“There won’t be any further delay on our part. I’m taking personal charge of the operation at this end.”
“Yes. Very good. I’m still a bit concerned-”
“There has, of course, been an unconscionable delay in getting the ball rolling here, and we will take full responsibility.”
“Well, of course, Mr. Johnson, it was an unusual set of circumstances, to say the least.” There was a pause. “What time did you say you received the first data-link transmission?”
Johnson took a deep breath. He had figured that it must have been at about 12:15. He looked at his watch. It was now 1:30. “About one o’clock.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Not when you’re trying to deal with an unusual set of circumstances. But, of course, you’re correct. And please keep in mind that the Straton was still flying up until a few minutes ago, and may still be flying this way, I should add.”
“Yes. Well, we’ve all been a bit… slow.”
“Please keep me up-to-date on the search operation.”
“Of course.”
“Meanwhile, the printouts are on the way. I’ll have them faxed to this number we show for you.”
“Good.”
“And we’ll keep transmitting on our data-link at three-minute intervals in the event…”
“Yes, very good. I’m sorry.”
“So are we.”
“Thank you.” He hung up and turned to Metz. “Well, that went all right. A little trouble with the Federal Aviation Agency is better, I guess, than losing my job and bankrupting the company.”
“I’d say so. Will the ATC people come here?”
“Not them. FAA air carrier inspectors. But as long as they think we’re out of contact with the Straton, they won’t be in any rush to get here.”
“How about the rescue operation you just set up?”
“They’ll probably call the Navy and Air Force, and commercial shipping in the area. That’ll take hours. By that time we’ll have…” Johnson stopped, then looked directly at Metz. “By then, we’ll be finished with this.”
Metz nodded. “How about your Trans-United people? Will they want to come here?”
“I’ll take care of that in a minute.”
“Good. What’s that book you’ve been looking at?”
“Get me a cup of coffee.”
Wayne Metz had not gotten anyone a cup of coffee in ten years. But he turned toward the coffeepot.
Johnson slid off his stool and walked to the data-link. He took the printouts from the receiving basket and quickly read through them again. No times. No indication of spaces between the messages. Nothing that could be considered poor judgment on the part of Trans-United. The last messages since Miller’s “… working on bringing you home” looked a bit compromising, and he tore them off. With his pen he marked the SOS message: Discovered by dispatcher in link machine at approximately 1 P.M. He walked to the door and opened it.
At Johnson’s appearance the room became quiet. Johnson’s eyes swept the room and fixed each man in turn. He said tonelessly, “Gentlemen, I’m afraid we’ve lost contact with Flight 52.”
There was a rush of moans and exclamations.
“I have called the Air Traffic Control and they have initiated a search-and-rescue operation. Of course, the problem may simply be the link, but…” He stepped a few feet into the room. “I will remain in the communications room and continue transmitting.” Johnson was aware of Metz behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the man holding a cup of coffee. That was good for the dispatchers to see. There was no doubt that Edward Johnson ran things and ran people. He turned and took the coffee from Metz. He spoke in a low voice. “Get back in the communications room and close the damned door. If that alerting bell goes off and they hear it, we’re finished.” He turned and addressed the dispatchers. “Gather round, please.”
The more than two dozen dispatchers moved around him.
Johnson began in an official, but friendly tone. “Gentlemen, there is no doubt in my mind that Jack Miller,” he nodded to Miller, “Dennis Evans, and Jerry Brewster,” he looked at the two men, “did everything they could do as quickly as possible. However, there was a time lapse between the first link message and now of about half an hour.” He paused and studied the faces of the men around him. Some glanced at the wall clock, some at their watches. A few looked surprised, others nodded eagerly. “The first message came in at about one o’clock, I believe someone told me. There will be some problems with ATC and even with our own people over that lag, but I’m solidly behind you, so don’t worry too much about it.” He looked around the room.
There were more people nodding now.
Johnson looked at Evans. “You call everyone on the list, including our press office. Have the press office call me for a statement. To the president of the airlines and to everyone else, you say the following: Flight 52 has suffered a midair decompression. Radios dead. Amateur pilot flying and communicating on data-link. Communications lost at…” he looked at his watch, “one twenty-five P.M. ATC is initiating a search-and-rescue. I suggest an emergency meeting in the executive conference room. Got it?”
Evans nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.” He moved rapidly to his desk.
Johnson looked at the men around him. “Each one of you call your flights and tell them to keep off the data- link.” He scanned the faces of the men. “Brew-ster?”
“Here, sir.”
“Okay. Brewster, you will take these printouts and make only one copy. Then fax one copy to ATC at the number they show in the Emergency Handbook.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then send our copy to the executive conference room in the company office building. The original comes back to me. Quickly.”
Brewster took the messages and double-timed out of the dispatch office.
“That’s all, gentlemen. Thank you all for your help.” He paused. “If any of you are of a religious nature, please ask the man upstairs to look after that Straton and everyone aboard her. Thank you. Miller, come here.”
The dispatchers moved back to their desks silently. Jack Miller approached Johnson.
Johnson put his hand on his shoulder. “Jack, fill in the empty updates for 52 and note that they were posted at noon. Leave the one P.M. updates blank, of course.”
Miller looked at the big man standing next to him. “Ed… we’re not going to get away with this.”
“Of course we are. I’m doing it for you and the company as much as for myself. There have been a series of errors and blunders here, and we have nothing to lose to try to cover it. If we don’t, you, I, Evans, Brewster, and about ten random scapegoats will be fired, then we’ll be investigated by the FAA and maybe be charged with something. Your lovely wife can bake cookies for all of us and bring them out to San Quentin on Sundays. Bring the kids along, too.”
Miller nodded. He started to move away, but Johnson held onto his shoulder.
“Are the men with us?” Johnson asked.
Miller nodded again. “It’s not the first time we’ve had to cover ourselves.”
Johnson smiled. “I always knew you bastards lied for each other. Now you have to lie for me. For yourselves, too, of course. Go fill in those updates.”
Miller moved off.
Johnson walked quickly back into the communications room. He looked at Metz, who was staring down at the big spiral-bound book. “You know, Wayne, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that Straton should go down.”
Metz looked up at him quizzically. “I thought we agreed on that.”
“In principle. Everything I did just now is standard operating procedure. I’ve done nothing wrong yet, except delay.”
“You told everyone the plane went down.”
“Did I? I said we lost contact with them. You don’t see any new link messages, do you?” He turned and looked out into the dispatch office. “Actually, my responsibility in this screw-up is pretty light. Those idiots out there blew it. ATC was not too swift either.”
