Hard Fall (31 page)

“They've established a positive rate of climb. Everything is going as planned. The nose is at a ten-degree attitude.”

Smith's southern accent contributed, “The next voice will be the pilot, Bill Dunlop. He'll call for the gear to come up.”

Hammett said, “This should be the tower making the hand-off to departure control.”

Cole said, “Again, I want to emphasize that this bird is aloft and performing as expected. This is exactly as it should go.”

“Everything is a ‘go,'” explained Cole. His jumping foot distracted Daggett, who tried instead to concentrate on the tape.

Mickey Tompkins, who had obviously listened to hundreds of such tapes, said, “This checklist isn't worth listening to. They run right through it. Everything is still okay up until the end of the list.”

Hammett asked, “Agreed, Mr. Cole? May we skip over this?”

Cole nodded his consent.

Daggett was amazed at the calm, professional nature of all the exchanges. Sixty tons of steel, aluminum, and plastic climbing at two hundred miles an hour. A hundred switches and a pair of steering wheels to keep it aloft. These men sounded like they were reading an owner's manual.

Tompkins stopped the tape and said, “It's right here that we get the first sign of trouble. You have to listen carefully.” He let the tape roll.

Daggett heard that light pop. And then the same, amazingly calm voice of a man who somewhere in his being must have been experiencing sheer panic. If he did, none showed.

Daggett tried to imagine what was being said. “Was the fire under the seat?” he asked. “Is that what he's saying?”

“Doubtful,” answered Cole, his right foot going like Gene Krupa's in a fast swing tune. “The cockpit fire extinguisher is kept under the copilot's seat. My interpretation would be that Bill Dunlop is reminding his copilot it's his job to handle the fire.” He paused. “Anybody else?”

Tompkins said, “That may be, but the sound of the fire—if that's what we're hearing—is clearly more apparent through the copilot's microphone. I think Mr. Daggett may have something here.”

“Let it roll, Mickey,” Hammett ordered.

Again, those in the room said nothing. Even repetition didn't erase the suddenness of it all.

Lynn Greene said, “How do we explain the copilot's tone of voice? Is he saying that the fire extinguisher can't be reached?”

“That's what it sounds like to me,” Daggett agreed.

Smith said, “The tone of voice clearly indicates panic. You normally wouldn't hear Pete talk like that in the copilot's chair.”

Daggett didn't need that reminder.

Cole looked over at Lynn. “I think that's unlikely, Ms. Greene. There is nothing beneath the copilot's chair that would be likely to start a fire. The instruments maybe, something in the console, but not beneath the copilot's chair.”

If we had stopped Bernard in L.A., Daggett thought, I wouldn't be listening to this.

At the end of the tape he decided to make his stand, before the others began forming what he believed was the wrong conclusion. He spoke up for the first time. “You people are the experts, and I'm nothing more than an observer here tonight, but isn't it possible, given the little cough that can be heard, that the fire was the result of a
small
explosion?”

“Explosion?” Hammett interrupted. “Let's stick with what we're hearing, Mr. Daggett. There is no mention on the CVR of an explosion. The flight crew talks about a
fire
.”

“But the fire was caused by
something
,” Daggett argued. “That's all I'm saying.”

“Which is
exactly
what this investigation will pursue over the next few months. Obviously, our primary concern at this point is the cause of that fire.”

The cause, Daggett thought, hearing the man's words echo.
Der Grund
. He did not miss the irony. “I haven't got months,” Daggett said.

“It's obvious,” Cole said while scratching his bald head, “that the crew continues to operate after this fire begins. Equally obvious, is that the fire—or even this alleged explosion—did not cause any serious damage, certainly not enough to bring this bird down so quickly.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the graph paper. “The DFDR tells us that the captain's instruments and controls continue to operate properly and, for a few seconds at least, he continues to fly the aircraft.” He paused. “So, a more likely explanation is that fumes from the fire overcame the crew. The toxicity of flight deck fires is well documented; the plastics and resins catch fire and can overcome a crew in seconds.
That
is what this tape tells me.”

“Agreed,” said Hammett. “If we look at this logically, the events seem to be”—he counted out on his stumpy fingers—“rotation, change of course, fire, unconsciousness or death of the crew, impact.”

Daggett blurted out: “If the crew had been overcome by fumes, we would have seen it in the blood work-ups. There's
nothing
there to support this. Mr. Cole has a fine theory, but there's simply no evidence to support it.”

They were all staring at him, including Lynn. Only then did he realize how loudly he had spoken, and that he had come out of his chair. Embarrassed, he sat back down.

Lynn covered for him. “Mr. Daggett's point is an interesting one. The autopsies evidently do not support the theory of a crew overcome by toxic fumes. At best, it seems to me, this CVR tape is inconclusive. It has to be studied more closely by experts such as Mr. Tompkins so we know
exactly
what is the cause of each and every sound. There's room for further analysis, isn't there?”

Tompkins shook his head violently and said, “Of
course
there is. We'll take this tape apart decibel by decibel. Given enough time,” he said, looking cautiously at Daggett, “we should be able to identify and reproduce each and every sound on here—”

“Which means there's a good chance we'll know if the fire began as a result of something mechanical, something endemic to the flight deck, or whether the possibility of sabotage exists.”

“I would caution you on that, Ms. Greene,” Cole said, cutting off Tompkins's response. “I repeat that the DFDR demonstrates clearly that all instruments and all controls continue to operate correctly until the moment of impact. From what we know so far, sabotage seems highly unlikely, unless you are suggesting that a third party started a fire on board and counted on the toxicity of the ignited materials to overcome the crew. That's stretching it a bit, don't you think? Unless you're suggesting the bomb was a dud, and instead of exploding it only caught fire. But to my knowledge there's been no
evidence
found,” he said, addressing Daggett, “to suggest anything like a bomb on board sixty-four Bravo.”

“Unless a fire
was
the intended sabotage,” Lynn said. “Not all sabotage is meant to kill. It could have been the work of a disgruntled employee. It could have been—”

“
What
could have been?” Cole protested. “That implies there's a device involved.”

“He's right,” Hammett agreed. “I'd have to agree with Mr. Cole on this. We've seen no evidence whatsoever—”

Lynn interrupted Hammett. “The glass bulb and the possibility of a mercury switch,” she reminded.

“That again?” Hammett reminded. “That's hardly conclusive at this point.”

The volley of interruptions was followed by an uncomfortable silence. It was broken by the accent of Don Smith, who said slowly, “Two men lost their lives. AmAirXpress and Duhning lost an aircraft. There is no gasping on this tape. No choking. No coughing. No call for help. No sign of struggle. What is there? Mr. Tompkins, what
exactly
do we hear?” he asked rhetorically. “We hear a pop. We hear the call of fire. We hear the copilot's intention to subdue that fire. We hear the fire extinguisher engage. I am not here as an expert, gentlemen—Ms. Greene—in anything other than the sound of my associates' voices. This is a painful experience for me. Those men were my friends. But as far as I can hear, the last thing mentioned on that tape is the fire extinguisher.” He looked over at Daggett. Then to Lynn Green and finally at Hammett. “Has anyone studied the fire extinguisher. Have you determined its contents?”

“Let me get this straight,” Cole said, jumping in. “You're suggesting that a third party purposely started a fire on the flight deck in order to get the crew to put it out with a fire extinguisher charged with some kind of killer gas or something? Doesn't that strike anyone as just a little absurd? I mean, why bother? If you can get a device on board, why start a fire? Why not make it a bomb and make sure it does the job?”

Daggett answered, “To create the exact confusion we're experiencing right now. ‘Absurd' is exactly right, Mr. Cole. That may be what we're expected to believe. I think Mr. Smith may have something.
Has
anyone checked the fire extinguisher? Do we even know where it is?”

Lynn Greene said, “I can't answer that.” She looked over to Hammett, who rose, stiff and stubborn, and left the room. Several minutes passed. Tompkins donned a set of headphones and replayed the tape, leaving the others in relative silence. Mrs. Blake appeared to be taking a catnap. Cole read through some papers he withdrew from his briefcase.

Finally the door opened. Hammett had a single piece of paper in his hand. “The fire extinguisher
was
recovered,” he announced. Then he lowered a pair of reading glasses and read. “It was catalogued and filed and is presently in the reconstruction hangar. Our ‘go team' is still on site.” He checked his watch. “With the time difference, I may be able to raise someone out there. I'll ask that it be removed and immediately shipped back here for analysis.”

Cole said, “I have a document here that says that fire extinguisher was inspected before that plane left our field.”

“A fire extinguisher,” Daggett corrected. “Maybe not
that particular
fire extinguisher.”

“You still haven't answered my question,” Cole objected. “Why bother with such an elaborate plan? Why not just blow up the plane, if that's the point of all of this?”

Daggett hesitated. They were all looking at him. All but Lynn. She was studying the edge of her shoes. He tried to say it strongly, but it came out as more of a forced, dry wind, “Because he doesn't want us figuring it out.” And then he added: “In less than a week, he's going to try this again.”

Wednesday morning, Daggett awakened alone.

As he made the bed, following his run, he thought about Carrie. She had a white-collar career to build from the ashes of a blue-collar upbringing—she had something to prove. She wanted the suburbs, the barbecues, the new car every two years. Yale or Princeton for their children who weren't yet conceived. Daggett wasn't sure what he wanted. He wanted it all to be different, whatever that meant. He wanted his only son to walk again; he wanted something to laugh about; he wanted his past returned undamaged. The future frightened him.

As he made the coffee he promised himself not to think about it. But promises were made to be broken. Always the same for him—always predictable.

He called out to Duncan.

“Right here, Dad,” the young voice came back. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“Just checking that you're awake.”

“It was a
joke
, Dad. Not going anywhere … Get it?”

He got it all right.

He showered and then drew a bath—same routine every day. He walked into Duncan's bedroom. The walls of Duncan's room were not covered with posters of Michael Jordan or Joe Montana, as were the walls of the bedrooms of his friends. Instead, on Duncan's walls hung autographed black-and-white press photos of television and radio sportscasters: Dick Enberg, Al Michaels, John Madden, Pat Summerall. On his bedside table lay the latest issue of
Sports Illustrated
and a hardcover book titled
Roar from the Valley
—a best-selling history of collegiate football. On his crowded shelves was a paperback library of sports biographies. The kid was a reading machine. What else was there to do?

He lifted and carried his son from caged hospital-style bed to steaming water. “You're not getting any lighter,” he told him.

“You're not getting any stronger,” Duncan replied.

“Meaning?” he asked as he lowered him into the water. There were times to play games with Dunc, to tease him or torture him for saying such things, but this was not one of them.

“If you don't get back to the gym, your arms are going to look like these,” he said, prodding one of his atrophied legs. Daggett shaved and brushed his teeth while the boy bathed. The same routine.