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urgent this is?”
    “I briefed them.”
    “And you’ll clear it up this week?”
    “I’m chairing the group myself. I’ll get it done,” Marder said.
    “What about press?” Edgarton was still worried. “I don’t want Media Relations handling this one. Benson’s a drunk, the reporters all hate him. And the engineers can’t do it. They don’t speak English, for Christ’s sake—”
    “I’ve got it handled, Hal.”
    “You do? I don’t want you talking to the fucking press. You’re grounded.”
    “I understand,” Marder said. “I’ve arranged for Singleton to do the press.”
    “Singleton? That QA woman?” Edgarton said. “I looked at that tape you gave me, where she talked to the reporters about the Dallas thing. She’s pretty enough, but she comes off as a straight arrow.”
    “Well, that’s what we want, isn’t it?” Marder said. “We want honest all-American, no-nonsense. And she’s good on her feet, Hal.”
    “She’d better be,” Edgarton said. “If the shit hits the fan, she has to perform.”
    “She will,” Marder said.
    “I don’t want anything to undermine this China deal.”
    “Nobody does, Hal.”
    Edgarton looked at Marder thoughtfully for a moment. “You better be real clear about that,” he said. “Because I don’t give a damn who you’re married to—if this deal doesn’t close, a lot of people are going to get taken out. Not just me. A lot of other heads will roll.”
    “I understand,” Marder said.
    “You picked the woman. She’s your call. The Board knows it. If anything goes wrong with her, or the IRT—you’re out on your ass.”
    “Nothing will go wrong,” Marder said. “It’s under control.”
    “It damn well better be,” Edgarton said, and turned away again to look out the window.
    Marder left the room.

LAX MAINTENANCE HANGAR 21
9:48 A.M.
    The blue minivan crossed the runway and raced toward the line of maintenance hangars at Los Angeles Airport. From the rear of the nearest hangar, the yellow tail of the TransPacific widebody protruded, its emblem shining in the sun.
    The engineers began to talk excitedly as soon as they saw the plane. The minivan rolled into the hangar and came to a stop beneath the wing; the engineers piled out. The RAMS team was already at work, a half-dozen mechanics up on the wing, wearing harnesses, scrabbling on their hands and knees.
    “Let’s do it!” Burne shouted, as he climbed a ladder to the wing. He made it sound like a battle cry. The other engineers scrambled up after him. Doherty followed last, climbing the ladder with a dejected air.
    Casey stepped out of the van with Richman. “They all go right to the wing,” Richman said.
    “That’s right. The wing’s the most important part of an aircraft, and the most complicated structure. They’ll look at it first, then do a visual inspect on the rest of the exterior. This way.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “Inside.”
    Casey walked to the nose, and climbed a roll-in staircase to the forward cabin door, just behind the cockpit. As she came to the entrance, she smelled the nauseating odor of vomit.
    “Jesus,” Richman said, behind her.
    Casey went inside.
    *  *  *
    She knew the forward cabin would have the least damage, but even here some of the seat backs were broken. Armrests had torn free and swung into the aisles. Overhead luggage bins were cracked, the doors hanging open. Oxygen masks dangled from the ceiling, some missing. There was blood on the carpet, blood on the ceiling. Puddles of vomit on the seats.
    “My God,” Richman said, covering his nose. He looked pale. “This happened because of
turbulence
?”
    “No,” she said. “Almost certainly not.”
    “Then why would the pilot—”
    “We don’t know yet,” she said.
    Casey went forward to the flight deck. The cockpit door was latched open, and the flight deck appeared normal. All the logs and paperwork were missing. A tiny infant’s shoe was on the floor. Bending to look at it, she