They methodically inspected and tested each item. Some parts were taken to another Boeing building and X-rayed to search for internal cracks. The team was looking for anything out of the ordinary—scrapes, leaks, dents, electrical fluctuations—that might explain what had gone wrong on Ship 513.
One theory about the crash was the possibility of “runaway trim” of the rudder. Normally, pilots could turn a dial to trim the rudder to adjust for crosswinds and keep the plane flying straight. But an electrical malfunction might have made the trim “run away,” sending the rudder swinging to one side. The trim actuator, about the size of a box of animal crackers, was badly dented from the crash. But one of the Boeing technicians figured out a way to hook a testing device to it. When he measured the amount of electricity that went in and out of the device, the electrical readings showed the trim was centered. Runaway trim had not caused the crash.
They examined dozens of other pieces the same way, taking photographs and carefully documenting the condition of each piece. On the hydraulic pressure gauge, a tiny indentation known as a “witness mark” provided valuable information. When Cox found the gauge at the crash site, it had one needle pointing to 3,000 pounds per square inch (psi), which showed that the “B” hydraulic system was operating normally when the plane crashed. Unfortunately, the “A” needle had broken off. But when the technicians put the gauge under a microscope, they could see a distinct mark indicating that the A needle had also been pointing to 3,000 psi. That meant both systems were working properly and they could rule out a hydraulic failure.
After scores of tests, they came up empty. Everything they tested was working fine when the plane struck the road. It was time to go to Irvine, California, and see what they could learn from the soda can valve.
At the time of the Hopewell crash, Boeing was number one in a dwindling group of airplane makers. Lockheed and Fokker were no longer building airliners, and McDonnell Douglas was struggling. Boeing’s primary competition was Airbus Industrie, a consortium of European companies based in Toulouse, France.
In Seattle, Boeing was the city’s largest private employer and a mighty economic force. You couldn’t drive far on a major highway without seeing the company’s familiar italic logo. The major plants were along East Marginal Way on the edge of Boeing Field; in Everett, a town north of Seattle where the wide-body jets were assembled; and south of Seattle in Renton, where the 737s and 757s were made.
Boeing sometimes lagged behind its competitors in developing new planes—a practice that earned the company the nickname the Lazy B—but it seemed to gamble at the right times. In that regard, the 737 was typical. When Boeing officials were debating whether to build the plane in the early 1960s, archrival Douglas was already several years ahead with the similar-sized DC-9. Boeing president William Allen was dubious about building the 737 because his chief competitor was so far ahead. He had struggled through the high costs and development problems of the three-engine 727 and was not sure the company could afford another painful birth so soon.
The 737 was designed for short-haul flights of five hundred to a thousand miles, serving airports that otherwise might not get jet service. Boeing planned to offer customers an optional gravel kit, so the plane could land on an unpaved runway. Early designs had the engines on the tail, as on the 727, but they were later moved to the wing because placing them there would allow seats for six more passengers.
By 1964 many Boeing executives felt that the 737 project was dead. But a handful of believers led by chief engineer Jack Steiner pushed to keep the project alive. They said costs could be reduced because the plane would be heavily based on the 727. The new plane would have many of the same parts as its sibling.
Designers tried to simplify every aspect of the 737 to save money and increase reliability. By combining two parts into one—such as the rudder’s unique valve-within-a-valve—the designers would have fewer things that could break. That was crucial if they were to achieve the ambitious goal of 99 percent reliability. They also simplified the cockpit and pilot workload so the plane could have a two-person crew instead of the costly three that were needed for the 727.
Steiner, an intense workaholic who wore Buddy Holly glasses, decided to sneak behind his boss’s back to convince the board of directors to support the 737 launch. It was easy for Steiner to reach board member Ned Skinner, because he lived nearby; Steiner simply walked over to Skinner’s house and gave him the sales pitch. Then Steiner tracked down three other board members and gave them the same message. The lobbying campaign worked. The board decided in 1965 to build the plane.
When the first 737 came off the assembly line in Renton in January 1967, it was christened by seventeen stewardesses with seventeen bottles of champagne, representing the number of airlines that had ordered the plane. When Allen spoke at the dedication, he noted that the small plane had been overshadowed by bigger jets being developed—the 747 and the supersonic transport. The 737 might be small, he said, but it would fill an important niche for shorter flights. “We expect the 737 to serve long and well on the air routes of the world.”
It took nearly twenty years for the plane to make a profit, but the 737 is now the best-selling jetliner in the history of commercial aviation. Boeing boasts that its 99.2 percent reliability is the best in the world. There are more than 3,800 of the planes in use, with 700 in the air at any given moment. The 737 is so successful that Boeing now makes the “Next Generation” models, with longer ranges, more-efficient wings, quieter engines, and more-modern cockpits.
The plane that crashed in Hopewell was a 737–300, a model that some pilots called the Quichewagon. The 300-series was the first to have a flight-management computer, which enabled pilots to enter complicated routes into the computer so the plane could virtually fly itself. The computer helped them find the most fuel-efficient altitudes, saving up to 7 percent in operating costs. Pilots who relied on the high-tech device were said to be less macho. They were the quiche eaters.
The 737 was dull but efficient, with all the sex appeal of a four-door sedan. Other planes had mean-sounding nicknames like Mad Dog and Mega-Dog, but the 737’s monikers sounded downright wimpy: Fat Albert, Guppy, and Fat Little Ugly Fellow (FLUF). Boeing was famous around the world for its gigantic 747, the premier long-haul airplane. When a 747 took off from a runway, people stopped and watched the 400-ton machine climb into the sky. But the smaller 737 rarely stopped traffic, since so many of them were making so many flights. Watching a 737 take off was about as exciting as watching a minivan pull out of a garage.
The lackluster image of the 737 was largely a function of its plain-vanilla use. The big 747s flew twelve-hour missions on long, glamorous routes such as New York to Paris or Los Angeles to Honolulu. The pipsqueak 737s flew short hops like Baltimore to Buffalo or Detroit to Little Rock. The 737 was a relatively basic machine. New planes were “fly-by-wire,” with computers sending electrical signals to move the flight controls. But the 737 still relied on old-fashioned cables that ran beneath the cabin floor.
The plane had an excellent safety record, but so did virtually every other modern plane. The 737–300, -400, and -500 planes had nine “hull losses” (the industry euphemism for a crash), for an accident rate of 0.43 for every million flights. The 737’s rivals, the DC-9 and the Airbus A320, had higher rates, but the differences were insignificant. Crashes were rarely caused by the same mechanical problem. About 70 percent of crashes were blamed on pilots, and only 10 percent on malfunctions.
Yet two or more crashes caused by the same problem in a plane could destroy the plane’s image and make airlines stop buying it. A design flaw that led to crashes of the de Havilland Comet in the 1950s nearly doomed the plane. The same thing happened to the Lockheed Electra in the early 1960s after a series of accidents were blamed on engine vibration. The DC-10’s reputation deteriorated so much after two spectacular crashes in the 1970s that airlines began canceling orders.