Crashers

by Dana Haynes

  It made perfect sense, which didn’t please O’Meara all that much. He didn’t want to trust this woman.

  27

  SUSAN TANAKA CHECKED HER silver Movado watch. Eight forty-five.

  Cascade Flight 818 had been on the ground for twenty-four hours and change. Susan felt a small shiver. In a crash investigation, time’s arrow points in only one direction: further from the incident. The clock was not their friend.

  It’s only one day, she reminded herself. No reason in the world why this had to be Kentucky all over again.

  Susan had reserved a suite for herself on the top floor of the hotel that overlooked the freeway, not because she was the boss but so that she’d have room to host the nightly debriefings. The room was soulless, generically decorated, but it would suffice. It had an oval conference table and a minibar with a coffeemaker and a small fridge.

  Tommy Tomzak arrived from Portland, dressed in sweats and sneakers he’d borrowed from the Portland Police Department about ten hours into supervising the first round of autopsies. He’d slept for an hour between the rescue operation and taking over the Go-Team. He walked into the room and collapsed on his back on the couch, one arm crooked over his face.

  John Roby and Isaiah Grey came next. They picked chairs around the oval table in the center of the room. With a knock, Walter Mulroney peeked in and stood aside. “Folks? Have you met Dennis Silverman? He’s with the flight-data-recorder company.”

  Dennis waved to the room at large. “Hi.”

  John and Isaiah shook his hand and made room at the table. Tommy stayed on the couch, his arm folded over his eyes. He might have fallen asleep.

  Susan reintroduced herself to Dennis and said, “Thanks for coming by. Has anyone seen Peter?”

  Walter said, “He should have been back by now.” He nodded toward the couch. “Tomzak? Anything useful in the autopsy?” He was still angry about losing the feud for the IIC position. He didn’t realize it, but Tommy didn’t know that there was any bad blood to get over.

  “We’ll have tox tomorrow,” Tommy murmured, not removing his arm from his face. His voice was hoarse with fatigue. “And that’s rushing the tests ahead of everyone else in the Northwest. Suze, the locals are being incredibly helpful. There’s no turf bullshit whatsoever.”

  Susan said, “I’m finding the same.”

  Tommy continued to speak, his eyes hidden. He’d been awake for thirty-five of the last thirty-six hours. And he hadn’t slept all that well before his lecture at noon at OHSU or his panel discussion that afternoon. “Anyway, I weighed the livers and we don’t have any big drinkers. There are no track marks. That only tells us we don’t have alcoholics or IV-drug users; it doesn’t tell us if either pilot had a highball before the flight. As for the captain, Meghan Danvers, she’s got the muscle tone of a pretty serious athlete. I’m going to be shocked if I find out she’s got booze in her system.”

  Susan turned to Walter. “Can your crew get the Vermeer out of that field?”

  He pulled on his lower lip, frowned. “We think so. I’ve had structural engineers running simulations all afternoon. We should be able to lift the primary sections onto flatbeds. Do we have a hangar?”

  “Yes. Little town called Valence has a brand-new, as-yet-unused UPS hangar. It’s ours.”

  Walter nodded his approval.

  Isaiah, who was leaning well back in his chair, the front legs off the mushroom-colored carpet, removed his reading glasses from their case. With his eyes cast downward, he glanced at the others to see if anyone had noticed that he needed glasses. He was still that pissed about it. “How about Kiki?” he asked. “I want to know what’s on that black box.”

  Susan turned to him. “Did you find anything at the airport?”

  “Yes.” He pulled out the steno pad he’d been using. “Captain Danvers was apparently a by-the-book flyer. The ground crew said she watched them like a hawk. She and her copilot both did walkarounds, and they both checked the Gamelan.”

  “Why is the data recorder called a Gamelan?” Susan asked.

  “It’s the brand name, is all,” Dennis spoke up, then cleared his throat. “Somebody in marketing did polling on a few names, came up with this one. It’s the latest in flight data recorders. It checks almost two thousand electronic relays and pneumatic actions throughout the ship, without taking off cowls and unbolting engines and, you know, whatever it is you electrical-engineering types usually do. They’re installed in many of the major liners these days.”

  There was a soft knock at the door and Kiki Duvall let herself in. She carried a manila folder under one arm and her portable MP3 player in the other hand. She was dressed in low-rise jeans and a hoodie, but she was barefoot. She’d come straight from her room. “Hi, guys. Sorry I’m late.” She started handing out transcripts that had been faxed to her. “The CVR,” she announced.

  Peter Kim entered the room, and nobody noticed that his usual, self-confident swagger had kicked up a notch. They did notice that he looked cool and unemotional, his suit nicely pressed, Hugo Boss tie snugged firmly under his chin. Everyone else, except Susan, looked rumpled. Kiki handed him a copy of the transcript but he hardly looked at it.

  She waited until everyone had their copies, then poised her finger in midair an inch over the control for the MP3 player. “Ready?”

  CHIEF FLIGHT ATTENDANT ANNIE COLVIN: Got ’em corralled. Ready when you are.

  CAPTAIN MEGHAN DANVERS: Thanks. Tower’s giving us the hold sign but we’re up next.

  COLVIN: Anybody want anything before I buckle up?

  DANVERS: No, thanks. I’m good.

  COPILOT RUSS KAZMANSKI: I’ll take some coff ee, if you’re got it brewed up.

  COLVIN: Hang on.

  Sound of door closing.

  KAZMANSKI: Decaf! That’s all I need, the jangles.

  DANVERS: Careful. Big brother’s listening.

  (In the hotel room of the Chemeketa Inn, Susan Tanaka blushed, realizing that these dead people had just made reference to herself and to everyone else in this room.)

  KAZMANSKI: Then I probably shouldn’t mention the ganja, mon.

  (Walter Mulroney frowned and pursed his lips. Isaiah Grey smiled.)

  DANVERS: Not funny, partner. CascadeAir doesn’t even allow joking about that.

  KAZMANSKI: I know.

  Sound of cockpit door opening.

  COLVIN: Here you go. Decaf all right?

  KAZMANSKI: Great, thanks. We’re— Hold it.

  PDX AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL: Ah, CascadeAir Eight One Eight, you’re loaded and fine. We have you at one-forty-six with three laps. You can leave the terminal now. Please queue up for runway two eight lima and await further instructions.

  (Kiki reached over and hit the Pause button on the machine. “One-forty-six and three laps?”

  Isaiah said, “A hundred and forty-six passengers; three of them are children young enough to ride on their parents’ laps.”

  Kiki said, “Oh,” and eyed Tommy’s prone form.

  Without uncovering his eyes, he knew she was looking at him. He just shook his head. Kiki, who was naturally pale, blanched, then hit the Play button again.)

  DANVERS: Roger that, tower.

  KAZMANSKI: Okay, we’re rolling. We’ll see you topside.

  COLVIN: Bye.

  Sound of door closing. Sounds of increased ground speed.

  DANVERS: ATC, this is CascadeAir Eight One Eight, in the blocks and ready to sprint.

  PDX ATC: Ah, roger that, Eight One Eight. Y’all got limitless ceiling tonight and little wind. You are cleared for takeoff on runway two eight lima. Have yourselves a good one.

  DANVERS: CascadeAir Eight One Eight, roger that. Thanks for the hospitality, Portland. We’ll see you next week. Eight One Eight out.

  Sounds of increased speed.

  KAZMANSKI: Power’s set.

  DANVERS: All right, then. Read ’em off.

  KAZMANSKI: Seventy-five knots . . . one hundred . . . one twenty.

  DANV
ERS: Vee one.

  Sounds of jet leaving the ground.

  KAZMANSKI: Positive climb.

  DANVERS: Okay, gear up.

  Sound of landing gear being stowed. Sounds of light turbulence.

  DANVERS: LNAV on auto?

  KAZMANSKI: Got it. You’ve got good climb thrust.

  DANVERS: VNAV.

  KAZMANSKI: Gotcha.

  DANVERS: Good. Flaps go to one, gear handle off.

  Sounds of systems being operated.

  DANVERS: Landing gear up and off.

  KAZMANSKI: Landing gear up and off.

  DANVERS: Flaps up.

  KAZMANSKI: Flaps up.

  DANVERS: Checked up.

  KAZMANSKI: Checked up, aye.

  DANVERS: Altimeter okay.

  KAZMANSKI: Altimeter reading A-okay.

  DANVERS: Center autopilot on.

  KAZMANSKI: Confirmed center autopilot on.

  Sounds of airplane in flight.

  KAZMANSKI: Like a baby’s butt.

  DANVERS: Damn straight.

  (Around the hotel room, the NTSB investigators glanced nervously at one another. They felt like voyeurs as they listened to the dead chatting. No one was sure if Tommy was asleep or not.)

  More sounds of standard flight.

  KAZMANSKI: Hmm. What’s that?

  A tapping sound.

  DANVERS: What’s what?

  KAZMANSKI: I’ve got a— Whoa!

  Sounds of violent shaking.

  DANVERS: Shit! Trimming rudder to the left! What’ve we got?

  KAZMANSKI: I— Dammit!

  Sounds of extreme turbulence. Four electronic caution tones sound. A siren sounds.

  DANVERS: What’ve we got!

  KAZMANSKI: I dunno! Wait, check the— This doesn’t make sense!

  Sound of chimes. The siren continues.

  DANVERS: Call it in!

  (In the hotel room, Dennis Silverman rested his elbows on his knees, hands clenched before him, head bowed. He might have been praying or he might have been nauseated.)

  KAZMANSKI: Uh, PDX flight control, this is CascadeAir Eight One Eight. Mayday! We are declaring an emergency!

  PDX ATC: Roger, Eight One Eight. Do you wish to return to Portland?

  DANVERS: Affirmative.

  PDX ATC: What is the nature of your emergency?

  DANVERS: Unknown, Portland! Engine trouble. We’re shaking apart!

  PDX ATC: Understood, Eight One Eight. Runway one zero romeo is available. We’re clearing airspace for you. Contact one zero five point four for your lineup.

  KAZMANSKI: One zero five point four, roger.

  PDX ATC: Ah, good, Eight One Eight. Come about one eight zero, altitude at your discretion. Would you like fire crews on scene?

  DANVERS: One eight zero confirmed. Affirmative on the fire crews. We don’t know what’s wrong!

  PDX ATC: Eight One Eight, you are, ah, seven miles from the first localizer.

  KAZMANSKI: Meg, we got— Christ!

  Sounds of extreme turbulence. A crash, several thuds. The siren continues to sound. The stick-shaker begins.

  (Isaiah closed his eyes and whispered, “Christ almighty.” The stall had begun.)

  Sound of emergency fuel venting.

  A dull snap within the aircraft. A yelp, from one of the pilots.

  DANVERS: Dammit!

  KAZMANSKI: Jesus, God.

  Sounds of damage to airframe.

  DANVERS: No!

  Sound of pilot howling.

  End of tape.

  In the hotel room, everyone stayed silent for a while. Meghan Danvers and Russ Kazmanski had spoken to them, had relayed to them what few details they knew about the last moments of their lives.

  It was up to the Go-Team to take this message from the grave and to figure out what went wrong.

  Dennis Silverman sat with the others, his head bowed. He was biting his lip. In his head, he was chanting, Don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh. . . .

  He stood and said, “I’ve got to go.”

  The others saw his pained expression. Walter patted him on the shoulder as he left.

  “You did well today. Thanks.”

  Dennis nodded and left the room. In the hall, he held his hand over his mouth and leaned against the wall and waited for the hysterical laughter to subside before heading for the elevator.

  He realized that he had a massive erection.

  Everyone remained quiet for a time. Tommy lay on the couch, Peter leaned against a wall, studying his fingernails. The others sat around the table, looking at their photocopied transcripts or staring out the window at the blackness beyond.

  “There’s something you should know,” Peter said to the room at large. His tie was firmly knotted at his throat and his cuffs were buttoned. “There’s a very strong likelihood we’re looking at pilot error.”

  Isaiah’s frown grew deeper. Tommy said, “Why?” without moving his arm.

  “Engine number three,” Peter said. “It’s preliminary, of course. We haven’t even found it yet. But the primary pylon is torqued inwardly. I’ve seen metal strain like that before. It’s evidence of a partial thrust-reverser deployment.”

  Walter Mulroney’s eyebrows rose and he let loose a low, slow whistle.

  Kiki said, “What’s that?”

  “You’re in a jet and it’s landing,” Isaiah explained. “You know how, right after you touch the ground, you start to hear a loud scream from the engines? It’s the loudest sound they’ve made the whole trip.”

  “With any luck,” Peter muttered.

  “Anyway, that’s the thrust reverser,” Isaiah said. “Metal slats block the flow of air through the engine, actually making the air move the wrong direction, slowing down the plane.”

  Walter scratched his neck. “But that makes no sense. If thrusters reverse in midair, the aircraft would break up instantly. We would have found debris over a thirty-mile area, not in a single field.”

  Peter shrugged. “Not if it was a partial deployment, rather than a full one. Just enough to make it nose over. But even if it was only partial, it would have shown up on the flight-deck’s monitors. The pilots should have realized what was going on and manually corrected for it. They didn’t: pilot error.”

  “I don’t know.” Tommy lowered his arm for the first time and squinted in the light. He hadn’t shaved in more than a day and his hair stood up, spiky. “Did Captain Danvers sound panicky to any of you? She didn’t to me.”

  Walter turned a baleful eye on him. “Yes, well, you’ve never flown an airplane.”

  Tommy sat up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Susan whispered, “Oh, God,” and rolled her eyes.

  “It means what I said: you’ve never flown an aircraft and you’ve never been an engineer. Maybe if you had, you’d know how people react in midair disasters.”

  “So you’re saying the captain sounded panicky.”

  “No, I didn’t say that. I’m—”

  “That was my point, Walter. She sounded pretty fucking levelheaded, considering the situation. Peter said she should have seen a monitor telling her what was going wrong. But she didn’t. That implies panic, and I’m not buying it. Kiki?”

  “Not panic, no.” Kiki had heard the recording an even dozen times and made notes on her copy of the transcript. She had covered three pages with doodles and scratches that meant nothing to any other living human. “I don’t get fright from her, either. The dominant emotion in that voice is anger.”

  “Yes.” Susan nodded. “I heard that, too. Her aircraft is supposed to obey her every command. And it’s not. So she’s angry at it.”

  Peter shook his head, a sneer making his thin features hard and unpleasant. “Whatever. The point is, she has a monitor to her right, to the copilot’s left. If she had a partial reverser deployment on engine three, it would have shown up. She should have seen it. She didn’t. Quod erat demonstrandum—pilot error.”

  “If it’s a reverser deployment,” Isaiah
Grey cut in, his chair tipped far back.

  Peter checked his air force wristwatch. “At first light, I’ve got a team covering the ground from the Wheeler farm back along the flight trajectory. We’ll find most of the engine along the way. As for the three other engines, there’s a Boeing operation east of Portland, in the suburbs somewhere. They’ve offered us the use of their shop for the strip-down.”

  The term strip-down wasn’t an exaggeration. Before the full diagnosis would be offered, every tiny part within the engines would be separated and scanned, some with X-rays, some with a mass spectrometer, and some with a microscope.

  Kiki stood, placed her fists on the small of her back, and bent to the left. Her spine let loose an audible series of cracks. “This monitor—does it have an audio signal?”

  Peter looked to Walter and Isaiah. They both shrugged. “Some do,” Isaiah said. “We’ll have to see what brand they installed.”

  Kiki bent to the left and her spine popped. A runner, she hadn’t exercised in two days and was beginning to feel it. “Susan, can we get a swap-out?”

  It was an expensive request. Kiki wanted an exact duplicate of the Vermeer 111, made the same year and with more or less the same number of air miles as the one that had crashed. They’d have to lease such a jet, probably from CascadeAir, to make sure the same equipment had been loaded in each aircraft. CascadeAir would agree, of course, but the company would charge the NTSB dearly for it.

  To Kiki’s surprise, Susan smiled. “Already done. Del okayed it this morning. We’ll have a swap-out here in the afternoon.”

  Kiki headed for the door. “Thanks. I’m going to bed.”

  Tommy’s eyes were bloodshot and he looked like the walking dead. He stood, too, yawning. “I’m gonna catch some sleep.”

  Walter stood. “We’ll start playing pick-up sticks at dawn.” The structures crew had a task ahead of them that was very similar, in a macabre sort of way, to the children’s game. They would begin moving the Vermeer 111, bit by bit, to the hangar that Susan had secured for them in Valence, Oregon. It was tedious, arduous work, and his was the largest single section of the Go-Team, with more than sixty people in all.