Rick Mofina - Free Fall

“I’m Kate Page, a reporter with Newslead, the wire service.”

The air tensed.

“Sir, I need to talk to you about what happened on Flight Forty-nine Ninety.”

His jaw tightened then he moved to shut the door.

“I have no comment.”

“Wait, Captain Matson, please. Is the New York Times accurate? Was it pilot error?”

“I haven’t seen the New York Times .”

“Hold on, I have it right here.”

Kate displayed the story on her phone and passed it to him. As he read something flashed behind his eyes.

“No. That’s wrong.” He passed the phone back. “I don’t have anything to say to the press.”

“Are you going to let the Times story stand? Do you want to leave the impression that the crew overreacted and caused the plane to roll?”

“I’m bound to a process.”

“The NTSB can take a year to issue its official report. If you talk to me you can correct the record now, put the facts and the truth of what happened out there. Otherwise, this stands as human error for a year or longer. I understand that there may have been a malfunction?”

Matson arched an eyebrow as he absorbed Kate’s argument. She gave him another point to consider.

“Who better than you to explain what really happened.”

Matson considered for several moments. Worry clouded his eyes, and he adjusted his grip on the door. She sensed he was walking a mental tightrope before he came to a decision and pushed it open.

“Come in.”

He indicated the living room.

“Have a seat. Want a soda? I think I also have orange juice.”

“Water would be fine.”

He left and returned, handing her a bottled water.

“Let me make a few calls and I’ll be back,” he said.

The house was fragrant and beautiful, suggesting it had been professionally staged for showings. Fresh flowers bloomed from vases on the mantel and end tables. The hardwood floors gleamed under gorgeous area rugs. Kate looked for telltale signs of family life but nothing was out of place. Still, she’d discerned an air of sadness, of finality.

While waiting, she checked for any breaking news, then reviewed her messages, wincing at one from Sloane.

The FAA and legal records show next to nothing on the plane and the model. I’ll write it up for you.

What? Either Sloane never looked, or he’s lying again.

She was about to respond but thought maybe she should inform Chuck instead. Matson returned.

“I called my lawyer and my union. If I talk to you I’m putting my head on the chopping block.”

“But I think-”

“My head’s already on the chopping block.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You can’t use that. I’ll talk to you but this part you cannot use. You got that? This isn’t for any story. It’s completely off the record, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ve met with the NTSB, my union, EastCloud and all the others who’re investigating and I get the feeling they’re going to put this on me. I can feel a noose tightening. What happens is the airline will try to blame the manufacturer, saying it was a technical issue, to avoid a negative impact on its operations. ‘Hey, it’s not us, it’s the plane.’ And the manufacturer will try to blame the airline, ‘Hey, it’s not our plane, it’s your people, your pilots, your maintenance people,’ to avoid a negative impact on their aircraft and costly litigation. Both players have millions at stake, so the best thing they can do is to ultimately put it on the pilot. ‘Hey, it was this guy, he screwed up. He’s gone so let’s move on.’ This is the context that I feel is at play here. You got that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I want the truth out there, so I’ll tell you what I told the NTSB and everyone else. This is what you can use.”

“Wait.” Kate switched on her recorder. “Okay, go ahead.”

“There was no clear-air turbulence and I did not disable the safety system. The aircraft suddenly rolled. For a critical time, the plane refused to respond to our commands. I don’t know what happened but I know something went wrong. This was a clear flight control computer malfunction.”

“But if it’s a malfunction, a safety issue, is the public at risk?”

“Until they find out the source of this system failure, I’d say yes.”

For the next half hour Matson helped Kate with the timeline of the Buffalo-New York flight and the technical background. Matson said he was in agony for the passengers and his crew members who’d been injured.

“If we didn’t fight for control of the plane the way we did, we would have lost it. And that’s God’s honest truth.”

After Kate got everything down she confirmed with Matson that he hadn’t spoken with any other reporters and that she would use his name and picture with her story.

“Agreed,” he said.

“I’ll be talking to other people for their response.”

“That’s expected, but remember, no matter who you talk to, I was on that flight deck. They weren’t.”

Kate thanked Matson, gave him her card and left.

Heading back to her car, she had to keep from running. She decided to go to a small park, where she sat at a picnic table in the shade of an oak tree and called Chuck Laneer.

“You got the captain?”

“Exclusively.”

“What’d he say?”

“That it was a malfunction and the public is at risk.”

“That’s a helluva story. Get it to us as soon as you can. I’ll alert subscribers telling them what’s coming. Good work.”

Kate stayed at the picnic table, made calls and sent messages requesting comment from EastCloud, the FAA, the NTSB and industry experts. Those who responded underscored that the NTSB had not yet issued a preliminary report and had so far found nothing that warranted grounding of the Richlon-TitanRT-86, or the issuance of safety alerts.

An industry expert in Seattle challenged Matson’s account of the incident.

“The scenario as described by the pilot cannot happen with the type of fly-by-wire system installed in the TitanRT-86. It’s that simple. For the plane to oscillate the way it did, according to the reports of passengers, the safety features would have to be manually switched off. This still sounds like a classic case of a bad response to clear-air turbulence.”

Within two hours of her interview with Captain Raymond Matson, Kate’s exclusive was released to Newslead’s subscribers across the country and around the world.

Clear River, North Dakota

A few miles beyond town, a lone wooden hangar rose defiantly from the badlands.

A faint clink of metal against metal signaled life as Robert Cole halted his work on the radial engine of an aging crop duster and climbed down the stepladder.

He dragged his sweaty, greasy forearm across his brow, tossed his wrench on his cluttered workbench next to where he’d left the Minot Daily News . His face was creased with concern over the back-page article he’d read that morning.

Worry pushed down on him as he moved outside the hangar’s open doors to contemplate the earthen airstrip and search the eternal plain. But gazing at the horizon failed to ease his troubled mind about the news story and the direction of his life.

There was a time when he’d had everything. Now it was gone and he was alone with his sins, awash with guilt. A gust peppered him with dry dirt. In his mind, he heard his wife’s laughter, felt her touch and saw her face.

Elizabeth.

Help me. Please. Tell me what I should do.

He thought of her every moment of every day and now, standing alone in the crying, aching wind, he rubbed his dry lips. The bottle in his lunch bucket called to him. It would numb his pain.