Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

Both men watched her move away, appreciating the care she’d taken of her body over fifty-plus years. Lauder was still watching when Marshall interrupted his appreciation.

“When was the last time you talked to the Sexton brass?”

“What?” Lauder pulled his concentration back to the conversation at hand. “Oh, not since, I guess, about six o’clock yesterday. There’s nothing to talk about, Harold. So far as we can see, the aircraft itself wasn’t at fault. I’m sorry for your people, but it looks like the engine will take the rap on this. And the seagull population, I suppose, which lost a valued comrade.” His eyes carried an expression of complete sympathy, but he was smiling.

“Look,” he continued earnestly, “a one-time malfunction can happen. Everybody’s all bent out of shape because so many people died, and I understand that, but it was one problem with one engine. I don’t see any reason to sit shiva for Converse.”

“What makes you call this an engine malfunction?” Marshall asked. “Bird strikes aren’t engine malfunctions.”

“They are if you’ve bragged to the world that your engine can withstand that sort of thing,” Lauder insisted. “You haven’t thought this thing through, Harold. That Chronicle story this morning’s got everybody wondering about the Converse Fan. By raising the Seattle incident, the paper’s raised the possibility of a defect in the engine. And by questioning its fail-safe value, they’ve raised doubts about the design. Maybe there’s no link, but that’s not how it reads.”

“True,” Marshall said. “But don’t toss it off like it doesn’t have implications for Sexton. If the Converse Fan goes down the toilet, it will take the 811 with it.”

Lauder frowned. “That’s crazy. One accident—even two incidents—isn’t going to take down the Fan or the 811.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Marshall insisted. “It could happen if the Chronicle keeps hammering at this thing, which is exactly what that rag plans to do.”

“How would you know?”

“Actually, I feel pretty smug about that,” Marshall said. “One of my legislative aides is dating a Chronicle photographer. She gets a bonus for information about what the paper’s up to. Would that I had such feedback from a couple other newsrooms.”

Lauder looked horrified. “You’re running a whore?”

“I’d say it’s more like a mole in the Promised Land, Charlie. She’s not whoring. She really cares for this newsie. She can use the dough, and Converse can afford it. I’m just the conduit. I’ve also sent word to the NTSB that they’d better not mess with Converse, or they’re going to be messing with me. You always want to take action before action takes you, Charlie.”

Lauder wasn’t convinced. “I’m sorry, but those sound like arrangements you wouldn’t want leaked to the press. I wouldn’t brag about them if I were you.”

Marshall snorted. “You’re weak, Charlie.” His voice was thick with contempt. “You worry too much about the things you think you can’t control instead of taking control. The public won’t differentiate between an aircraft and the engine that powers it. What the masses understand is that a Sexton snuffed itself and 334 people died. People start losing confidence in the Sexton 811, the way they lost confidence in the DC-10—deserved or not. Ticket sales go into the toilet, and not too long afterward, aircraft sales get flushed right along with them.”

Lauder called time-out long enough to order another drink. Marshall drained what remained in his glass and did the same. The congressman took two steps deeper into the shadows and gazed up at the moon, a day away from being full. It was surrounded by a soft halo of light. He shivered.

“You ever hear about a halo around the moon meaning somebody’s going to die?” he asked. “Is it an old sailors’ superstition?”

“Hell, I don’t know. What does that have to do with our problem?”

“Nothing,” Lauder said, taking his fresh drink from the waitress, who found the two men in the shadows. When she was out of earshot, Lauder continued, “Except it would be certain political suicide if you’re caught meddling with an NTSB investigation.”

“‘Meddling’ is your word, Charlie. From my point of view, I’m simply doing the job my constituents sent me to Washington to do.”

“One constituent, anyway,” Lauder replied derisively. “Take care, Harold. These things have a way of coming back to haunt.”

Marshall was infuriated. “Don’t lecture me, you sonofabitch. I don’t give a shit what happens to Sexton. I’ll take care of my people any way I have to, and yours can go straight to hell.” He whirled around on the damp grass, the first double martini making his head spin for a moment, and stormed off to look for Evelyn, or at least for a new conversation.

Later, well after two o’clock, when the last of the guests and the hired help were gone, Marshall took Evelyn Bracken to bed. But there was no love in their lovemaking. Evelyn was still smarting from the abuse she’d endured earlier. There was no desire left in her. Marshall was distracted and angry and more than a little drunk, and he drove to his own climax with a fury, neither trying to bring Evelyn along nor caring that he didn’t.

At about the same moment Harold Marshall made his entrance at Evelyn Bracken’s soiree, TransAmerican Flight 14 was preparing for departure from San Francisco. Its destination was New York’s John F. Kennedy Airport, with a layover of a few hours at Chicago O’Hare. Although it was 10:00 P.M. in Washington, it was just 7:00 P.M. on the West Coast, and the setting sun reflected boldly from the silver-and-blue skin of the new Sexton 811. On its tail, the Sexton carried the registration number: NTA2464.

TransAmerican flight-service personnel had swept and polished and dusted the inside of the aircraft until it looked as though it rolled from the finishing terminal at the Sexton plant in Los Angeles that very day. In fact, it had rolled out less than a month earlier and performed flawlessly in almost continuous service since. The maintenance chief noticed that when he checked the aircraft’s logs several hours earlier.

“Hasn’t even needed a light bulb,” he told a member of his crew.

Still, they went over her by the book, leaving nothing to chance.

When the maintenance crew finished, the baggage handlers appeared, feeding mail, luggage, one coffin, two dog porters, and one cat carrier into the maw of the cargo compartments via conveyor belts.

The flight crew showed up about forty-five minutes before scheduled departure. The cabin attendants busied themselves with food-service deliveries: full-sized bottles of liquor and Mondavi wines for first class, shot bottles and Sebastiani for business class and coach. They checked the first-class appetizers of Brie and pâté. They peeked at the greens to be certain they were fresh. And they stowed the first-class entrées, including filets mignon, lobster fettuccini, and salmon steaks. Baked Alaska desserts were set in the galley freezers. The process went much faster in the center and aft sections, where the main courses—baked chicken with almonds and haddock—were simpler and the courses fewer.

On the flight deck, the captain checked his flight plan against his high-altitude charts, and the engineer recalculated fuel requirements. The first officer took a flashlight and left the plane, walking around it slowly, checking tires, wheel wells, the appearance of flaps and slats, ailerons and rudders, even the nuts and bolts that held everything together. Some of the 271 passengers waiting to board Flight 14 watched the inspection from the windows of their gate. To those laymen, it appeared the first officer was being meticulous. And to the extent that a flashlight and human eyes can see problems, he was meticulous.