Mercer stopped four feet from the counter, his chest heaving, the paperwork in his hand crinkling beneath the grip of his fingers. Behind him, down on the tarmac, the yellow rotating beacon on an airport operations truck began flashing against the cold concourse glass.
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
"Call him then," I answered, keeping my palms flat against the rigid manila covers of my audit files. "Call Greg Miller up to Gate 12. Have him put his personal license on the maintenance release."
Officer Hayes didn't step back. He shifted his stance by two inches, his shoulder squaring between Mercer and the podium keyboard. His partner, the younger patrolman, kept his thumbs hooked near his utility belt, eyes flicking from Mercer's trembling fingers to the amber error banner burning across the agent's monitor.
"Captain," Hayes said, his tone flat, formal, and practiced. "Step back from the counter."
"Officer, this is an internal airline scheduling irregularity," Mercer said, turning halfway toward Hayes, raising his free hand in a rehearsed gesture of professional authority. "This man is a disgruntled former contractor. He was escorted off my flight because he represents a direct operational distraction to flight deck safety."
"I was escorted off your flight because I flagged tail number November-Eight-Two-Four-Sierra-Alpha for a uncontained turbine sleeve crack," I said, speaking directly to Hayes and the gate agent, whose fingers hovered frozen over her keyboard. "Three days ago, Northstar's line maintenance depot in Omaha replaced the starboard bypass duct. They used a remanufactured titanium collar that lacked an FAA conformity tag. Gary knew about it. He signed the deferred action waiver at five this morning so the aircraft wouldn't miss its morning bank."
Mercer’s face drained from gray to an ashen, bloodless chalk. "That was a legal engineering deferral."
"An engineering deferral requires the station inspector's digital clearance," I replied. "You couldn't get Miller to sign it before sunrise because Miller knew the crack extended past three millimeters into the primary housing. So you used my system credentials while I was driving in from the long-term lot. You logged my badge into the regional dispatch server, approved the deferral under my inspector ID, and then had the gate system void my revenue boarding pass as a deceased passenger profile so I wouldn't be on the manifest to pull the flight log."
The gate agent drew a sharp breath. She didn't look at Mercer. She looked down at her terminal screen, her fingers finally moving, tapping four rapid keystrokes to pull up the system audit log.
"What does it say, Brenda?" Hayes asked quietly.
Brenda swallowed. Her monitor cast a pale blue glow over her dark eyes. "The boarding pass for Seat 1A was canceled at six-fourteen a. m. from the terminal inside the flight operations prep lounge. That's crew-only access behind security door Bravo-Nine."
Mercer took a half-step toward Brenda, his boots scuffing the carpet. "Don't interpret system logs you don't understand, young lady."
"Stand still, Captain," Hayes snapped, his voice dropping into a hard, non-negotiable register. He didn't draw his weapon, but his right hand dropped firmly onto his side holster. "You take another step toward that airline terminal and I will detain you right here on the concourse floor."
The concourse around us was waking up. Down at Gate 14, passengers boarding an early flight to Denver paused in line, craning their necks. Two ground crewmen in fluorescent orange vests stopped their baggage cart outside the glass, watching the airport police beacon pulse against the fuselage of Flight 418.
"This is madness," Mercer muttered, though he kept his feet planted. He crumpled the dispatch sheet tighter in his fist. "The bypass duct was checked by third-party contractors in Lincoln. It has an eight-hour operating envelope before mandatory overhaul. We were flying a two-hour leg. The plane is safe."
"Then let the field safety team put a borescope down the intake," I said. "They're rolling two vans across the ramp right now. If the collar is stamped with a certified heat-lot number, you can file a formal harassment complaint against me with the regional administrator before lunch. I'll surrender my badge, pay Northstar for the gate delay, and walk out of this airport without saying another word."
Mercer didn't take the bet. He couldn't. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the jet bridge door as if measuring the distance back to his locked cockpit.
"You don't have the authority to ground a commercial carrier," Mercer whispered, his knuckles white around his captain's hat. "You're an independent auditor on a temporary field contract. You can make recommendations. You cannot issue an order."