Victoria studied him. "And you think this aircraft believes it initialized when it didn't?"
"That's one possibility. I'd need to look at the actual records before calling it a diagnosis. If the problem began after an update, that's where I'd start. The mechanical teams have been looking for a part that broke. I'm asking whether a part received the wrong instruction and did exactly what it thought it was supposed to do."
Richard stepped forward. "Victoria, this man has no engineering degree. He cannot be permitted to work on certified avionics based on a guess."
"I agree about the second part," Caleb said before she could answer. Richard looked startled. "Nobody should work on certified avionics based on a guess. That's why I asked to see the logs. And if there's a correction to make, an authorized repair station and a properly qualified person need to perform or approve it under the manufacturer's instructions. I don't pretend my skills give me permission I don't have."
For the first time, Victoria's expression changed. Every consultant she had hired had emphasized what they were authorized to do. This stranger had begun by telling her what he was not authorized to do, and the distinction made him seem, unexpectedly, more trustworthy.
"If we give you supervised access to the maintenance records," she asked, "how long before you can tell me whether your theory has merit?"
"Depends on how far back the records go. If the logs are intact, I might know in ten minutes. If they're incomplete, maybe not at all."
"You understand what's at stake?"
"I know what's at stake in any aircraft repair. Someone's life, eventually. Your deadline doesn't change that."
Victoria looked at him for a long moment. Then she looked at the two hundred specialists watching them from every side of the hangar. A part of her wanted to protect the experts from public embarrassment. Another part remembered her mother's stories of men who took her advice privately and laughed when she offered it in front of other people.
"Everyone out of the immediate work area," Victoria said. "The aircraft stays isolated. Nobody touches it without the proper signoffs. Richard, bring me the manufacturer's support manager. Bennett, stay here."
"You asked the right question eight days ago. You can help us ask it now."
Richard's smile vanished. "You're not seriously considering this."
"I'm seriously considering examining a record that your team decided not to examine," she said. "There is a difference."
The people nearest the aircraft began to move, although slowly. Their reluctance made the scrape of wheeled tool chests across the concrete sound unusually loud. Victoria waited until they were clear, then pointed at the toolbox in Caleb's hand.
"You came here with that?"
"It belonged to my father. I wasn't planning to open it."
"What was his name?"
Caleb swallowed, taken by surprise. "Marcus Richardson."
"And what did Marcus Richardson teach you that nobody here seems to know?"
Caleb glanced at the green diagnostic screen. "He taught me that the most expensive part of a repair is often the moment somebody stops asking questions."