"Not our problem," Ron Smith said. "We just offload it and bring it back to Norton. The kids in Digital feed it to mainframes, and convert it to a video of the flight."

"We hope," Casey said. She straightened. "How much longer, Ron?"

'Ten minutes, max," Smith said.

"Oh sure," Doherty said, from inside the cockpit. 'Ten minutes max, oh sure. Not that it matters. I wanted to beat rush hour traffic but now I guess I can't. It's my kid's birthday, and I won't be home for the party. My wife's going to give me hell."

Ron Smith was starting to laugh. "Can you think of anything else that might go wrong, Doug?"

"Oh sure. Lots of things. Salmonella in the cake. All the kids poisoned," Doherty said.

Casey looked out the door. The maintenance people had all climbed off the wing. Burne was finishing up his inspection of the engines. Trung was loading the DFDR into the van.

It was time to go home.

As she started down the stairs, she noticed three Norton Security vans parked in a corner of the hangar. There were about twenty security guards standing around the plane, and in various parts of the hangar.

Richman noticed, too. "What's this about?" he said, gesturing to the guards.

"We always put security on the plane, until it's ferried to the plant," she said.

"That's a lot of security."

"Yeah, well." Casey shrugged. "It's an important plane."

But she noticed that the guards all wore sidearms. Casey couldn't remember seeing armed guards before. A hangar at LAX was a secure facility. There wasn't any need for the guards to be armed.

Was there?

Casey was walking through the northeast corner of Building 64, past the huge tools on which the wing was built. The tools were crisscrossed blue steel scaffolding, rising twenty feet above the ground. Although they were the size of a small apartment building, the tools were precisely aligned to within a thousandth of an inch. Up on the platform formed by the tools, eighty people were walking around, putting the wing together.

To the right, she saw groups of men packing tools into large wooden crates. "What's all that?" Richman said.

"Looks like rotables," Casey said.

"Rotables?"

"Spare tooling that we rotate into the line if something goes wrong with the first set We built them to gear up for the China sale. The wing's the most time-consuming part to build; so the plan is to build the wings in our facility in Atlanta, and ship them back here."

She noticed a figure in a shirt and tie, shirtsleeves rolled up, standing among the men working on the crates. It was Don Brull, the president of the UAW local. He saw Casey, called to her, and started toward her. He made a flicking gesture with his hand; she knew what he wanted.

Casey said to Richman, "Give me a minute. I'll see you back at the office."

"Who is that?" Richman said.

"I'll meet you back at the office."

Richman remained standing there, as Brull came closer. "Maybe you want me to stay and - "

"Bob," she said. "Get lost."

Reluctantly, Richman headed back toward the office. He kept glancing over his shoulder as he walked away.

Brull shook her hand. The UAW president was a short and solidly built man, an ex-boxer with a broken nose. He spoke in a soft voice. "You know, Casey, I always liked you."

"Thanks, Don," she said. "Feeling's mutual."

"Those years when you were on the floor, I always kept my eye on you. Kept you out of trouble."

"I know that, Don." She waited. Brull was notorious for long windups.

"I always thought, Casey isn't like the others."

"What's going on, Don?" she said.

"We got some problems with this China sale," Brull said.

"What kind of problems?"

"Problems with the offset."

"What about it?" she said, shrugging. "You know there's always offset with a big sale." In recent years, airframe manufacturers had been obliged to send portions of the fabrication overseas, to the countries ordering planes. A country that ordered fifty planes expected to get a piece of the action. It was standard procedure.

"I know," Brull said. "But in the past, you guys sent part of the tail, maybe the nose, maybe some interior fab. Just parts."

"That's right."

"But these tools we're crating up," he said, "are for the wing. And the Teamsters on the loading dock are telling us these crates aren't going to Atlanta - they're going to Shanghai. The company's going to give the wing to China."

"I don't know the details of the agreement," she said. "But I doubt that-"

"The wing, Casey," he said. "That's core technology. Nobody ever gives away the wing. Not Boeing, nobody. You give the Chinese the wing, you give away the store. They don't need us any more. They can build the next generation of planes on their own. Ten years from now, nobody here has a job."

"Don," she said, "I'll check into this, but I can't believe the wing is part of the offset agreement."

Brull spread his hands. "I'm telling you it is."

"Don. I'll check for you. But right now I'm pretty busy with this 545 incident, and-"

"You're not listening, Casey. The local's got a problem with the China sale."

"I understand that, but-"

"A big problem" He paused, looked at her. "Understand?'

She did. The UAW workers on the floor had absolute control over production. They could slow down, sick out, break tooling, and create hundreds of other intractable problems. "I'll talk to Marder," she said. "I'm sure he doesn't want a problem on the line."

"Marder is the problem."

Casey sighed. Typical union misinformation, she thought. The China sale had been made by Hal Edgarton and the Marketing team. Marder was just the COO. He ran the plant. He didn't have anything to do with sales.

"I'll get back to you tomorrow, Don."

"That's fine," Brull said. "But I'm telling you, Casey. Personally. I'd hate to see anything happen."

"Don," she said. "Are you threatening me?"

"No, no," Brull said quickly, with a pained expression. "Don't misunderstand. But 1 hear that if the 545 thing isn't cleared up fast, it could kill the China sale."

"That's true."

"And you're speaking for the IRT."

"That's true, too."

Brull shrugged. "So, I'm telling you. Feelings are strong against the sale. Some of the guys are pretty hot about it. I was you, I'd take a week off."

"I can't do that. I'm right in the middle of the investigation."

Brull looked at her.

"Don. I'll talk to Marder about the wing," she said. "But I have to do my job."

"In that case," Brull said, putting his hand on her arm, "you take real good care, honey."

"No, no," Marder said, pacing in his office. "This is nonsense, Casey. There's no way we'd send the wing to Shanghai. What do they think, we're crazy? That'd be the end of the company."

"But Brull said-"

"The Teamsters are screwing with the UAW, that's all. You know how rumors run through the plant. Remember when they all decided composites made you sterile? Damn guys wouldn't come to work for a month. But it wasn't true. And this one's not true, either. Those tools are going to Atlanta," he said. "And for one very good reason. We're fabbing the wing in Atlanta so that the senator from Georgia will stop messing with us every time we go to the Ex-Im Bank for a big loan. It's a jobs program for the senior senator from Georgia. Got it?"

"Then somebody better get the word out," Casey said.

"Christ," Marder said. "They know this. The union reps sit in on all the management meetings. It's usually Brull himself."

"But he didn't sit in on the China negotiations."