Todd tried to shut it down. He cited safety protocols, liability concerns, security clearance requirements, insurance restrictions. He went through every procedural roadblock he could think of.
Dr. Sutter let him finish. Then she said very calmly, "As independent evaluator appointed by your CEO, I have full authority to approve diagnostic personnel. This demonstration will proceed. If you'd like to file an objection, I suggest you do it in writing after we're done."
Todd opened his mouth, closed it, stepped back. The hangar went quiet.
Faith stood in front of the CA-90's open engine nacelle: 30 people watching; Preston with his arms crossed and his jaw tight; Todd against the far wall, pale; Colleen's recorder running; Dr. Sutter at the diagnostic console beside Neil.
Faith unrolled her grandfather's canvas toolkit on a clean cloth. The tools inside were old, worn; some of them had been re-handled with electrical tape. They looked like they belonged in a museum, not in front of a hundred-million-dollar aircraft.
She looked at Neil. "Start the engines."
Neil glanced at Dr. Sutter. She nodded once. He initiated the start sequence. Both engines began to spool up. The sound filled the hangar: a deep, building roar that vibrated in your chest and made your teeth hum. Thirty people held their breath.
Faith closed her eyes. And she listened.
Revelation one: the sound.
The engines idled: rough, unsteady, the same unstable rhythm that 50 mechanics had heard for 50 days. To everyone in that hangar, it sounded like a sick engine doing what sick engines do. To Faith, it sounded like a conversation.