She nodded nervously, her keystrokes rapid against the mechanical keyboard. "I can print the passenger load adjustments from the local dispatch buffer, Mr. Vance. But the central maintenance records are locked to station agents. Only the ramp operations supervisor or the line maintenance chief can access the hangar log."
"Print what you have," I told her. "I'm heading down to the line hangar."
I took the service elevator down beneath the concourse level, following the concrete corridors out toward the north apron. The autumn morning air was biting and sharp against my face as I pushed through the heavy steel exit door onto the tarmac. Flashing amber beacons lit the low clouds overhead. Two heavy yellow airport tugs were already stationed around the nose gear of Flight 418, securing the airframe with heavy towbars to prevent any unauthorized pushback.
Further down the taxiway, the corrugated metal hangars of Northstar's line maintenance facility loomed against the gray morning sky. That was where the paper trail originated. Mercer had claimed an eight-hour operating envelope had been authorized by third-party contractors in Lincoln, but an airframe operating under federal certificate rules could not defer an uncontained bypass crack without an authorized on-site inspector signing the physical log sheet.
I crossed the painted taxi line, flashing my credentials at the ramp safety officer stationed near the service lane. He recognized the blue badge and waved me through without hesitation.
Inside the hangar bay, the smell of burnt turbine oil, hydraulic fluid, and solvent hung heavy in the heated air. At the center of the bay, an auxiliary turboprop sat stripped of its cowlings, while three line mechanics worked quietly around a mobile tool chest. Near the back office glass, Greg Miller, Northstar’s regional station manager, was pacing with a handheld radio pressed to his ear. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, his hairline damp with nervous sweat.
When he saw me enter, he lowered the radio and pushed open the aluminum office door.
"Vance," Miller said, his voice taut, carrying the strained exhaustion of an administrator whose carrier had just made the regional FAA alert wire. "I just got off the phone with the regional administrator in Chicago. They're convening an emergency review panel at noon. What in God's name happened on that jet bridge?"
"Mercer tried to launch an unairworthy airframe by falsifying my digital sign-off," I answered, stepping into the office and laying my audit binder flat on his desk. "He knew tail November-Eight-Two-Four-Sierra-Alpha had an active fatigue fissure on the starboard bypass collar. He used my system credentials while my vehicle was still clearing the perimeter gate, authorized the deferral waiver, and tried to dump me from the manifest by marking my ticket as deceased."
Miller scrubbed both hands across his face. He was an operations man with twenty-five years on the line, someone who knew that an in-flight fan blade separation meant catastrophic hull damage. He didn't defend Mercer.
"Gary told me yesterday afternoon that Lincoln had certified the replacement collar," Miller muttered, leaning against the metal file cabinet. "He said the FAA conformity paperwork was en route via courier. I told him the aircraft stayed parked until the hard-copy tags were stamped in our records room. I didn't authorize a digital deferral."
"Then show me the physical line binder," I said. "Every deferred maintenance item requires a printed, triplicate carbon voucher signed by the line mechanic who torqued the bolts and the inspector who verified the clearance. If Mercer forged my digital key, there has to be a physical voucher somewhere in your hangar records."
Miller didn't hesitate. He pulled open a metal cabinet drawer labeled Daily Flight Releases, thumbing through the hanging manila folders until he extracted the morning dispatch bundle for Flight 418. He pulled out a white carbon slip and laid it flat under the desk lamp.
The voucher was dated five-fifteen that morning. The line marked Inspected and Approved bore my printed name, alongside a hasty, scrawled signature in black ink that attempted to mimic my initials. But underneath the signature line, in the box reserved for the mechanic's employee stamp, was an imprint that made Miller’s jaw tighten.
The stamp belonged to Shift Supervisor Tom Aris, the lead maintenance technician on duty during the graveyard shift.
"Aris," Miller whispered. "He was on the floor when the Omaha ferry flight arrived."
"Where is he?" I asked.
"He went off shift at six-thirty," Miller said, looking at the wall clock above the dispatch desk. It read seven-forty. "His truck should still be in the employee lot. He usually stops at the line canteen before driving home."
We didn't wait for security to escort us. Miller grabbed his high-visibility vest, and we walked briskly through the secondary exit toward the maintenance annex behind the hangar bays.