Airframe by Michael Crichton Read Free Book Online Page B

criterion,” she said. “Last year, there were twenty-five accidents involving substantial airframedamage. Twenty-three occurred overseas. Which ones do you remember?”
    Richman frowned.
    “The crash in Abu Dhabi that killed fifty-six people?” Casey said. “The crash in Indonesia that killed two hundred? Bogotá, that killed a hundred and fifty-three? You remember any of those?”
    “No,” Richman said, “but wasn’t there something in Atlanta?”
    “That’s right,” she said. “A DC-9 in Atlanta. How many people were killed? None. How many were injured? None. Why do you remember it? Because there was film at eleven.”
    The van left the runway, went through the chain-link gate, and out onto the street. They turned onto Sepulveda, and headed toward the rounded blue contours of the Centinela Hospital.
    “Anyway,” Casey said. “We have other things to worry about now.” She handed Richman a tape recorder, clipped a microphone to his lapel, and told him what they were going to do.

CENTINELA HOSPITAL
12:06 P.M.
    “You want to know what happened?” the bearded man said, in an irritable voice. His name was Bennett; he was forty years old, a distributor for Guess jeans; he had gone to Hong Kong to visit the factory; he went four times a year, and always flew TransPacific. Now he was sitting up in bed, in one of the curtained-off infirmary cubicles. His head and right arm were bandaged. “The plane almost crashed, that’s what happened.”
    “I see,” Casey said. “I was wondering if—”
    “Who the hell are you people, anyway?” he said.
    She handed him her card, introduced herself again.
    “Norton Aircraft? What do you have to do with it?”
    “We build the airplane, Mr. Bennett.”
    “That piece of shit? Fuck you, lady.” He threw the card back at her. “Get the fuck out of here, both of you.”
    “Mr. Bennett—”
    “Go on, get out! Get out!”
    Outside the curtained cubicle, Casey looked at Richman. “I have a way with people,” she said ruefully.
    Casey went to the next cubicle, and paused. Behind the curtain, she heard Chinese being spoken rapidly, first a woman’s voice, and then a man’s voice responding.
    She decided to move on to the next bed. She opened the curtains and saw a sleeping Chinese woman in a plasterneck brace. A nurse in the room looked up, held her finger to her lips.
    Casey went on to the next cubicle.
    It was one of the flight attendants, a twenty-eight-year-old woman named Kay Liang. She had a large abrasion on her face and neck, the skin raw and red. She sat in a chair by the empty bed, thumbing through a six-month-old issue of
Vogue
. She explained that she had remained in the hospital to stay with Sha-Yan Hao, another stewardess, who was in the next cubicle.
    “She is my cousin,” she said. “I’m afraid she was hurt badly. They will not let me be in the room with her.” She spoke English well, with a British accent.
    When Casey introduced herself, Kay Liang looked confused. “You’re from the manufacturer?” she said. “But a man was just here …”
    “What man?”
    “A Chinese man. He was here a few minutes ago.”
    “I don’t know about that,” Casey said, frowning. “But we’d like to ask you some questions.”
    “Of course.” She put the magazine aside, folded her hands in her lap, composed.
    “How long have you been with TransPacific?” Casey asked.
    Three years, Kay Liang answered. And before that, three years with Cathay Pacific. She always flew international routes, she explained, because she had languages, English and French, as well as Chinese.
    “And where were you when this incident occurred?”
    “In the midcabin galley. Just behind business class.” The flight attendants were preparing breakfast, she explained. It was about five A.M. , perhaps a few minutes later.
    “And what happened?”
    “The plane began to climb,” she said. “I know that, because I was setting out drinks, and they started to slide off thetrolley.