Fly by Wire

Chapter SEVENTEEN

The meeting at Building Sixty-two was one Davis did not want to miss. The initial play of the cockpit voice recorder, or CVR, was scheduled to take place. Together with the flight data recorder, it was among the investigators' most critical evidence. These were the infamous black boxes — a sensational misnomer since they were actually life vest orange — the digital record keepers that stored detailed logs of what occurred in an aircraft's final minutes.

Typically, it was the data recorder that garnered the greatest interest from investigators. It tracked hundreds of parameters — control inputs, instrument readings, switch activations. It was a series of technical snapshots — three per second — that when strung together could identify virtually any anomaly. Unfortunately, in the case of World Express 801, the data recorder information had already been declared useless, although the technicians were not ready to give up. Given this lack of flight and performance information, the voice recorder took on even greater importance.

Davis arrived early, and with time to kill, he went to the hangar where pieces of wreckage were slowly accumulating. He spotted Thierry Bastien meandering amid the debris, sipping from a china cup — tea, Davis guessed. Probably some kind of pointless decaf chamomile. As he watched Bastien go about his work, his opinion of the investigator-in-charge dropped yet another notch. When Davis walked through a pile of rubble, he could never resist the urge to dig, poke, and smell. Bastien was simply strolling. He might have been window shopping on Rodeo Drive. Surely any vital clues would jump out at him.

Bastien looked up and saw him coming. "Ah, Monsieur Davis. You have been in the field, no?"

Davis looked down at his boots. He had knocked off the worst on a stone wall outside, but they were still caked in mud. He gave Bastien a dry look that said, Brilliant deduction, Sherlock.

Bastien pursed his lips. "Please, my friend. You and I have gotten off — how do they say — on the wrong leg."

"Foot."

"Yes." Bastien sipped from his cup. "I think you did not agree with my initial assessment yesterday."

"You mean when you publicly accused the captain of committing suicide?"

In the midst of his sip, the Frenchman pulled away looking like he'd just sucked a lemon. "I only said that we consider these possibilities. There are many similarities to the SilkAir tragedy, you must agree. I have seen the circuit breaker panel behind the captain's seat, and indeed the data recorder breaker has been deactivated. To suggest such a thing could happen by random chance in the very moments before this disaster — an overvoltage at that precise point in time? The odds against it are insurmountable. You try, sir, to put the square peg in the round hole."

Davis thought, I'd like to put my square fist in your round mouth. He said nothing, but was looking forward to his own inspection of the circuit breaker panel.

Bastien said, "I told you earlier that we spoke to the bartender at the hotel where Captain Moore stayed. Has your Human Factors Group followed up on this?"

"No. But let me guess — you have?"

"In fact, yes. There are many witnesses. Captain Moore was indeed drinking the evening before the incident."

"How long before the flight?"

Bastien s eyes went skyward in thought. "Roughly twelve hours."

"Eight makes him legal. How much did he drink?"

"His bill was for four beers."

"Was he alone?"

Bastien hesitated. "He was with a woman."

"His first officer."

"This has not yet been verified. But possibly, yes."

Davis felt his ire rising. He wanted to talk about bent elevons and fire damage, but Investigator-in-Charge Bastien couldn't get past bar tabs. "So he and his first officer each had two beers — twelve hours before the flight. And he picked up the tab like a good captain. From experience, Terry," he said, again Anglicizing the name, "I can't think of any more normal behavior for a couple of pilots."

Bastien bristled. "I can only say, Mr. Davis, that we will continue to examine this evidence as a contributing causal factor."

Davis thought about that. Last week Earl Moore had been a veteran, a dad who took his kid to ballgames. Now he was a "causal factor." When Davis had been in the Air Force there was an unwritten rule about dead pilots. Around the squadron, you never said somebody had been a drunk, a philanderer, or a buffoon in the cockpit. You never said it — even if it was true. But accident investigations were different. No one here had known the crewmembers. They were just names, numbers on pilot certificates, and so expediency and a reckless search for the facts overcame any quaint semblance of honor. Davis knew it would always be that way. But he didn't have to like it.

A young woman rushed up and passed a message to Bastien. The investigator-in-charge frowned sourly. "Mon Dieu!

"What now?" Davis asked.

"So much important work to be done," he waved the paper, "and I am pulled down by the weight of dead horses."

"Dead horses?"

"A horse was victim to the crash and the owner is now demanding compensation."

Davis prodded, "A champion Thoroughbred, no doubt."

"The man is outside complaining to the press." Bastien straightened his tie and began to walk away. His gait was stylish, confident. In parting, he glanced over his shoulder, a look that said, We will resume our discussion later.

Davis nodded in return, his eyes sharp. Yes, we will.

Davis continued his walk through the hangar. The investigators were gathering amid rising mounds of debris. He counted four regionalized conversations where the working groups had divided into packs. The buildings tall, rectangular frame was an acoustic nightmare, and so the competing words mixed in a chattering waterfall, the aggregate indistinguishable to Davis' ears. In three of the pods, the participants were bantering — loud, animated discussions, the usual give-and-take over early findings and theories. The fourth group, however, was different.

Dr. Ibrahim Jaber presided, giving muted directions to two colleagues. He talked, they listened. He moved his hands in slow chopping motions and his colorless face was compressed as he emphasized a point. On their first encounter, Davis remembered Jaber as being subdued, almost listless. Now he looked like a mime on Valium. From a distance, even his eyes appeared changed, lacking the intensity Davis had seen earlier. Now they were dim, like a light that was neither on nor off, but something in between.

Sorensen hadn't come up with anything yet on Jaber's background, but Davis had asked around among the other investigators. He'd found out that the guy was Egyptian, just as he'd guessed, and had a Ph. D. from Cairo University in systems engineering. After a short stint writing computer code for an Italian avionics supplier, he had hooked up with Aerostar, a nascent Russian airframe manufacturer. Neither job was management, but rather technical in nature. Apparently the guy was some sort of expert in software integration, made his living by renting out his skills to whoever was buying. A hired gun. Not bad work, but hardly the resume of a chief project engineer for a new civil aircraft program.

Davis edged over.

When Jaber saw him coming he ended his one-sided conversation The two men he'd been lecturing faded away.

"Hello, Mr. Davis."

Davis nodded. "Dr. Jaber."

"Are you looking forward to hearing the cockpit voice tapes?"

"Looking forward to it? Not really. But we might learn a few things."

"Yes, indeed."

Davis said, "I understand that you're something of an expert in the design of flight control software."

Jaber waved the compliment away, that false air of coyness so imbued in people who thought highly of themselves. "I would more precisely describe my work as systems integration — it is my duty to bring conformity to the various aircraft computers and data inputs."

"Then I should ask your opinion. Whose concept do you prefer — Boeing or Airbus?"

Jaber cocked his head to one side, the way people did when they were perplexed, as if a new angle of perspective might bring enlightenment. "I am an engineer, so Airbus, of course."

In the decades since Airbus had come into existence, two essential theories had evolved concerning the design of flight control systems. Airbus had pioneered fly-by-wire technology for commercial aircraft, a method where the pilot controlled what was basically a joystick, and a series of computers then provided inputs to hydraulically actuated flight controls. Boeing, on the other hand, had long kept a more traditional method, retaining mechanical links between the pilot and the flight control surfaces. Over the years, the two manufacturers had gravitated to something of a middle ground, but these divergent design philosophies gave rise to yet another division — pilots favored more direct input, while engineers liked to give their computers ultimate say. Davis knew, from a neutral investigator's standpoint, that each camp could point to spectacular failures of the other.

Jaber continued with what sounded like a well-rehearsed sales pitch. "At CargoAir we have embraced technology, Mr. Davis. The C-500 functions on a triple redundant system. The calculated chance of three concurrent failures — if that is what you allude to — is one in six billion over the life of the program."

Davis never liked numbers like that. The guy who designed the Hindenberg probably had great numbers. Lethargy aside, Jaber was beginning to remind him of Hurricane Sparky. He said, "Okay, so lets say the flight control system was working as advertised. Would it have allowed such a steep dive? Wouldn't it have limited the angle of descent or the airspeed?"

"These questions are yet to be answered. But, of course, everything must be measured with respect to the control inputs made by the pilot."

Careful words, Davis thought. Throw it all back on the pilot. "So you give credence to Dr. Bastien s theory regarding the accident? You think it may have been an intentional act?"

The Egyptian shrugged. "It is not for me to say, Mr. Davis. My expertise lies not in the human condition, but the far more predictable arena of software interfaces. I understand logic, sir, not emotion."

Davis nodded politely. Then he tried a new tack. "Bastien suggests that the data recorder contains no useful information because the circuit breaker was pulled just before the dive began."

Jaber nodded as he followed the thought.

"Well, I've been wondering — just for the sake of argument, you see — if there was any other way the data recorder could have failed."

Jaber s movements turned glacial. Again Davis noticed the eyes, filled with — what? Acceptance? Resignation?

"Another failure mode?" Jaber queried. "The data recorder is one of many systems on the aircraft, Mr. Davis. None are perfect, and so it could have been a routine failure, of course. But I believe that to certify a data recorder, your own FAA requires a demonstrated time-between-failure rate of no more than one in every twenty thousand hours of flight time."

Davis thought, More numbers. He said nothing.

"Therefore," Jaber extrapolated, "could this have happened? Yes. But I ask you, what are the odds?"

Davis didn't stop to calculate. "But you are an expert in systems integration. What if another system failed, something tied in with the data recorder? Maybe a component connected to a common electrical bus?"

Jaber shrugged. "There are remote possibilities. I am told there was a brief power interruption on the ground as the crew was preparing for flight. As a pilot, you know such events can play havoc on individual systems."

"Queertrons," Davis said.

Jaber cocked an ear. "I beg your pardon?"

"Queertrons. That's what pilots call them. Those little stray elements of matter that gum up everything with a circuit board. When an instrument goes haywire, you remove power for a few seconds, turn it back on, and the problem is usually solved. Usually."

"Yes, from an operator's perspective you are essentially correct. And I will tell you that the same difficulties can occur when various aircraft systems interact. But this power interruption on the ground we are speaking of — it took place fully half an hour before the data recorder ceased functioning. Any relationship between the two would seem highly unlikely."

"Highly," Davis repeated.

Someone shouted a five minute warning for the briefing.

"Clearly you have more questions," Jaber said. "Perhaps we can discuss this at a later time."

Davis nodded. More discussion. His day-planner was filling up fast.

Jaber headed for the briefing.

Davis stood right where he was. In front of him was a section of wreckage. He recognized it as the remains of a cockpit windscreen, the thing twisted in its frame, inch-thick layers of clear laminate shattered beyond recognition. He was glad Jaber had at least given him hope — there was a remote chance that the power interruption could have some relationship to the data recorder failure. Davis had one tiny straw to grab for, something beyond the possibility that Earl Moore had pulled the circuit breaker himself, rolled inverted, and pulled toward the earth.

There was, however, one certainty in it all. One thing that Bastien was actually right about. The fact that the data recorder had failed only seconds before the airplane started its final dive — that was too much of a coincidence. Davis didn't know the method. Not yet. But someone had made it happen.

Someone trying to hide what really caused the crash of World Express 801.