“Wait a goddamned minute. First of all, you’d better have the money. Secondly, we are trying to minimize the loss. That’s what we’re here to do. Thirdly, there was no negligence on…” But even as he said it, Johnson wondered again if any of his recent cutbacks in maintenance could have contributed to the accident-or could be made to look that way by some lawyer.
“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 you 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.”