Airframe (8 page)

“Okay. Now retract the slats.”

Richman reversed his actions, pushing the lever up, sliding it left and down to locked position, then closing the cover over the handle.

“That,” Burne said, “is a commanded slats extension.”

“Okay,” Richman said.

“Now, let’s perform an
uncommanded
slats extension.”

“How do I do that?”

“Any way you can, pal. For starters, hit it with the side of your hand.”

Richman reached across the pedestal, brushing the lever with his left hand. But the cover protected it. Nothing happened.

“Come on, hit that sucker.”

Richman swung his hand laterally back and forth, banging against the metal. He hit it harder and harder each time, but
nothing happened. The cover protected the handle; the slats lever remained up and locked.

“Maybe you could knock it with your elbow,” Burne said. “Or tell you what, try this clipboard here,” he said, pulling a clipboard from between the seats, and giving it to Richman. “Go on, give it a good whack. I’m looking for an accident here.”

Richman struck the lever with the clipboard. It clanged against the metal. He turned the clipboard and pushed the lever with one edge. Nothing happened.

“You want to keep trying?” Burne said. “Or are you starting to get the point?
It can’t be done
, Clarence. Not with that cover in place.”

“Maybe the cover wasn’t in place,” Richman said.

“Hey,” Burne said, “that’s good thinking. Maybe you can knock the cover up, by accident. Try that with your clipboard, Clarence.”

Richman swung the clipboard at the edge of the cover. But the surface was smoothly curved, and the clipboard just slid off. The cover remained closed.

“No way to do it,” Burne said. “Not by accident. So. What’s the next thought?”

“Maybe the cover was already up.”

“Good idea,” Burne said. “They’re not supposed to be flying with the cover up, but who the hell knows what they did. Go ahead and lift the cover up.”

Richman lifted the cover up on its hinge. The handle was now exposed.

“Okay, Clarence. Go to it.”

Richman swung his clipboard at the handle, banging it hard, but with most lateral movements, the raised cover still acted as a protection. The clipboard hit the cover before it struck the handle. Several times on impact, the cover dropped back down again. Richman had to keep stopping to lift the cover up again before he could proceed.

“Maybe if you used your hand,” Burne suggested.

Richman tried swiping at the handle with his palm. In a few moments, the side of his hand was red, and the lever remained firmly up and locked.

“Okay,” he said, sitting back in the seat. “I get the point.”

“It can’t be done,” Burne said. “It simply can’t be done. An uncommanded slats deploy is impossible on this aircraft. Period.”

From outside the cockpit, Doherty said, “Are you guys finished screwing around? Because I want to pull the recorders and go home.”

As they came out of the cockpit, Burne touched Casey on the shoulder and said, “See you a minute?”

“Sure,” she said.

He led her back in the plane, out of earshot of the others. He leaned close to her and said, “What do you know about that kid?”

Casey shrugged. “He’s a Norton relative.”

“What else?”

“Marder assigned him to me.”

“You check him out?”

“No,” Casey said. “If Marder sent him, I assume he’s fine.”

“Well, I talked to my friends in Marketing,” Burne said. “They say he’s a weasel. They say, don’t turn your back on him.”

“Kenny …”

“I’m telling you, something’s wrong with that kid, Casey. Check him out.”

With a metallic whir from the power screwdrivers, the floor panels came away, revealing a maze of cables and boxes under the cockpit.

“Jesus,” Richman said, staring.

Ron Smith was directing the operation, running his hand over his bald head nervously. “That’s fine,” he said. “Now get the panel to the left.”

“How many boxes we got on this bird, Ron?” Doherty said.

“A hundred and fifty-two,” Smith said. Anybody else, Casey knew, would have to thumb through a thick sheaf of schematics before he answered. But Smith knew the electrical system by heart.

“What’re we pulling?” Doherty said.

“Pull the CVR, the DFDR, and the QAR if they got one,” Smith said.

“You don’t know if there’s a QAR?” Doherty said, teasing him.

“Optional,” Smith said. “It’s a customer install. I don’t think they put one in. Usually on the N-22 it’s in the tail, but I looked, and didn’t find one.”

Richman turned to Casey; he was looking puzzled again. “I thought they were getting the black boxes.”

“We are,” Smith said.

“There’s
a hundred and fifty-two
black boxes?”

“Oh hell,” Smith said, “they’re all over the aircraft. But we’re only after the main ones now—the ten or twelve NVMs that count.”

“NVMs,” Richman repeated.

“You got it,” Smith said, and he turned away, bending over the panels.

It was left to Casey to explain. The public perception of an aircraft was that it was a big mechanical device, with pulleys and levers that moved control surfaces up and down. In the midst of this machinery were two magic black boxes, recording events in the flight. These were the black boxes that were always talked about on news programs. The CVR, the cockpit voice recorder, was essentially a very sturdy tape deck; it recorded the last half hour of cockpit conversation on a continuous loop of magnetic tape. Then there was the DFDR, the digital flight data recorder, which stored details of the behavior of the airplane, so that investigators could discover what had happened after an accident.

But this image of an aircraft, Casey explained, was inaccurate for a large commercial transport. Commercial jets had very few pulleys and levers—indeed, few mechanical systems of any sort. Nearly everything was hydraulic and electrical. The pilot in the cockpit didn’t move the ailerons or flaps by force of muscle. Instead, the arrangement was like power steering on an automobile: when the pilot moved the control stick and pedals, he sent electrical impulses to actuate hydraulic systems, which in turn moved the control surfaces.

The truth was that a commercial airliner was controlled by a network of extraordinarily sophisticated electronics—dozens of computer systems, linked together by hundreds of miles of wiring. There were computers for flight management, for navigation, for communication. Computers regulated the engines, the control surfaces, the cabin environment.

Each major computer system controlled a whole array of sub-systems. Thus the navigation system ran the ILS for instrument landing; the DME for distance measuring; the ATC for air traffic control; the TCAS for collision avoidance; the GPWS for ground proximity warning.

In this complex electronic environment, it was relatively easy to install a digital flight data recorder. Since all the commands were already electronic, they were simply routed through the DFDR and stored on magnetic media. “A modern DFDR records eighty separate flight parameters every second of the flight.”

“Every second? How big is this thing?” Richman said.

“It’s right there,” Casey said, pointing. Ron was pulling an orange-and-black striped box from the radio rack. It was the size of a large shoe box. He set it on the floor, and replaced it with a new box, for the ferry flight back to Burbank.

Richman bent over, and lifted the DFDR by one stainless-steel handle. “Heavy.”

“That’s the crash-resistant housing,” Ron said. “The actual doohickey weighs maybe six ounces.”

“And the other boxes? What about them?”

The other boxes existed, Casey said, to facilitate maintenance. Because the electronic systems of the aircraft were so complicated, it was necessary to monitor the behavior of each system in case of errors, or faults, during flight. Each system tracked its own performance, in what was called Non Volatile Memory. “That’s NVM.”

They would download eight NVM systems today: the Flight Management Computer, which stored data on the flight plan and the pilot-entered waypoints; the Digital Engine Controller, which managed fuel burn and powerplant; the Digital Air Data Computer, which recorded airspeed, altitude, and overspeed warnings …

“Okay,” Richman said. “I think I get the point.”

“None of this would be necessary,” Ron Smith said, “if we had the QAR.”

“QAR?”

“It’s another maintenance item,” Casey said. “Maintenance crews need to come on board after the plane lands, and get a fast readout of anything that went wrong on the last leg.”

“Don’t they ask the pilots?”

“Pilots will report problems, but with a complex aircraft, there may be faults that never come to their attention, particularly since these aircraft are built with redundant systems. For any important system like hydraulics, there’s always a backup—and usually a third as well. A fault in the second or third backup may not show in the cockpit. So the maintenance crews come on board, and go to the Quick Access Recorder, which spits out data from the previous flight. They get a fast profile, and do the repairs on the spot.”

“But there’s no Quick Access Recorder on this plane?”

“Apparently not,” she said. “It’s not required. FAA regulations require a CVR and a DFDR. The Quick Access Recorder is optional. Looks like the carrier didn’t put one on this plane.”

“At least, I can’t find it,” Ron said. “But it could be anywhere.”

He was down on his hands and knees, bent over a laptop
computer plugged into the electrical panels. Data scrolled down the screen.

“This looks like data from the flight control computer,” Casey said. “Most of the faults occurred on one leg, when the incident occurred.”

“But how do you interpret this?” Richman said.

“Not our problem,” Ron Smith said. “We just offload it and bring it back to Norton. The kids in Digital feed it to mainframes, and convert it to a video of the flight.”

“We hope,” Casey said. She straightened. “How much longer, Ron?”

“Ten minutes, max,” Smith said.

“Oh sure,” Doherty said, from inside the cockpit. “Ten minutes max, oh sure. Not that it matters. I wanted to beat rush hour traffic but now I guess I can’t. It’s my kid’s birthday, and I won’t be home for the party. My wife’s going to give me hell.”

Ron Smith was starting to laugh. “Can you think of anything else that might go wrong, Doug?”

“Oh sure. Lots of things. Salmonella in the cake. All the kids poisoned,” Doherty said.

Casey looked out the door. The maintenance people had all climbed off the wing. Burne was finishing up his inspection of the engines. Trung was loading the DFDR into the van.

It was time to go home.

As she started down the stairs, she noticed three Norton Security vans parked in a corner of the hangar. There were about twenty security guards standing around the plane, and in various parts of the hangar.

Richman noticed, too. “What’s this about?” he said, gesturing to the guards.

“We always put security on the plane, until it’s ferried to the plant,” she said.

“That’s a lot of security.”

“Yeah, well.” Casey shrugged. “It’s an important plane.”

But she noticed that the guards all wore sidearms. Casey couldn’t remember seeing armed guards before. A hangar at LAX was a secure facility. There wasn’t any need for the guards to be armed.

Was there?

Casey was walking through the northeast corner of Building 64, past the huge tools on which the wing was built. The tools were crisscrossed blue steel scaffolding, rising twenty feet above the ground. Although they were the size of a small apartment building, the tools were precisely aligned to within a thousandth of an inch. Up on the platform formed by the tools, eighty people were walking around, putting the wing together.

To the right, she saw groups of men packing tools into large wooden crates. “What’s all that?” Richman said.

“Looks like rotables,” Casey said.

“Rotables?”

“Spare tooling that we rotate into the line if something goes wrong with the first set. We built them to gear up for the China sale. The wing’s the most time-consuming part to build; so the plan is to build the wings in our facility in Atlanta, and ship them back here.”

She noticed a figure in a shirt and tie, shirtsleeves rolled up, standing among the men working on the crates. It was Don Brull, the president of the UAW local. He saw Casey, called to her, and started toward her. He made a flicking gesture with his hand; she knew what he wanted.

Casey said to Richman, “Give me a minute. I’ll see you back at the office.”

“Who is that?” Richman said.

“I’ll meet you back at the office.”

Richman remained standing there, as Brull came closer. “Maybe you want me to stay and—”

“Bob,” she said. “Get lost.”

Reluctantly, Richman headed back toward the office. He kept glancing over his shoulder as he walked away.

Brull shook her hand. The UAW president was a short and solidly built man, an ex-boxer with a broken nose. He spoke in a soft voice. “You know, Casey, I always liked you.”