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“Anytime.”
Eleven
Westfield, New Jersey
Lamberts Mill Road ran through a quiet, tree-lined section of Westfield.
The Matson house, a century-old two-story colonial with a screened side porch, sat back from the street. No vehicles were in the driveway when Kate pulled up.
It looked like no one was home.
She rang the bell but got no response.
Kate had been afraid this would happen—that no one would be home. The for-sale sign and the divorce were likely factors, she thought as she drove off and parked several doors down.
She adjusted the car’s mirror and settled in to watch the address. Showing up cold was always a risk whenever you were pursuing a sensitive interview. When you emailed, or called, people were quick to delete or hang up. When you appeared at their door and looked them in the eye, the odds sometimes worked in your favor.
Not always but sometimes.
The air was tranquil with sounds of birdsong, the wind through the trees and the distant laughter of children. Traffic had been good. It had taken her about forty-five minutes using one of Newslead’s leased cars to make the trip across the Hudson.
Kate worked on her phone, building a story based on the few updates she had from the people she’d reached earlier. Between sentences, she monitored her mirrors, noting that the for-sale sign could also mean that Matson no longer lived here.
She wasn’t happy with the story; she didn’t have much. The strongest stuff was the FAA records showing the incident history of the Richlon-TitanRT-86. She’d just finished folding the various reports into her piece when something blurred in her side mirror.
An SUV had rolled into the Matson driveway.
Kate gave it a moment. Then she collected her things, approached the house and rang the bell. A long moment passed before the door was opened by a man wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants. He was in his late forties with deep-set eyes that gave him a rugged look.
“Yes?”
“Raymond Matson?”
“Yes.”
“Captain Raymond Matson with EastCloud Airlines?”
“Yes, who’re you?”
“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.
Twelve
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.
That’s not the answer I need now.
He got into his pickup truck and drove through town, passed the strip malls, the municipal buildings, and the old storefronts that evoked the frontier days. Elizabeth had grown up here; her father was a doctor. This was her town and living here gave him some comfort.
He drove south over the rolling rangeland that stretched as far as he could see. Two miles later he turned onto a narrow, paved road that wound into a grove of trees overlooking a creek. A small sign identified the spot as the Riverbend Meadow Cemetery. He parked and made his way through the burial grounds, stopping at the headstone that read “Elizabeth Marie Cole, Beloved Wife and Mother. Died...”
He didn’t need to read further.
The truth hit him as hard as the granite that marked his wife’s grave.
I’m responsible for her death. I destroyed everything I had in this world.
He ran his fingers gently over her gravestone and a breeze rolled up from the river, carrying him through the moments of their lives.
They’d met at the University of Southern California in Los Angeles, where they’d bumped into each other at a bookstore, which had led to coffee and subsequent dates. She’d thought he was a looker, and he’d loved her smile. Her name was Elizabeth Hyde, and she’d had a scholarship to study medicine. He’d been in engineering. They’d both been reticent, nerdy bookworms.
After they’d graduated, Elizabeth had convinced him to take time off with a nonprofit international aid group. They’d spent a year helping people in poor parts of South America and Africa. When they’d returned, he’d taken her to a beach north of LA, and as the sun set, he’d given her an engagement ring. After they were married, they embarked on their careers. She became a doctor, and he became an engineer.
They got a house in Burbank and in the years that followed, they’d each put in long hours, dedicating themselves to their professions. They’d had trouble starting a family but after nearly a year of treatment, therapies and effort, Elizabeth had become pregnant with their only child, a daughter they’d named Veyda.
She was their miracle, their joy.
As busy professionals, the pressures of their jobs had been constant, but Elizabeth’s priority had been Veyda. He remembered when Elizabeth had stayed up all night when Veyda had had a fever; or when Elizabeth had rushed Veyda to the hospital when she’d fallen from her bicycle; or that time they’d driven through Glendale, at three in the morning, Elizabeth frantic and desperately trying to reach her daughter, who’d passed out drunk after lying about going to a party and missing her ride home.
Yes, Elizabeth and Veyda had had their battles. But Elizabeth had been devoted to Veyda and Veyda had adored Elizabeth. Her mother had been her hero and theirs had been an unbreakable bond.
