Mayday (29 page)

“Someone with a bomb slipped through your security. Maybe Berry. You almost said so yourself.”

Johnson took a step toward Metz, then turned to Miller. “Call the legal department, Jack. Then escort Mr. Metz out of here.”

Metz realized he had pushed too far. “Wait. There are a few things I’d like to speak to about first.” He nodded toward Miller.
“Privately.”

Before Johnson could respond, there was a knock at the door. All three men turned.

Dennis Evans stood on the other side of the glass, nervously clutching a piece of paper.

Edward Johnson walked to the door and unlocked it. “What is it, Evans?”

“I’ve got a call about the Straton,” said Evans waving the paper in his hand. “From air traffic control. They can’t contact
Flight 52. They want to know if we can contact them on a company frequency. The guy who called, Malone, thought the flight
might be having radio trouble.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing, sir. I put him off.” He handed Johnson the piece of paper. “This is his name and phone number. I told him we’d call
him back.”

Johnson took the note and stuck it into his pocket. “Okay, Evans. Good work.” He closed the door before Evans could reply.
Johnson turned and approached the telephone.

Metz placed himself between Johnson and the phone. “Hold on, Ed. Can’t we have that talk first?”

Johnson was not accustomed to having someone try to intimidate
him
. He decided that Wayne Metz was either very brash or very desperate. In either case, he had something on his mind. “I have
to call them. It should have been done first thing, only this accident is happening all ass-backwards. Normally, there’d be
a search-and-rescue operation heading toward them already. We’re probably going to be in a shit pot of trouble over these
delays as it is.”

Jack Miller moved around the men and picked up the phone. “I’ll take the rap for that. Give me the number, Ed. I’ll call.”

Johnson shook his head impatiently. “Don’t be an idiot. I’ll hang Evans with it. He’s the stupid son-of-a-bitch who was supposed
to make all the calls.”

“I’m the man in charge.”

“Jack, let me handle it.” Johnson turned and spoke to Metz. “First of all, there was always the possibility that the data-link
messages were a hoax. That’s why we delayed in calling. Second, like I said, this accident happened ass-backwards. Air traffic
control is always the first to find out, and they, in turn, notify the airline involved. Having a distress message come in
on the company data-link is highly unusual. Actually, it’s never happened to any airline. It isn’t even covered in the company’s
emergency handbook. And don’t forget that
you
asked me not to call any—”

Metz shook his head impatiently. “This FAA business is no concern of mine. I only want to plan our announcement before you
make any calls. We should keep the operations and the liability conversations separate. Otherwise, it might compromise our
posture in court. I need a minute with you. One minute.”

Johnson looked at Miller. “Jack . . .”

Miller shook his head. “Now, wait a minute. Flight 52 is my flight, Ed. I have to know what’s going on.”

Johnson put his hand on Miller’s shoulder. “This is just insurance crap, Jack. You don’t want to hear it, because if you do,
you’ll be asked about it someday. Give us just one minute.”

Miller looked at the two men. Trans-United was still like a big family—but it had become a family that had something to hide.
Miller realized that there was no point in trying to buck Edward Johnson—not on this point. “All right . . .” He walked to
the door and left the room.

Johnson rebolted the door, then turned back to Metz. “Okay. You have your minute.”

Metz took a deep breath and sat himself in a chair. “Okay. We’ve got to be very careful from a liability standpoint. We can’t
contribute to the problems of the Straton. Legally, we’re better off doing nothing than doing the wrong things.”

“In other words, don’t give them landing instructions?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. The courts and juries have set the precedent. Everyone’s a Monday-morning quarterback.
Whatever you do now will be judged later in court and it will be judged by the results of your actions, not your good intentions.
In other words, if you talk him down and he crashes, you’re worse off than if you hadn’t tried. Your only obligation as I
see it is to mount a rescue operation.”

Johnson looked at Metz. He was saying one thing but meaning something else. “That sounds like bullshit to me. But if that’s
true, then we’ve done the right thing so far by sitting on our thumbs and not giving Berry correspondence courses in flying
a supersonic jet. And I’ll tell you something else—talking a pilot down by radio is a bitch; talking him into a final approach
and landing by data-link is a joke. When I get the chief pilot here and tell him what he has to do, he’ll shit.” He paused.
“Of course, with the way my luck has been going, Fitzgerald will pull it off and become an overnight national hero. He and
Berry will do the talk-show circuit. Terrific.”

Metz sat up in his chair. “Then there is a chance that the Straton can be landed?”

Johnson shrugged. “There’s always a chance. Stranger things have happened in the air. All kinds of bullshit about God in the
copilot’s seat, bombers landing with dead crews, mysterious lights showing the way to the airport in a storm. And don’t forget
that Berry may well be an excellent pilot. Who knows?”

Metz nodded. The phone call from air traffic control was something he hadn’t planned on, and he wondered what other surprises
were still in store. He had to have more facts. “Why doesn’t air traffic control know where the Straton is? Aren’t they supposed
to be watching on radar?”

“There’s no radar that far out over the ocean. Each aircraft determines its own position, then radios it in to ATC. They,
in turn, work like a central clearinghouse. They coordinate the flights so that none of them try to fly the same route at
the same time. With the Straton 797 it’s very simple. It flies so high that there’s no one else up there except for an occasional
Concorde or a military jet. That’s probably why ATC isn’t too excited by the loss of radio contact with 52. There’s nobody
up there to conflict with.”

Metz leaned forward in his chair. “Then air traffic control still thinks the Straton is on its normal course and headed for
. . . Where did you say . . . Japan?”

“Right.” Johnson heard an unmistakable tone of eagerness in Metz’s voice. Clearly, the man was leading up to something, and
his first statement about not giving landing instructions was a clue. That bullshit about courts and juries was just a trial
balloon. Maybe Metz had something that would lessen their personal liability in this thing.

Metz stared down at the floor. There was an exact psychological moment to go in for the kill, and it had not yet arrived—but
it was close. He looked up. “So it’s not unusual to lose radio contact?”

Johnson nodded. “Not too. Radios have problems. I’m told that all sorts of things affect radios at sixty-two thousand feet.
Sunspots. The variables of the stratosphere. But all those things are temporary. If contact isn’t established soon, everyone
will know there’s been trouble.”

Metz nodded again. “So if ATC can later pinpoint the time of the accident, Trans-United is in trouble?”

Johnson didn’t answer.

Metz let the statement take hold for a few seconds, then changed the subject. “How far out will the air traffic control radar
pick up the Straton?”

“Depends on altitude. They’re flying low now. They won’t be seen by radar until they get within fifty miles of the coast.”

“That close?”

“Right. But what the hell does this have to do with my liability coverage, Wayne? You’re like my god-damned automobile insurance
broker. Wants to know all about the accident while I want to know when you’re going to pay.”

Metz forced a smile. “It’s all related.”

“Is it?” Johnson could sense that Metz was about to make a proposition, and he tried to look less intimidating and more receptive.
He sat down on a high stool and smiled. “What are you getting at, Wayne? Time’s wasting.”

“I can speak freely?”

“Sure. Just cut through all the bullshit and give it to me straight. If it sounds good for Ed Johnson and Trans-United, you
probably have a deal. But if it sounds good for Wayne Metz and company, I’m going to toss your ass out of this office. Hurry.
I have to call ATC.”

Metz stood. He looked at Ed Johnson for a long time, then spoke softly. “Ed . . . the Straton has to go down. And it has to
go down over the water, not over land.

No survivors on the aircraft. No further casualties on the ground.”

Johnson stood also. Metz’s proposition was not a complete surprise. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

Metz exhaled softly. Johnson had not immediately thrown him out of the office, and that in itself was encouraging. He knew
enough to say nothing further.

Johnson turned and faced the Pacific chart. He stared up at it, then looked down at the floor and began pacing. He stopped
and stared at Metz. “Okay. I’ll bite. What do we gain if it goes down in the drink?”

Metz knew he was in a position to score. He let the silence drag on, then he spoke. “We gain everything. We save our companies,
our jobs, and we insure our future prosperity in this rat race of life.”

“All that? Sounds great. And all we have to do is commit mass murder.”

“This is no joke, Ed.”

“No, it’s not. Murder is no joke.” He paused. “And how would you propose we deep-six that Straton? There are no guided missiles
or fighters in our fleet at the moment.”

“We’ll come to that later—if you’re interested.” Metz glanced at the door as though he were offering to leave.

Johnson pretended not to see the offer. “I’m interested. I’m interested in listening.”

Metz nodded. “All right. Listen to this. Beneficial’s liability potential is manageable if those people die. The death benefit
wouldn’t be pleasant to pay, but it’s within our calculable exposure. We’ll pay it all, and we won’t involve Trans-United.”
He paused. “But . . . if they come back and that pilot is correct about their condition, our liability is enormous. Beyond
enormous. It would bankrupt Beneficial Insurance and—”

“Before they paid all the bills?”

“That’s right. We will be totally liable for each of those three hundred poor bastards
for the remainder of their lives.
And we’d be totally liable to every relative and organization that is dependent on them. Potentially, that liability might
span another seventy-five years.”

“And Trans-United might get stuck for the amount you couldn’t pay?”

“That’s right. The amount we couldn’t pay, plus the amount we don’t have to pay because of the limits of liability on your
policy. Your limits of liability are very high, but I know you’ll exceed it if that aircraft lands.”

“Maybe it won’t exceed it.”

“I’m talking billions, Ed.
Billions
And let me just mention again, without you getting too excited, that Beneficial will undoubtedly subrogate against Trans-United.
In other words, we’ll try to stick you with half the bills from the first dollar on by going to court and claiming negligence
on your part. And that won’t be too hard to do. The bomb was on the Straton because
your
people allowed it to be there. There have been cases like this before, you know; Trans-United will be guilty of contributory
negligence. Poor security. Poor supervision. Inadequate safeguards. Look at what Lockerbie did to the old Pan Am—it was what
finally drove them out of business. Besides, maybe you’ve done something in your maintenance or engineering programs that’ll
look bad in hindsight. You know, the

Valujet scenario. Then Beneficial will gang up with the FAA and make you look real bad.”

“I’m not buying that,” Johnson said, but in his heart he knew that it was all true. Even if the basic cause of the accident
was an onboard bomb and nothing more, the lawyers and government bureaucrats could still make his maintenance economy program
look responsible. Pan Am had some Arabs blow a 747 out of the sky, and eventually it put them out of business. Valujet put
the wrong shipment into the cargo compartment of that doomed DC-9 out of Miami, and the FAA shut the airline down a few weeks
later for
bad maintenance
. Metz was absolutely right.

Metz shrugged. “You’re not the jury. And there’s no sense arguing with me. This is the age of liability and automatic fault.
Cause and effect. Modern logic says that whenever something goes wrong, then it
must
be someone’s fault. Risk avoidance is today’s buzzword. Try to convince a judge and jury that the Straton just ran into a
shitload of bad luck and see how sympathetic they’ll be to Trans-United. Picture, if you will, three hundred drooling plaintiffs
in the courtroom. We’ll take you right down the tube with us. The FAA would probably ground you—at least for a month or two.
It’ll make them look more efficient to the press.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right about that.”

“It’s a tough business. Tougher when you don’t have an insurance pool.”

“We fucked up there, didn’t we?” Johnson said.

“Sure did,” Metz agreed.

Johnson sat heavily into a chair. “You bastard. Okay. You just try to prove negligence, then.”

Metz moved to the door. He put his hands on the knob, then turned to Johnson. “Ed, I’m sorry I suggested such a thing. The
best we can hope for now is that the Straton lands with a minimum loss of life on the ground. Just do us all a favor and suggest
to ATC that they try to land him at sea, near a rescue ship. San Francisco is a nice town. I wouldn’t want to see a Straton
797 plow through it.”

Johnson waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Spare me that bullshit.”

Metz nodded. “All right. But I won’t spare you from the truth.” He paused and seemed to be lost in thought. “When I think
of the liability of a few thousand people on the ground . . . over four hundred tons of steel and aviation fuel . . . Jesus
Christ. It would be a holocaust. Think of it.
Think
of it. Property damage in the hundreds of millions . . . Well, at least we don’t insure the hull. Save a hundred million
bucks there.”