Metz pulled himself out of his daze. “Look, Ed, we’re both very exposed with this thing. How many people on board?”
“Nearly a full house. About three hundred.”
“When will it land?”
“It may never land.”
“What?”
“The aircraft is being flown by one of the passengers. Our-”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Metz knew that he shouldn’t be speaking so candidly about such a sensitive issue on a cellular phone, but he needed to know more to understand what was happening.
“Our three pilots are dead or unconscious. All that’s left of our flight crew are two flight attendants. The passenger who’s flying it-some guy named Berry-is an amateur pilot. He still has the Straton under control. In fact, he’s turned it around and headed back, but his exact position is unknown. Anyway, I have my doubts that he can land it without smearing it all over the runway.”
Wayne Metz was literally speechless. He kept the telephone pressed to his ear and his eyes on the road, but his mind was thousands of miles away-in the mid-Pacific. He tried to imagine the scene. The giant Straton 797 lost somewhere over the enormous ocean, two holes blown through its hull and everyone aboard dead or brain damaged except for a few people, one of whom, a passenger, was flying it. No, no, no, no.
“Metz? Wayne? You still there?”
“What? Yes. Yes, I’m here. Let me think. Hold on.” As he tried to sort out the incredible facts he had just heard, he inadvertently let the BMW slow. He was traveling at less than forty miles an hour in the left lane of the highway.
A driver in a battered blue Ford behind him hit his horn, then pulled out and passed on the right, glaring at the big sedan. Wayne glanced up distractedly at the other driver, but his mind was on other things. A thought had formed. It was not yet fully shaped, but he could start to see its outline, like a mountain emerging from a fog. The battered blue Ford stuck in his mind, too, for some reason. He cleared his throat. “Listen, Ed, I’m almost there. Who knows about this? Is it on the radio?”
“No. Not many people know. One of our dispatchers handed me a break by not calling anyone yet. So I still have some space to maneuver.”
“Good. Don’t call anyone else. If we can’t control the situation, at least we can control the flow of information… and that may be just as important.”
“That’s my thinking too. But you’d better hurry.”
“Yes. On the way.” Metz hung up. He stared out the windshield and began accelerating. He cut in the cruise control at seventy miles an hour, picked up the phone again, and called New York. Parke was still in his office. “Mr. Parke,” he
began without preamble, “I’ve got bad news. There’s been a terrible accident with Trans-United’s Straton 797.”
“Aren’t we the sole underwriters?” Parke asked quickly.
Metz winced. “Yes, sir. For the liability coverage. We are not involved in their hull insurance.” Going it alone was a risky, unconventional way to write that sort of policy, but Metz had never liked insurance pools. He had spent months convincing Beneficial that the airline, and especially the Straton program, was extremely safe. Beneficial did not have to share the huge premiums with anyone. But now they had no one to share the loss.
“Well, Wayne, that’s unfortunate. I personally felt that perhaps we were taking on too large a risk, but I don’t intend to second-guess you on that issue. The Board members approved it. The proposal-your proposal-had merit and was well-received. Naturally, we’ll review our corporate guidelines after a loss of this magnitude. You’ll have to make a presentation to the Board. I’ll get back to you later on that.”
Metz felt the sweat begin to collect around his collar, and he turned up the air-conditioning. “Yes, sir.”
“In the meantime, were all those aboard that airliner killed? Do you have a casualty total? Any estimate on our total liability?”
Metz hesitated, then spoke in a firm, controlled tone. “A Trans-United executive told me that it was nearly a full ship. That would mean approximately three hundred passengers and a crew.”
There was a long pause as the impact of the tragedy sunk in. “I see. All dead, did you say?”
Metz didn’t say. He temporized. “Actually, the accident occurred only a short while ago, over the Pacific. Many of the details are still very sketchy, and nothing has been released to the press yet. It’s being kept confidential,” he added. “Trans-United didn’t want to speak over the phone.”
“I understand. We’ll keep it quiet on this end also.”
“Yes, sir. That would be very good.”
“Well, bad day at Black Rock for a lot of people, including us. Listen, Wayne, don’t bother to work up a maximum-liability figure. Things are going to be pretty frantic at Trans-United. I’ll take care of it at this end. I suppose there won’t be any secondary property damages since the aircraft was over the Pacific at the time.”
“That’s right,” Metz lied. “There should be no other claims.” He could not bring himself to tell Wilford Parke that the Straton was, at this moment, streaking toward San Francisco, carrying onboard the largest contingent of ongoing insurance liabilities in history.
“Call me when you get more,” Parker said. “I’ll be at my club. I’m having dinner with some of the Board. We’ll have a telephone at the table. If you’d like some help, I can get people to you quickly out of the Chicago office.”
“We should be all right, sir. I’ve got a good staff here.”
“Fine. One more thing, Wayne…”
“Yes, sir?”
“I know this is your first loss of magnitude. Paying three hundred death benefits is no small thing. I’m just glad it didn’t happen over a populated area.”
“Yes, sir.” It may yet.
“And I’m also relieved that we’re not carrying the aircraft’s hull insurance. What do those things cost-a hundred million?”
“Something like that.” On his desk was the first draft of a memo proposing that very coverage for Trans- United. When he got back to his office, that memo would go into the shredder before he hung up his jacket.
“What I’m trying to say, Wayne, is that there is no insurance executive in the business who at one time or another didn’t have his name personally identified with a large loss. I know it’s an embarrassment, but the amount we can expect as the total death benefit is manageable. You’ve had a spot of bad luck. Don’t let it get you down. You don’t cry over spilled milk in this business. You insure for spilled milk and pay for the spillage out of premiums. The Board might grumble a bit, but you’ll come through. We’re just fortunate,” said Parke in a friendly tone, “that the claim isn’t more.”
Metz shook his head. There are three hundred brain-damaged people on that aircraft, and they are coming home. Coming home to Beneficial Insurance. We will be totally liable for the care of each of them for the rest of their lives.
10
H arold Stein stood, coiled, ready to strike again, but the assault seemed to have lost its momentum. The attackers had drifted off; like children, thought Stein, after a game of King of the Mountain, or like wild animals or primitive people whose ferocity subsides as quickly as it begins.
He breathed deeply and wiped the sweat from his face. His arms and legs ached. He peered down into the cabin. The passengers were apparently occupied with something else now. They were not congregating around the stairway any longer, and their noises had subsided. But they might mass again for an attack if something stirred them.
He found it hard to believe that he had actually been attacked. But he found it harder to believe that he had been so aggressive, had punched and kicked these men, women, children-people he had spoken with a few hours before.
