Airframe (42 page)

The weight again.

Sinking. Pressing.

Deep into the chair.

Casey couldn’t move. She couldn’t turn her head.

Then they were climbing again, steeper than before, the shriek of the engines loud in her ears, and she felt Jennifer reach for her, Jennifer grabbing her arm. Casey turned to look at her, and Jennifer, pale and wild-eyed, was shouting:

“Stop it! Stop it!
Stop it!
”

The plane was coming to the top of the rise. Her stomach lifting, a sickening sensation. Jennifer’s stricken look, hand clapped to her mouth. Vomit spurting through her fingers.

The plane going over.

Another dive.

Click
. “Releasing the luggage bins. Give you a sense of how it was.”

Along both aisles, the luggage bins above the seats sprang open, and two-foot white blocks spilled out. They were harmless neoprene foam, but they bounced around the cabin like a dense blizzard. Casey felt them strike her face, the back of her head.

Jennifer was retching again, trying to pull the bag from under her leg. The blocks tumbled forward, moving down the cabin toward the cockpit. They obscured their view on all sides, until one by one, they began to fall to the floor, roll over, and remain there. The whine of the engines changed.

The sinking drag of added weight.

The plane was going up again.

The pilot in the F-14 chase plane watched as the big Norton widebody streaked upward through the clouds, climbing at twenty-one degrees.

“Teddy,” he said over the radio. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Just reproducing what’s on the flight recorder.”

“Christ,” the pilot said.

The huge passenger jet roared upward, breaking through
cloud cover at thirty-one thousand feet. Going up another thousand feet, before losing speed. Approaching stall.

Then nosing over again.

Jennifer vomited explosively into the bag. It spilled out over her hands, dribbled onto her lap. She turned to Casey, her face green, weak, contorted.

“Stop it,
please
 …”

The plane had started to nose over again. Going down.

Casey looked at her. “Don’t you want to reproduce the full event for your cameras? Great visuals. Two more cycles to go.”

“No!
No
 …”

The plane was diving steeply now. Still looking at Jennifer, Casey said, “Teddy! Teddy, take your hands off the controls!”

Jennifer’s eyes widened. Horrified.

Click
. “Roger. Taking my hands off now.”

Immediately the plane leveled out. Smoothly, gently. The scream of the engines abated to a constant, steady roar. The foam blocks fell to the carpet, tumbled once, and did not move.

Level flight.

Sunlight streamed through the windows.

Jennifer wiped vomit from her lips with the back of her hand. She stared around the cabin in a daze. “What … what happened?”

“The pilot took his hands off the stick.”

Jennifer shook her head, not understanding. Her eyes were glazed. In a weak voice she said, “He took his hands off?”

Casey nodded. “That’s right.”

“Well then …”

“The autopilot is flying the plane.”

Malone collapsed back in her seat, put her head back. Closed her eyes. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“To end the incident on Flight 545, all the pilot had to
was take his hands off the column. If he had taken his hands away, it would have ended immediately.”

Jennifer sighed. “Then why didn’t he?”

Casey didn’t answer her. She turned to the monitor. “Teddy,” she said, “let’s go back.”

Back on the ground, Casey went through the main room of the Flight Test Station, and into the pilots’ room. It was an old, wood-paneled lounge for test pilots from the days when Norton still made military aircraft. A lumpy green couch, faded gray from sunlight. A couple of metal flight chairs, pulled up to a scratched Formica table. The only new object in the room was a small television, with a built-in tape deck. It stood beside a battered Coke machine, with a taped card that said OUT OF ORDER. In the window, a grinding air conditioner. It was already blazing hot on the airfield, and the room was uncomfortably warm.

Casey looked through the window at the
Newsline
crew, walking around Flight 545, filming it as it sat on the runway. The aircraft gleamed in the bright desert sun. The crew seemed lost, not certain what to do. They aimed their cameras as if composing a shot, then lowered them again immediately. They seemed to be waiting.

Casey opened the manila folder she had brought with her, and looked through the sheets of paper inside. The color Xeroxes she asked Norma to make had turned out rather well. And the telexes were satisfactory. Everything was in order.

She went to the television, which she had ordered brought out here. She pushed a tape into the deck, and waited.

Waited for Malone.

***

Casey was tired. Then she remembered the scope. She rolled up her sleeve, and pulled off the four circular bandages arranged in a row on the skin of her arm. Scopolamine patches, for motion sickness. That was why she had not vomited on the plane. She had known what she was in for. Malone had not.

Casey had no sympathy for her. She just wanted to be finished. This would be the last step. This would end it.

The only person at Norton who really knew what she was doing was Fuller. Fuller had understood immediately when Casey had called him from Video Imaging. Fuller recognized the implications of releasing the tape to
Newsline
. He saw what it would do to them, how they might be boxed in.

Flight Test had done that.

She waited for Malone.

Five minutes later, Jennifer Malone came in, slamming the door behind her. She was wearing a pair of flight test coveralls. Her face was washed, her hair pulled back.

And she was very angry.

“I don’t know what you think you proved up there,” she said. “You had your fun. Taped the show. Scared the shit out of me. I hope you enjoyed it, because it isn’t going to change a fucking thing in our story. Barker is right. Your plane has slats problems, just like he says. The only thing he’s missing is that the problem occurs when the autopilot’s off. That’s all your little exercise demonstrated today. But our story isn’t changed. Your plane’s a deathtrap. And by the time we air our story, you won’t be able to sell one of those planes on
Mars
. We’re going to bury your shitty little airplane, and we’re going to bury you.”

Casey did not speak. She thought: She’s young. Young and stupid. The harshness of her own judgment surprised her. Perhaps she’d learned something from the tough older men at the
plant. Men who knew about power, as opposed to posturing and strutting.

She let Malone rant awhile longer, and then she said, “Actually, you’re not going to do any of that.”

“You fucking watch me.”

“The only thing you can do is report what actually happened on Flight 545. You may not want to do that.”

“You wait,” Malone said, hissing. “You fucking wait. It’s a fucking deathtrap.”

Casey sighed. “Sit down.”

“I’ll be goddamned if I will—”

“Did you ever wonder,” Casey said, “how a secretary at a video house in Glendale knew you were doing a story on Norton? Had your cell phone number, and knew to call you?”

Malone was silent.

“Did you ever wonder,” Casey said, “how Norton’s attorney could have found out so quickly you had the tape? And then have gotten a sworn statement from the receptionist that she’d given it to you?”

Malone was silent.

“Ed Fuller walked in the door of Video Imaging just a few minutes after you walked out, Ms. Malone. He was worried about running into you.”

Malone frowned. “What is this?”

“Did you ever wonder,” Casey said, “why Ed Fuller was so insistent you sign a document saying you didn’t obtain the tape from a Norton employee?”

“It’s obvious. The tape’s damaging. He doesn’t want the company to be blamed.”

“Blamed
by whom
?”

“By … I don’t know. The public.”

“You better sit down,” Casey said. She opened the file.

Slowly, Malone sat.

She frowned.

“Wait a minute,” Malone said. “You’re saying that secretary didn’t call me, about the tape?”

Casey looked at her.

“Then who called?” Malone said.

Casey said nothing.

“It was
you
?”

Casey nodded.

“You
wanted
me to have that tape?”

“Yes.”

“
Why?
”

Casey smiled.

She handed Malone the first sheet of paper. “This is a parts inspection record, stamped off by a PMI at the FAA yesterday, for the number two inboard slats proximity sensor on Flight 545. The part is noted to be cracked, and defective. The crack is old.”

“I’m not doing a parts story,” Malone said.

“No,” Casey said. “You’re not. Because what flight test showed you today is that any competent pilot could have handled the slats warning initiated by the bad part. All the pilot had to do is leave the plane in autopilot. But on Flight 545, he didn’t.”

Malone said, “We already checked that. The captain of 545 was an outstanding pilot.”

“That’s right,” Casey said.

She passed her the next piece of paper.

“This is the crew manifest submitted to the FAA with the flight plan, on the date of departure of Flight 545.”

Malone glanced at it, pushed it aside.

“And this is the crew manifest we got from TransPacific the day after the incident.”

Malone scanned it, shrugged. “It’s the same.”

“No, it’s not. In one, Thomas Chang is listed as a first officer. In the second list, he appears as an engineer.”

Malone said, “A clerical error.”

Casey shook her head. “No.”

She passed another sheet.

“This is a page from the TransPacific in-flight magazine, showing Captain John Chang and his family. It was sent to us by a TransPacific flight attendant, who wanted us to know the real story. You will notice his children are Erica and Thomas Chang. Thomas Chang is the pilot’s son. He was among the flight crew of Flight 545.”

Malone frowned.

“The Changs are a family of pilots. Thomas Chang is a pilot, qualified on several commuter aircraft. He is not type certified to fly the N-22.”

“I don’t believe this,” Malone said.

“At the time of the incident,” Casey continued, “the captain, John Chang, had left the cockpit and walked to the back of the plane for coffee. He was aft when the accident
occurred, and severely injured. He underwent brain surgery in Vancouver two days ago. The hospital thought it was the first officer, but his identity has now been confirmed as John Zhen Chang.”

Malone was shaking her head.

Casey handed her a memo:

“Chang wasn’t in the cockpit,” Casey said. “He was in the back of the plane. His hat was found there. So someone else was in the captain’s chair, when the incident occurred.”

Casey turned on the television, started the tape. “These are the concluding moments of the videotape which you obtained from the receptionist. You see the camera falling toward the front of the plane, and twisting to eventually lodge in the cockpit door. But before it does … here!” She froze the frame. “You can see the flight deck.”

“I can’t see much,” Malone said. “They’re both looking away.”

“You can see that the pilot has extremely short hair,” Casey said. “Look at the picture. Thomas Chang has close-cropped hair.”

Malone was shaking her head, strongly now. “I just don’t believe this. That visual is not good enough, you have a three-quarter profile, it doesn’t identify, it doesn’t say anything.”

“Thomas Chang has a small stud in his ear. You can see it in this magazine photo. And on the video, you can see the same stud catch the light, right there.”

Malone was silent.

Casey pushed another piece of paper across to her.

“This is a translation of the Chinese voice communications in the cockpit as recorded on the tape you have. A great deal of it is unintelligible because of the cockpit alarms. But the relevant passage is marked for you.”