Free Fall (10 page)

Nineteen

Clear River, North Dakota

V
eyda was wearing a diaper and a T-shirt, and sucking on her bottle as she toddled into his study. He was working at his computer keyboard and she pressed against his knee, raising a tiny arm, forcing him to hoist her gently to his lap. She snuggled into his chest, falling asleep with her bottle as he worked with one hand while holding her with the other.

Elizabeth had captured the moment on video.

There were a few other videos and photos from their trips to Kitty Hawk and Cape Canaveral but he was often missing from ones taken at Christmas, birthdays and school events.

Looking at them now, on his computer in the gloom of his rented house, Robert Cole swallowed his pain with whiskey, letting the warmth of the alcohol flow through him. No matter how he steeled himself, no matter how much he drank, it tore him apart to look back at what he'd lost.

For not only was Elizabeth gone—he'd lost Veyda, too.

She'd been a brilliant child with an intuitive, analytical mind, an exceptional little girl. In her adolescent years, she'd read her mother's medical textbooks, his engineering books, then their philosophy books. Plato, Nietzsche, Lao Tzu and Descartes had been her favorites. She'd forever been questioning them on subjects and concepts.

Have you ever seen a person's soul, Mom?

What is eternal consciousness?

How do jets fly, Dad?

Veyda had loved looking over their shoulders whenever they'd worked at home, absorbing whatever she could.

But those moments had been rare for him because he'd always been at the plant, never around to do normal dad things, like taking Veyda to a museum, or going with her and Elizabeth on a hike, or helping Veyda with the science projects she'd worked so hard on. His job had always come first and before he'd realized it, the years had slipped by and Veyda had left home for college.

Their time together had been all but gone.

As Veyda accumulated one academic achievement after another, he and Elizabeth had seen less of her, which had made the few visits they'd had more meaningful—until the day of the accident.

He drank more whiskey.

Veyda had suffered a serious head injury in the crash. For months after the tragedy she'd undergone treatment and therapy before returning to MIT, determined to get her PhD as her way of honoring her mother's memory, but in that time she'd grown distant and cold toward him. When he'd flown to Boston to spend time with her, she'd missed a dinner date with him, and had been late meeting him at his hotel. She'd behaved as if she'd resented his presence. It was as if she'd become a different person. Then, after he'd returned to California, she'd sent him an email.

I will never forgive you for what you've done. You loved your work more than us. In killing my mother you killed part of me. I no longer want you in my life. I never want to see you again. You are not my father and I am not your daughter. You're a sad, ordinary man who contributes nothing to this world and I hope you die knowing that.

Her words had pierced him.

Veyda couldn't have meant what she'd said, he'd thought, blaming it on her injury. In the days and weeks after her email, he'd tried to reach her through the school, her doctors, her therapists and, thinking she might harm herself, even police. But it had been futile. Veyda was an adult and not a threat to herself or others.

I'm afraid this is a private matter, sir, and not one for police,
the officer had told him.

All of Cole's efforts to contact her, find her, speak to her and reconcile their relationship had been in vain. They'd become estranged and she'd vanished from his life, living on her trust fund and a portion of the insurance money they'd received from the crash. Cole had withdrawn into himself. Unable to function professionally, he'd lost his job, sold their house in Burbank and moved here to North Dakota where every day, haunted by her accusations, he tried to drown his guilt with alcohol.

But he failed because what Veyda had said was true.

The evidence stared back at him from the photos he'd saved. There were more pictures of him at work than with his family. At the time of the tragedy, he'd been one of Richlon-Titan's top quality-assurance engineers overseeing the fly-by-wire system. He'd been a highly regarded expert. He'd been asked to work with the US Air Force and national security organizations on system applications for classified projects, and he had often been called upon to provide technical help to the NTSB on crash investigations. Over the years, he'd developed professional friendships with NTSB and FAA people who'd respected his work.

He took another drink.

There was no denying it—he loved aviation and he'd loved his job. He'd enjoyed going to the RT plant each day in Burbank. Entering the massive hangar where they'd built planes, seeing the sections of fuselage, the scaffolding, the assembly jigs and hearing the
rat-a-tat-tat
of the riveting guns—he'd loved it all.

Moreover, he'd lived for the challenge of helping design, install and maintain RT's digital fly-by-wire system, an extraordinarily complex control system that enabled the aircraft to be controlled by electronic signals. The basic principle meant that pilot-initiated flight controls were converted to electronic signals that were then processed by flight control computers.

The system was programmed with flight control laws that provided hazardous flight envelope protection for such things as speed, bank, angle of attack and pitch attitude. The safety features essentially assured that the inputs made by the crew were within the limits of the plane's capability.

However, if the crew was suddenly confronted with an unusual emergency, RT's system provided for the safety features to be manually disabled, allowing the crew to manually direct the aircraft to perform beyond programmed safety limits.

Safe operation of RT's system was paramount. It was backed up five different ways to guard against problems such as a system failure, or the malfunction of any of the onboard computers, or loss of power.

Then there was the question of security.

Ah, yes, security
.

He took another drink.

Was the fly-by-wire flight-management system vulnerable to interference by satellite transmissions or solar storms? Cole's team had ensured that it was protected against such occurrences.

Perhaps the most contentious concern had been the one about the system's vulnerability to a cyber attack. Was it possible for someone to seize control of the aircraft remotely? Again, based on several overarching facts, Cole's team had been confident the answer was no. Ultimately, the flight-management system and the autopilot were controlled by the crew. The avionics systems had been designed and built with extremely high levels of security.

From time to time, reports would emerge indicating that the computer systems used in commercial jetliners today could be hacked. But such claims were always baseless.

Then an assertion surfaced at a global IT security conference in Manila that had prompted Cole's team to reevaluate the security of the RT system. A former pilot and computer security consultant had told the conference that he'd purchased software online that he'd adapted to infiltrate the Aircraft Communications Addressing and Reporting System and the Automatic Dependent Surveillance-Broadcast System. These systems transmitted short messages between aircraft, satellites and ground stations. The consultant had said that by infiltrating the two systems, he had the capability to land or crash any plane in flight. He'd used a flight simulator and given an audiovisual presentation to demonstrate his findings.

The NTSB and the FAA, as well as several aviation bodies around the world, had refuted the consultant's claim, stating that it might work in theory on a flight simulator, but it was not possible to interfere with flight-certified hardware as he'd described. Initially Cole's team had agreed, but while they'd been reviewing RT's system, Cole had discovered something alarming.

Something that they'd missed.

There was a “back door” via a connection between the aircraft's computing systems that was unsecured and could be exploited by a skilled hacker to gain access to critical flight systems. All that was needed to exploit the weakness was to establish a framework of malicious codes to override the plane's security software.

Cole had alerted RT's senior engineers to the flaw in the flight-management system, clearly indicating that it could be hacked. It'd meant that they would have to ground the fleet for a retrofit. He'd worked on a proposal to redesign and install a more secure system at an additional cost of nine million dollars per aircraft.

Executive members of the company had been stunned. They'd disagreed with Cole's proposal. Under the direction of Hub Wolfeson, a powerful executive, and without Cole's knowledge, the board had used RT's European operations to launch a retest of the existing system. That review concluded the existing system was secure and that Cole's theory was wrong. Cole had been angry, and after he'd managed to gain access to the European tests, he'd argued that the tests were inaccurate and therefore ineffective.

Again, he'd insisted the fleet be grounded and his proposal be implemented. Senior engineers and company board members, again led by Wolfeson, had been poised to review his request during the time Veyda had visited. Cole had been told that the board's response would take days. He'd tried to put it aside, when suddenly he'd received a text saying that upon review, the board had agreed with the European results and had denied his latest proposal to ground and retrofit the fleet.

Cole had been responding to those texts at the time of the car crash.

In that moment, the life he'd known had come to an end.

He swallowed more whiskey. A lot more.

And now we have the EastCloud incident. The fools. I told them. I warned them. They think they've got a safe airplane
.

Cole reread the news stories on the mystery surrounding the horror of EastCloud Flight 4990 and replayed the video of the terrified passengers over and over.

I know what happened and it's going to happen again. I've got to do something. Washington. I know somebody in Washington. I know what happened to Forty-nine Ninety! It's going to happen again, I tell you!

Cole reached for his phone but heard the sound of clinking glass as he fell to the floor, drunk, and passed out.

He lay unconscious in the darkness, still gripping his phone, while on his computer monitor horrified passengers screamed for their lives.

Twenty

London, England

T
he sprawl of metropolitan London flowed under Shikra Airlines Flight 418 as it approached Heathrow.

The six-hour flight from Kuwait City had been a smooth one for Captain Fahad Al-Anjari, the crew, and for their two hundred passengers aboard the Starglide Blue Wing 250.

Al-Anjari was one of Shikra's top pilots with some twenty-five years' experience with the Kuwaiti airline. His seniority afforded him the Kuwait City–to–London route, considered one of the airline's plum assignments. Al-Anjari had flown it nearly a hundred times and had always enjoyed it.

He loved flying the Starglide Blue Wing 250. It was a modern plane, equipped with easy-to-use computers, and had an admirable safety record. It responded well in all conditions, and always gave a smooth ride.

He loved the views over London, starting with the Thames. Each time he saw it, he thought of Joseph Conrad's passage in
Heart of Darkness
about the river evoking a large snake twisting deep into the country.

Flight 418 continued its descent and was minutes from landing. It was vectored for a visual approach to Heathrow's Runway 27L, the airport's southern runway. The autopilot and autothrottle were engaged. As the jetliner passed over the rows of homes crammed together in Hounslow, a suburb bordering the airport, it was ninety seconds from touchdown.

Al-Anjari had extended the landing gear.

The jet had now descended to one thousand feet and was fully configured for the landing. When the plane reached eight hundred feet Al-Anjari took manual control of the aircraft, instructing Khalid Marafi, the copilot, to disconnect the autopilot at seven hundred feet.

Marafi disengaged the autopilot.

At fifty seconds from landing, Al-Anjari, now in control, commanded more thrust from both engines. Both engines initially responded, but seemed disturbingly reduced to a trickle of power.

“What the hell's this?” Al-Anjari couldn't believe it. “What's going on?”

At thirty-five seconds from touchdown, Al-Anjari and Marafi scrambled to identify the cause for the loss of thrust.

“I don't know what's happening!” Marafi said. “Our speed is dropping fast! We're not going to reach the runway!” He scanned the instruments for the problem. The fuel level was okay, the pumps were okay, no fire indicators, no malfunctions. “We've got a double engine failure! The engines have been switched off!”

“Switched off? How? We didn't do that! Try restarting!”

They commanded a restart without response. Nothing worked.

Al-Anjari's throat tightened as he scanned the rooftops of Hounslow and noticed a petrol station ahead.

Not here! Oh God, please, not here!

Now at twelve seconds before touchdown, a buzzer sounded and a robotic voice warned, “Air speed low! Air speed low!” Then the stick shaker activated and the control column physically vibrated, indicating that the aircraft was about to stall.

“We're going to crash!” Marafi shouted.

Al-Anjari reached for the cabin PA system and announced to the passengers, “Brace! Brace! Brace for hard landing!” Then he radioed the tower. “Four one eight, Mayday! Mayday!”

At five seconds before impact, the jet just cleared the houses of Hounslow and the petrol station, coming so low to traffic on the A30 motorway that ran along the airport's south side that vehicles swerved to avoid the airliner's landing gear.

In the moment before impact, Al-Anjari pulled back on the control column and thought of his wife and children, flying kites and picnicking amid the southern dunes, praying he would see them again.

The jet came down in the grassy undershoot of the runway about two hundred and fifty yards inside the airfield perimeter fence. The right wingtip hit the ground first, followed by the right main landing gear. The wing disintegrated and the landing gear broke away as the plane skidded, then lifted and rolled, cartwheeling to an inverted position.

As it tumbled down the right side of the runway, the plane broke up. The rear tail section separated, taking several rows with it. While most passengers were belted in their seats, others spilled from the plane to the ground as it bounced along.

The main fuselage, the large center section, remained intact. As it slid and rolled, passengers were rocked loose in the cabin, some catapulted through it and out of the gaping hole left by the separated tail section. The metallic grind was deafening as passengers in the cabin were jerked and shaken like toys. The section seemed to slide forever before coming to a stop upside down.

People still belted were hanging in their seats. Blood dripped everywhere, and severed legs, arms and hands were scattered about the cabin. In some areas, the fuselage had been crushed, trapping people in coffins of compacted metal, their bleeding hands reaching out. The air filled with screaming, moaning and the overpowering smell of jet fuel.

“I can't find my husband!” One woman cried. “Help me find my husband!”

As people began disentangling themselves and helping others, a ball of fire shot down the cabin, blasting it with heat and a kerosene smell. In the choking smoke, people fought to help each other, struggling to the daylight and away from the wreckage amid the wail of approaching sirens.

The crash track was clawed into the earth. It was strewn with passengers, some unconscious, some dazed, in a trail that led to the severed tail section. The people in that section who were able to helped others free themselves, then stumbled aimlessly, staring at the foul cloud of black smoke rising from the main fuselage.

The cockpit had separated and had come to rest some seventy yards down the runway.

Amid the dust and swirling smoke, rescuers pulled bleeding crew members from the wreckage. Captain Al-Anjari passed in and out of consciousness as he glimpsed the scene: his plane in smoldering pieces, passengers staggering through the carnage.

Amid the cries of victims and sirens, he turned his head to the sky, as if the answer to the horror was written there.