Fly by Wire

Chapter THIRTY-TWO

They weren't exactly welcomed. Admitted without prejudice was more like it.

Davis had arranged the visit to CargoAirs production facility on short notice. He and Sorensen were escorted from the visitor's area by a serious guy — crew cut, square suit, shiny shoes. He reminded Davis of a JAG he'd once known, a military lawyer. Or at least the French version. Their guide explained that a full-scale factory tour was available, but Davis figured it was the one that tourists got. He said they weren't interested. He made it clear that he and Sorensen wanted only one thing — to get inside a C-500.

The hangar where they ended up looked a lot like the one attached to Building Sixty-two in Lyon. It had the same bright lights, but everything here was cleaner, more antiseptic. The floor sparkled, and massive banners on the wall exhorted everyone, in both French and English, to be safe. A wide net to cast, Davis thought. He considered all the unfortunate things he'd seen happen in aircraft factories — people falling off scaffoldings, stray screwdrivers getting left behind in newly assembled jet engines. Once he'd seen a work crew forget to put chocks under the wheels of a half-million-pound airplane, watched as it rolled free and crashed into a hangar door. In one bold stroke, CargoAir had made it all expressly against company policy, writ large, be safe.

Davis had seen a lot of hangars in his time. This one reminded him of a showroom at a new car dealership. Everything was neat and tidy, ready for sales pitches and public relations tours. There had to be a production hangar elsewhere on the property, bigger and dirtier, a place where wrenches turned and machinists cussed. But at the moment, Davis was happy to be right here — because in the middle of it all was what he wanted. A C-500.

Their guide stopped. He didn't say anything, and Davis figured he was letting them have a look from a distance, letting them experience the airplane in all its glory. The guy must have thought they'd be impressed.

Davis was.

"Wow," Sorensen exclaimed. "It's bigger than I expected."

"Yeah," Davis agreed, "it's a monster, all right."

He decided the impression of size was likely due to the aircraft's unconventional shape. Davis was familiar with the B-2 bomber, and in terms of general layout, it was the closest thing he'd seen. The C-500 was shaped liked a fat boomerang, or a flat V if viewed from the top. Its four engines were integral, built into the fuselage instead of hanging out like some afterthought appendages. It was wide, at least two hundred feet from wingtip to wingtip, Davis guessed. The center portion was all business, thick and spacious for swallowing cargo, but the body of the craft tapered and blended into sleek wings. It was a nice design, simple and clean — the kind of design that made engineers proud. This particular airplane was tagged in the colors of a Japanese cargo carrier, a white fuselage under red accents and a logo.

"So this thing really flies," Sorensen mused. "It's such a strange shape."

"It does look different. Gets good gas mileage, though."

"The Toyota Prius of airplanes?"

"Something like that."

The JAG led them closer to the airplane and stopped near a ramp that rose on an incline up into the belly of the beast. The ramp had to be twelve feet wide and was hinged at the forward edge, integral to the structure of the C-500. Davis figured it was a feature that would make loading and unloading a cinch, another advantage over any kind of recycled passenger airframe where the cargo containers had to be lifted twenty feet in the air and shoved through doors.

Their guide spoke again, a tricky thing where his lips moved but the rest of his face seemed set in stone. He said, "Wait here, please." And that was it.

The guy marched away, and no sooner had he gone than a woman came bounding down the loading ramp with a clipboard under one arm. She smiled broadly, and her free arm stretched open in welcome — a severe contrast in hospitality to the brick who'd brought them this far.

"Hello, I am Rene Scharner." She spoke English with a stiff German accent.

Davis and Sorensen introduced themselves.

"I'm here to provide any assistance you might need," Scharner said cheerily. "I am the vice president for operations here at CargoAir."

Davis was surprised. "The VP for operations? Giving tours?"

Scharner cocked her head. "I would hardly call this a tour, Mr. Davis. We have had a very serious event. CargoAir is committed to finding the reasons for this tragedy. When I heard you were coming, I decided to personally offer any and all assistance."

Davis had the impression she meant it. "I appreciate that," he said. "I need all the help I can get. If you don't mind my asking, Miss Scharner, how long have you served in your present position?"

"I've been with CargoAir for roughly a year now. I was previously in a parallel position at Dornier."

"I see." Davis pointed to her clipboard and said, "So is there something in particular you wanted to show us?"

"Oh, this? No. Only a few last minute checks. I try to get out of my office each day and spend time on the factory floor. This particular airplane is scheduled for acceptance and delivery tomorrow."

Sorensen was peering into the cavernous opening above, and Scharner said, "Feel free to step inside. I'll join you in just a moment." She scurried off.

Sorensen and Davis exchanged a glance.

"So," he said, "let's have a look."

Davis led the way up. The incline was mild, and he envisioned a stream of pallets and cargo containers motoring up the ramp in a constant flow. When they arrived in the main hold, he stopped and studied things. The cargo area was massive, at least a hundred feet in width, maybe forty in depth. It had to out volume any conventional freighter design he'd ever seen.

Sorensen took it all in. "You could play football in here."

"Even rugby. But the tries would be hell." He stomped hard on the metal floor.

"I have to say, though, the decor is kind of basic."

Davis saw her gaze locked on the sidewalls where green primer was sprayed over metal stringers and composite siding.

He said, "It's prettier on the outside, I have to admit. But remember, Honeywell, this is a freighter. They're not going to waste any weight on carpet or plastic fittings. Nothing rides back here but boxes, and they don't care about the temperature or color schemes or how many bathrooms there are."

Scharner came bounding back up the ramp. "Impressive isn't it?"

"Very," Sorensen agreed.

Davis moved forward to a short set of metal stairs. It led up to a second, mid-level tier. "Is this the flight deck?" he asked.

"Yes," said Scharner.

He noticed a door nearby on the forward bulkhead. It was marked electronics bay. "Is this where the avionics are racked?"

"Yes," she said, "most of them. There is a secondary bay, but it can only be accessed on the ground from an exterior door near the nose-wheel well."

Davis stood staring at the door, eyeing it like he might want a look. Instead, he said, "Dr. Ibrahim Jaber is the chief CargoAir representative for our investigation. Does he work directly for you, Miss Scharner?"

"Yes, he does. Dr. Jaber heads the C-500 design team."

"Do you know him well?"

Scharner hesitated. "I'm not sure any of us here at headquarters would go that far. Dr. Jaber is an intensely private man. He keeps himself to himself. But I can certainly vouch for his work — it is first rate."

"That's good," Davis said. Then a vision came to mind, Jaber with his tired posture and skin the color of clay. "Can you tell me one thing is he ill?"

"111?"

Davis said nothing more, only pinned his eyes to Scharner s.

"Yes," she relented, "I have had the same thoughts. Dr. Jaber has told me he's been feeling unwell for some time, but that it is nothing serious. It seems not to affect his work, so I take him at his word."

Davis caught a subtle shrug from Sorensen that echoed his own instinct. Let it go.

Scharner moved toward the short metal ladder at the forward edge of the cargo area. She said, "Would you like a tour of the flight deck?"

Davis grabbed the metal handhold and smiled broadly. "Yeah, I think we would."

Five steps later they found themselves on the flight deck.

It was spacious compared to some Davis had seen. Two comfortable-looking seats for the pilots, wide with a downy covering, and behind each an equally plush jumpseat mounted in tandem for observers. The forward panel was a sea of color, glass panel multifunction displays and instruments glowing with the essentials of flight lines, symbols, a spray of alphanumeric gibberish. Every inch of space above, below, and to the sides of the crew stations had been used, plugged with control heads and switches. To a layperson it would seem overwhelming, almost haphazard. But to Davis' eye it was something else — at first glance, well organized and purposeful.

The empty captain's seat called to him. He pointed and said, "Do you mind?"

Scharner said, "Not at all. Perhaps your partner will take the first officer's seat."

Sorensen shot him a glance. Was she wondering if she should? Or had it been that word? Partner.

Davis said, "Go ahead."

Sorensen took the right-hand crew station. Davis got comfortable in the left seat. It was roomy compared to an F-16. And also like an F-16, there was a joystick, but in the wrong hand, his left. A look at the instrument panel put him on more familiar ground. Basic attitude, airspeed, altitude, and compass. The usual information. It wasn't presented in the traditional T arrangement of round dials, but a more modern variant of vertical tape scales. Accurate and easier to comprehend — at least that's what the human factors Ph. D. S would tell you. To Davis it was all just one big video game.

Sorensen said, "It smells like a new car."

"This is a cargo airplane, Honeywell, so it can't be from the rows of leather seats. More likely toxic fumes from some kind of adhesive they've used."

She looked at him sourly. "Are you always such a positive person?"

"Without fail." He turned to Scharner and asked, "Is everything powered up?"

"Yes. The navigation platforms are aligned. Start the engines and she would be ready to fly."

"Assuming someone opened the hangar door," Davis quipped.

Scharner laughed. "Yes, that would be required."

Davis looked overhead. He saw switches involving flight controls, electrics, and hydraulics. He asked, "Would you do me a favor?"

"Of course," Scharner said.

"Let's turn down all the lights — the overheads, the worklight. I want it to look just like it would in flight, at night."

The technician turned a half-dozen knobs and the cockpit got darker. But there was still one problem. Davis gave a sideways nod out the front window where the hangar lights still blazed.

"The hangar lights?" Scharner queried, the first tinge of annoyance coloring her tone.

"All of them. Please."

"I'll have to do it myself."

Davis smiled.

Scharner relented.

"All right," she said, pointing out the window. "I will be on that scaffolding, near the exit door. Flash the dome light when you want me to turn everything back on."

She left Davis and Sorensen alone.

"What are you up to?" Sorensen asked.

It had been in the back of his mind ever since he'd heard it on the voice tape. Click, click. "I'm trying to simulate the last two hundred fifty milliseconds before we lost the voice recorder."

"Two hundred fifty milliseconds?"

"In the middle of the dive, right before we lost the recorder, there was a very distinct sound. I think it was two switches being actuated. You see, the voice recorder has a built-in capacitor that functions like a tiny battery. When it loses power, the recorder will still operate for a quarter of a second."

"And that's significant?"

"Very. I think it recorded the sound of the very switches that were used to shut it down."

Sorensen seemed to get it. She tilted her head back and scanned the overhead panel. "Now if we only knew which ones. There must be a hundred buttons and knobs."

"Sure. But only a few would have the desired effect."

The lights in the hangar suddenly went dark, and the instruments in front of them dimmed, adapting automatically to the lower level of light outside. Even so, the glowing displays seemed bright in contrast to the newfound darkness all around. Davis put his head back and closed his eyes. He put himself in an airplane that was diving severely, headed for an uncomfortable meeting with some picturesque French countryside.

What did you do, Earl? What would I do?

The solution that came to mind was fundamental. Every type of airplane had slight variances in design, but there were certain absolutes. Davis opened his eyes, looked up — and there they were. It all made perfect sense. Just as Earl Moore would have done, Davis reached up fast, slapped back two plastic safety guards and actuated the switches.

Click-click.

Everything went black.