Pace nodded. He and McGill stood to leave.
“What do you say we have dinner?” Schaeffer suggested suddenly. “Who’s got anything better to do? And I could use the night out. I’m batching it these days.” He smacked his palms together in the manner of a man with a bang-up idea and heaved himself from his chair. “Every so often my wife gets some bee in her bonnet about going off to Great Britain for two or three months to do castles and drive through the heather. When the urge strikes, I send her up to her sister’s in Philadelphia, and that cures her traveling itch for a year or so. I sent her away for the cure again last week, so whatta you say? Paul, you can get away for an hour or two, can’t you?”
“I don’t think so tonight, Avery,” the national editor replied. “We’ve got the Central American aid bill snarled up in filibuster, and there’s a major hostage situation going down in Baltimore. We have four people on the way. I need to hang tight.”
Schaeffer turned to the sofa. “What about you two? Steve?”
“I need to make a couple of calls first.”
“Sure. Mike?”
“I don’t see any reason why not.”
It was settled. Three for dinner at Maison Rouge, one of the best French restaurants in the city and, handily, a half block from the Chronicle’s front door. It was Schaeffer’s favorite place.
Pace placed a call to his ex-wife.
His daughter, Melissa, answered the phone. “Hi, Dad,” she said cheerily. “I hope you’re not calling to cancel next week.”
“Not a chance, kiddo. I’m looking forward to it. Is your mom around?”
“No, she went to the store. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”
“Actually, you could probably help me. Do you have your airline tickets handy?”
“Yep. I’ve been carryin’ ’em around in my purse so I wouldn’t lose ’em.”
“What are the numbers of your flights here and back?”
“Hang on,” she said. He heard the receiver clatter on the table as Sissy went off to retrieve her bag. She was back shortly.
“Gosh, Dad, there are bunches of numbers here.”
“Look at the seat-assignment card attached to the ticket. It’ll say ‘flight,’ and there will be a number there.”
“Yeah, here it is. I’m flying east on 1571 and back on, let’s see here, 1592. Why?”
“That’s United, right?”
“Yeah. Why do you need to know?”
He lied. “To check your arrival time so I don’t leave you stranded at Dulles.”
“That’d be bogus.”
“Be what?”
“Bogus. Bogue. You know, bad.”
“Oh, right. I knew that.”
She giggled. They spent a few more minutes chatting until a call-waiting alert diverted Sissy’s attention. Pace dialed a UAL 800 reservations number. He asked the agent if he would check the two flights to see what kind of equipment was being used.
“Boeing 767 both ways,” the agent replied.
With a sigh of relief, Pace thanked him.
His next call was to Kathy. It was 7:30, so he tried her at home first. To his surprise, he found her there. “Early day at the office?” he teased.
“Well, as you pointed out, the Senate’s not in session,” she said. “I got away at 6:30. By the way, if I’m still invited, Hugh was delighted to give me next Monday off.”
“Great!” Pace responded. “I was going to ask you to go out tonight, but Avery asked Mike McGill and me to have dinner with him, so it’ll have to be tomorrow, if you’re free.”
“Tomorrow’s fine,” she said.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m hanging in. I hope I don’t put a damper on the picnic Monday.”
“You won’t,” he assured her. “It’ll be good for you. Did you talk to Boston today?”
“Yes. Dad’s fine, and Betsy’s better. She’s going back to Chicago tomorrow, but she’s not going to do her TV show for another week or so… you know, give herself some time to come back. Then, if she feels up to it, work will probably be a good catharsis.”
He was going to fill her in on his day, but he saw Schaeffer shrug into his suit jacket, ready to leave. “Gotta go, Kath,” he said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
The Sexton 811 carrying the registration NTA2464 was freshly washed and polished; it gleamed in the last rays of afternoon sunlight filtering through the perpetual haze over Jamaica Bay. TransAmerican Captain Everett Kinsley turned the nose of Flight 994 to the centerline of Runway 31L at John F. Kennedy International Airport, next up for takeoff after a 47-minute delay for traffic. The exasperation of inching along a taxiway would be offset by the thrill of seeing Manhattan at sunset as the 811 climbed out and headed west for Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. Passengers on the right side would be able to share the thrill, while those on the left would have to be satisfied with Brooklyn and Bayonne. The Statue of Liberty would pass under the 811’s nose.
NTA2464 was passing through 3,000 feet when the skyline rose into view like hundreds of symmetrical stalagmites in a gigantic cave. Everything was bathed in the orange glow of the sun setting through smog, and Kinsley heard First Officer Evan Gibson’s sharp intake of breath.
“No matter how many times I see it, it gives me a kick,” Kinsley said sympathetically.
“What amazes me is that the whole island doesn’t sink under all that weight,” said Second Officer Bruce Patrick.
Kinsley scanned the skies as the 811 continued to climb. He saw a number of other aircraft, all identified in radio transmissions and flying predictable patterns. He squinted out to the southwest. Even the polarizing lenses in his dark glasses didn’t make it easy to spot something flying out of that sun. He saw nothing and reached for the cabin mike to alert passengers to the breathtaking sight about to come up on the right.
He’d just keyed the mike to speak when TCASII, the on-board collision-avoidance display, commanded him to climb.
Kinsley slammed the microphone back in place and hit the double throttles, jamming them to the wall even as he pulled back on the yoke to pitch up the aircraft’s nose. The 811 was already in a steep climb when a controller’s urgent voice filled the cockpit crew’s headsets.
“TransAm niner-niner-four, climb now!” the controller ordered. “Climb and turn right to zero-three-zero. Unidentified traffic at your nine-o’clock, one mile, indicating same altitude, closing rapidly. Climb and turn right to zero-three-zero! Acknowledge!”
“TransAm niner-niner-four, roger,” Kinsley replied calmly. “Climbing and turning to zero-three-zero.”
The captain strained to see past the sun’s glare, but nothing came into focus. He felt the ship tremble slightly under his hands and eased forward marginally on the yoke, leveling her by several degrees so she wouldn’t stall, yet maintaining a steep rate of climb.
Then it was there. A blue-and-white Learjet flashed out of the sun and under the 811, the two aircraft missing by less than 300 vertical feet. Gibson glanced outside and down over his right shoulder as the Lear emerged from beneath them and continued streaking east.
“Damned fool,” he muttered. “What’s he think this is, a life-size pinball game?”
The radio crackled again. “TransAm niner-niner-four, you’re clear of the traffic. Turn left to two-niner-zero. You’re clear to climb and maintain flight level. Did you see him?”
“Niner-niner-four, roger,” Kinsley said calmly. “We saw him. Blue-over-white Lear. Couldn’t get an N-number.”
“We’ve got a good transponder track on him,” the controller said. “We’ll get him. This one’ll have to go into the book.”