“You don’t have it wrong. You were the only one who had it right. Let me tell you quickly what’s going on because I’ve got a meeting coming up. We sent two technicians we know we can trust into the engine this afternoon. They’re charting every single place where the bird remains can be found and estimating to within as close as they can come the volume and weight of the material in each spot. Obviously, some volume and weight were lost because the flesh and feathers were torched somehow, and more has been lost since due to evaporation and removal for identification, but—”
“Where is this leading?”
“We’re coming up with a series of computer simulations showing what would happen to a red-tailed hawk that flew into a Converse Fan operating within the parameters this one was. We got that data from the FDR.”
“The flight data recorder can’t tell how an engine would spray bird gore around.”
“No, but a computer can. The FDR tells us how the engine was operating—rpms, vibrations, that sort of thing. We feed the data into the computers, then factor in a bird strike, and the simulations should give us a pretty good picture. If we’re right, we’ll see if the remains in the engine are in the quantities and locations the computer projects. If they aren’t, we’ll be able to make a pretty fair case that something ain’t kosher.”
“That’s kind of tough, isn’t it?” Pace asked. “Wouldn’t it depend on whether the bird flew in headfirst or was sucked in sideways or backwards, or obliquely, or whatever?”
“There are a lot of variables, yes, including the weight of the bird. Males weigh more than females, older birds more than young,” Sachs confirmed. “All that could affect the simulations, but that’s the reason to do multiple runs. We’ll look at all the variables.”
“What kind of time frame are you looking at? It sounds like a huge job.”
“It is a huge job, and it would be utterly impossible without computers. Even with computers, we’ll be working in teams, twenty-four hours a day. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but we’re in for the duration.”
“Oh, man. Good luck,” Pace said.
“By the way, you’ll be interested to know we pulled Parkhall in. The son of a bitch is jumpy as a mayfly in heat, but that could be nothing more than just the way he is. I guess I’d be jumpy, too, if somebody suggested I covered up the cause of a major aviation disaster.”
Pace felt his face flush. “I think somebody did accuse you of that recently,” he said. “If drunken recollection is correct, you didn’t get jumpy at all. You got mean.”
“Yeah, well, that’s behind us,” Sachs said. There was a pause. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear myself tell you this,” he continued, “but looking back, under the circumstances, if I’d been you, I would have suspected the same thing. Drunk and devastated by the death of a friend, I might even have made the visit you made.”
“That’s a decent thing to say.”
“Having said it, I have to ask you a question.”
“What?”
“Do you still think I had something to do with Mike’s murder?’
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Do you still believe I’m some sort of paranoid making up stories that somebody murdered Mike and Mark to abet a cover-up?”
“No, not anymore.”
“I guess we’re square then,” Pace suggested.
“Not quite,” Sachs said. “There are still scores to settle.”
“I’m in,” Pace said. “Whatever needs to be done.”
“I know you are,” Sachs replied. “You’re a relentless bastard. Anybody ever tell you?”
“Yeah. As a matter of fact, Mike McGill told me just before he died.”
4:00 P.M., the Federal Aviation Administration announced that the nation’s fleet of Sexton 811 aircraft had been grounded again as a precautionary measure until it could be determined what caused the ConPac crash at Dulles Airport.
Given the day’s myriad developments, it was after eight o’clock when Pace finished his Thursday story. Although he and his editors were supremely confident of the story’s accuracy, Pace hated the attribution. Once again the best information was attributed to “sources who asked not to be quoted by name” or to “sources who asked not to be identified.” Some readers inevitably believed unnamed sources were figments of the reporter’s imagination, that disclosures attributed to unnamed sources were highly suspect. He hoped fervently the NTSB could go public with its suspicions early the following week and confirm that he had been writing about real people making legitimate statements about real problems.
His phone rang.
“Pace.”
“Did I catch you at a busy time?” He recognized Kathy’s voice, and his heart leaped.
“There is no bad time for you to call,” he assured her.
“I think I owe you an apology.”
“Good. You can get in line. I’ve been hearing it from everybody today. No, actually, you can go to the head of the line. You’re the most important one. In fact, you don’t have to apologize for anything at all. Just come home.”
“You haven’t heard what I was going to say.”
“I don’t have to. Hearing from you is enough.”
She laughed softly. “No, I called to tell you something.” He said nothing, a silent consent for her to go on. “When I saw your story this morning, I realized I didn’t have any right to make some of the judgments I made,” she said, “especially, well, given the thing about Justin Smith. That’s awful. I get sick when I think it could have been you… still could be you. But I don’t know your business, except for what I’ve soaked up from you, and I didn’t have any right to suggest the course you should take. My misjudgments were made only out of concern for you. I hope you believe that.”
“I do,” he answered gratefully. “Now tell me you’re coming back.”
“Actually, what I called to tell you is that I’m going away—”
The gut-clutching pain returned. “What? Why?”
“Oh, not for long, only a week. I’m going back to Boston to see Dad and to think over some things. I know how I feel about you, and I’m pretty sure I know how you feel about me. But I’m not sure our strong wills won’t clash again. I expect they will. I want our relationship, if it continues, to be smooth and free from potholes like the one we fell into this time. I want to figure out if I can make that happen. I haven’t had any vacation in a long time, and Hugh suggested I take some now. I think it’s a good idea. Besides, I love Boston in the spring. All the good things I remember about growing up there happened in the spring. I need to go back and clear my head.”
“Sweetheart, there hasn’t been a couple in the history of mankind who didn’t get bounced around by life’s bumps and potholes. Don’t plan our future on some idealized notion that there will never be problems. If you do, we have no future.”
“My head knows that,” she said. “Now I have to convince my heart.”
“I love you,” he said.
“And I love you.”
The line went dead, and he felt empty again.
38
When the phone rang at his apartment early that afternoon, Steve Pace was certain he knew who it was.
“Can you meet me?” Ken Sachs asked.
“Sure. Where?”
“The hangar. In an hour.”
“I can’t get in.”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry. I’m already thinking of you as a member of the staff. I guess those aren’t liberties I’m supposed to take.”
“No. Avery wouldn’t like it. And I’m kind of fond of my job. At the moment.”