Chapter 5 - The Aircraft That Shouldn't Exist
“Where is Richard Collins?”
Vale laughed softly.
“Safe.”
“Put him on.”
“I don't think you're in a position to give instructions.”
Special Agent Brooks motioned for me to keep him talking while another agent began tracing the call.
I swallowed my anger.
“What do you want?”
“I want you to understand that you're digging through thirty-year-old events you don't comprehend.”
“My father died.”
“Your biological father died in an aircraft accident.”
“You changed the maintenance records.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Then why are you calling me from Collins's phone?”
Silence.
Tiny.
But enough.
Vale recovered.
“Richard is an old man with old grudges.”
“Let me speak to him.”
“You're very much like Ethan.”
The sentence cut through me.
“You knew him well?”
“Well enough.”
“He wrote that you knew about the actuator discrepancy.”
Another pause.
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn't mean he understood what he was looking at.”
“What was he looking at?”
Vale chuckled.
“Good attempt.”
I hated him for sounding amused.
Agent Brooks mouthed, Keep going.
I looked at Robert.
He was being treated by a paramedic near the storage entrance.
For the first time in my life, his eyes held no criticism.
Only fear for me.
I turned away.
“You built your career after Ethan died,” I said.
“I built my career through thirty-five years of service.”
“And Vale Aeronautics?”
“A successful company employing fourteen thousand Americans.”
“Built partly on military contracts.”
“Yes.”
“Contracts connected to flight-control systems.”
Silence.
That one landed.
I continued.
“You didn't call me to warn me away. You called because you don't know what Collins told me.”
Vale's breathing changed.
“You think very highly of yourself, Captain.”
“No. I think you're scared.”
He disconnected.
Brooks looked at the tracing agent.
“Location?”
“Richmond area. Signal dropped before precise triangulation.”
She turned to me.
“We're going to the museum.”
“I am too.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You're a potential victim and witness.”
“I can identify the aircraft system.”
“We have experts.”
“I know what Collins said, what Ethan wrote, and what we're looking for.”
Brooks studied me.
I expected refusal.
Instead she said, “You stay behind my agents and follow every instruction.”
“Agreed.”
Robert stood.
“I'm coming.”
“No.”
His face hardened in the old familiar way.
Normally that expression made me angry.
This time it almost made me smile.
Almost.
“I am not asking you,” he said.
I stepped closer.
“You have a concussion.”
“I've had worse.”
“Not tonight.”
“Claire—”
“You spent thirty years trying to stop me from walking toward danger. You don't get to pick tonight to start following me into it.”
His expression broke.
There it was again.
The complicated truth.
He had hurt me terribly.
He had also been terrified of losing me.
“I can't lose you,” he whispered.
“You don't protect me by controlling me.”
His eyes filled.
“I know.”
“Then trust me.”
It might have been the first time anyone had asked him to do that.
He nodded.
At 3:46 a.m., an OSI convoy headed south.
Mom stayed with Robert.
Daniel joined them.
General Hale was ordered to remain available for questioning.
Colonel Mercer came with us.
The private aviation museum stood behind a closed airfield outside Richmond.
Rows of aging aircraft filled two enormous hangars.
The owner met us at the entrance wearing pajama pants beneath a winter coat.
Agent Brooks showed credentials.
“We need access to aircraft tail number 81-609.”
The owner frowned.
“That's one of the old trainers.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Eight years.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Government surplus through a private collector.”
“What collector?”
He checked records.
“Vale Heritage Aviation.”
Nobody said anything.
He looked up.
“Is that important?”
“Yes.”
The aircraft sat at the back of Hangar Two.
Dust covered its wings.
Paint had faded.
But the airframe was intact.
Collins had told us the original log was inside.
The question was where.
Mercer and I circled the fuselage.
“Ethan saw this from the air?”
“If the tail number matches.”
“It does.”
I touched the cold metal skin.
Thirty-one years earlier, my biological father had flown past this aircraft and recognized something that terrified him.
An installed component that shouldn't have been there.
The same component supposedly transferred to his aircraft.
A paper repair.
A fake maintenance action.
Brooks's agents photographed everything before we opened access panels.
Mercer checked the flight-control bay.
“Actuator's still here.”
“Serial?”
He wiped grime away.
FC-77821.
The number from Ethan's letter.
My pulse accelerated.
“That's it.”
Brooks came closer.
“So the replacement component remained on this aircraft.”
“Yes.”
“Meaning Ethan's aircraft never received it.”
“Yes.”
“Can you prove the failed component on his crashed aircraft had been previously flagged defective?”
“Only if the original logs exist.”
We searched for forty minutes.
Cockpit.
Emergency compartment.
Access panels.
Seat wells.
Nothing.
Then I remembered Collins's wording.
Inside the aircraft.
Not cockpit.
Not panel.
Inside.
I looked along the fuselage.
“What's behind the aft inspection bulkhead?”
Mercer frowned.
“Control cable routing.”
“Open it.”
Six screws later, the panel came free.
Something had been taped inside the cavity.
A plastic weatherproof pouch.
Brooks photographed it before removing it.
Inside was an old maintenance log.
Original ink.
Handwritten entries.
And a yellow tag.
UNSERVICEABLE.
FC-77812.
The actuator listed in Ethan's official crash report.
I stared at the serial number.
“So they knew.”
Mercer nodded.
“They knew.”
Brooks turned pages carefully.
One entry showed the defective actuator assigned for removal.
The next showed a replacement ordered.
Then came a signature.
R. COLLINS.
Collins had signed the diagnosis.
Below it was another approval.
R. VALE.
My heart hammered.
But the most important line came later.
REPLACEMENT COMPLETED.
Technician signature: J. MORROW.
Supervisor authorization: R. VALE.
Mercer frowned.
“Who's Morrow?”
Brooks's agent searched.
“Airman First Class Jacob Morrow. Died 1997.”
“How?”
“Car accident.”
That made everyone uncomfortable.
I kept reading.
A note in Collins's handwriting appeared in the margin:
MORROW DID NOT PERFORM THIS WORK. ON LEAVE.
Brooks exhaled slowly.
“That's fraud.”
“And potentially homicide,” Mercer said.
A noise came from the far end of the hangar.
Everyone turned.
Agents drew weapons.
“Federal agents! Show yourself!”
A figure emerged.
Hands raised.
Richard Collins.
Seventy-something.
Gray beard.
Dirty jacket.
Blood dried along his temple.
I moved toward him before Brooks stopped me.
“Wait.”
Agents searched him.
Clear.
Collins looked at me.
“You found it.”
“Yes.”
His shoulders sagged.
“Thank God.”
“Vale had your phone.”
“He took it.”
“How did you get away?”
“He didn't take me. One of his security men did.”
“Vale has private security?”
“Half his employees used to wear uniforms.”
Brooks said, “Mr. Collins, you need medical attention.”
“Later.”
He looked at me.
“You need to know the rest.”
I almost laughed.
“There is always a rest.”
He nodded.
“Ethan's actuator wasn't left defective by accident.”
That changed everything again.
“What?”
“The repair wasn't skipped because somebody was lazy.”
“Then why?”
Collins looked toward the old aircraft.
“In 1994, Vale was under pressure to prove a batch of refurbished actuators could remain in service longer than regulations allowed.”
Mercer's face tightened.
“Cost-saving trial?”
“Unofficial. No authorization.”
“Ethan's aircraft was one of the test aircraft?”
“Yes.”
“Without pilot knowledge?”
“Yes.”
My stomach turned.
“They used my father as a test subject.”
Collins's eyes filled.
“I tried to stop it.”
“Why didn't you go public?”
“I did.”
“To who?”
“Squadron command.”
“General Hale?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Collins looked at Brooks.
“The commanding officer was Brigadier General Stephen Hale.”
I frowned.
“Stephen?”
“Marcus Hale's father.”
Silence filled the hangar.
Collins continued.
“I gave Stephen Hale copies of everything two days after Ethan died.”
I felt cold.
“What did he do?”
“He ordered me to surrender the originals.”
“You didn't.”
“No.”
“What happened to the copies?”
“He said he'd handle it.”
I closed my eyes.
“And Marcus?”
“Marcus told me to stop accusing officers without proof.”
General Hale had been young.
Grieving.
Perhaps ignorant.
Perhaps not.
“Why tell me not to trust him?”
“Because three days after I gave Stephen Hale the file, Marcus came to my quarters.”
My pulse rose.
“What did he say?”
Collins looked directly into my eyes.
“He told me Ethan was dead and nothing I did would bring him back.”
The words sounded awful.
But grief says awful things.
I didn't know what they meant.
“Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“Did he destroy evidence?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why distrust him?”
“Because of what happened the next morning.”
Everyone waited.
“My apartment was searched.”
“Military police?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“I never found out.”
“What was taken?”
“Every copy I had except the original log hidden here.”
“And?”
Collins hesitated.
“And a cassette tape.”
“What was on it?”
“Ethan.”
My heart stopped.
“A recording?”
“Yes.”
“Of what?”
“The cockpit radio wasn't the only communication recorded that day.”
I stepped closer.
“What did Ethan say?”
Collins looked suddenly afraid.
“He named the person who ordered Vale to keep the defective actuator in service.”
“Who?”
A vehicle engine roared outside.
Brooks's agents turned.
Headlights swept across the hangar windows.
Three black SUVs had entered the museum grounds.
Agent Brooks reached for her radio.
“Lock the building down.”
Collins grabbed my sleeve.
His face had gone white.
“Captain.”
“What?”
May you like
“They found us.”
Then every light in the hangar went out.
