Fly by Wire (2010)

by Larsen, Ward

  A young woman rushed up and passed a message to Bastien. The investigator-in-charge frowned sourly. "Mon Dieu!

  "What now?" Davis asked.

  "So much important work to be done," he waved the paper, "and I am pulled down by the weight of dead horses."

  "Dead horses?"

  "A horse was victim to the crash and the owner is now demanding compensation."

  Davis prodded, "A champion Thoroughbred, no doubt."

  "The man is outside complaining to the press." Bastien straightened his tie and began to walk away. His gait was stylish, confident. In parting, he glanced over his shoulder, a look that said, We will resume our discussion later.

  Davis nodded in return, his eyes sharp. Yes, we will.

  Davis continued his walk through the hangar. The investigators were gathering amid rising mounds of debris. He counted four regionalized conversations where the working groups had divided into packs. The buildings tall, rectangular frame was an acoustic nightmare, and so the competing words mixed in a chattering waterfall, the aggregate indistinguishable to Davis' ears. In three of the pods, the participants were bantering -- loud, animated discussions, the usual give-and-take over early findings and theories. The fourth group, however, was different.

  Dr. Ibrahim Jaber presided, giving muted directions to two colleagues. He talked, they listened. He moved his hands in slow chopping motions and his colorless face was compressed as he emphasized a point. On their first encounter, Davis remembered Jaber as being subdued, almost listless. Now he looked like a mime on Valium. From a distance, even his eyes appeared changed, lacking the intensity Davis had seen earlier. Now they were dim, like a light that was neither on nor off, but something in between.

  Sorensen hadn't come up with anything yet on Jaber's background, but Davis had asked around among the other investigators. He'd found out that the guy was Egyptian, just as he'd guessed, and had a Ph. D. from Cairo University in systems engineering. After a short stint writing computer code for an Italian avionics supplier, he had hooked up with Aerostar, a nascent Russian airframe manufacturer. Neither job was management, but rather technical in nature. Apparently the guy was some sort of expert in software integration, made his living by renting out his skills to whoever was buying. A hired gun. Not bad work, but hardly the resume of a chief project engineer for a new civil aircraft program.

  Davis edged over.

  When Jaber saw him coming he ended his one-sided conversation The two men he'd been lecturing faded away.

  "Hello, Mr. Davis."

  Davis nodded. "Dr. Jaber."

  "Are you looking forward to hearing the cockpit voice tapes?"

  "Looking forward to it? Not really. But we might learn a few things."

  "Yes, indeed."

  Davis said, "I understand that you're something of an expert in the design of flight control software."

  Jaber waved the compliment away, that false air of coyness so imbued in people who thought highly of themselves. "I would more precisely describe my work as systems integration -- it is my duty to bring conformity to the various aircraft computers and data inputs."

  "Then I should ask your opinion. Whose concept do you prefer -- Boeing or Airbus?"

  Jaber cocked his head to one side, the way people did when they were perplexed, as if a new angle of perspective might bring enlightenment. "I am an engineer, so Airbus, of course."

  In the decades since Airbus had come into existence, two essential theories had evolved concerning the design of flight control systems. Airbus had pioneered fly-by-wire technology for commercial aircraft, a method where the pilot controlled what was basically a joystick, and a series of computers then provided inputs to hydraulically actuated flight controls. Boeing, on the other hand, had long kept a more traditional method, retaining mechanical links between the pilot and the flight control surfaces. Over the years, the two manufacturers had gravitated to something of a middle ground, but these divergent design philosophies gave rise to yet another division -- pilots favored more direct input, while engineers liked to give their computers ultimate say. Davis knew, from a neutral investigator's standpoint, that each camp could point to spectacular failures of the other.

  Jaber continued with what sounded like a well-rehearsed sales pitch. "At CargoAir we have embraced technology, Mr. Davis. The C-500 functions on a triple redundant system. The calculated chance of three concurrent failures -- if that is what you allude to -- is one in six billion over the life of the program."

  Davis never liked numbers like that. The guy who designed the Hindenberg probably had great numbers. Lethargy aside, Jaber was beginning to remind him of Hurricane Sparky. He said, "Okay, so lets say the flight control system was working as advertised. Would it have allowed such a steep dive? Wouldn't it have limited the angle of descent or the airspeed?"

  "These questions are yet to be answered. But, of course, everything must be measured with respect to the control inputs made by the pilot."

  Careful words, Davis thought. Throw it all back on the pilot. "So you give credence to Dr. Bastien s theory regarding the accident? You think it may have been an intentional act?"

  The Egyptian shrugged. "It is not for me to say, Mr. Davis. My expertise lies not in the human condition, but the far more predictable arena of software interfaces. I understand logic, sir, not emotion."

  Davis nodded politely. Then he tried a new tack. "Bastien suggests that the data recorder contains no useful information because the circuit breaker was pulled just before the dive began."

  Jaber nodded as he followed the thought.

  "Well, I've been wondering--just for the sake of argument, you see -- if there was any other way the data recorder could have failed."

  Jaber s movements turned glacial. Again Davis noticed the eyes, filled with -- what? Acceptance? Resignation?

  "Another failure mode?" Jaber queried. "The data recorder is one of many systems on the aircraft, Mr. Davis. None are perfect, and so it could have been a routine failure, of course. But I believe that to certify a data recorder, your own FAA requires a demonstrated time-between-failure rate of no more than one in every twenty thousand hours of flight time."

  Davis thought, More numbers. He said nothing.

  "Therefore," Jaber extrapolated, "could this have happened? Yes. But I ask you, what are the odds?"

  Davis didn't stop to calculate. "But you are an expert in systems integration. What if another system failed, something tied in with the data recorder? Maybe a component connected to a common electrical bus?"

  Jaber shrugged. "There are remote possibilities. I am told there was a brief power interruption on the ground as the crew was preparing for flight. As a pilot, you know such events can play havoc on individual systems."

  "Queertrons," Davis said.

  Jaber cocked an ear. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Queertrons. That's what pilots call them. Those little stray elements of matter that gum up everything with a circuit board. When an instrument goes haywire, you remove power for a few seconds, turn it back on, and the problem is usually solved. Usually."

  "Yes, from an operator's perspective you are essentially correct. And I will tell you that the same difficulties can occur when various aircraft systems interact. But this power interruption on the ground we are speaking of--it took place fully half an hour before the data recorder ceased functioning. Any relationship between the two would seem highly unlikely."

  "Highly," Davis repeated.

  Someone shouted a five minute warning for the briefing.

  "Clearly you have more questions," Jaber said. "Perhaps we can discuss this at a later time."

  Davis nodded. More discussion. His day-planner was filling up fast.

  Jaber headed for the briefing.

  Davis stood right where he was. In front of him was a section of wreckage. He recognized it as the remains of a cockpit windscreen, the thing twisted in its frame, inch-thick layers of clear laminate shattered beyond recognition. He was glad Jaber had a
t least given him hope -- there was a remote chance that the power interruption could have some relationship to the data recorder failure. Davis had one tiny straw to grab for, something beyond the possibility that Earl Moore had pulled the circuit breaker himself, rolled inverted, and pulled toward the earth.

  There was, however, one certainty in it all. One thing that Bastien was actually right about. The fact that the data recorder had failed only seconds before the airplane started its final dive -- that was too much of a coincidence. Davis didn't know the method. Not yet. But someone had made it happen.

  Someone trying to hide what really caused the crash of World Express 801.

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  Sorensen took off her New Balances before she entered her room. They were caked in mud, and she figured housekeeping would appreciate it if she didn't track it all over the carpet. She had just tossed them in the tub when her phone rang.

  It was a government-issued device -- big, heavy, and power-hungry, with a battery symbol that always seemed to be pressing the last bar. The thing was supposedly secure, another satellite gadget, but these days you could never be sure. She walked to the window with the phone in hand, allowing two more rings to shift her mental gears. Sorensen glanced outside. Her room had a reaching view of an open field bordered by brown, dormant hedgerows. In another three months it would be nice to look at. She turned away and hit the green button.

  "Sorensen here."

  "We need a status report."

  She rolled her eyes. No, Hey, how are you? Not even a name to the voice. Just some mid-level guy on the European desk who'd been tasked to keep a distant eye on her. The hard truth came to Sorensen's mind that in five more years it would probably be her on the other end of the line. It made her think about Jammer Davis and his distaste for big, faceless bureaucracies. Maybe he had a point.

  Her reply came with an edge. "My status is that I just spent my entire morning with Davis crawling through mud at the crash site. I learned a lot. It'll give me some credibility."

  "So he's cooperating?"

  She hesitated. "He said he'd help. The guy knows his stuff. He has some good ideas about what brought the airplane down."

  "We don't give a rat's ass about what brought the airplane down," countered the terse voice of Langley. "We want Caliph, and you've been inserted into this investigation to take a thorough look at CargoAir."

  "Give me a chance, I've only been on the job for two days. We have to go through a few motions here."

  "Screw the motions -- there's no time! You know what's been happening. Caliph has attacked us directly. This investigation crap will take months. We need results now!"

  Sorensen gripped the phone tighter. She really had a way with men these days. "What have you got for me?" she said, turning the tables. "I need that information on Ibrahim Jaber."

  After a long pause, the man in Langley began dictating. It didn't take long.

  "That's not much," Sorensen said.

  "We're still working on it. We dug up what we could. You just didn't give us enough--" the voice faded.

  Time, she thought with a grin.

  "Look, Sorensen, this is highest priority. You and Davis need to work fast."

  "I realize that. And as far as Davis goes -- he's a lot of things, but patient isn't one of them. He'll make headway."

  "Check in tomorrow at the usual time." The connection cut off abruptly.

  "And you have a great day too," she said mockingly to the steady tone that buzzed from her handset.

  Sorensen turned off the phone and threw it onto the couch where it clattered against a spent room service tray. A metal cover plate hid the remainder of her half-eaten midnight sandwich. It had been dreadful.

  Sorensen went to the bathroom and forced her eyes to the mirror. She knew it wouldn't be good. Her eyes were bloodshot under a dirt-smudged forehead, and damp hair was matted to the sides of her neck. She looked like she felt -- tired. She could use a day at a spa, maybe a massage. Fat chance. Her reality was surly phone calls and bad hotel food. Sorensen wasn't normally one for self-pity. Not for the first time, though, she questioned her career choice. It was an argument she'd been having with herself for six months now.

  Her sister had married well --or at least rich. At thirty-six, Vicky was three years older, but looked five years younger. Missing were the worry lines drawn by too many all-night surveillance shifts and the stress of endless travel. Vicky Sorensen had her Waspy husband, her uber-house, her twins in preschool. Anna Sorensen had turned it all down.

  His name had been Greg. Greg Van Essen. B. S. from NYU. Then an MBA. Landed at UBS. All the uppercase letters you needed in life. He was good looking, in a preppy kind of way. Considerate, in a roses on Valentines Day kind of way. She'd known him and liked him for two years. They were easy together, comfortable. So there was no reason for her to say no when, last summer, he had asked her to marry him.

  And she hadn't said no. She'd asked for time. But wasn't that the same thing? When a great guy gets down on a knee and says, "Spend the rest of your life with me," you're not supposed to say you'll give it due and proper consideration. You're supposed to gush, "Yes! Yes!" But that never happened. Maybe it would someday. Maybe she'd spend twenty years at the Company and then find that one great guy who had somehow slipped through to middle age unscathed and without baggage. The one who wouldn't worry about crow's feet or a few gray hairs. Sure she would.

  Sorensen turned to the tub and began to run water. The hot side wasn't working. So, under an arctic spray, she went to work scraping mud from her tennis shoes with a hotel toothbrush.

  The conference room was a standard affair, institutional chairs and three tables mated end-to-end. Over a dozen people associated with the investigation were present, including the head of each working group. Bastien kicked things off with a reminder for everyone that what they were about to hear was privileged information, not for public release. Davis found the warning laughable given what the investigator-in-charge had done yesterday.

  "As you all know," Bastien said, "the flight data recorder has so far given no usable information from the moment the dive began. Our technicians, of course, will continue their work. It has been determined, however, that up to the moment when the data stopped streaming, everything was consistent with a normal flight profile."

  Bastien introduced the lead engineer from the manufacturer of the voice recorder, Doral Systems. The guy passed around a stack of business cards and everybody took one. Davis saw a cell phone number scrawled on the back and thought, He'll be sorry. He tucked the card into the Rolodex that was his jacket pocket, not bothering to alphabetize.

  The Doral man explained that his technical team had been over the recording a half-dozen times, and had transcribed a rough text of the dialogue as well as all readily identifiable sounds. These secondary noises could be every bit as vital as the crew's words. Levers raised, switches actuated -- all of it registered.

  This nonvoice data would eventually be replicated, switch and mechanical sounds mimicked in a real cockpit, extraneous noise filtered out. Voice recorders were notoriously hard to decipher given the degree of background clutter -- wind stream, instrumentation, ventilation ducts, mechanical actuators and automated voices and warnings. The cockpit of a big airplane was a virtual ocean of chatter that could mask and mislead. All of it would be processed, simulated, filtered again and again until everyone agreed on each action that had been performed by the crew. It wasn't the same as having solid information from the flight data recorder--that loss tied one hand behind their collective backs -- but much could be learned.

  The Doral man passed out a four-page transcript to everyone. The information Davis began to scan was preliminary, but in time the technicians would nail everything down, save for the occasional garbled, unintelligible word.

  "We will begin," the Doral man said, "at power-up, roughly forty-two minutes before impact."

  The audio began. It was rather scratchy, but the voices of Capt
ain Earl Moore and First Officer Melinda Hendricks were clear. The dialogue was also projected on a screen at the head of the room, a PowerPoint mirror of the printed copy everyone had in front of them. A clock in one corner of the screen tracked time to the nearest one-tenth of a second.

  The crew could be heard running through the Before Starting Engines checklist, standard challenge and response items to ensure that every lever, switch, and instrument was prepared for flight. The use of checklists was standard procedure at all airlines. While most pilots could climb into a familiar airplane on any given day and fly without issue, it took only one distraction, one ill-timed sneeze-and-gesundheit, to keep the flaps from being set for takeoff. Virtually every item on the checklist, Davis knew, was written in blood -- at some point in the past a mistake had been made, an airplane crashed, and the checklist grew another step. Some of the crosschecks went back to the very dawn of aviation, while others were more contemporary. Altogether it made for a good system, helped aviators not repeat the errors that those before them had made. But as airplanes became more advanced, more complex, each new step in technology brought a matching stride of uncertainty -- there were always new hazards to uncover.