That report is 17 years old. There's context you don't understand. Production pressures. Deadlines that came from three levels above me. I wasn't the only signature on that authorization.
You stood at her funeral, Ethan said, and his voice finally broke. 17 years of grief tearing loose in the middle of a crowded government building lobby. You put your hand on my shoulder and told me the accident board would find the truth. You told me to trust the process, and the whole time you already knew the truth. You'd known it for 6 months before she even got in that cockpit.
Voss said nothing. His silence was its own confession, and both men knew it. Why? Ethan said, his voice dropping to something raw and broken. Just tell me why.
Why did you ship it anyway? Voss's eyes were wet now, his composure finally cracking after 17 years of careful distance. We were 3 weeks behind on a contract deadline, he said quietly. If we didn't ship that batch, the Air Force was going to reassign the program to a competitor. I had 400 employees whose jobs depended on that contract.
I told myself the failure rate was low enough that the odds were. He stopped himself, disgusted by his own words, even as they left his mouth. I told myself it would probably be fine. It wasn't fine, Ethan said. She died, Richard.
She burned alive in a cockpit because you decided a contract deadline mattered more than a failed safety test. I know, Voss whispered, and for the first time, something that looked like genuine anguish crossed his face. I have known that every single day for 17 years. You think I don't carry this? You think I sleep at night?
I don't care if you sleep at night. Ethan said, his voice rising now, drawing stairs from people across the lobby. I care that you let me believe it was my fault. I care that you let an entire accident board write pilot error into a permanent record instead of telling the truth. I care that the exact same part almost killed someone else 4 days ago because you never fixed it.
You never recalled it. You just kept shipping it for 17 more years. I didn't have proof it was the same failure mode. You had proof. Ethan said you had a failed ultrasonic test with your own signature next to a shipping authorization.
That's proof. You just decided it was easier to bury it than face what you'd done. Two security guards had started moving toward them now, alerted by the rising volume. But Colonel Whitfield appeared from the elevator bank at that exact moment, moving quickly to intercept them. "Gentlemen," Whitfield said sharply, positioning himself between the two men.