High Flight

by David Hagberg

  “Only two possibilities,” McGarvey cautioned. “Sir Malcolm said nothing about probabilities.” Engineering had told him that Socrates was in the research hangar where a 522 was being disassembled one nut and bolt at a time.

  Socrates said nothing as the port engine was lowered out of the wing onto a maintenance stand. It was a little smaller than a military fighter/interceptor engine. About fourteen feet long and four feet in diameter at the widest, it weighed nearly forty-five hundred pounds dry. But it was a hot engine, producing seventy-five percent more thrust than the old-style jet engines. There were only two stages, instead of the normal four, in the turbine section: a high-pressure blisk and a low-pressure blisk that counter-rotated against each other. It had been a major breakthrough for Rolls in design efficiency.

  When the engine was secured the technicians removed the exhaust nozzle and then the inspection plates around the turbines and, just forward of them, the ceramic combustor. Next they removed some of the plumbing and sensors blocking a cowling that covered a section of bypass ducting.

  “The NTSB should be doing this,” Socrates grumbled.

  “If you find something we’ll pass it on to them,” McGarvey said.

  The engineer looked at him. “We shouldn’t be doing any of this. There should have been no crash.”

  “But there was. Quit now and they win.”

  I don’t care, Socrates wanted to say, but he bit it off. He did care. In 1990 when the American Airlines 522 had gone down, it was as if his child had been killed. And when their own equipment went down at Dulles someone had ripped his beating heart out of his chest. The bastards!

  The first of Sir Malcolm’s suggestions was that someone had tampered with the bypass duct air-flow channels. High-pressure air and fuel were mixed in the combustor to create a controlled explosion, the mixture burning as high as thirty-eight hundred degrees Fahrenheit. This was too high a temperature for the ceramic turbine blisks, so more air was ducted to the combustion gas to reduce its temperature. If this airflow were to be interrupted the engine would overheat, swallow its blisks, and disintegrate. Literally blow itself to pieces.

  The technicians blocked the duct intake forward of the low-pressure compressors, placed a pressure gauge just aft of the combustor, and powered up the test rig that Sir Malcolm had outlined. It took a few seconds for the system to fully pressurize.

  “It’s normal,” one of the technicians reported, looking up. “Air flow is well within specs.”

  “Double the pressure,” Socrates ordered.

  “It’ll pop our seals.”

  “Or something else.”

  The technicians did as they were told, slowly adding more pressure to the system until at one hundred eighty-five percent the pressure seal they’d used to block the forward intake ruptured with a bang.

  “Followed us all the way up, Mr. Socrates,” the technician said. “Nothing wrong with the airflow on this engine.”

  “Could it be the material that the walls of the bypass duct are made of?” McGarvey asked. He’d taken a crash course on engine design, manufacture, and operation before he’d gone to Tokyo, and then to England to see Sir Malcolm, so he knew something about what he was watching.

  “We tested this particular engine on a static stand at full thrust and didn’t find a thing,” Socrates said patiently.

  “But that’s different than in actual operation. No vibrations from the wheels against the pavement. No landing shocks. No air turbulence.”

  “There’s better than seven hundred 522s flying. That’s fourteen hundred engines. We’ve only had trouble with two.”

  “Were there enough pieces found of both of those engines that sections of the bypass duct could be identified?”

  “I imagine there were.”

  “What if something was wrong with the metal? If the bypass duct were to fail the engine would blow.”

  “Sensors would shut it down first.”

  “Not if the failure were catastrophic. Not if the entire bypass duct disintegrated because it was designed and built that way. Was the bypass duct wall on either engine magnafluxed to see if it was good?”

  Socrates looked startled. “I don’t know,” he said, thoughtfully. “But I’m going to find out.”

  “It could be nothing.”

  “We’ll check everything.” Socrates stepped away from the noise of the compressor and made a call on his cellular telephone.

  McGarvey walked over to one of the technicians. “Are you going to run the same test on the other engine?”

  “Probably. We’ll tear this one down first. Rolls wants us to check the thermocouples. If they’re bad it could send faulty readings to the on-board monitor.”

  “Any of them critical?”

  The technician looked at him. “A few.”

  “What about the bypass duct on this engine? Any way of magnafluxing the walls?”

  “Not without pulling the engine completely down. Which we’ll probably end up doing.”

  “These are different engines from those on the 2622?”

  “Totally,” the technician said.

  “I see,” McGarvey said. He walked around to the boarding ladder and climbed up to the open hatch just aft of the cockpit. All the seats had been removed from the main cabin and the floor pulled up so they could inspect the hydraulics and wiring. Even the two seats on the flight deck had been pulled out and the deck removed. Much of the control panel had been dismantled as well, many of the electronic instruments removed and hanging free, connected only by their cables.

  McGarvey peered down into the electronics bay beneath the cockpit. A trouble light was on, casting harsh shadows. He climbed down the ladder. The cramped space smelled of electronics, hydraulic fluid, and kerojet.

  Something was here, he thought. Something had been done to the American Airlines flight in 1990 and the Dulles flight last week to bring them down. Someone knew, and someone was still stalking them. Someone besides the Japanese.

  There had to be a connection between those incidents, this airplane, and the 2622 that would fly to Honolulu next week. He could feel it just as thick on the air as the strange smells down here.

  Something was coming. Some malevolent beast was raising its ugly head, threatening to devour them all.

  President James Lindsay met with Edward Reid in the Oval Office. It was an impressive room, and everyone who came here was moved. But Reid did not delude himself into believing that the President had agreed to see him because he was a former State Department official, or because he was any friend of the administration. Steve Nichols, the President’s Appointments Secretary, had been very specific about it. “He’ll give you fifteen minutes if you’re prepared to leave your newsletter histrionics at home and give him some straight talk. Japan is very important to him at this point.”

  “And to me, Steve.”

  The President was behind his desk. “You’re looking fit, Edward. How do you do it?”

  “Clean living, Mr. President. That and a fifth of good Irish a day.” They shook hands.

  The President motioned for him to have a seat and then picked up the telephone. “Harold, why don’t you come over now? Ed Reid is here.” He hung up. “Harold might be able to lend some insight.”

  “By all means, Mr. President,” Reid said, not surprised. Lindsay and his National Security Adviser were nearly inseparable.

  Harold Secor came in and shook hands with Reid. “It’s been a while since we’ve talked, Ed. Things are going well for you?”

  “Can’t complain. I have a lot of happy readers.”

  “So we’ve been hearing—from State, among others. Carter said you and he had a little chat a couple of weeks ago.”

  Reid forced a smile. He was on very dangerous ground. He could not afford the scrutiny of a full-scale Bureau investigation. This was his last chance to stop it. “Which is why I’m here. Somehow what I’ve been writing lately has gotten distorted. I want to clear the air.”

  “I read yo
ur stuff. Frankly, it’s got me concerned,” the President said.

  “I’m flattered. But I want my readers to be concerned.”

  “You’re advocating something we could not do, even if we wanted to. I’ve had my fill of Japan bashing, and I won’t tolerate it. They’re our major trading partners, and right now they’re touchy as hell. Can’t say as I blame them.”

  “Then, respectfully, Mr. President, I’m being misread. I am anything but a Japan basher. By the way, that’s a term invented by the Japanese, before the Second World War.”

  “What’s your point, Ed?” the President asked, coolly.

  “The Japanese are having their own financial troubles. They’re getting themselves into a position where they’ll either have to start calling in their notes, all of them, or start an aggressive round of expansion. South Korea, the Malaysian peninsula, the Philippines, Borneo, maybe even Australia.”

  “You heard Prime Minister Enchi’s free trade announcement,” Secor said.

  “He can’t possibly make that happen,” Reid replied. “In the first place the Diet would never go along with it. There are enough hotheads in Tokyo to block him. But for the sake of argument, if he somehow got it passed, Japan would face bankruptcy. Either that or it would have to take over a significant percentage of the same markets we’re trying to develop in the region.”

  “I didn’t just get off the banana boat,” the President retorted angrily, “I understand what he’s trying to do, and I understand what’s at stake for us. It’s one of the things we’ll discuss at the summit. But we can hardly block them from Subic Bay. That’s what you’re calling for.”

  “You’re right, Mr. President, and I was wrong. They’re a peaceful sovereign state, and we can no more stop them from developing a defensive military force than we can block Germany from doing the same.”

  “Then you admit you were wrong?” Secor asked suspiciously.

  “In that, yes,” Reid said earnestly. “I’m an old man, and I tend to get carried away in the past.” He sat forward for emphasis. “But I don’t believe I’m wrong in warning about the potentially dangerous climate that’s developing in Japan. We have our Japan bashers, as you so rightly point out, Mr. President, but the Japanese have a growing anti-American sentiment that could get out of hand.”

  “Tokyo is aware of that. It doesn’t change anything.”

  “Potentially no. Providing there are cool heads at the tiller. And providing we all understand the differences between protectionism and simple common sense.”

  “Jesus Christ—” Secor said, but the President held him off.

  “What the hell are you telling me?”

  “Half this country thinks that you’re going to give away the farm in Tokyo. That when you’re finished, our balance of trade deficit will at least double. America is for sale, and you are going to broker it. Just like Truman did with our nuclear advantage. Like Kennedy did with Cuba after the Bay of Pigs. Nixon did with Vietnam. Carter did with the Panama Canal. The list isn’t endless, but it’s sufficiently long and harmful that we can’t afford another addition.”

  The President and his NSA exchanged glances.

  “You’re not doing such a hot job clearing the air, Ed,” Secor said. “From where I sit you’re digging yourself a pretty deep hole. Would you mind explaining just what the hell you’re doing here this afternoon?”

  “I’ve come to offer my support and assistance. I think you need it.”

  “You may be old by your own admission, but you’re a gutsy SOB,” the President commented wryly. “I’m listening.”

  Reid’s stomach was beginning to cramp, and he wanted a drink more than anything else. But from the start he’d known that the path he’d chosen was a dangerous one. “I’m not in the timid business,” he’d told his wife, years ago. Her counsel was that if he truly believed in what he was doing, then he should never hold back. Admiral Farragut.

  “Mr. President, as you know the readership of my newsletter is international. Politicians, financiers, scientists, journalists. People in the know. Men and women of varying interests—and agendas. I depend upon them for feedback. For information. For news tips. Two months ago I received a warning that a Japanese terrorist organization was responsible for the 1990 crash of an American Airlines flight out of Chicago and that there was more to come.”

  “Did you tell the FBI?” Secor asked.

  “I didn’t take it seriously. The NTSB said the crash was an accident. But considering what’s happening in Japan now, I started to wonder. A few of my readers are Japanese. Businessmen. All of them opposed to Prime Minister Enchi.”

  “They can’t be your friends,” the President said.

  “No, sir. But they are my subscribers, and they do provide me an insight that I would like to offer to you.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “I don’t want to be an enemy of this administration, Mr. President. I’m here to serve.”

  “How?” Secor asked.

  “Prime Minister Enchi needs to be made aware of the nature of his opposition. Coming from you, he’ll owe you one. And so will my grateful readership. Take me with you to Tokyo. If nothing else, my presence just might polarize Enchi’s enemies so they will be easier to spot and deal with.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” the President said, before Secor could comment.

  “You won’t regret it, sir. I’ll be ready in a couple of weeks.”

  “Sunday.”

  Reid looked blankly. “Mr. President?”

  “The announcement will be made in a couple of days. But we’re going over early. I leave on Sunday from Andrews. Are you with me?”

  Reid was flabbergasted. “Yes, Mr. President,” he mumbled. It was all he could say.

  Mueller arrived in Portland a little past 1:30 A.M. Instead of waiting until morning to do his research at the public library downtown, he looked up the Portland Airport Commission’s address in the telephone book and located it on the map at the head of the Yellow Pages. Like at Oakland and Los Angeles, the commission was housed in a modern building across the airport from the terminal. He rented a car from Hertz and drove directly over, parking in back of an office building a block away. In the distance he could see a huge complex all lit up. It was Guerin Airplane Company’s worldwide headquarters. Glen had told them how big the place was, and Mueller decided he hadn’t been exaggerating. The facility was awesome. There was no television camera on the rear entrance to the Airport Commission building, but there was one just inside the corridor that Mueller almost missed. When he spotted it he stepped back into the shadows, waited several moments for an alarm, and when nothing happened he switched on the Walkman. He made his way down to the basement, and after searching four rooms he found the noise-management project transmitters and placed the repeater. He was away from the airport by 2:30 and checked into a nearby hotel by 3:00. The first flight to Chicago left at 6:45 A.M.

  America was bathed in strong lights, her muslin shroud removed. She crawled with people, inside and out. Scaffolding surrounded her, and many of her cowlings and inspection plates were off. Heavy cables snaked across the floor to her from dozens of test and diagnostic stands, and her starboard subsonic engine had been removed and lay naked on a test stand beneath her delta wing. Newton Kilbourne and George Socrates stood to one side talking with Kirk McGarvey. None of them seemed happy, but they were not interfering with the work in progress. Even as Socrates’ engineering team was checking every single system aboard the hypersonic jetliner from the bottom up, interior decorators were feverishly racing to finish the coach and first-class cabins and heads. An FAA-designated inspection team worked around the clock alongside Guerin’s prep crew. Most of them were Guerin engineers. The FAA could not afford to field its own inspection teams, so it relied on the commercial airplane industry to check itself. As odd as the system was, it worked. And as stripped as America was at that moment, she still looked as if she were flying Mach five at the edge of space.

 
Kennedy stood in the shadows on the balcony in front of Engineering looking down at the activity on the assembly floor. Nothing was the same, nothing could ever be the same, since they’d hired McGarvey. No longer were they simply in the business of designing, manufacturing, and selling airplanes. Now they were in the business of survival. What a terrible price they were paying just to keep the company alive, or more accurately, just to keep the company here in America. It would have been so much easier if in the beginning they had worked in cooperation with the Japanese like Boeing. But of course they were beyond that now. Way beyond that.

  McGarvey turned and looked up. Kennedy stepped farther back into the shadows although there was no possible way that he could be seen from below. They’d been warned that while McGarvey always got the job done, no one connected with him would come out unscathed. Kennedy hadn’t really believed that until now. The entire company had been affected by the man’s presence. Yet Kennedy couldn’t think of any other way out for them. He shook his head. “Christ,” he said, under his breath, and he headed through Engineering to the back stairs and his waiting car. Time to go home. After a few hours sleep the situation would look different. He hoped.

  Loneliness was a familiar feeling to McGarvey. One that he’d figured he had control of. It had begun in Kansas after his parents’ funeral when he’d returned to the ranch to straighten out their affairs. From that day forward he’d carried a secret with him that was so heavy at times he thought he would stumble and fall. But it wasn’t until Carrara’s admission that Internal Affairs would probably find out, that the real loneliness hit him like the weight Atlas had to bear. Crushing.