Free Fall (9 page)

Seventeen

Manhattan, New York

B
y the time Kate had returned to the newsroom most of the day side staff had left, except Reeka, who approached her before she'd made it back to her desk.

“You're not on the schedule. What're you filing for us today?”

“Nothing.”

“We need a follow.”

“You know that I was with the FBI—” Kate glanced around to ensure nobody overheard “—discussing their response to the Zarathustra email. It's in the note I sent to Lincoln, you, Chuck and the other editors.”

“Then give us a story saying the FBI is now investigating the flight.”

“But they're not ‘investigating.' Not yet.”

“Your note said they've accepted our information, so write an exclusive saying Newslead has learned the FBI is investigating a claim that someone interfered with the near-fatal flight.”

“What? No. That's disingenuous and runs counter to what Lincoln directed us to do at the meeting. You were there. Besides, the FBI hasn't even assessed the claim yet. Did you read my note?”

Kate searched the newsroom in vain for Chuck when Tyler Sharpe, a news assistant, trotted to them.

“Excuse me, Kate, but I've got a call for you that sounds important.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Got a guy on hold. Says he's got information on your story about the EastCloud flight.”

“Put him through to me,” Kate said, turning to Reeka. “I'll take this.”

Striding to her desk Kate struggled to shake off the exchange. That Reeka was still working here was a constant source of trepidation, compounded by the fact Sloane remained an employee. Kate scanned the newsroom for him, happy she didn't see him.

Where's Chuck when I need him?

Kate seized her phone.

“Kate Page, Newslead.”

“You're the reporter who wrote the story on the EastCloud flight?”

“That's me. How can I help you?”

“My girlfriend and I were passengers and I have some footage I took on my phone when it happened that no one has seen.”

“Really? How can I be sure?”

“I'll send you a few seconds and our boarding passes, to show that this is the real deal.”

“Okay, use this email.”

Kate dictated the address and stayed on the line with the caller. A moment later the email came in. She caught her breath as she viewed the frightening images.

“Can you send me the whole thing?”

“Not until we meet face-to-face. That's how I want to do it.”

“Have you called other newsrooms?”

“No, just you. Your story was the best.”

He just echoed Zarathustra.
Kate tightened her hold on her phone. “Excuse me?”

“Your story had the most information, the interview with the captain. That's why I called.”

“Are you seeking money? Because all we pay for images is spot news and freelance rates—a few hundred dollars—and that's it.”

“I don't care about the money.”

“Okay, can you come to our newsroom today? We'll make an appointment.”

“No, we have to do this in one hour.”

“Why?”

“That's when our bus leaves. We're at the Port Authority Bus Terminal.”

Kate did a quick calculation of the distance and time, then traded descriptions with her caller before hanging up and collecting her bag.

“Tell Reeka I'm going to check out this caller,” she told Tyler, before hurrying to the elevator.

* * *

The Port Authority Bus Terminal was in Times Square, an eight-or ten-block walk, depending on which direction Kate went. She headed north on Eighth Avenue, estimating that she could cover the distance within fifteen minutes.

Her breathing quickened at the prospect of securing unseen footage. She was glad that she'd told no one details about the call, sticking fast to her rule on tips: never tell an editor what you've got until you've nailed it. It was a rule that had kept her sane with every editor she'd ever dealt with, especially with Reeka, who overreacted to everything. Kate neared the terminal and the air grew heavy with the smell of diesel and the rush of air brakes.

She whispered a prayer for the caller to be there.

The Port Authority Bus Terminal was one of the busiest in the world. In keeping with her caller's directions, Kate went to the information booth and searched the nearest benches for a white man and woman in their twenties. They had two suitcases: a small red canvas one, and a large fluorescent green one. The man had short dark hair, and the woman's blond hair touched her shoulders. When Kate spotted a couple matching the description, she went to them.

“Logan?” she asked.

“Yes,” the man answered, “and this is Kayla.”

“Kate Page with Newslead.” She held up her Newslead ID.

Their bandages reinforced the gravity of the matter. Logan pulled out his phone and pressed Play on the video. As Kate watched the events unfold, her hand flew to her mouth, for it was far more chilling than she could've imagined. Kate sat with the couple and interviewed them; they agreed to be photographed and identified for the story.

“We're thankful to be alive,” Kayla said.

“We don't want anyone to ever have to go through what we went through on that flight,” Logan said.

After they'd boarded their bus to Buffalo, Kate alerted Chuck, Reeka and the night desk to what she had and sent the video to Newslead's web team so they could post it on Newslead's website.

Adrenaline pumping, she sat down on a bench, blocked out the terminal's hubbub and focused her full concentration into crafting a story about Logan and Kayla's terrifying video.

Good work, Kate,
Chuck wrote back after reading her story and viewing the footage.

Once the story went live, Kate sent individual messages about it to the NTSB, EastCloud, the FBI, Captain Matson and her friend with the pilots' union. For dinner, she bought an egg-salad sandwich, then headed to the nearest subway station for an uptown train to take her home. The day's events replayed in her mind as the train sped north.

Who is Zarathustra and how significant was the threat to disrupt another plane? Those images of what happened on 4990 were shocking. What are we really dealing with here?

Kate racked her brains for possible answers, but it was futile—she was exhausted. The train rumbled from station to station, calming her, and she almost drifted off before it reached her stop.

It was dark when she surfaced on 125th Street.

She lived a few blocks away in Morningside Heights, in a Victorian-era building where she'd sublet an affordable apartment from a Columbia University professor who was on an extended sabbatical in Europe.

With the exception of distant sirens, it was unusually quiet. Her neighborhood was a mix of small businesses—a deli, a check-cashing store, a florist, an electronics store, a hair salon—and small apartment buildings. Tonight, the streets were almost deserted, and she felt a sudden and inexplicable pang of unease. She stopped and looked behind her.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

I could've sworn someone was following along behind me.

Kate continued to her building.

She fished out her keys, let herself in through the secure lobby and summoned the elevator. The car was empty. She stepped in and it rose toward her floor. Then, without warning, it groaned to a halt.

“Great.”

Kate pushed buttons, but to no avail. She rang the alarm button but nothing happened.
This is strange. We never have problems with the elevator here.
In the silence, she heard the echoing thud of someone rushing up a stairwell and called to them.

“Hello! Help! I'm stuck in the elevator! Can you push a button?”

Several moments passed without a response.

Kate then reached for the small door to the emergency phone when suddenly the elevator shuddered, resumed rising and stopped at her floor.

The doors opened and she stepped out.

That was weird
.

She turned for her apartment then froze.

She heard the distinct sound of floorboards creaking around the corner. Thinking that it might be the person she'd called to for help, Kate went to the corner to thank them and tell them the elevator was now working.

She caught her breath.

No one was there.

Kate swallowed hard.

Attributing it all to the side effects of a busy day, she went to her door, entered her apartment, locked the locks and slammed home the dead bolts.

Eighteen

Washington, DC

T
ension was etched in the faces of the experts preparing to analyze Flight 4990's flight data recorder, or FDR.

They had met on the sixth floor of National Transportation Safety Board headquarters at L'Enfant Plaza. The room was devoid of the usual small talk, Jake Hooper thought, taking a sip of black coffee as the chair ran down meeting rules for the people at the table. They were from the FAA, the pilots' union, the airline, the recorder's maker, the plane's manufacturer and the NTSB.

Hooper knew the rules by rote. They were similar to those of the group that had met earlier to listen to twenty-five minutes of crew conversation downloaded from the plane's CVR, the cockpit voice recorder.

We're moving pieces into place but this case has twists
.

The FBI had just advised the NTSB that a news agency had received an email from a party claiming responsibility for the flight's loss of control and was threatening to do it again with another plane. The message—whether a hoax or somehow credible—was unnerving.

The stakes had been raised.

There was also the captain's insistence that there had been no clear-air turbulence, and that the crew did not disable the safety features to make control inputs. And now the release of the dramatic video of the turmoil 4990's cabin had raised the profile of the incident.

“Shall we get started?” Ivor Carver, the NTSB's flight data recorder specialist, began by summarizing information on the digital flight data recorder, the model—a Sun-Signaler—and the parameters recorded.

“Data readouts have been circulated, and I want to underscore and remind everyone this is nonvalidated, preliminary data.”

Pages were shuffled and throats cleared as Carver continued.

“As you can see, we've overlaid preliminary FDR plots with the characterizations of the text from the cockpit voice recorder, correlating them with radar and other data. Moving forward, we'll keep an eye to ranges, accuracies and resolutions. Okay, so let's look at the parameters.”

The FDR recorded the aircraft's various systems, covering nearly one hundred aspects, from changes in altitude, thrust, control inputs and airspeed. One by one, the investigators read, interpreted and assessed each reading. Hooper took notes, concentrating on several areas he considered key, such as autopilot engagement, the automatic flight control system, the computer failure indicator, cockpit trim and all cockpit flight control input—the control wheel, control column and rudder pedal.

Hours later, as they concluded studying the last areas, Fred McCullers, Sun-Signaler's expert, offered his observation.

“It's clear the data recorder was functioning properly.”

“And I don't see any issues with the fly-by-wire system,” said Erna Valentine, the lead engineer with Richlon-Titan.

“You're absolutely certain there was no malfunction?” Hooper asked.

“Yes.”

“What about an episodic failure?”

“No evidence of one here. It would've been recorded.”

“What about system vulnerabilities?” Hooper said.

“You're alluding to the claim the FBI is investigating,” Valentine said. “The suggestion that someone seized control of the aircraft from the crew?”

“We can't ignore it.”

“That scenario is impossible. The claim's a prank. The system doesn't talk to the outside world.”

“What about through the Aircraft Communications Addressing and Reporting System and the other wireless systems aboard? Perhaps they have vulnerabilities we're not aware of?”

“Absolutely not. Everyone at this table knows they're stand-alone systems that cannot be breached. Richlon-Titan designed and pioneered the new state-of-the-art, fly-by-wire systems for all the RTs and other aircraft around the world. They're absolutely secure.”

“Let's come back to the pilots, who've stated that they encountered a system malfunction.”

“Frankly, I don't buy it,” Valentine said. “It had to be clear-air turbulence, which does not emerge on radar. It caused the captain to switch off the safety features, take control and overreact. You have to remember, this pilot's record shows that he's dealing with serious personal issues. An antidepressant was found in his blood. He was a prime candidate for distraction.”

“For the purposes of this meeting—” Gus Vitalley of the pilots' union shot an icy glance to the chair “—we're required to stick to the facts concerning the flight data recorder and not veer into speculation.”

“Those are facts, Gus,” Valentine said. “Facts we need to consider in light of the preliminary evidence before us.”

The meeting continued for another forty-five minutes before it concluded.

Alone in his office, Hooper flipped through his notes while consulting the FDR readout, mentally gnawing on the facts the way Pax went at a bone.

The plane had made two abrupt ninety-degree rolls. It shouldn't have done that. Something was up. Why had the safety features of the fly-by-wire system been disabled? That was only supposed to happen in an emergency, such as a situation involving severe clear-air turbulence. But Raymond Matson maintained that there had been no turbulence and that he hadn't disabled the safety system.

But there it was.

The records didn't lie.

Somehow that system had been turned off.