"I thought you said you wanted to hear what I had to say." She was starting to get angry. She knew it showed, and didn't care.
Reardon leaned back in his chair, spread his hands. The picture of reason. "By all means, Ms. Singleton."
"Then let me explain. This study was carried out to determine whether the N-22 had a stability problem. We concluded it did not, and-"
"So you say."
"I thought I was going to be allowed to explain."
"Of course."
"Then let me put your quotes in context," Casey said. "The report says the N-22 relies on computers. All modem aircraft rely on computers for stabilization in flight. The reason is not because they can't be flown by pilots. They can. There's no problem with that But the carriers now want extremely fuel-efficient aircraft. Maximum fuel efficiency comes from minimal drag, as the aircraft flies through the air."
Reardon was waving his hand, a dismissing gesture. "I'm sorry, but all this is beside-"
'To minimize drag," Casey continued, "the aircraft has to hold a very precise altitude, or position in the air. The most efficient position is slightly nose up. The computers hold the aircraft in this position during ordinary flight. None of this is unusual."
"Not unusual? Flight instabilities!" Reardon said.
He was always shifting the subject never letting her catch up. "I'm coming to that."
"We're eager to hear." Open sarcasm.
She struggled to control her temper. However bad things were now, it would be worse if she lost her temper. "You read a sentence before," she said. "Let me finish it. 'The aircraft has demonstrated marked sensitivity to manual handling during attitude change, but this sensitivity is entirely within designparameters and presents no difficulty to properly certified pilots.' That's the rest of the sentence."
"But you've admitted there is sensitive handling. Isn't that just another word for instability?"
"No," she said. "Sensitive does not mean unstable."
"The plane can't be controlled," Reardon said, shaking his head
"It can."
"You did a study because you were worried."
"We did a study because it's our job to make sure the aircraft is safe," she said. "And we are sure: it is safe."
"A secret study."
"It wasn't secret."
"Never distributed. Never shown to the public…"
"It was an internal report," she said.
"You have nothing to hide?"
"No," she said.
"Then why haven't you told us the truth about Transpacific Flight 545?'
"The truth?"
"We're told your accident team already has a preliminary finding on the probable cause. Is that not true?"
"We're close," she said.
"Close… Ms. Singleton, do you have a finding, or not?"
Casey stared at Reardon. The question hung in the air.
"I'm very sorry," the cameraman said, behind her. "But we have to reload."
"Camera reloading!"
"Reloading!"
Reardon looked as if he had been slapped. But almost immediately he recovered. 'To be continued," he said, smiling at Casey. He was relaxed; he knew he had beaten her. He got up from his chair, turned his back to her. The big lights clicked off; the room seemed suddenly almost dark. Somebody turned the air-conditioning back on.
Casey got up, too. She pulled the radio mike off her waist. The makeup woman came running over to her, holding out a powder puff. Casey held up her hand. "In a minute," she said.
With the lights off, she saw Richman, heading for the door.
Casey hurried after him.
BLDG 64
3:01 p.m.
She caught him in the hallway, grabbed him by the arm, spun him around. "You son of a bitch."
"Hey," Richman said. 'Take it easy." He smiled, nodded past her shoulder. Looking back, she saw the soundman and one of the cameramen coming out into the hallway.
Furious, Casey pushed Richman backward, shoving him through the door to the women's room. Richman started to laugh. "Jeez, Casey, I didn't know you cared-"
Then they were in the bathroom. She pushed him back against the row of sinks. "You little bastard," she hissed, "I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but you released that report, and I'm going to-"
"You're going to do nothing," Richman said, his voice suddenly cold. He threw her hands off him. "You still don't get it, do you? It's over, Casey. You just blew the China sale. You're finished."
She stared at him, not understanding. He was strong, confident-a different person.
"Edgarton's finished. The China sale's finished. And you're finished." He smiled. "Just the way John said it would happen."
Marder, she thought. Marder was behind it. "If the China sale goes, Marder will go, too. Edgarton will see to that."
Richman was shaking his head, pityingly. "No, he won't. Edgarton's sitting on his ass in Hong Kong, he'll never know what hit him. By noon Sunday, Marder'll be the new president of Norton Aircraft. It'll take him ten minutes with the Board. Because we've made a much bigger deal with Korea. A hundred and ten aircraft firm, and an option on thirty-five more. Sixteen billion dollars. The Board will be thrilled."
"Korea," Casey said. She was trying to put it together. Because it was a huge order, the biggest in the history of the company. "But why would-"
"Because he gave them the wing," Richman said. "And in return, they're more than happy to buy a hundred and ten aircraft. They don't care about sensationalistic American press. They know the plane's safe."
"He's giving them the wing?"
"Sure. It's a killer deal."
"Yeah," Casey said. "It kills the company."
"Global economy," Richman said. "Get with the program."
"But you're gutting the company," she said,
"Sixteen billion dollars," Richman said. "The minute that's announced, Norton stock'll go through the roof. Everybody gets well."
Everybody but the people in the company, she thought.
"This is a done deal," Richman said. "All we needed was somebody to publicly trash the N-22. And you just did that for us."
Casey sighed. Her shoulders dropped.
Looking past Richman, she saw herself in the mirror. Makeup was pancaked around her neck, and now it was cracking. Her eyes were dark. She looked haggard, exhausted. Defeated.
"So I suggest," Richman said, "that you ask me, very politely, what you should do next. Because your only choice now is to follow orders. Do as you're told, be a good girl, and maybe John will give you severance. Say, three months. Otherwise, you're out on your fucking ass."
He leaned close to her.
"Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes," Casey said.
"I'm waiting. Ask politely."
In her exhaustion, her mind raced, examining the options, trying to see a way out But she could see no way out. Newsline would run the story. Marder's plan would succeed. She was defeated. She had been defeated from the very beginning. Defeated from the first day Richman had shown up.
"I'm still waiting," Richman said.
She looked at his smooth face, smelled his cologne. The little bastard was enjoying this. And in a moment of fury, of deep outrage, she suddenly saw another possibility.
From the beginning, she had tried so hard to do the right thing, to solve the problem of 545. She had been honest, she had been straight, and it had just gotten her into trouble.
Or had it?
"You have to face facts, here," Richman said. "It's over. There's nothing you can do."