"We're doing the best we can, Casey," Rob Wong said. "But the flight recorder data is anomalous."
"Meaning what?"
"It looks like the number-three bus blew about twenty hours before the incident, so the frame syncs are out on the subsequent data."
"The frame syncs?"
"Yeah. See, the FDR records all the parameters in rotation, in data blocks called frames. You get a reading for, say, airspeed, and then you get another reading four blocks later. Airspeed readings should be continuous across the frames. If they're not, the frames are out of sync, and we can't build the flight. I'll show you."
He turned to the screen, pressing keys. "Normally, we can take the DFDR and generate the airplane in' tri-axis. There's the plane, ready to go."
A wire-frame image of the Norton N-22 widebody appeared on the screen. As she watched, the wire frame filled in, until it took on the appearance of an actual aircraft in flight.
"Okay, now we feed it your flight recorder data..."
The airplane seemed to ripple. It vanished from the screen, then reappeared. It vanished again, and when it reappeared the left wing was separated from the fuselage. The wing twisted ninety degrees, while the rest of the airplane rolled to the right. Then the tail vanished. The entire plane vanished, reappeared again, vanished again.
"See, the mainframe's trying to draw the aircraft," Rob said, "but it keeps hitting discontinuities. The wing data doesn't fit the fuse data which doesn't fit the tail data. So it breaks up."
"What do we do?" she said.
"Resync the frames, but that'll take time."
"How long? Marder's on my back."
"It could be a while, Casey. The data's pretty bad. What about the QAR?"
"There isn't one."
"Well, if you're really stuck, I'd take this data to Flight Sims. They have some sophisticated programs there. They may be able to fill in the blanks faster, and tell you what happened."
"But Rob - "
"No promises, Casey," he said. "Not with this data. Sorry."
BLDG 64
6:50 A.M.
Casey met Richman outside Building 64. They walked together in the early-morning light toward the building. Richman yawned.
"You were in Marketing, weren't you?"
"That's right," Richman said. "We sure didn't keep these hours."
"What did you do there?"
"Not much," he said. "Edgarton had the whole department doing a full court press on the China deal. Very hush-hush, no outsiders allowed. They threw me a little legal work on the Iberian negotiation."
"Any travel?"
Richman smirked. "Just personal."
"How's that?" she said.
"Well, since Marketing had nothing for me to do, I went skiing."
"Sounds like fun. Where'd you go?" Casey said.
"You ski?" Richman said. "Personally, I think the best skiing outside of Gstaad is Sun Valley. That's my favorite. You know, if you have to ski in the States."
She realized he hadn't answered her question. By then they had walked through the side door, into Building 64. Casey noticed the workers were openly hostile, the atmosphere distinctly chilly.
"What's this?" Richman said. "We got rabies today?"
"Union thinks we're selling them out on China." 96
"Selling them out? How?"
"They think management's shipping the wing to Shanghai. I asked Marder. He says no."
A Klaxon sounded, echoing through the building. Directly ahead, the big yellow overhead crane cranked to life, and Casey saw the first of the huge crates containing the wing tooling rise five feet up into the air on thick cables. The crate was constructed of reinforced plywood. It was as broad as a house, and probably weighed five tons. A dozen workers walked alongside the crate like pallbearers, hands up, steadying the load as it moved toward one of the side doors and a waiting flatbed truck.
"If Marder says no," Richman said, "then what's the problem?"
"They don't believe him."
"Really? Why not?"
Casey glanced to her left, where other tools were being crated for shipment. The huge blue tools were first packed in foam, then braced internally, and then crated. All that padding and bracing was essential, she knew. Because even though the tools were twenty feet in length, they were calibrated to thousandths of an inch. Transporting them was an art in itself. She looked back at the crate, moving on the hoist.
All the men standing beneath it were gone.
The crate was still moving laterally, ten yards from where they stood.
"Uh-oh," she said.
"What?" Richman said.
She was already pushing him. "Go!" she said, shoving Richman to the right, toward the shelter of the scaffolding that stood beneath a partially assembled fuselage. Richman resisted; he didn't seem to understand that -
"Run!' she shouted. "It's going to break loose!"
He ran. Behind her, Casey heard the creak of rending plywood, and a metallic twang! as the first of the hoist cables snapped, and the giant crate began to slide from its harness.
They had just reached the fuselage scaffolding when she heard another twang! and the crate smashed down onto the concrete floor. Slivers of plywood exploded in all directions, whistling through the air. They were followed by a thunderous whomp! as the crate toppled over on its side. The sound reverberated through the building.
"Jesus Christ," Richman said, turning to look back at her. "What was that!"
"That," she said, "is what we call a job action."