Chapter 12 - Subpoenas and Boardrooms
The Federal Aviation Administration headquarters in Washington, D.C., was a monolith of cold marble, brass fixtures, and fluorescent lighting that drained the warmth from human skin.
Sitting across from me in a closed hearing chamber were five men in tailored navy suits, flanked by Trans-Meridian's lead counsel, Victor Ross—a lawyer known in the aviation industry as the "Graveyard Cleaner." Ross was a man with slicked-back silver hair, pale lizard-like eyes, and a habit of twirling a heavy platinum fountain pen between his manicured fingers.
"Major Braddock," Ross began, his tone dripping with patronizing sympathy. "No one disputes your admirable bravery. However, federal aviation regulations strictly prohibit uncertified civilians from manipulating primary flight controls of a Part 121 commercial transport aircraft under non-hostile conditions."
I sat with my spine rigid, wearing my dress Army uniform—the deep blue service coat pinned with my senior aviator wings, the Distinguished Flying Cross, and the bronze ribbons earned through two tours in the desert.
"Mr. Ross," I said evenly, "the conditions were hostile. The captain was medically incapacitated by a massive stroke, and the first officer was suffocating on toxic fumes. The aircraft was descending into a graveyard spiral toward the North Atlantic."
Ross smiled thinly, tapping a thick manila folder. "Our internal engineering review suggests that the flight director systems were functioning within acceptable fallback parameters. Had you remained in row eight, First Officer Ramos would have completed the standard checklist procedures. Instead, your aggressive manual inputs subjected the fuselage to over 2.4 Gs of lateral loading, compromising the aircraft's structural integrity and forcing an emergency write-off."
Beside me, the door to the hearing chamber swung open with a loud, resounding thud.
Every head in the room jerked toward the entryway. Arthur Vance strode through the doorway, flanked by two junior partners carrying heavy black leather litigation cases. He looked like an apex predator stepping onto his home turf.
"If you finish that sentence, Ross," Vance said, his voice booming through the vaulted ceiling, "I will file a twenty-billion-dollar shareholder derivative lawsuit against Trans-Meridian before the markets close today."
Ross froze, his smooth facade showing its first hairline fracture. "Arthur? What is the meaning of this? You represent our institutional underwriting group."
"I resigned from that portfolio at six o'clock this morning," Vance replied, walking to the table and dropping a stack of certified documents onto the polished wood with a heavy smack. "I now serve as chief legal and strategic counsel for Major Quinn Braddock. And if you think you can intimidate an Army aviator who dragged wounded soldiers out of burning wreckage under RPG fire, you have severely misread your opponent."
The FAA panel chairman, a retired three-star general named Henderson, leaned forward, adjusting his reading glasses. "Mr. Vance, what do you have?"
"I have the maintenance logs from Atlantic Flight 442’s C-check inspection conducted last month in Miami," Vance said, his eyes drilling into Ross. "Logs that show your subcontracted maintenance provider replaced the primary fire-suppression harness with uncertified counterfeit components purchased from an unvetted offshore vendor to save three hundred thousand dollars per airframe."
The air left the room in an audible gasp.
"Where did you get those logs?" Ross stammered, his color rapidly fading to an ashen white.
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"The night before we boarded in Boston, your chief avionics inspector resigned and tried to blow the whistle," Vance said, leaning over the table until he was inches from Ross’s face. "Your board buried his report. Then you sent three hundred and twelve people into the freezing air over the North Atlantic in a flying incendiary device. Major Braddock didn't damage your plane, Victor. She kept your criminal negligence from murdering three hundred people."
I glanced at Vance. His jaw was set like forged steel. In that sterile, hostile room, the corporate shark from seat 8C had turned his entire arsenal against the very system he had spent decades defending.
