Chapter 1 — Light Streaks Off The Runway

On the test board, all twelve light circuits show green. Outside, there are only eight lights.

Le Khanh Nghi stood close to the control cabinet, his finger sliding across line number 7 on the small screen. The western circuit still has steady current. The fuse is not hot. The backup generator is not working yet. If you just look at the board, the Vam Chan runway edge light system is stronger than the person who just checked it.

Nghi looked up and looked through the glass window of the technical room. The airport has turned off most of the terminal lights. In the darkness between the parking lot and the runway, a line of amber lights stretched toward the swamp. The left row is straight. The right row is also straight, if viewed from the ground. But when Nghi changed positions, four points near the end of the runway seemed to slide out of the way, creating a second streak of light.

She changed places again.

The streak of light disappeared.

Nghi didn't believe his eyes, but he also didn't consider his eyes something to apologize for. She recorded the time in the book: 21:43, circuit W-3, observed from the technical room door, light wind, dry road surface.

“Have you checked enough?”

Pham Nha Uyen stood behind her, wearing a protective helmet a little wider than her head. The little girl—No doubt in her head, Uyen was twenty-four—held the toolbox with both hands. The hair tie stuck out from under the brim of her hat, vibrating every time she turned to look at the board.

“Enough according to the list,” Nghi replied.

“The sign is enough.”

“I didn't ask for the board.”

Uyen looked outside. “Where do you see the skewed row of lights?”

Doubt is not immediate. “Which column do you stand on?”

“Camera column number three.”

“Take two steps back.”

Uyen followed. From that position, the four lights at the western end appear as a very slight bend. No one is flying into the airport. There is no rain. No thick dew. If Nghi hadn't been standing next to her, Uyen might have thought it was the way light reflected on the wet paint.

“There's one that's out of line,” Uyen said.

“Four.”

“I only see one clearly.”

“It's better to say you saw one thing than to say the whole system is broken.”

Uyen looked at Nghi, waiting for an explanation. Nghi closed the lid of the toolbox and went out into the hallway. From there, she saw the control tower at the end of the apron. The light on the red tower is like a dot standing still in the dark sky. Nghi took the walkie-talkie.

"Vam Chan Tower, technical call. Please confirm the image of the western border light, no aircraft operating."

A male voice answered after a few seconds. "Listening tower. Is the tech asking all or one location?"

“Circuit W-3, last four lights.”

“Wait until I change the viewing angle.”

That's Vo Tan Duy. Nghi met him in the afternoon safety meeting, who spoke each sentence in order and never used the word “sure”. On the walkie-talkie, his voice was even flatter.

“I see a row of lights to the west,” Duy said. “There is a section that looks like it is expanding to the south.”

Uyen turned to Nghi. Nghi raised a finger, asking not to interrupt.

“Can you confirm whether it is a lighting error or a location error?”

"I confirm I saw an extension. The cause has not been concluded yet."

"Thank you. Write it down for me now."

“Signed 21:46.”

Nghi turned off the radio. Uyen asked: "He saw it too?"

"Have."

“So can you write down that the light is in the wrong position?”

"No. Note that the image of the row of lights is not continuous along the observation axis."

“Sounds too round.”

"Round but right. We don't know if the lights are in the wrong position, the yard markers are wrong or the viewing angle is wrong."

Nghi went down the stairs. The boundary light team is located in an area temporarily locked with reflective tape. She checked each end light. Lamp body no wobble. The concrete base does not break. Grass growing close to the edge of the runway has been cut low. There is nothing clear enough to point a finger at and say “this is the cause”.

At the junction box near the W-3 circuit, she opened the lid. The wire is dry and the ends do not change color. Uyen held a flashlight and shined it on the inside. A streak of black paint ran across the side of the box, as if someone had marked the location and covered it.

“What is this?” Uyen asked.

“Don't know yet.”

“Do you write it down?”

"Have."

“Do you write down everything?”

Nghi closes the junction box. “Only what others can look back on.”

From the operating room, Dang Quoc Tong called. He did not wear a reflective jacket, only wore a rolled-up shirt and an employee ID card hanging on his chest. Tong has worked at Vam Chan for sixteen years, long enough to know which seats will be empty if the airport closes and long enough to dislike the words that force plans to be rewritten.

“What's going on?” he asked.

“The western boundary light shows signs of geometric error when viewed from two angles.”

“The board still reports normally.”

“The circuit board has power.”

“The lights are still on.”

“Just because the lights are on doesn't mean the row of lights is right.”

Tong looked out at the yard. "The day after tomorrow the airline started running simulations. In eleven days there will be a night flight. I need to know if this is a real error or a feeling."

“I need to know too.”

“So don't write the word 'error'.”

“I haven't written it yet.”

"Good. Record observations, check again tomorrow morning."

Nghi looked at him. “What if you don't see it tomorrow morning?”

“If you write it down, it won't be reproduced.”

“What if the pilot sees it tonight?”

Tong exhaled. “There are no pilots flying into the field.”

“The question is not whether there will be a pilot today or not.”

“The question is, do we close the airport because four unknown lights are misaligned?”

Do not answer. Tong turned away, but before walking up the stairs, he said: "I'm not asking you to ignore it. I'm asking you not to turn an observation into a decision before you have enough data."

"Okay."

“And Nghi.”

"Yes?"

“Don't use the word 'hallucination' in the report. People will read it as you denying yourself.”

Tong left. Uyen stood next to Nghi, looking at the runway. “He just told me not to ignore it, but also not to make a big deal out of it.”

“He's trying to keep both.”

“Can you keep it?”

Nghi looked at the last four lights. “We'll know tomorrow.”

In the engineering room, she opened the incident form. The first line requests the device code, circuit, time, weather conditions, and witnesses. Nghi fills out each item. In the description box, she wrote: "From two viewing angles on the ground, the west end boundary light creates an image that is not continuous with the edge of the field. The control panel confirms there is an electric current. The cause has not been determined."

Uyen read over her shoulder. “You didn't write 'four tops'?”

“Can be counted, recorded.”

“You don't write down your feelings?”

“Feelings are the starting point. Not the conclusion.”

Do sign. She gave the pen to Uyen.

Uyen paused. “What do you sign?”

“Eyewitness.”

“I'm an apprentice.”

“Still have eyes.”

Uyen put pen to paper. The first stroke is slightly tilted, the last stroke is pressed hard as if afraid that my name will slip off the paper.

When the two people turned off the technical room, the row of lights was still on. Nghi looked through the door one last time. The last four points are no longer misaligned. Maybe the wind changes direction. Maybe she stood differently. Maybe the whole system just returned to normal without leaving a trace.

She did not delete the record.

On the way out the gate, Nghi's phone rang. Message from Tong: "Tomorrow morning at 7:30, there will be a planning meeting to open the route. Don't forget to bring the newspaper fox.”

Right after that, there was news from the aunt who hadn't saved her number: "My name is Uyen. I took a picture of the paint streaks in the junction box. Send it to me?

Nghi replied: “Send. Keep the original photo.”

Uyen sent photos. On the small screen, a streak of black paint lay across the side of the box like a line that someone was trying to make disappear.

Nghi enlarged the photo and saw that behind the paint there was a blurred number: 17.

Junction box number 17 is located at the end of a circuit that the control panel still reports is completely normal.

The next morning, Nghi arrived at the airport ten minutes before the meeting. She didn't feel like she had discovered a big secret. She brought a notebook with a line stating 9:43 p.m., a photo Uyen sent and a folding ruler. Those things are heavier than a report but lighter than a conclusion.

At the security counter, the person on duty recognized her. “The girl from Uncle Vuc's house from before?”

“I'm not a little girl anymore.”

“Yes, but my face is still the same as when I ran after him holding the lamp.”

Nghi signed the entrance book. The guard asked: "How long will it take this time?"

“Don't know yet.”

“The airport needs people.”

Nghi looked at the row of cargo trucks outside the gate. “I also need to know what the airport needs.”

In the technical room, Uyen opened the photo on the screen. She enlarged the streak of paint, marking the number 17 in yellow. Nghi requests to keep the original photo and create a separate caption. Uyen asked why it had to be so picky.

“If someone only sees the circled version later, they will forget it was originally a blur.”

“Sometimes people don't open the original.”

“So the document maker's job is to keep the original from disappearing.”

Nghi rechecked the W-3 circuit with a handheld meter. The index is still fine. She measured at the cabinet, then measured at box number 17, then compared. No number is enough to force the system to stop. She wrote that down too.

Uyen stood next to her and asked: "If everything is okay, do you feel like you've bothered me?"

"Have."

“You still do it?”

“A nuisance inspection is better than an afterthought.”

Tong walked in with two cups of coffee. He placed a cup in front of Nghi and a cup in front of Uyen. “I have read the report. Her writing style makes me answer many questions.”

“That's what reporting does.”

“Have you ever thought that being a technician would be more peaceful than being a manager?”

"Have."

“Wrong.”

Nghi looked at him. “Are you going to have box number 17 inspected today?”

"Have. But before that, I want you to tell the team that this is testing, not bug hunting.”

“What if there is an error?”

“Error recording.”

“What if we find the person who missed us?”

“Record skipped process.”

Nghi nodded. Tong looks tired. He sat down and looked at the photo. “Just four points of light.”

“A point of light that doesn't know where it is is not a guide.”

Tong did not answer. He signed the W-3 area restriction order, stating the start time and the person in charge. Uyen signed below as the notary. Her handwriting was still slightly slanted, but no longer pressed as hard as the night before.

When they went out into the yard, the sun was already rising. The last four lights went out in the daylight, no one saw what they saw last night. Suspicion that an incident exists only under one condition will always be called imagination by someone who has never been under that condition.

“Miss Nghi,” Uyen said, “if it goes wrong again tonight, who will you call first?”

“Call the person who is seeing.”

“If there are many people?”

“Write it all down.”

Nghi stepped over the safety line, stopping in front of box number 17. Underneath the black paint, the blurred number was still there. She did not touch. She just put the notebook in her hand, ready to write one more line if the ground gives them one more sign.