Probable Cause

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Coastal Airlines' flight operations office at La Guardia buzzed with activity as weary flight crews arrived and fresh ones departed. Captain Anne Ryan stood near the operations desk, punching codes into a computer terminal while the screen displayed dismal weather forecasts for her route of flight. She saw that La Guardia would be just above minimums for her nine o'clock departure, and Detroit, a destination she loathed, would be little better.

She glanced at the operations counter where her first officer, Donald Overmeyer, stood preparing the flight plan, saw that he was scowling, tugging nervously at his chin. Not a good sign. He was a recent hire, fresh from simulator school, and there was not even a hint of sheen on the backside of his freshly creased uniform trousers. Although experienced pilots, many of Coastal's new hires were relatively uninitiated to the environment of large transport aircraft. She judged he would likely need careful watching while gaining experience at the controls of the DC-9, need to be coached through difficult landing approaches, and until she learned firsthand of his capabilities she would have to be poised at the ready to take over should he flub it. Well, not tonight. Tonight he could sit and watch; she would fly the trip.

Yes, the flight held much promise of a trying night in the cockpit, yet that's what she was paid for wasn't it? And wasn't the challenge part of the allure of flying? Certainly, so get over it, girl.

She felt a touch on her shoulder and spun around.

"Whoops. Little on edge, Ryan?"

Captain Jimmy Truax, her nemesis of years, stood gazing down at her with a smirk tugging the corners of his mouth. His feral eyes still held promise that one day he would even the score that had smoldered since her first month on the line sixteen years ago. Early on she had endured his crude remarks of her gender until at last they had sparked a vicious clash and counter-clash, she the enduring winner, but with Truax you just never knew.

"I thought I smelled something foul, Jimboy. Now I know what."

The rangy Oklahoman blinked, deflecting the remark. "You flyin' in this sh*t tonight?"

"Any reason why I shouldn't?"

"No, not unless you're on the rag--which you seem to be most of the time." He nodded toward her first officer across the room, "Dumb-ass kid won't be much help if you are. I hear he hasn't even been in the military."

And neither have I, she thought. One more reason for his animosity toward her. To Truax's way of thinking, if you weren't a d*ck-swinging ex-jet jock, you just...weren't. Anne casually brushed his lapels then patted his cheek. "The next time you don't know what to do with yourself, Jimboy, I'd recommend hanging. But you can't use your family tree--there's no fork in it."

Truax snickered and swaggered on his way. Then he turned. "Don't bend the ship tonight, Ryan, we haven't that many left."

On the floor above she knew that a substantial load of passengers stood milling about, waiting impatiently for the nine o'clock departure. They were her charges--all fifty-four of them. A slice of humanity who still held a kernel of loyalty and confidence, or perhaps other more obscure reasons, to fly Coastal Airlines in spite of the competition's vicious fare wars and slandering advertisements, and the fiery crash only a month ago, right here at La Guardia, that had claimed thirty-eight lives.

These passengers would be spooked a little tonight and she couldn't fault them if they were. The weather was particularly bad and it would likely not be a smooth ride, but she would see to it that it would be a safe one.

Maybe she was just a little spooked too. She stood looking out the door beneath the jetway and remembering again that it had been a night much like this only a month ago, cold, blustery, freezing rain that had become falling snow, that she had trip-traded with Captain Ray Thompson. Her flight had become his. Now Ray was dead. And so were his thirty-seven passengers and crew. His widow would forever bear the damning cross of "pilot error," the probable cause, so hinted by the hip-shooting media, yet still under investigation by the National Transportation Safety Board.

But pilot error was not like Ray, she knew. He had been a careful veteran, a pilot's pilot, her mentor, yet the conclusion seemed inescapable: Shortly after takeoff, less than a hundred feet above the runway, the aircraft inexplicably wing-stalled and he had lost it. Wing ice was thought to be a contributing factor, yet the NTSB found that they had thoroughly de-iced the aircraft shortly before takeoff and the notion was later shelved. The NTSB was now exploring the theory that Ray had been fatigued, perhaps distracted, and failed to act quickly or appropriately at a critical moment.

Anne didn't believe a word of it, yet there seemed no other explanation.

She peered upward at the shadow of the DC-9's nose and saw Overmeyer's silhouette in the glow of the cockpit lights, then glanced at her watch. Eight thirty-five. She had best get aboard.

A whoosh of frigid air and swirling snowflakes greeted Anne as she pushed the door beneath the jetway open, and her mind flashed on her skiing accident earlier in the day. Warner had quickly cut in front of her, spraying a blinding sheet of white powder moments before she unwittingly became airborne at the notorious precipice, The Leap. He had set her up for it, and the crash-landing had knocked the wind out of her and sprained her back. Damn you, Warner Edelbrock! Damn you to hell! Yet now, strangely, the grating pain was nearly gone. A blessing, considering the long night ahead. That she had summarily dumped him from her life only hours ago was an even greater relief.

Skeptical of the thoroughness of Overmeyer's preflight inspection of the aircraft, Anne sighed and ducked her head against the icy wind and made a quick walk around beneath the DC-9's wings, peering into the landing gear wells with her flashlight, checking for open inspection doors, obstructions or debris in the turbine inlets, then kicked a tire for the hell of it and knocked the slush from her polished oxfords.

A familiar voice called out, "You don't trust nobody, does you, Miz Annie?"

Anne relaxed as she turned and saw the huge black man sling another suitcase on the conveyor. "Other than you, Titus, there's nobody left to trust in this rinky-dink outfit."

"That about right, Miz Annie, 'ceptin' Mr. Gordy. He an all right boy. Hey, you be careful tonight, you hear?"

Be careful tonight, you hear? had been Titus Wofford’s parting comment to her for sixteen years, an admonishing blessing of sorts, without which her departures would be incomplete. If she could have a father again he would be Titus.

Anne set her bag down and hugged the huge man, her arms only half encircling his enormous waist. "Titus, you're a