“What about other assets?”
“Of course that’s an option. They all have short- and long-term investments along with credit lines, but no business wants to start raiding those just to make payroll. And it gets worse. In addition to losing three billion dollars a day in revenue, initial forecasts suggest that the fear alone generated by airline terrorism could result in a forty to fifty percent decline in passengers if and when service resumes. And that decline could last for six months or more. That spells more than bankruptcy; that spells ceasing operations. I have to admit that I never realized how fragile that industry is. The unions are already planning mass protest rallies. I’m afraid this is just horrid. The airlines, hotels, restaurants, resorts, and all the travel and business-related sectors could also lose 1.1 million jobs in just two months. One year after 9/11, domestic and foreign air travel were down 15 percent and 25 percent, respectively. After just three days of shutdown, the airlines needed ten billion dollars to survive. If this thing runs for ten or even fifteen days, I’m afraid they’ll need upward of seventy to eighty billion dollars to keep operating… maybe more.”
“Then it’s our job to get it for them,” the president said firmly. “Andrew, please stop saying you’re afraid. We’re all afraid. It is what it is. The fabric of our very economy is unraveling before our eyes, and we’re powerless to stop it. This is a living economic and political nightmare. No — it’s more than that. It’s economic terrorism and extortion rolled into one. Whoever did this planned it beautifully. Think of it. They’ve placed the responsibility for the economic impacts right in our laps. We don’t know the terror method, and therefore we have no choice but to injure the economy. All the blame shifts to us until we figure out how it’s being perpetrated. Meanwhile, we have to be the bad guy. And we certainly can’t go to the American people with two anonymous phone calls. On the other hand, if we allow air traffic to resume, knowing that more attacks are possible, it would be criminal.” The president glanced at his flag. “One nation under God… one nation held hostage.”
The president’s phone chirped. “Yes?” he said.
“Mr. President, I wanted to remind you that we’re giving the first interview via our embedded media relationship,” Bridge said on the other line. “It’s scheduled to air on all networks later this evening. Hopefully, it will—”
“Excuse me?” The president shifted the phone. “Our embedded what?”
“Cale… er, Mr. President, we talked about this,” Bridge gently reminded. “Jack Riley was forced to make an arrangement with the news reporter who received the initial terror warning. She’s the only non-governmental person who’s heard it. We’ve given her access to certain investigative information and have allowed her to do some on-site broadcasts in return for her temporary silence. Thankfully, she’s agreed. I’m uncomfortable with it too, sir, but if Jack says it’s for the good of the investigation, then that’s good enough for me.”
“Her silence,” the president muttered. “Why would anyone agree to that? Is Riley involved with her?”
“Absolutely not,” Bridge assured. “I think he’s smarter than that.”
Too bad, the president thought to himself. He was almost disappointed. A tawdry personal scandal might divert the nation’s attention elsewhere. He thanked Bridge, hung up, and turned his attention back to Bard.
“Has Congress approached us?” he asked.
“Not officially,” Bard answered. “There’s an army of airline lobbyists working on a taxpayer bailout. United’s CEO, Jeffrey Smirtek, said that without it, the airlines would become a major casualty of war. And he also stated that his company would not agree to a single concession attached to such a bailout by their security holders, creditors, or employees.”
“I wouldn’t either,” the president admitted. “I don’t know if airline shares can possibly decline any further.”
“Senator Benvenito is resurrecting his draft of the Airline Recovery Act to get a jump on the loan guarantee requests. He’s also broached the subject of going national again. He said he’s got people willing to form up in committee to create the framework. He wants to know your reaction.”
The president rolled his eyes. “Those socialists and their knee-jerk ideas. For the life of me, I’ll never understand how such highly educated politicians can be so dumb. Can you imagine the US government operating what is arguably the world’s most service-oriented business? A national airline would be an unmitigated screw-up, even worse than government-run health care. Do you know what the real problem is? Some people in Congress need a good, old-fashioned history lesson. In a socialistic society, government controls business. In a communistic society, they own it. In other words, there is no difference.”
“Is that an official or unofficial reaction?” Bard said, collecting his folders.
The president slumped into his chair and gazed out the windows.
“I should have stayed in the Navy, or maybe on our farm. You know, for all his military heroism and political savvy, George Washington was a farmer — and an extraordinary one at that. He always wanted to be at his Mount Vernon plantation, tending his land and horses and sitting on his porch overlooking the Potomac. The man loved horses. He even built a sheltered manure pit right off the main house because he knew the value of fertilizer. I’d like to send a wagon of it up to Capitol Hill. How’s that for my reaction?”
“Tom Ross, this is my cameraman, Terry Lee,” Griffin announced, collecting her purse. “I’ll be right back. If Terry tells you that he’s my protective little brother, don’t believe a word of it.” She winked and closed the door.
Ross took a seat on the sofa. He eyed Lee warily. “So, are you her brother?”
“Depends,” Lee replied, tightening the legs of a tripod. “Why? You interested?”
“I might be.” Ross narrowed his eyes. “Are you?”
“I’m just a friend who wouldn’t want her to get hurt again. I guess you could say that I’m a little brother and chaperone rolled into one.”
“What do you mean ‘again’?”
“I take it you don’t know about Skip.” Ross shook his head. “Liar, drinker, and wife beater — three separate times. Skip’s a remodeling contractor. He’s a tough guy with an attitude and an alcohol problem. Neela knew it and still married him. She thought he’d change. Right after she signed on with Fox, Skip went on one of his binges and smacked her around pretty good. Her first week on the job, she wore an eye patch. She blamed it on a bicycle accident. The second time, she stayed home. Even then she still wouldn’t report it. When it happened a third time, she had the sense and the guts to file charges. It was a big day for the Milwaukee news media. All Skip got was probation while Neela got publicly embarrassed. It hurt her reputation real bad. I don’t think she’ll ever let a man get close to her again. So, Mr. Ross, if you’re into physical violence or alcohol addiction in a relationship, then I suggest you look elsewhere. She doesn’t need another Skip. But be warned, she’s taken enough self-defense classes to handle most men no matter how big they are. Trust me, you don’t ever want to get her mad.”
“I’ve never hit a woman in my life,” Ross said adamantly. “I’m not that way.”
“Neither was Skip at first, so consider yourself warned.”
“Fair enough, Mr. Lee.”
“Call me Terry.”
The door opened, and Griffin walked in with a bag from the hotel gift shop.