Metz could see that they were both highly tense, and guessed that the tension was not completely a result of the situation but was partly generated by a friction between the two men. Metz knew that his plan could work only if he were alone with Johnson. He watched for another few seconds. The other man appeared to be a subordinate. Johnson could get rid of him. Metz rapped sharply on the glass.
Johnson looked up, then walked to the door and unlocked it.
Wayne Metz entered the communications room. “Hello, Ed.”
The two men shook hands perfunctorily.
Johnson noticed that several of the employees were looking up from their work. He glared back at them, and heads lowered all over the office. He slammed the door and bolted it. “Goddamned center stage.” Everything in this damned Straton program was too visible. He motioned to Miller. “This is Jack Miller. He’s the senior dispatcher. Fifty-two was his flight.”
Metz nodded absently to Miller, then turned to Johnson. “ Was? Did it…?”
“No. Wrong tense. It’s still up there. But it’s my flight now. Jack is helping out.” Yet Johnson knew that deep down he had already written the Straton off. The past tense fit the Straton, but he’d have to be more careful when he spoke of the aircraft. You had to sound optimistic. “Actually, we haven’t communicated with them since I spoke to you. But the flight is steady and there’s no reason to keep calling. If he wants us, he’ll call.”
Metz nodded. “It looks like he might make it, then?”
Johnson shook his head. “I didn’t say that. We’ve got to talk him through an approach and landing.” He decided to be blunt with Metz. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s almost certain death.” He motioned toward Miller. “Jack’s a bit more optimistic. He thinks this guy Berry can make a perfect three-point landing and taxi to the assigned gate.”
Miller cleared his throat. “I do think he has a chance, Mr. Metz. He seems competent. The messages reflect that.” He glanced between Johnson and the printout of the data-link messages lying on the console.
Johnson nodded.
Miller picked up the messages. “All the data-link messages are here if you’d like to see them.”
Johnson pulled them from Miller’s hand and thrust them toward Metz. “Go ahead, Wayne. Read them. They’re good for your ulcer. That goddamned Straton. I knew that goddamned airplane would get us.”
Metz took the sheets and began reading. He subconsciously shook his head. The impersonal words, spelled out in that odd computer type, somehow made the news much worse. Made it infinitely more believable in any case. Lack of air pressure caused brain damage.
Miller glanced at Metz, then at Johnson. He barely knew Metz, but felt an instinctive dislike for the man. Too meticulously dressed. His hair was styled like a movie star’s. Miller didn’t trust men like that, although he knew it wasn’t a fair way to judge. The fact that Johnson had asked Metz to come in was indicative of the way this airline was run these days. Ten or twenty years before, this room would have been filled with men in shirtsleeves, smoking, and drinking coffee-pilots, flight instructors, executives, dispatchers, the Straton Aircraft people, anyone who cared about Trans-United and who could lend a hand. Today, when an aircraft got into trouble, they called the insurance man and the corporation lawyers before anyone else. No one dared to smoke a cigarette, or say anything that wasn’t politically correct. It was time, thought Miller, to get out of the business.
Metz handed the messages back to Miller and turned to Johnson. “Are you certain these messages are an accurate appraisal?”
Johnson tapped his finger on the stack of printouts. “If he says people are dead, they’re dead. I imagine that he also knows what two holes look like.”
“I’m talking about the brain damage business. And why do you think it’s irrevocable?”
“My expert,” he nodded toward Miller, “tells me that, more than likely, what Berry is observing is in fact brain damage. Is it irrevocable? Probably. It’s caused by cells dying. That’s irrevocable. But who’s to say for sure what state those poor bastards are in? Berry is an amateur pilot, not a neurosurgeon. For all we know, Berry could be the son-of-a-bitch who planted the bomb in the first place, although that doesn’t seem too likely.”
Metz nodded. “Well, it certainly looks bad.”
“Very perceptive,” said Johnson. “Thank you for sharing. I’m glad I asked you here.”
Metz decided to play it cool. “Why did you ask me here?”
Johnson stared at him a long time. He answered, finally, “Evans called you because you’re in the emergency handbook.”
Metz looked pointedly around the empty room.
Johnson smiled to himself. Metz was a sharp customer. He was playing hard to get. “All right, I wanted some assurances from you, Mr. Insurance Man. First of all, are we completely covered for this type of thing?”
“You would seem to be. Your hull carrier will cover the damage to the aircraft, of course. But everything else is our potential responsibility.”
Johnson didn’t like “seem” or “potential.” He said, “Including any claims that arise if the Straton smacks into San Francisco? Everything it hits? Everybody on the ground?”
“That’s basically correct.”
Johnson paced for a few seconds. He hadn’t gotten the bad news that Metz wanted to give him, because he hadn’t yet asked the right questions. He looked up at Metz. “Can your company afford this?”
Metz gave a barely perceptible shrug.
Johnson stopped pacing. A chill ran up his spine. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that no one can answer that until the damage is done. It also means that it is the responsibility of the insured to take every reasonable step to minimize the loss. It also means that Trans-United Airlines had better be able to prove that the accident was not a direct result of negligence on its part. It-”
“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
