Men were running forward, hazy forms in the cloud of lingering dust There were shouts, and calls for help. The medic alarm sounded, ringing through the building. At the opposite side of the building, she saw Doug Doherty, shaking his head mournfully.
Richman looked over his shoulder, and pulled a four-inch splinter of plywood from the back of his jacket. "Jeez," he said. He took the jacket off, inspected the tear, putting his finger through the hole.
"That was a warning," Casey said. "And they've also wrecked the tool. Now it'll have to be uncrated and rebuilt. This means weeks of delay."
Floor supervisors in white shirts and ties ran forward into the group around the fallen crate. "What happens now?" Richman said.
"They'll take names and kick ass," Casey said. "But it won't do any good. There'll be another incident tomorrow. There's no way to stop it"
"This was a warning?" Richman said. He put the jacket back on.
'To the IRT," she said. "A clear signal: Watch your backs, watch your heads. We'll see falling wrenches, all sorts of accidents, whenever we're on the floor. We'll have to be careful."
Two workmen broke away from the group around the crate, and started walking toward Casey. One man was burly, wearing jeans and a red-checked work shirt. The other was taller, and wore a baseball cap. The man in the work shirt held a steel drill-press stanchion in his hand, swinging it at his side like a metal club.
"Uh, Casey," Richman said.
"I see them," she said. She was not going to get rattled by a couple of floor goons.
The men walked steadily toward her. Suddenly a supervisor appeared in front of them, holding his clipboard, demanding the men show their badges. The men stopped to talk to the supervisor, glaring at Casey over his head.
"We won't have any trouble with them," she said. "An hour from now, they'll be gone." She went back to the scaffolding, picked up her briefcase. "Come on," she said to Richman. "We're late."
BLDG 64/IRT
7:00 A.M.
Chairs scraped as everyone pulled up to the Formica table. "Okay," Marder said, "let's get started. We're having some union activity, aimed at stalling this investigation. Don't let it get to you. Keep your eye on the ball. First item: weather data."
The secretary passed sheets around the room. It was a report from the LA Traffic Control Center on a form marked "Federal Aviation Administration / REPORT OF AIRCRAFT ACCIDENT."
Casey read:
WEATHER DATA
CONDITIONS IN ACCIDENT AREA AT TIME OF ACCIDENT
JAL054 a B747/R was 15 minutes ahead of TPA545 on the same route and 1000' above. JAL054 made no report of turbulence.
REPORT JUST PRIOR TO ACCIDENT
UAL829 a B747/R reported moderate chop at the FIR 40.00 North/165.00 East at FL350. This was 120 miles north and 14 minutes ahead of TPA545. UAL829 made no other reports of turbulence. 100
FIRST REPORT SUBSEQUENT TO ACCIDENT
AAL722 reported continuous light chop at 39 North/170 East at FL350. AAL722 was on the same route, 2000' below, and approximately 29 minutes behind TPA545. AAL722 made no report of turbulence.
"We still have satellite data coming, but I think the evidence speaks for itself. The three aircraft nearest in time and location to Transpacific report no weather except light chop. I'm ruling out turbulence as a cause of this accident."
There were nods around the table. No one disagreed.
"Anything else for the record?"
"Yes," Casey said. "Passenger and crew interviews agree the seat-belt sign was never illuminated."
"Okay. Then we're done with weather. Whatever happened to that plane wasn't turbulence. Flight recorder?"
"Data's anomalous," Casey said. "They're working on it."
"Visual inspection of the plane?"
"The interior was severely damaged," Doherty said, "but the exterior was fine. Cherry."
"Leading edge?"
"No problem we could see. We'll have the aircraft here today, and I'll look at the drive tracks and latches. But so far, nothing."
"You test the control surfaces?"
"No problem."
"Instrumentation?"
"Bravo Zulu."
"How many times you test "em?"
"After we heard the passenger's story from Casey, we did ten extensions. Trying to get a disagree. But everything's normal."
"What story? Casey? You got something from the interviews?"
"Yes," she said. "One passenger gave a report of a slight rumble coming from the wing, lasting ten to twelve seconds..."
"Shit," Marder said.
"... followed by a slight nose up, then a dive..."
"Goddamn it!"
"... and then a series of violent pitch excursions."
Marder glared at her. "Are you telling me it's the slats again? Have we still got a slats problem on this aircraft?"
"I don't know," Casey said. "One of the flight attendants reported that the captain said he had an uncommanded slats deployment, and that he'd had problems with the autopilot."
"Christ. And problems with the autopilot?"
"Screw him," Burne said. "This captain changes his story every five minutes. Tells Traffic Control he's got turbulence, tells the stewardess he's got slats. Right now I bet he's telling the carrier a whole different story. Fact is, we don't know what happened in that cockpit."
"It's obviously slats," Marder said.
"No, it's not," Bume said. "The passenger Casey talked to said the rumbling sound came from the wing or the engines, isn't that right?"