Hard Fall

by Ridley Pearson

  Cole said, “Again, I want to emphasize that this bird is aloft and performing as expected. This is exactly as it should go.”

  COPILOT: Roger. Bill, flap retraction speed. You have the speed.

  “Everything is a ‘go,’” explained Cole. His jumping foot distracted Daggett, who tried instead to concentrate on the tape.

  CAPTAIN: Flaps up.

  Mickey Tompkins, who had obviously listened to hundreds of such tapes, said, “This checklist isn’t worth listening to. They run right through it. Everything is still okay up until the end of the list.”

  Hammett asked, “Agreed, Mr. Cole? May we skip over this?”

  Cole nodded his consent.

  RADIO: Sixty-four Bravo, this is departure control. Turn left to three-five-two. Climb and maintain to one-six thousand.

  Daggett was amazed at the calm, professional nature of all the exchanges. Sixty tons of steel, aluminum, and plastic climbing at two hundred miles an hour. A hundred switches and a pair of steering wheels to keep it aloft. These men sounded like they were reading an owner’s manual.

  COPILOT: Roger—three-five-two. One-six thousand.

  Tompkins stopped the tape and said, “It’s right here that we get the first sign of trouble. You have to listen carefully.” He let the tape roll.

  Daggett heard that light pop. And then the same, amazingly calm voice of a man who somewhere in his being must have been experiencing sheer panic. If he did, none showed.

  CAPTAIN: We’ve got a fire on the flight deck. Pete, under your seat.

  Daggett tried to imagine what was being said. “Was the fire under the seat?” he asked. “Is that what he’s saying?”

  “Doubtful,” answered Cole, his right foot going like Gene Krupa’s in a fast swing tune. “The cockpit fire extinguisher is kept under the copilot’s seat. My interpretation would be that Bill Dunlop is reminding his copilot it’s his job to handle the fire.” He paused. “Anybody else?”

  Tompkins said, “That may be, but the sound of the fire—if that’s what we’re hearing—is clearly more apparent through the copilot’s microphone. I think Mr. Daggett may have something here.”

  “Let it roll, Mickey,” Hammett ordered.

  COPILOT: The extinguisher … Fuckin’ A!

  CAPTAIN: Taking evasive action. Request emergency landing …

  Again, those in the room said nothing. Even repetition didn’t erase the suddenness of it all.

  Lynn Greene said, “How do we explain the copilot’s tone of voice? Is he saying that the fire extinguisher can’t be reached?”

  “That’s what it sounds like to me,” Daggett agreed.

  Smith said, “The tone of voice clearly indicates panic. You normally wouldn’t hear Pete talk like that in the copilot’s chair.”

  Daggett didn’t need that reminder.

  Cole looked over at Lynn. “I think that’s unlikely, Ms. Greene. There is nothing beneath the copilot’s chair that would be likely to start a fire. The instruments maybe, something in the console, but not beneath the copilot’s chair.”

  If we had stopped Bernard in L.A., Daggett thought, I wouldn’t be listening to this.

  At the end of the tape he decided to make his stand, before the others began forming what he believed was the wrong conclusion. He spoke up for the first time. “You people are the experts, and I’m nothing more than an observer here tonight, but isn’t it possible, given the little cough that can be heard, that the fire was the result of a small explosion?”

  “Explosion?” Hammett interrupted. “Let’s stick with what we’re hearing, Mr. Daggett. There is no mention on the CVR of an explosion. The flight crew talks about a fire.”

  “But the fire was caused by something,” Daggett argued. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Which is exactly what this investigation will pursue over the next few months. Obviously, our primary concern at this point is the cause of that fire.”

  The cause, Daggett thought, hearing the man’s words echo. Der Grund. He did not miss the irony. “I haven’t got months,” Daggett said.

  “It’s obvious,” Cole said while scratching his bald head, “that the crew continues to operate after this fire begins. Equally obvious, is that the fire—or even this alleged explosion—did not cause any serious damage, certainly not enough to bring this bird down so quickly.” He pointed an accusatory finger at the graph paper. “The DFDR tells us that the captain’s instruments and controls continue to operate properly and, for a few seconds at least, he continues to fly the aircraft.” He paused. “So, a more likely explanation is that fumes from the fire overcame the crew. The toxicity of flight deck fires is well documented; the plastics and resins catch fire and can overcome a crew in seconds. That is what this tape tells me.”

  “Agreed,” said Hammett. “If we look at this logically, the events seem to be”—he counted out on his stumpy fingers—“rotation, change of course, fire, unconsciousness or death of the crew, impact.”

  Daggett blurted out: “If the crew had been overcome by fumes, we would have seen it in the blood work-ups. There’s nothing there to support this. Mr. Cole has a fine theory, but there’s simply no evidence to support it.”

  They were all staring at him, including Lynn. Only then did he realize how loudly he had spoken, and that he had come out of his chair. Embarrassed, he sat back down.

  Lynn covered for him. “Mr. Daggett’s point is an interesting one. The autopsies evidently do not support the theory of a crew overcome by toxic fumes. At best, it seems to me, this CVR tape is inconclusive. It has to be studied more closely by experts such as Mr. Tompkins so we know exactly what is the cause of each and every sound. There’s room for further analysis, isn’t there?”

  Tompkins shook his head violently and said, “Of course there is. We’ll take this tape apart decibel by decibel. Given enough time,” he said, looking cautiously at Daggett, “we should be able to identify and reproduce each and every sound on here—”

  “Which means there’s a good chance we’ll know if the fire began as a result of something mechanical, something endemic to the flight deck, or whether the possibility of sabotage exists.”

  “I would caution you on that, Ms. Greene,” Cole said, cutting off Tompkins’s response. “I repeat that the DFDR demonstrates clearly that all instruments and all controls continue to operate correctly until the moment of impact. From what we know so far, sabotage seems highly unlikely, unless you are suggesting that a third party started a fire on board and counted on the toxicity of the ignited materials to overcome the crew. That’s stretching it a bit, don’t you think? Unless you’re suggesting the bomb was a dud, and instead of exploding it only caught fire. But to my knowledge there’s been no evidence found,” he said, addressing Daggett, “to suggest anything like a bomb on board sixty-four Bravo.”

  “Unless a fire was the intended sabotage,” Lynn said. “Not all sabotage is meant to kill. It could have been the work of a disgruntled employee. It could have been—”

  “What could have been?” Cole protested. “That implies there’s a device involved.”

  “He’s right,” Hammett agreed. “I’d have to agree with Mr. Cole on this. We’ve seen no evidence whatsoever—”

  Lynn interrupted Hammett. “The glass bulb and the possibility of a mercury switch,” she reminded.

  “That again?” Hammett reminded. “That’s hardly conclusive at this point.”

  The volley of interruptions was followed by an uncomfortable silence. It was broken by the accent of Don Smith, who said slowly, “Two men lost their lives. AmAirXpress and Duhning lost an aircraft. There is no gasping on this tape. No choking. No coughing. No call for help. No sign of struggle. What is there? Mr. Tompkins, what exactly do we hear?” he asked rhetorically. “We hear a pop. We hear the call of fire. We hear the copilot’s intention to subdue that fire. We hear the fire extinguisher engage. I am not here as an expert, gentlemen—Ms. Greene—in anything other than the sound of my associates’
voices. This is a painful experience for me. Those men were my friends. But as far as I can hear, the last thing mentioned on that tape is the fire extinguisher.” He looked over at Daggett. Then to Lynn Green and finally at Hammett. “Has anyone studied the fire extinguisher. Have you determined its contents?”

  “Let me get this straight,” Cole said, jumping in. “You’re suggesting that a third party purposely started a fire on the flight deck in order to get the crew to put it out with a fire extinguisher charged with some kind of killer gas or something? Doesn’t that strike anyone as just a little absurd? I mean, why bother? If you can get a device on board, why start a fire? Why not make it a bomb and make sure it does the job?”

  Daggett answered, “To create the exact confusion we’re experiencing right now. ‘Absurd’ is exactly right, Mr. Cole. That may be what we’re expected to believe. I think Mr. Smith may have something. Has anyone checked the fire extinguisher? Do we even know where it is?”

  Lynn Greene said, “I can’t answer that.” She looked over to Hammett, who rose, stiff and stubborn, and left the room. Several minutes passed. Tompkins donned a set of headphones and replayed the tape, leaving the others in relative silence. Mrs. Blake appeared to be taking a catnap. Cole read through some papers he withdrew from his briefcase.

  Finally the door opened. Hammett had a single piece of paper in his hand. “The fire extinguisher was recovered,” he announced. Then he lowered a pair of reading glasses and read. “It was catalogued and filed and is presently in the reconstruction hangar. Our ‘go team’ is still on site.” He checked his watch. “With the time difference, I may be able to raise someone out there. I’ll ask that it be removed and immediately shipped back here for analysis.”

  Cole said, “I have a document here that says that fire extinguisher was inspected before that plane left our field.”

  “A fire extinguisher,” Daggett corrected. “Maybe not that particular fire extinguisher.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” Cole objected. “Why bother with such an elaborate plan? Why not just blow up the plane, if that’s the point of all of this?”

  Daggett hesitated. They were all looking at him. All but Lynn. She was studying the edge of her shoes. He tried to say it strongly, but it came out as more of a forced, dry wind, “Because he doesn’t want us figuring it out.” And then he added: “In less than a week, he’s going to try this again.”

  16

  * * *

  Wednesday morning, Daggett awakened alone.

  As he made the bed, following his run, he thought about Carrie. She had a white-collar career to build from the ashes of a blue-collar upbringing—she had something to prove. She wanted the suburbs, the barbecues, the new car every two years. Yale or Princeton for their children who weren’t yet conceived. Daggett wasn’t sure what he wanted. He wanted it all to be different, whatever that meant. He wanted his only son to walk again; he wanted something to laugh about; he wanted his past returned undamaged. The future frightened him.

  As he made the coffee he promised himself not to think about it. But promises were made to be broken. Always the same for him—always predictable.

  He called out to Duncan.

  “Right here, Dad,” the young voice came back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Just checking that you’re awake.”

  “It was a joke, Dad. Not going anywhere … Get it?”

  He got it all right.

  He showered and then drew a bath—same routine every day. He walked into Duncan’s bedroom. The walls of Duncan’s room were not covered with posters of Michael Jordan or Joe Montana, as were the walls of the bedrooms of his friends. Instead, on Duncan’s walls hung autographed black-and-white press photos of television and radio sportscasters: Dick Enberg, Al Michaels, John Madden, Pat Summerall. On his bedside table lay the latest issue of Sports Illustrated and a hardcover book titled Roar from the Valley—a best-selling history of collegiate football. On his crowded shelves was a paperback library of sports biographies. The kid was a reading machine. What else was there to do?

  He lifted and carried his son from caged hospital-style bed to steaming water. “You’re not getting any lighter,” he told him.

  “You’re not getting any stronger,” Duncan replied.

  “Meaning?” he asked as he lowered him into the water. There were times to play games with Dunc, to tease him or torture him for saying such things, but this was not one of them.

  “If you don’t get back to the gym, your arms are going to look like these,” he said, prodding one of his atrophied legs. Daggett shaved and brushed his teeth while the boy bathed. The same routine.

  “You could use some more bookshelves.”

  “I could use a Saturday at the library,” Duncan said, looking at his dad in the mirror.

  “I can do that for you.”

  “I want to do it myself.”

  “So we’ll do that.”

  “When?”

  “You going to get on my case too?”

  “Yes,” Duncan replied.

  Daggett turned and looked at him. Duncan offered him an impassive expression, and then squeezed and lost the soap. Daggett took a step toward the tub, but his son shot him a look that stopped him; this was something he had to do himself. Daggett watched in the mirror as his son attempted to recover the soap. Whereas a person with use of his legs could drag the bar of soap back with his foot, Duncan could only use his hands. In a moment of quick thinking, he used the backscratcher as a rake. As he proudly took hold of the soap again, he checked to see if his father was spying on him. Daggett fooled him by quickly averting his eyes, his concentration on the razor and his chin.

  Duncan began playing with the bar of soap, squeezing it tightly until it jumped from his hands, catching it, and squeezing it again. Distracted, Daggett nicked himself with the razor. Blood turned the shaving cream pink.

  “So when do we go to the library?” Duncan asked, still playing.

  “Message received,” Daggett said. It was the line he used with Dunc when he didn’t want to continue with a discussion. The comment hurt the boy’s feelings, and he wondered why he seemed to be hurting everyone around him lately. He felt the need to justify himself. “If I make any promises, Dunc, I may have to break them.”

  “A broken promise would be better than none at all. It would be nice if I had something to look forward to.”

  He’d been talking to Mrs. Kiyak again. These weren’t his words.

  “And don’t blame it on Mrs. Kiyak,” Duncan said.

  “You done feeling sorry for yourself?”

  “No,” Duncan replied angrily.

  He could see the boy was finished with the tub. Again he stepped forward. This time, Duncan stopped him. “I’ll do it myself,” he said.

  “Dunc …” Daggett begged. He had never done this himself.

  A trapeze hung above the tub—compliments of the former owner. Daggett stepped back and watched with both amazement and a father’s instinctive concern as Duncan reached overhead and struggled with his body weight. Perhaps it was a result of his work on the chin-up bar, perhaps nothing more than determination—a boyish will to prove himself—but Duncan hauled himself up and out of the water, pushed off the wall, and swung his bare bottom onto the edge of the tub. It was a major accomplishment—the first time he had done this completely on his own. Daggett’s throat choked with pride. He withheld the applause he had raised his hands to deliver: It wasn’t over. Duncan carefully lifted one leg out of the water, over the rim of the tub, and deposited its uncooperative weight onto the floor. Then the other. Facing his father, he began to towel himself dry.

  As the wet skin of the useless feet slapped the floor, Daggett cringed. He hated that sound. He resented it. His emotions swelled. He began to clap, though too slowly. A morbid applause. He felt himself coming apart. The window fan revolved listlessly as a light breeze turned the white plastic blades that needed cleaning. The groan of distant traffic mixed
with the barking of an angry dog. The neighbor’s television was tuned to one of the morning shows. His eyes stung. He felt sick to his stomach. Duncan was smiling, but he looked frightened. Daggett’s tears fell. He reached for a towel to hide his face.

  Levin entered the bullpen looking tired. On CNN, a good-looking woman with unusually blond hair was quoting figures from Wall Street.

  Daggett opened his briefcase and removed some papers. In doing so, he exposed the red file that Mumford had given him. Sight of the file reminded him of this other responsibility, and the fact that he had delegated all of this to Levin. “How are we coming along?”

  “Mosner, Sandhurst, and Grady are all arriving by private jet. They are adamant that they alone are responsible for their own planes and that they don’t want or need our help. I don’t think we’re going to change their minds.”

  “That’s a bunch of crap. Their planes are going to be searched and sniffed prior to their departure for here—I don’t care what they say. And I mean prior to departure. I mean when the goddamned executives are already on board and the door is ready to close. We’re not letting some bozo sneak something on board at the last minute. Kort—if that’s who this is—passed himself off as a flight mechanic in L.A., don’t forget. Once the cabins are checked for the final time, the door is sealed and the plane rolls. No arguments.”

  “I told them that already. But all I got back was a lot of shit. All three say they can handle this themselves.”

  “We better get something in writing.”

  “Already done. I have letters from the security chiefs of all three companies. We’re in the clear there.”

  “Stupid shits.”

  “At least it gets them out of our hair.”

  “Which leaves us the commercial flights.”

  “Fitzmaurice, Savile, and Goldenbaum all arrive and depart on separate commercial carriers. All three of the airlines I’ve spoken to have agreed to your suggestion.” Daggett’s suggestion had been a simple one: Establish tight security for each of these three flights, and then, at the last minute, switch planes. Two minutes prior to boarding, the scheduled plane would be towed to a hangar and thoroughly searched by a bomb squad before being allowed to return to service. Meanwhile, a substitute plane would be taxied to the gate. Luggage would be reloaded, and passengers would board this substitute plane.