"Why is that?" someone asked obligingly.
"Empirical psychological studies have proven that in the last instant of any crash, be it aircraft or automobile, the operator will instinctively steer away from impact to save himself."
Empirical psychological studies? Davis cringed.
Another voice prodded, "Even if the outcome is hopeless?"
The speaker emphasized, "Particularly if the outcome is hopeless. So, with regard to the captains thoughts, this section tells us—"
"Nothing," Davis interjected.
The speaker fell silent. A sea of heads turned.
Davis said, "When an airplane hits, tons of metal hit the ground and break up — it's chaos and it's random. Certain parts of the airframe, because of their inherent structural strength or frangible nature, tend to be the most intact. Wings, tail, landing gear. If a main body section this big survives, there's one of two reasons." Davis paused, but nobody asked. "You either have a low speed or low-angle impact."
The speaker reestablished control. "I don't think we have met, sir."
"Jammer Davis, NTSB."
"Ah, yes. Our American liaison. Thank you for your… opinion. As you are leading the human factors group, you will be happy to know that this is my specialty as well. I am a resident professor at Ecole Normale Superieure in Paris, specializing in aviation psychology. "The man paused, and Davis had the impression he was mulling coverage of the rest of his curriculum vitae. Instead, he edged through the crowd and held out a hand. "I am Dr. Thierry Bastien, investigator-in-charge of this inquiry."
Davis thought, Christ, a shrink at the helm. He said, "Nice to meet you."
The two shook hands. Then the Frenchman arced out an arm and said, "The others here are also involved in our investigation. We will be gathering for lunch soon. However, since all the working group leaders are present, perhaps an impromptu meeting would be in order."
"A meeting?"
"Certainement! Your information, Mr. Davis, the seventy-two-hour profile of the captain — it holds great interest for us all."
"Really? Why is that?"
Bastien did not answer. He only smiled politely, adjourned his lesson, and then asked for the key players to remain behind.
Chapter EIGHT
The meeting took place in a side room, a generic rectangular space that might have been a break room or an office in its previous life. There were a dozen scattered chairs and a white board was nailed to one wall. A square table sat empty in the middle, looking for all the world like it was waiting for a four-sided card game, and above that was a central light fixture. Someone had added a ceiling fan as an afterthought, and as it turned slowly its long blades clipped the incandescent glow to spin oblong shadows over a scuffed linoleum floor.
A young man came in with two pots of coffee. He set them on the table, along with a fancy assortment of china cups and saucers and silver spoons. Davis didn't hesitate. It was a nice blend, thick and smooth. He hoped it was a sign of things to come. If this had been an NTSB affair it would have been Folgers in a Styrofoam cup. Plastic lid and stir stick included.
Bastien had been buttonholed by a reporter in the hangar, and so the rest of the group began to mingle. Davis walked slowly through the room, nodding here, checking a credential badge there. He wasn't sure who or what he was looking for — he was just trolling, his eyes dragging a line. Then the hit came.
It was the company name on the badge that first drew his attention— CargoAir. Then the man. He was small with a compact build, almost certainly of Middle Eastern extraction. Egyptian or maybe Lebanese. His jet black hair was cropped short, showing the first few threads of gray at the sides. A bushy moustache hovered over his mouth like an awning. He stood away from the crowd, shoulders sagging and head bent down, like his entire body was subject to some great weight.
Davis went over and held out a hand. "Jammer Davis."
The dark eyes came alight, quick and intelligent, even though the rest of the man still lagged — it was like two bright searchlights reaching out from a deep fog.
"Hello, Mr. Davis. I am Dr. Ibrahim Jaber."
Davis shook a hand that disappeared in his own. "Good to meet you," he said.
"I understand you will be in charge of the Human Factors Group, Mr. Davis. You may find yourself a very busy man." Jaber's voice was every bit as dull and heavy as his body language.
"Yes, I think Monsieur Bastien will see to that. But I suspect we'll all be busy."
"Indeed," Jaber agreed. "You must have extraordinary expertise."
Davis cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. "What makes you think that?"
"You are the only foreigner on the formal investigation team."
"Really? So the other group leaders are all French?"
Jaber nodded and gave Davis a rundown on the room. He pointed out three men and a woman who were set to lead other groups. All were engaged in animated conversation, and many were clearly friends — not necessarily a good thing, Davis knew. Friends had trouble criticizing friends, and sometimes in an investigation you had to do exactly that. Six months from now, they might not be so close. They might be taking swings at one another.
Davis said, "Have they all done crash work?"
"Of course. Their backgrounds are a mix, as you would expect — government and corporate. But all are experienced investigators."Jaber was about to say something else, but the words were cut off by a retching cough.
"That sounds bad," Davis remarked.
I've been a touch under the weather," Jaber replied. "It is nothing, So in what capacity are you here?'
"I will act as the chief CargoAir consultant, working closely with the Systems and Design Group." He made a sweeping gesture across the room. "Most of those you see here are like myself, technicians brought in to help understand what has happened."
"And the whole whirlwind is headed up by Monsieur Bastien," said Davis.
"Indeed. A very capable man."
Davis paused, then said, "Good. I like capable people." He sipped his coffee. "So tell me, Dr. Jaber, what is your usual job at CargoAir?"
Jaber also held coffee. His cup was full, like he hadn't touched it. "I am the chief project engineer for the C-500."
Davis' head tilted to one side and he pursed his lips. As if he was impressed. "So this is your baby."
The engineer's sharp gaze went awry. His English was good, but the metaphor had caused him to stumble. Then he smiled. "Yes, yes. I am the father."
Davis was trying to figure out why such a senior person would be present at this stage of the investigation. Usually a company would send a lower-level representative, someone whose diplomatic skills outweighed their use with a slide rule. The big technical guns only got their hands dirty when they had to. If they had to. His next thought was interrupted by a spoon tapping on a china cup. Bastien had arrived to call the impromptu meeting to order. There was a scraping of chairs as everyone maneuvered and sat. Twelve chairs, thirteen people. Davis was left standing like the kid who hadn't heard the music stop.
Bastien rose three quarters from his chair and held out an introductory arm. "Ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to meet our associate from the United States, Mr…." he hesitated, "Jammer Davis. We have been waiting for your report on Captain Moore, sir."
Davis set his coffee cup on the table and looked out at the faces — they were intense, maybe eager. A lot of anticipation. Had they been talking? Speculating? Of course they had. Gossip and innuendo would be rampant. Accident investigations were no different from church socials or office parties. The participants just stood around charred wreckage instead of a punch bowl. And in place of pay raises and sex, they talked about chafed wire bundles and metal fatigue.