Final Approach (20 page)

As officer Jimmy Lansing felt his cracked nose and sloshed from the wreck of his patrol car to the proffered hand of the sheriff's deputy, six hundred miles to the north in Kansas City NTSB investigators Joe Wallingford and Andy Wallace made their way to the parking lot of Truman Medical Center just as North America vice-president John Walters was leaving room 940-E in a barely contained state of agitation.

Walters was convinced he knew where the investigation was drifting already. Pilot error. Pilot error or mechanical malfunction. The questions those two investigators had asked were obviously designed to build a case. Either the captain negligently flew back into windshear, or their airplane was screwed up, possibly by radio interference. Either conclusion would be a blow to the jugular of North America, and North America was already waging a battle to stay afloat.

Andy was driving when Joe's portable cellular phone rang, which was fortunate as Joe had to struggle to get it out of his overcoat.

“Joe?” The voice belonged to Walt Rogers, powerplant group chairman, who was back at the airport.

“Yes.”

“We've got a problem.” There was fright in Walt's voice. Joe was instantly tensed, sitting up suddenly in the right seat of the minivan.

“What?”

“Barbara … uh … fell while working in the wreckage. She broke through a floor panel, and she's hurt.”

“How bad?”

“She's on her way to the hospital by ambulance right now. She got cut, Joe, right up the chest, by a sharp section of metal. It looked like she'd been in a knife fight. She's in a lot of pain, and I think she's lost a lot of blood.”

“Oh Lord. Which hospital?”

“Truman Medical.”

“We were just there.” Joe saw Andy's questioning look. “Stand by a second.” He looked up at Andy. “Barb's been injured, cut badly falling in the wreckage. Turn around. We've gotta get back to Truman.”

Joe spoke into the phone again. “Okay, we'll meet her. How long ago did they take her away?”

“Five minutes. She's worried about transfusions, Joe. We all are. You know, whether its safe blood and all.”

“I understand. We're going back.”

“Joe?”

“Yeah.”

“The flight recorder printout has arrived. I've looked at it. You want me to tell you …?”

“Not right now. Later, when things are calmed down. Keep everyone out of the wreckage until I get back, and get a report started. Call Washington and make a formal accident-injury report, tell them I'll check in from the hospital.”

Joe punched the disconnect button as Andy negotiated the off ramp and prepared to swing under an overpass to regain the southbound lanes.

“She got too eager, Joe. Barb does that.”

“Yeah. And I pushed her.” Joe watched the maneuver in silence, feeling positively ill.

The ambulance was unloading when Andy brought the minivan to a halt outside the emergency room. Joe jumped out, making his way to the stretcher as the two paramedics rolled her in the door. Barbara's face was very white, he noted, but she was breathing and her eyes were open and moving. Joe paced the group as they showed their federal ID cards and were directed immediately down a hallway and into a trauma operating room, where a doctor and two nurses were waiting—alerted, Joe figured, by radio.

“How is she?” Joe asked one of the departing paramedics as he turned to leave.

“Spunky and conscious. Ask her yourself. She'll survive.”

Joe moved to Barbara's side, shocked at the crimson mess her clothes had become, ignoring the sight of her breasts as the nurse pulled away her torn blouse and bra, leaving only the emergency bandages.

“Joe! Sorry about this. I …”

“Hey, don't.” He held up a hand to stop her apology. “What happened? Walt said you fell through the floor of the wreckage?”

“Stupid mistake. At least I had my hard hat and gloves on.” She smiled weakly, looking behind Joe and adding, “Hello, Doctor Kelly.”

“Susan.” Joe was surprised. He hadn't seen her in the entryway.

“I followed you in, Joe. I had to get Barbara's things from the ambulance.”

Joe looked at the doctor as he worked to assess the gash, which seemed to run from Barbara's navel to a spot between her breasts.

“A clean cut, and no muscle damage, I think,” he announced, peering at her. “What'd you do, tangle with a scalpel?”

“Is it that clean?” Barbara asked.

“A nice, clean cut. If you
had
to do it, at least you did it right.”

They talked while the physician began his work, Joe trying to keep Barbara's mind off the pain as local anesthetics were injected and stitches begun. There was no need for a transfusion. The blood loss looked worse than it was.

“I still can't find the CVR, Joe. I'm about to the point of figuring … ouch … ow …” She closed her eyes and fought tears of pain with gritted teeth for a second.

“Sorry, Miss Rawlson. That's as bad as it'll get.”

Barbara swallowed hard and opened her eyes, taking a tentative breath, eyes roaming to the doctor. “I'm beginning to think someone stole it, Joe. That sounds impossible, but the damn thing's nowhere.”

“You completed the search?”

“I was just getting into the last section, so to speak. Guess I did it too literally …
ouch!
THAT … HURTS!”
Her eyes closed again, her hands rolled into fists, and tears streamed down her face.

“Hang in there, Miss Rawlson.” The physician hadn't batted an eye as she reacted, looking through his half glasses at the wound as he stitched her up.

“You're lucky, young lady,” he said at last. “This is clean enough so that, with a little cosmetic surgery, I don't think the scar'll show. Your cleavage will remain intact.” He looked up at her. “In fact, it may end up more pronounced.”

Barbara tried to laugh, wincing at the pain. “For a girl with no boobs to speak of, that's reassuring—I think.”

Everyone, including Susan Kelly, laughed at that. All except Joe, who cleared his throat at last, aware he was being watched by Susan with some amusement. “I'll have your team continue the search, Barbara, with a little more respect for the wreckage.”

“Yes. Please.” She rolled her eyes while Joe continued.

“But, if the CVR doesn't show up, I may have to agree with you and declare it stolen, though I can't figure out who'd want to steal it. God, I'd hate to lose that tape. The captain gave us next to nothing this morning.”

Susan elected to stay with her while Joe and Andy headed back to the airport, leaving Barbara to at least a couple of nights in the hospital at government expense, with promises to keep her in the investigatory loop. Susan said she would take a cab back. It was on the way out that Dr. Mark Weiss spotted the two NTSB men, and vice versa.

“You must be Joe Wallingford.”

“That's right.”

Andy motioned to Weiss. “Joe, this is the man I told you about.”

Joe looked at the psychologist with a mixture of sympathy and uneasiness. What do you say to someone who had lost so much? Especially when the only news you could give him was negative. He seemed calm and collected, if somber, but his eyes were flat and lifeless, and though his clothes and hair were neat in appearance, Joe saw his face was rumpled and worn, especially for a man of his age, barely thirty-five.

“Have you had a chance to consider my request, Mr. Wallingford?” His voice was quiet and even.

Joe nodded and glanced down before engaging Weiss eye-to-eye. “Yes, I have, Doctor. I must tell you I sympathize completely, and I recognize your qualifications …”

“But you won't do it because I'm too close and too interested.”

Joe sighed and bit his lip before nodding. “Not only that. Parties of record in an NTSB investigation are representatives of companies and organizations, not individuals. What you're suggesting would set a very dangerous precedent.”

“I knew that'd be your objection. Future crash victims' families would want in. Can't you admit me based on professional expertise?”

Joe shook his head, realizing his hands had gone to his hips out of frustration; he wanted to help but knew this wasn't the way. “Your type of expertise isn't involved here, Doctor. This will most likely be a very complicated accident involving systems failures and perhaps procedure problems, and yes, as Andy reminds me, perhaps some human failure. I know you've been working with an airline that has badly impacted the psychological balance of its pilots, but that airline isn't involved here.”

“You don't know that yet.”

“Well, we've already met with the captain,” Joe began, slightly upset with himself for gearing up to throw a half truth at Weiss but intending to hint they had the cause somewhat narrowed down, “and he gave us indications we could be dealing with weather or system failure.”

“I know, I saw him too,” Weiss replied. Joe must have looked startled, because Mark Weiss raised his hand to allay Joe's concern. “I just dropped in on him a while ago. I … needed to hear it for myself. What he remembered, I mean.”

Weiss's voice caught on the last word, and he looked away for a few seconds, taking a deep breath and trying to stay in control.

“What did he tell
you
, Doctor?”

Weiss looked back at Joe suddenly. “That he flew it right, but it didn't go where he aimed it.”

“Well, that's what I mean.”

Weiss shook his head. “But it's too early for what he says to be reliable. This is a complicated man who's scared stiff.”

“Scared?”

“Of course. He's a tough administrator and pilot. He's obviously worried about losing his job. I deal with men like this all the time. They're very complicated and need professional evaluation.”

Joe saw Andy's head nodding to one side and gestured to him. “That is Andy's field, human factors. I just don't see it here as anything but an interesting sidelight.”

“So far, Joe,” Andy reminded him.

“Yeah. So far.”

“I could help with that,” Weiss said.

Joe shook his head again, looking Weiss in the eye and placing his right hand on the younger man's shoulder. “Doctor, I can't know all you're feeling. I grieve with you for your loss, and you're showing remarkable restraint and composure to even be discussing this. But I cannot do it. I have more than your feelings to deal with. I have to get to the bottom of a technological mystery. If there's a hidden technical flaw, we have to find it rapidly. I can't afford distractions.”

Weiss looked back impassively, finally nodding. Joe offered his hand and Mark took it warmly, which was a surprise. Joe had expected hostility. “I'd like to stay in close touch. I'd like to see you in Washington later,” Mark said.

“Any time, Doctor.”

Mark Weiss shook Andy's hand as well and walked away, thoroughly undeterred. If he couldn't go in the front door of the investigation, he'd go in the back door. Or maybe he'd create his own door. It wasn't just the pain of losing Kim and the boys driving him to some vengeful attempt to find someone to blame. That was there too, he had to admit. But the only way he felt he could accept their loss was knowing it had served some purpose other than just causing the mindless agony of those left behind. For their sake—for his sake—he had to know that whatever killed his family was identified and corrected, if possible. He had to be useful. He couldn't just sit around and grieve.

Mark thought of Timson and his wife, and the empty look in her eyes. He had recognized the captain's fears immediately, but he couldn't quite read his wife, and the visit had been too brief, and too difficult, to learn more. But Mark had an intuitive sense that Timson's ability to live with what had happened was somehow tied to his wife's reaction.

Walt Rogers was waiting for them when Joe and Andy returned to the ballroom at the airport Marriott.

“You gotta see this readout.” Walt ushered them into the small conference room and began spreading the 8½-by-11-inch sheets of paper on the table, multitudes of numbers in seemingly endless columns representing the readout of different flight parameters sampled and recorded digitally every few seconds.

“Thank God this was a digital recorder,” Joe said as he leaned over the sheets.

“Tell me about it. I felt like throwing a party when the last of the foil-tape stylus boxes was removed. Eighty percent of our efforts used to go into deciphering the readings themselves. It was hard to get to the questions of what the data meant.”

Joe looked at Walt. “You've been going over these, give me a clue.”

Rogers smiled and shuffled through the papers until he found the sheets representing the last minute of flight for the Airbus. The columns of numbers held engine-power settings, flight-control positions, the speed, altitude, attitude, and several other key readings.

“In a nutshell, Joe, the speed never dropped.”

“Really?”

“Never. It increased in the last twenty seconds. The aircraft did pitch down, the G forces lightened, meaning he unloaded the back pressure, and then suddenly you see in these numbers that the elevator moved back to the nose-up position, the engines started accelerating, the bank shallowed and they tried to roll wings level, and they started trying to pull up. I'm not sure whether the flight recorder captured any data past the moment of first impact or not, but the last pass of figures shows that the engines are almost at full power and the aircraft is level at an altitude of about fifteen feet.”

Joe said nothing for a while as he followed Andy and Walt through the columns, muttering occasionally and constructing a three-dimensional picture in his mind of the last seconds of the Airbus 320's flight. Finally he straightened up and looked at his two colleagues. “Okay, check this logic, and my conclusion. If this had been windshear, whether a headwind shearing to a tailwind suddenly, or even a major downdraft, we could see it in the airspeed, which would drop, and even though they'd be losing altitude, the airspeed would not increase.”