Razing Beijing

by Sidney Elston

  The Chief of the Second Department took a measure of the others around him. “I believe I speak for us all in saying that our support for your leadership quest is unwavering. But thrusting forward, without presenting us the opportunity of a more thorough vetting—”

  “Warfare is the Way of deception,” countered Rong. “You will be briefed on the operational aspects when the need arises. But in the meantime,” he leveled his finger, “what I will present you with is a challenge. Put yourselves in the shoes of these arrogant and stupid Americans. And then, try to make sense of the seemingly disparate disasters about to befall them.”

  18

  Monday, April 27

  MORTON HACKETT DREW his chin into a divot between fleshy jowls, glared over the rims of his glasses and barked, “You want to do what?”

  Standing beside the projection screen, Emily Chang stopped nervously twirling a pointer between her fingertips and held the chief engineer’s gaze.

  Hackett turned his attention to the object on the conference table. “You can’t be serious.”

  What remained of the doomed jet engine’s digital electronic control unit was a battered aluminum box roughly the size and proportions of a small suitcase. One corner of the ECU, or ‘the box’ as the engineers actually called it, was crushed and cracked where it first impacted the runway after ripping free of the engine. Dozens of external cooling fins for dissipating heat generated by the circuitry crowded inside were bent and broken off, stubs blackened with soot and asphalt. One large cable attached to the box by a military-type connector, consisting of multi-colored wires and optical fibers through which the electronic brain controlled the engine, was broken and splayed like a ravaged spine.

  “Until somebody can explain why the instrumentation failed before the engine,” Stuart replied, “that is exactly what we’re going to do. The overspeed appears to have been commanded by the electronics inside that box.”

  “But that isn’t gonna’ work! Come on now, you’re grasping for straws. The flight data recorder is designed to withstand impact, but not the box.”

  “This was low-speed so far as aircraft impacts go,” Stuart reminded the chief engineer. “Emily’s verified that the back-up batteries are intact.” If an anomaly lurked in the memory modules, there was a chance they would find it.

  Hackett folded his arms. “You won’t find squat, assuming you ever in our lifetime get the damn thing to work. Don’t forget this isn’t the only piece of electronic gear aboard that...” Hackett saw Stuart’s mouth spread into a sly grin. “You can’t be serious!”

  “Ferguson’s already squared it with the airframer. Reconstruction will be conducted for all the electronics that make up the flight management system.”

  “But we’ve already got a solution.”

  “Every solution you offer dances around the problem.”

  “Just what are you looking for?”

  “Emily’s going to explain that,” Stuart said, hoping it to be true. He thought she seemed uncharacteristically nervous today, especially now that everyone had turned to hear her defense.

  “Our goal is to assess the engine control unit’s contribution, if any, to the crash,” Emily began. “First we have to refurbish the ECU—this of course will be difficult. Assuming there is an anomaly in either the hardware or programming, the only way to be certain of its significance is to observe the ECU’s response to actual flight condition inputs immediately before the engine exploded. In order to reproduce these inputs, we need to code special software that will allow the airplane’s flight data recorder to communicate directly to the refurbished engine control.”

  Stuart announced that Fairchild agreed this morning to send an engineer to assist in the effort.

  His elbow on the table, Hackett supported his head with his hand shielding his eyes. “Have we ever attempted anything like this?” he asked without looking up.

  “I don’t believe so,” Emily said, her look inviting disagreement and finding none.

  “I believe you when you say this will be difficult. How difficult?”

  Emily frowned. “That’s difficult to say.” She paused uncomfortably at the snickers and laughs. “It could take several weeks to assess.”

  Hackett removed his hand from his face to look at Emily. “I’ll be first to admit that you’re the undisputed electronics expert among us. Can you give us a sense of the challenge here in terms a metal-bender like me can grasp? Do you mean difficult as in, say, sending the first man to the moon? Or maybe difficult, as in nearly impossible?”

  “That’s really not called for,” Stuart complained.

  Clearly Hackett was repulsed by the sight of the aluminum carcass on the table. “I simply don’t think it’s possible.”

  “Good thing you’re not the one we’re asking to do it.”

  “I’d compare the difficulty of this task to a brick building blowing apart,” Emily’s determined voice cut over the wrangling, “and then being told to rebuild it, brick by broken brick, each back into its original location. All have to be checked somehow to ensure a good fit because you are not allowed to alter the original appearance of the building. But the tools you will use to check them don’t yet exist, and they have to be tailored to each broken brick, and you are told you have only a few weeks to complete the job.”

  In the moments of silent contemplation that followed nobody moved.

  “I would think of it that way,” she added, nodding to the chief engineer.

  Hackett removed his glasses and glared at Stuart. “And you think you can do it?”

  “Yes, I think we can do it,” said Emily, her eyes briefly passing over Stuart’s.

  19

  JAMES COLE STOOD with his back to the man seated in front of his desk and gazed through his office window. Outside, the tendrils of a willow tree that bordered the company’s property rustled in the breeze like a woman’s hair.

  Stuart sat patiently, mindful of the open wound that the father in Cole must be enduring over the death of his daughter, aware that such wounds never heal. He certainly wasn’t about to ask whether or not there was any truth behind the rumor that Cole’s wife was pushing an end to their twenty-three year marriage. The thumb of his boss’s right hand involuntarily twitched.

  “An old acquaintance of mine is a partner in a prestigious New York law firm,” Cole said finally. “I got a call from him last evening, a courtesy call, I guess you could say. His firm will represent the injured reporter, and the family of the cameraman killed in the crash, in a suit against the parent company of that Mojave cable shop. Today that suit will be filed. Along with a host of secondary legalistic sounding abuses, my friend’s firm plans to allege that Thanatech is guilty of professional negligence and reckless endangerment.”

  Stuart grit his teeth, silently reliving Cole’s reckless decision to override him.

  Cole turned from the window. The company’s chief executive had lost significant weight in recent weeks; his shirt collar looked one size too large and the gray suit coat hung loosely over his shoulders. Cole’s weary eyes were dull and deep in their sockets with dark circles beneath them.

  “I felt that you were entitled to hear first hand. The plaintiffs have singled out your name along with Thanatechnology.”

  Stuart found it odd that the man who had inadvertently directed the death of his own daughter was actually appraising him with sympathy. Or was he mistaking for Cole’s sympathy what was actually fear? He clasped his hands over a knee. “I guess that doesn’t surprise me.”

  Cole appeared mildly startled. “With more than a dozen victims we’re probably looking at a nine-digit award.” He stared at Stuart for another moment, opened the top drawer of his desk and removed a video cassette cartridge. He then reached over the desk and handed it to Stuart. “This is the video of the crash. I’m told that it will be exhibit A in the suit.”

  Stuart took the cassette and wondered if his boss had had the courage to watch it.

  “Fulmer, our atto
rney, told me that he went over and took a look at the propfan reconstruction area. He thought the hardware bins and security procedures looked pretty good. I guess he’s made a couple suggestions on classifying the hardware, critical, very critical, non-germane and so forth—I trust that’s okay. And I trust that your staff—”

  “Are all pretty much up to speed on the guidelines,” Stuart assured him. “They’ve been told everything they do, design records, presentations, e-mails, just about everything are potentially court admissible. Upside to that is a lot of these guys who are usually pretty sloppy seem to be polishing up their writing.”

  “I trust our D&O policy is in order,” Cole said, referring to the pricey corporate directors and officers liability coverage that the company purchased.

  “I don’t need insurance, I need another four weeks. Maybe less, depending on what we find on this video.” Hopefully some of the surviving eyewitness accounts were correct, in that the camera man had indeed captured the final seconds of the crash.

  Cole gave Stuart a confused look, shook his head then sat down heavily behind his desk. “You damn well better have insurance. I got another call this morning, from Chicago. One of their sources thinks that United is threatening to cancel their order.”

  Stuart felt the color drain from his face. United Airlines was the propfan program launch customer. Losing the launch customer would be a crushing blow to industry perception, and probably put into question the commercial viability of the entire venture. “A reliable source?”

  “I don’t have to tell you that would likely trigger an avalanche of cancellations. Now, then. Chicago is also howling over word from their rep that you’re launching another round of investigation.”

  “Sorry. I should’ve called to give you a heads up.”

  “And of course you’ve decided to do this despite a committee consensus that the fault of the failure is now understood.”

  “We have to be certain the committee is right.” Stuart felt certain otherwise.

  “That’s what I told them. Realistically, I can take that position only so long. I’d rather we select the five most likely culprits, fix them all, and get on with the program.”

  Stuart closed his eyes; Hackett again. “If we don’t know what broke, we can’t be sure we’ve fixed it. I need another four weeks.”

  At first Cole glared, but the hard expression softened. “Finish your investigation. I hope the video helps you succeed. You’ve got two weeks.”

  “WATCH CAREFULLY,” Ian Vickers advised the select engineering audience. “At this point, you should see the aft propeller rotation accelerate quite rapidly...”

  The engineers gasped at the sight of the entire engine bursting into flame. The right wing of the plane dropped perilously close to the ground. Stuart thought it miraculous that the pilots had kept it aloft for as long as they did. As the aircraft loomed closer and larger, a rising sound in the background was the collective hysterical scream of the bystanders. Now the cameraman—for reasons none would ever know—kept the camera trained after dropping to the ground. Three sections of shrapnel sailed through the air in slow motion from the rear of the plane, trailing fragments and flaming tongues of debris. Here the replay staggered to a freeze at various points; a red rectangular box briefly highlighted objects deemed significant to the investigation, displaying cryptic phrases such as ‘item #178, props 3-7, 127 lb. rotor struct. recovered 6350 ft,’ and ‘item #23, 33 lb. aft compressor disk, recovered IDR.’

  The video finished the sequence in regular speed. The prototype engine tore away from the aircraft and seemed to float in the air, then slammed into the ground before cart-wheeling toward the crowd—Stuart heard a gasp and someone promptly exited the conference room. The view jolted as the earth shook and the camera jerked to the right in time to capture the separated tail slamming into the ground. Massive chunks of debris bounced past the scattering heads of the crowd with astonishing speed. The earth shook again, the view through the lens chaotic, until the camera fell and lay motionless on the ground. A flash originating somewhere below the bottom of the screen signaled what someone had previously informed Stuart was the rupture and explosion of the television van’s fuel tank.

  The conference room lights came up to reveal people’s heads hung low, uncomfortable with one another’s gaze. Seated to Stuart’s left was the company counsel, Brian Fulmer, who was nervous about so many potential expert witnesses reviewing the video. Stuart thought the lawyer looked pale enough to be sick to his stomach. Through the open door could be heard the sound of sobs retreating down the corridor.

  Hackett broke the silence. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be. I’ll guess it’s going to be difficult garnering much from what we just saw.”

  “Well, we were able to confirm that the engine speed had raced far above where the pilots set the throttle.” Otherwise, Stuart reluctantly agreed. Vickers had tried every conceivable computer enhancement. “We don’t know why. That leaves us Emily’s ECU reconstruction.”

  “I prefer our other options.” Hackett leaned forward. “None of which drive the program further into the ground.”

  Stuart stared at the blank projection screen. The video hadn’t revealed the secrets they had hoped for. Still, did it make any sense to pursue what they could with a fix only hoping to strike the intended target—without any proof that they had—in order to get on with the program? Perhaps Hackett was right. The practical argument for moving forward certainly appealed to him. Another part of him was reminded that his concurrence with Hackett’s proposal would relinquish the manpower dedicated to solving the problem, and in that vein, the video served as a vivid reminder of the consequences of being wrong in this business. And he knew Hackett was wrong.

  “Emily’s got two weeks,” Stuart said. “If we strike out, we go with your plan.”

  20

  Wednesday, April 29

  STUART FELT GOOD, physically spent. White terrycloth towel draped around his neck and sipping a beer, the calming effect of the alcohol preceded by a release of energy and tension, he allowed himself a reprieve from all his anxieties born of explosions, deaths, and an impending lay-off. Two athletic women in their late twenties chatted over fruit-colored cocktails and glanced his way several times from the other end of the lounge. Eventually they picked up their racquets and strolled off toward the ladies’ locker room, tennis skirt pleats revealing fluid rhythm of lean hips and firm, fitness-honed bodies. Racquetball was not the only diversion he’d deprived himself of lately, Stuart realized with crystal clarity. He wondered when he would delve back into the dating scene, a prospect he did not entirely look forward to. That prospect reminded him that one’s punishment for having dated young women was to experience the fatherhood of raising one; thankfully, Ashley was still barely ten.

  Since his ex-wife’s unexpected death due to cancer, Stuart often looked back with regret to the events leading up to Angela having filed for divorce. Still laboring to nurture to health the company he had co-founded, it was difficult to deny that he was hardly ever at home. Was that reason enough to abandon their marriage? It had never occurred to him to be unfaithful. If he was guilty of anything, it was enslaving himself to their security, to their dreams—had they not discussed the hardship before taking it on? The more the bonds of their relationship frayed, the more Stuart indulged himself in his work. Angela insisted that putting off a pharmacology career to raise their daughter had nothing to do with any of their problems; the problem, she claimed, was never having prepared to live her life as a virtual widow. By the time Stuart made credible progress re-arranging time between home, office, and lengthy trips overseas, it was simply too late.

  After their divorce, Stuart a burn-out at age 36 and his personal life in shambles, the demands of Coherent Light Incorporated only increased.

  Stuart finally approached his business partner with a proposal—it was time they reshuffled his management responsibilities, any way. They agreed not to liquidate the share of comp
any ownership that he had managed to retain despite the best efforts of Angela’s lawyer. Arriving at details amenable to both parties, Stuart gradually distanced himself from the company he had built. He need never again work but the travel, fishing, and consulting quickly became relentlessly boring.

  Word circulated of Stuart’s pseudo-retirement and reached the CEO of Thanatechnology Corporation, U.S. Navy Captain (retired) James Cole, Jr. Cole convinced him to fold up his tent and move to Cleveland in order to ‘inject a flagging bureaucracy with some entrepreneurial zing.’

  Settling into a routine, Stuart’s challenge became trying to out-fox the Thanatech bureaucracy. Tragedy struck several years later when his ex-wife was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphoma. Following a year of chemotherapy, radiation treatments and a bone marrow transplant, the oncology staff at Johns Hopkin’s pronounced Angela’s leukemia in remission.

  Stuart secretly harbored ambitions of marital reunion. Six weeks later, Angela was dead.

  Following her funeral, Stuart quietly relayed his intention to resign his position at Thanatech. His sister and brother-in-law graciously offered to care for Ashley during the weeks he would need to prepare his return to Virginia. His old partner at CLI had already been badgering him to return to tackle unspecified problems. For purposes of remaining effective until it became final, he would conceal his decision from those with whom he continued to work. Successful completion of the Mojave flight test, he reasoned, would provide the appropriate break from his Thanatech responsibilities. Things had appeared to be falling into place.

  “How are you, Stu?”

  Stuart looked up at the short, muscular figure standing beside him. Paul Devinn was flushed from exertion, tight curly hair sweaty and matted to his temples. Thanatech’s assistant director of human resources clutched his favorite cocktail of orange juice on-the-rocks. Stuart had avoided returning Devinn’s calls over the last couple of days.