera about the controversy continues to rage. We can close with that."

"Good idea."

Marty always thought it was a good idea for him to appear on camera. He stood erect, set his jaw, and faced the camera.

"Here, in this building where the N-22 is built, no… Behind me is the building where… no. Hold on." He shook his head, faced the camera again.

"And yet, the bitter controversy over the N-22 will not die. Here, in this building where the aircraft is made, workers are confident that it is a safe, reliable aircraft. But critics of the N-22 remain unconvinced. Will there be another harvest of death in the skies? Only time will tell. This is Martin Reardon, for Newsline, Burbank, California."

He blinked.

'Too corny? Too much on the money?"

"Great, Marty."

He was already unclipping his mike, removing the radio pack from his belt. He pecked Jennifer on the cheek. "I'm out of here," he said, and sprinted to the waiting car.

Jennifer turned to her crew. "Pack up, guys," she said. "We're going to Arizona."