Fly by Wire (2010)

by Larsen, Ward

  Midway through the checklist, the audio hiccupped. The Doral engineer explained, "Here, we have an electrical interruption. We believe the ship was on ground power, and it has already been confirmed that the portable power unit they were using had been giving the ground crews trouble for weeks. Everything comes back up in roughly ten seconds -- not enough time to lose any navigation alignments."

  This had to be the glitch Jaber was referring to, Davis thought, his far-fetched secondary theory on how the flight data recorder might have failed. Indeed, the voice recording soon picked back up and the crew could be heard finishing their checks. The only other anomaly before takeoff was a mention by the first officer that her clock had lost the correct time. Just like at home, Davis mused. The power goes out, and you have to reset every damned clock in the house.

  Takeoff and climb were normal. With the aircraft established at 38,000 feet and flying nicely on autopilot, things started to go very wrong.

  Chapter NINETEEN

  Davis listened to the words, but he also registered the tenor of the voices. Not for the first time, he put himself in Earl Moore's place.

  The recorder had four channels of input: CA1 was the captain's microphone, the voice of Earl Moore; F02 was the first officer, Melinda Hendricks; CAM was the cockpit area microphone, picking up everything, including extraneous sounds on the flight deck; ATC was air traffic control on the number 1VHF radio. The local time for each entry was also listed.

  0600:15 CAM: Warning horn

  Davis recognized it as the autopilot disengage warning.

  0600:18 F02: Did you do that?

  0600:20 CAl:No.

  0600:25 F02: Watch your altitude, Earl

  The airplane had begun its descent, and from the edge in the voices, Davis decided it was not a gentle maneuver.

  0600:27 CA1: I'm trying. What's that light?

  0600:40 F02: Altitude! Pitch!

  0600:46 ATC: WorldEx 801, check altitude.

  0600:49 F02: Earl!

  0600:51 CA 1: I know! There! FCC1 . .. No 2 ... checklist!

  0600:58 CAM: Airspeed clacker (continues to impact).

  FCC1 was Flight Control Computer 1. Davis circled this entire line on his copy of the transcript. The airspeed warning was referred to as a clacker--it sounded like a pair of castanets in rapid fire -- and the meaning was clear enough. The craft was headed down in a severe dive, exceeding its maximum allowable speed.

  0601:02 ATC: WorldEx 801, Marseille Center, over.

  0601:12 FOl: FCC1 ... no action required . . . the FCCs are triple redundant and . . . there's nothing in here!

  The first officer was reading from the aircraft's emergency procedures checklist. It gave no help, just told them there wasn't a problem. Told them that what was happening couldn't happen.

  0601:16 ATC: WorldEx 801, Marseille Control! Are you experiencing difficulty?

  0601:18 CA1: Look at all these lights! There has to be something!

  0601:21 ATC: WorldEx 8-0-1 this is Marseille, do you read?

  0601:24 CAM: click-click (Actuation of unidentified switches)

  The Doral engineer stopped the recording. He said, "At this point, ladies and gentlemen, we have a problem. It seems that the voice recorder's power was somehow interrupted. There is no more data until roughly ten seconds before impact, at which point, everything returns."

  0601:41 FOl: Marseille . . . WorldEx 801 . . . Mayday! May .. . (unintelligible) Pull! Harder!

  0601:46 ATC: WorldEx 801, you are clear of all traffic. What is the nature of your difficulty?

  0601:48 CAM: (Unidentified mechanical sound)

  0601:50 CAt: (Grunting)

  0601:54 CAt: I love you, Luke!

  0601:56 CAM: (Sound of impact)

  0601:58 End

  The recording fell silent.

  The room did the same. In the middle of this massive, clinical examination of the demise of World Express Flight 801, all were clearly struck by the humanity of what they had just heard. The tape would be gone over again and again, and each time the silence would grow shorter, propriety giving way to the relentless drive for facts. As the pause extended, those in the room began to look at one another guardedly, like a congregation waiting for the minister to issue his "amen."

  The technician from Doral, already running the show, finally said, "Dr. Bastien?"

  Bastien, having slumped over the table, sat more erect in his chair. "Yes, very well. Your thoughts, ladies and gentlemen?"

  Nobody ever wanted to be first at such a moment, even in a room of Type As like this. Davis let the silence sit as long as he could. Then, just as a Japanese air traffic control guy was about to open his mouth, he lobbed his mortar. "We have to issue an emergency directive -- ground the entire fleet right now."

  "What?" Bastien sputtered. "For what possible reason?"

  There were other reactions around the room. Davis watched one in particular. Then he said, "The number of catastrophic events that will bring an airplane down in this manner is very limited. In my mind, I've already eliminated a fair number of them, and it leaves me with one overriding concern." Davis got up and walked to the screen at the front of the room. He said to the Doral technician, "0600:51, please."

  The screen flashed and Davis pointed to what he wanted. "Here." The line referenced was:

  0600:51 CA1:1 know! There! FCC1 . .. No 2 ... checklist!

  Davis looked over the crowd and locked eyes with Jaber before he spoke. "The captain says 'FCC1 ... no 2.' I think it is very possible that we are dealing with multiple flight control computer failures."

  The Egyptian stiffened, maybe flinched, but he said nothing.

  Another guy with a CargoAir ID spoke defiantly, "No! There are many possible explanations for an FCC warning light. And even if there were two failures, the third channel would have taken over. What you suggest is simply not possible!"

  Bastien said, "And we still have the issue of Captain Moore. It is clear from the recording that he was the pilot flying during the mishap sequence. If his intent was as we suspect, he might say anything--he knew the voice recorder was active and would be reviewed. I suspect he also knew that the data recorder was disabled. Moore even says goodbye to his loved ones at the end, knowing we will be here today listening to his words. This, I tell you, is evidence of what I have been suggesting all along."

  Davis said, "Saying goodbye simply means he knew he was done for. You just said it yourself--all pilots know their words are recorded. What Moore said is the second most common thing to hear at the end of a tape. The first being, 'Aw, shit!' "

  "No!" Bastien insisted. "No! We cannot possibly recommend grounding the fleet."

  Davis went back to his spot. He didn't take his seat just yet, but he eased up. "All right," he said. "The voting members of our investigation team are all here. Maybe it's time for us to tally things up."

  Bastien bristled openly. He scanned a room awash in undercurrents. Davis figured he was calculating his odds. The idea of grounding an entire fleet of airliners worldwide was extreme, but not unprecedented.

  Bastien finally said, "I suggest the following course. We will not recommend grounding the fleet. However, Mr. Davis, since you feel so strongly about this possible mode of failure, I will instruct Dr. Jaber to commit his team at CargoAir. They will address specifically this avenue of our investigation. Should Dr. Jaber find any firm -- I repeat firm -- evidence of flight control anomalies, we will then revisit the possibility of an emergency grounding directive."

  Davis thought it was ridiculous to put a company rep in charge of a branch analysis, even if the guy was an expert. The conflict of interest couldn't be more obvious. He decided to let it go for now.

  Bastien said, "A show of hands, please -- those in favor of the course I suggest."

  Three hands shot right up, including Bastien's. Two others followed slowly.

  "And against?" Bastien said, now looking rather pleased with his little display of democracy.

  Davis raised his
hand. Behind a grave expression, however, he too was pleased -- and not quite done with his own touch of showmanship. He got up brusquely and stormed from the room.

  Jammer Davis careened out the front entrance of Building Sixty-two, a bowling ball just looking for a few pins. He found them idling by a news van. With no further briefings scheduled today, the press pool had thinned down -- two bored camera crews. Davis only needed one.

  He paused, made sure his board member ID was prominently displayed. He waited for the reporter to hold out his microphone, waited for the red light on the camera. Then Davis made his statement in clear French.

  "We continue our investigation into the crash of World Express Flight 801. With respect to possible causes, we have identified a new theory to explore, a technical issue not related to the headlines of yesterday."

  And he stopped right there. Left it at that.

  "Can you give any further details of this new theory?" the reporter asked.

  "No." Davis began to walk away.

  The reporter held out his microphone like a fencing foil. "But, sir. Surely there must be more--"

  "Go to hell!" Davis yelled in English.

  The reporters hand dropped, the microphone dangling by his knee. "Idiot American!" he muttered under his breath.

  Chapter TWENTY

  Lyon, France

  Ibrahim Jaber stood near the window of his fourth-floor flat. His arms were crossed over his chest and a cigarette dangled loosely in two fingers. The ashes were long.

  The world outside was subdued and gray, fading in the waning evening light. The steep roofs of the buildings along the place des Terreaux were uniformly topped with tiles inspired by the colors of the sun, those pink and orange hues that adorned virtually all architecture on this side of the Mediterranean. Today, however, it was a lie -- there was no sun to be seen. Jaber did not like French weather, especially in the winter. The wet, the cold. He dreamed idly of an Egyptian sun, a hard heat that could be taken in and absorbed by the body.

  He turned away from the window and drifted into the realm of his modest quarters. It was a one-bedroom suite, reasonably clean, on rue d'Algerie in central Lyon. The lease had been arranged hastily in another's name, and Jaber circulated the story that he was to endure the investigation as a houseguest of his maternal aunt. No one in the CargoAir delegation seemed to mind --Jaber had never strived to be social or well liked. He decided that the others would probably hold a secret celebration, cheer that their demanding boss had sequestered himself with an old spinster. A woman who existed only on paper.

  Arms still crossed, Jaber paced in a tight two-step pattern. How had it come to this? he wondered. The lies, the deception. Until recently he had made his way with honest work, getting by on the strength of his intellect and diligence. Indeed, Jaber never doubted that he would have been an unqualified success, a leader 111 his field, had it not been for the curse of his nationality.

  Deep down, he wanted to be proud of his Egyptian heritage, proud to have risen from the ancient cradle of civilization. Yet, in his line of work, the lineage gave nothing but misery and unwarranted shame. Engineers who specialized in aeronautical systems integration did not find work in Egypt. Jaber had fallen to become a gypsy, an overeducated whore selling his technical services across the world.

  For years he had bounced from here to there, each employer using him for a time, then, when a particular project was complete, casting him aside. No longer needed, no longer useful. The Russians, the French, the Americans, the Japanese. All had taken his help, but in the end offered nothing more than cash, modest severances to help him find the door. His only other earnings were suspicion and doubt, a capital of mistrust borne from the simple fact that his passport had been issued by a predominantly Muslim country.

  Many times, Jaber had tried to convince his supervisors that he did not even practice the religion, that his was a life steeped in science, not theology. To no avail. The Americans were the worst -- most could not distinguish a Muslim from a Hindu. Anyone from "that part of the world" was simply trawled into the widest of nets and labeled as undesirable. So it was, when the executives of CargoAir had given him this opportunity, a chance to lead, he could not have said no. The effect on his psyche had been almost pharmaceutical in nature -- an antidepressant for a depressed career. After toiling for so long, clawing his way up, Jaber had finally been recognized, finally reached the pinnacle. Only to face yet another curse.

  Jaber winced as a sharp pain shot through his ribs. He went to his suitcase, fished out a bottle, and extracted two large pills. A glass of water was already there, half empty, and he used it to wash them down. The pain he could deal with. What troubled him more was the tiredness, the utter depletion he had begun to feel recently. Jaber had found out about the cancer just after taking the job with CargoAir. The specialists had given him hope at first, and he'd undergone the terrible treatments. They seemed to work for a time, and his emotions vacillated wildly, each new doctors visit a reason to either buy a case of champagne or jump from a bridge.

  Then, just over a year ago, the inevitability of his condition finally settled in. It was at this same time that Jaber was approached with regard to a uniquely challenging project. Indeed, a uniquely dangerous project, one that would strain his technical skills to the limit. For a time, he had wondered why they'd chosen him. Had they known he was a man with nothing to lose? Today he no longer cared.

  Gently, Jaber sat in his best chair, allowing his bones to settle. To one side, on an artfully crafted end table, was a framed picture of his family, his good wife and two young sons. The picture was three years old. He had seen them only twice in that time, yet another trial of his rueful existence. They might as well have been taken away and held hostage. In essence, they were. And for Ibrahim Jaber, the only ransom could be his life.

  He pulled a phone from his pocket. It was a simple device he had purchased with cash some weeks ago at an anonymous store. Yesterday he had pried and sliced it from its hard plastic shell, run the activation procedure. Now Jaber would use the thing once, then toss it in the trash. Discarded before its time, like so much these days.

  The number to dial was engraved firmly in his memory, yet a number he had never before called. Jaber idly touched the keypad on the bulky handset, felt the plastic numbers beneath his fingertips. It was the same keypad, the same ten digits that billions of people might feel under their fingers. But few others knew the combination, the code that would bring Caliph to bear. Jaber had been told that the number was for emergency use only, and his mind began to sift through data, functioning not unlike the operating systems he so diligently designed. Had things really gone that far?

  The investigation was stuck at a crawl. But the American was impatient, asking the right questions, arguing the right points. Still, Jaber was confident in his work. In the traditional sense, he was not an artful man, no use with a paint brush or a piano. But he was creative, math and logic being his chosen medium. Jaber weighed it all, then decided the call was necessary. His fingers moved.

  He heard only two rings before a familiar voice picked up. There were no salutations.

  "Have you changed the timetable?"

  The question threw Jabers well-organized thoughts into disarray. "Yes," he stumbled," of course. But there can be no further alterations. Nothing can be stopped." He looked at his watch. "Thirty hours remain."

  "So why have you called?"

  Ibrahim Jaber swallowed hard. "We have a problem--"

  The passage from Italy was misery itself.

  Fatima sat hunched, staring alternately at the pitching deck and the churning sea below. She could not decide which was less nauseating. The conditions on the northern Mediterranean tonight were horrid, a stiff wind and cold rain lashing the deck, and tremendous seas rolling the craft mercilessly.

  Fatima remembered, back on the dock in Genoa, pausing for a moment to study the boat. In the fading light of late afternoon, the passenger ferry had seemed a relatively l
arge ship, a thing of stout decks and heavy construction. Not that she would know. Fatima had been on airplanes before and a few trains, but never a boat. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  At the beginning of the voyage she'd taken a seat on the roof, open to the elements. This proved another mistake, even if made with good intentions -- Fatima knew it was always preferable to travel away from crowds, and at the outset of the trip all but two of the other passengers were ensconced below in the warmth of the protected main compartment. When Fatima vomited the first time, the young couple had been downwind. Soon she was alone.