Nelson DeMille - Mayday

“There’ll be time enough for public executions later. Who’s this?”

Johnson turned his head. “This is Wayne Metz. From Beneficial Insurance-our liability carrier.”

Metz extended his hand. “I’m very sorry about this, Captain Fitzgerald.”

Fitzgerald took his hand perfunctorily. “Yeah. Us, too.” He turned to Johnson. “Still no word from them?”

“No. It’s been over an hour now.” Johnson motioned toward the data-link. “I’ve been repeating my last message every three minutes. No response.”

Fitzgerald strode up to the machine and ripped the paper from it. He strung out the messages between his outstretched arms, looked at them, then dropped them across the data-link. He turned to Johnson and seemed to stare at him a second longer than would have been considered polite. “I understand that this pilot-Berry-had the aircraft under control.”

Johnson wondered where he got that information if he hadn’t been to the executive conference room. “It seemed that way. At first, anyway.”

Fitzgerald continued. “Damage to the aircraft was extensive, but not critical.”

“Apparently it was critical.” Miller. He had been speaking to Miller.

“He sent no last message indicating he was in trouble? No Mayday?”

Johnson’s heart began to pound. Why was he asking questions like this? “There are the original printouts of the first messages on the counter. I had them copied and sent to ATC and to the conference room. They may answer some of your questions.”

Fitzgerald spread the messages out on the long counter beneath the Pacific chart. He had already looked up the pilots’ names on the crew scheduling sheet in the main dispatch office. Fitzgerald quickly scanned the printouts. Stuart… McVary… Fessler… Brain damage… Good God. Miller’s words did not have the impact of these actual printed messages from the damaged Straton. Fitzgerald glanced between the messages and the markings on the Pacific chart. “Why didn’t someone get a pilot in here right away to give him instructions?”

“Things happened too fast. Look, Captain, if you have any questions, let’s take them over to the executive conference room. This is hardly the place or time for this conversation.”

Fitzgerald ignored him and looked back at Wayne Metz. “What’s your function here?”

Metz felt immediately intimidated by this man. “Well… Captain, from a liability standpoint, I wanted to be absolutely certain that we had done everything humanly possible to minimize your exposure and ours.” Fitzgerald kept staring at him, and he knew he was supposed to keep talking. “And you can imagine, Captain, how even a minor oversight could be blown out of proportion by the attorneys for the injured parties. Actually, your company rule book recommends that the insurance carrier be present during-”

“I know what the company rule book says.” Fitzgerald turned to Johnson. “Where’s our legal man? Where’s our hull insurer? Where’s Abbot, the Straton Aircraft representative?”

“At the conference, I suppose. Look, Kevin, I don’t know why you have a bug up your ass, but if there are any questions, we’d better go and settle them at the conference.” Johnson didn’t want Kevin Fitzgerald in this room, though he knew it should no longer matter. “Come on, Captain. I have to lock up this room.” He regretted the remark as soon as he made it.

“Lock it? Why?”

Johnson didn’t speak for a few seconds, then said, “We’re supposed to leave it intact for the government investigators.”

Fitzgerald shook his head slowly. “Read your manual, Ed. That rule only applies to the scene of the accident. I don’t think,” Fitzgerald said, gesturing slowly around the room, “that this qualifies as the location where the accident occurred.”

Yes, it does. Johnson was becoming edgy, and he tried to hide it with a show of impatience. “Then stay here. I have to go to the conference.” He moved toward the door.

Metz followed.

Fitzgerald stayed where he was. “Hold on.”

Johnson turned.

“I know you don’t know anything about flying, but if you were a pilot, lost over the ocean, and your only means of communication was malfunctioning, you wouldn’t want everyone at the other end walking out of the communications room. Would you?” He stepped up to the data-link and typed.

TO FLIGHT 52: IF YOU CAN RECEIVE US, DON’T THINK WE HAVE ABANDONED YOU. THIS LINK WILL BE MANNED CONTINUOUSLY UNTIL YOU ARE FOUND. SAN FRANCISCO HQ.

Fitzgerald looked up at Johnson. “Call Miller in here.”

Johnson thought he had sent Miller home, but as he looked up, he saw him sitting at his desk. Bastard. “Miller! Get in here.”

Jack Miller walked quickly into the communications room. He looked squarely at Johnson.

Johnson saw the defiant expression on his face and knew that Jack Miller was under the protection of Kevin Fitzgerald. Son-of-a-bitch. When this was behind them, he’d see to it that Miller never dispatched anything bigger than a lunch wagon. “The Captain would like to speak to you.”

Fitzgerald indicated the data-link chair. “Jack, sit here and monitor. Send about once every two or three minutes, and then wait. Wait for an answer, Jack.”

“Yes, sir.” Miller sat at the data-link.

Johnson watched Miller hit the repeat button to send Fitzgerald’s message again. The Straton was down, and no one could change that-not Kevin Fitzgerald, not Jack Miller, not all the company executives, not the company president or the chairman of the board. And he’d done this for them as much as for himself-but they’d never understand that, and never know it.

Kevin Fitzgerald picked up the company phone and dialed the executive conference room. “Let me speak to the president.”

Johnson knew his uneasiness was starting to show. He took a cigar out of his pocket and clamped it in his jaws.

Metz wanted to leave but thought it wouldn’t be a good idea. His hand reached into his jacket and touched the wad of data-link printouts. He noticed Johnson glaring at him.

Fitzgerald spoke into the phone. “Yes, sir. Fitzgerald. Just got the word. Damned bad business. I’m at the dispatch office with Ed Johnson and Mr. Metz from Beneficial. Yes. We’re leaving a dispatcher here to keep sending and to monitor. We’ll be along in ten minutes. Fine.” He hung up and turned to Johnson. “Press conference for six o’clock. You’re the star. Can you handle it?”

“Of course.”

“There are relatives of the passengers assembling in the VIP lounge. I have to speak to them. I wish I was as confident as you.” He looked at Johnson closely. “I don’t know exactly what happened here, but when those reporters start firing away at you, you damned well better have your act together.”

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

Both men glared at each other.

Metz edged out of the door and stood awkwardly in the middle of the dispatch office.

Miller pretended to be concentrating on the data-link machine. He knew that Fitzgerald was proceeding very rashly and very dangerously. He hoped to God that his suspicions-vague as they were-had at least enough substance to ensure that the chief pilot was not sticking his neck out too far.

Fitzgerald finally broke the silence. “Johnson, we’re going to find out what happened to Flight 52, what happened here, and who was negligent. And I don’t care how long it takes or who gets burned.”

Johnson took his cigar out of his mouth. “You act as though you think I planted the fucking bomb. Don’t try to use this accident to discredit me, Captain. I know how to survive, and I promise you I’ll come out of this looking just fine. Just fine.” He turned and walked out of the room, breathing the clean air of the dispatch office. His head was pounding and his stomach was in knots. He walked past Wayne Metz, past the dispatchers whose heads were down over their desks, and out into the corridor that he had walked through not so long ago.