Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

It would have taken an electron microscope to see the fracture developing in one of the turbine disks in Number One engine. The weak spot that generated the fracture should have been—and normally would have been—discovered on final inspection by the manufacturer before the disk was shipped to Converse. It didn’t take long for the vibrations of the fan jet to pound the flaw into a microscopic crack. Now the crack was spreading in tiny increments and would continue to do so until it weakened the structure of the titanium alloy, and the disk disintegrated. It could happen this night, or the next, or the next. No one could foretell the schedule. But if it happened in flight, the result would be the total destruction of the airliner and the death of everyone on board.

It was Saturday night, about 10:45, when Pace walked into the Toodle Inn. The bar was half full, but the smoke was thick and the music loud, and none of the patrons evidenced the slightest interest in each other. Pace found an isolated booth and ordered a beer to sip while he waited for McGill. He was surprised that he’d beaten the pilot there; he’d had to drive twice as far.

McGill arrived just as Pace’s drink did. He ordered black coffee.

“You giving up sex, too?” Pace asked. McGill ignored the line.

“I hope I didn’t call you here for nothing, but you said you wanted to get involved.”

Pace frowned. “What’s up?”

McGill pulled a single sheet of computer printer paper from his pocket. It was the kind accountants use, with alternating green and white bars. Nobody had bothered to tear off the perforated feed-strips.

“This was in my mailbox at the hotel when I got back after dinner,” he said, handing the page across to Pace.

The reporter unfolded it and moved it around, trying to find enough light to read by. He gave up and pulled a yellow glass bowl containing a lighted candle from between the table’s salt and pepper shakers and held it beside the paper. It was adequate.

“This place obviously doesn’t double as a library,” he commented as he strained over the note. “And the printer could use a new ribbon.” But he fell silent as he read the message.

“To Capt. McGill:

I am leaving this for you because I don’t know who else I can trust, and I hope I can trust you. I believe I have information of a conspiracy to cover up the real cause of the ConPac crash. I have known about it since the night of the accident, but I have been afraid to confront anyone. I am desperate. I don’t know where to turn. Please help me prove if something is wrong. I will call your room at midnight, and I hope that by then you will have received this note and have some advice for me. I hope you’ll forgive me for not signing my name, but I am frightened.”

Pace looked up from the page. Then, without a word, he bent and read it again.

“Hoax or real?” he asked when he finished it a second time.

“I have to work on the assumption it’s real,” McGill said in a voice so low Pace almost couldn’t hear him over the noise of the band.

“Why come to me?” the reporter asked. “If you think this has any basis in fact, why not go to the IIC with it?”

“My first instinct,” McGill nodded. “Then I remembered the conversation you had with the guy from the Hill yesterday. If this is true, maybe the IIC’s been reached and—”

“Padgett?”

“Yeah, and if he’s been reached, maybe Lund’s been reached. If Lund’s been reached, how much higher could it go? I don’t normally believe in conspiracies but, Jesus, who’da thought a burglary at Watergate would leave a trail to the President of the United States? I need somebody I can trust at my back, Steve, and that’s you.”

“Whoa, Mike. I think you’re reaching.”

“Yeah, maybe. Maybe not.”

The waitress came with a pot to refill McGill’s coffee cup and nodded toward Pace’s empty beer glass. The reporter shook his head, and the waitress looked irritated.

“Big spenders, you guys, huh? I hope you tip good.”

Pace waited until she flounced off, then leaned over the table. “You still haven’t answered my question, Mike. Why me?”

“Who else would you suggest? I know you. I trust you. I need help. And you asked me to call you if anything like this came up. I can’t go public with it. Can you imagine me calling a press conference to expose an alleged conspiracy on the basis of an anonymous note? And if this is true,” he nodded toward the message lying on the table, “the people responsible for the cover-up would burrow so far underground you couldn’t nuke ’em out.”

“You can’t judge this until you know who wrote it,” Pace said. “When he calls at midnight, assuming he calls, why don’t you ask him to meet you somewhere?”

“How about us meeting him somewhere?”

“Sounds good.”

“This cloak-and-dagger stuff is more up your alley than mine.”

“I’m in.”

“Fine. So what do you suggest we do?”

Pace cupped his right fist inside his left hand and rested his chin on his thumbs. He fought to remain calm, but the excitement of the mystery had pumped him up.

“When this guy calls you, try to arrange a meeting someplace private. Tell him you’ve brought me in on this, and we’re both eager to talk to him.”

“Not a good idea,” McGill objected. “If this guy is legit, he’s scared, and I think if he knows the press is involved, it’ll spook him. It would be better if I arrange a meeting for him and me but set it up for someplace where you can listen without being seen.”

“Okay. You going to set it up for tonight?”

“The sooner, the better.”

“I haven’t pulled an all-nighter since college. I don’t know if I can do it anymore.”

“Think of the stakes. They’ll scare you awake.” McGill caught the waitress’s eye and signaled for the check. She placed it between them. McGill picked it up.

“You bought yesterday when you were asking for help.” He smiled.

“I’m a hell of a lot cheaper date than you were,” Pace replied.

“I keep telling you, I’m older and wiser. By the way, you got any idea where we should meet our friend?”

“Let him choose,” Pace suggested. “He’ll be more relaxed in a place he knows.”

“I knew there was a good reason to bring you along.”

McGill threw a ten-dollar bill on the table, figuring that would cover the check and the angst of the waitress, and the two men walked into the parking lot together.

“We might be hoping for different outcomes on this, you and me,” the pilot said. “I hope this is a crock of shit, that there’s nobody out there with any proof of any kind of conspiracy. I don’t want there to be a midnight phone call. I think you’re wishing for the big story. I would be if I were you. But if there’s no midnight call, if this is a hoax, it stops right there. I won’t help you blow a hoax into a big story, and I hope that doesn’t put us at odds.”

Pace couldn’t help it. Professional recognition is addictive and, once tasted, not easily forsworn. He would be disappointed if Mike didn’t get the midnight phone call; he couldn’t help that. He would be disappointed if this didn’t turn into a very big story. But what the hell. He’d been disappointed before and survived. He’d survive again.

McGill misread Pace’s silence. “Man, I don’t believe you!”

Pace shook his head. “It’s cool, Mike. I was just having a couple of personal thoughts and private doubts. Nothing to do with this. If the bastards are out there, let’s bring them to ground. If not, we’ll forget it and catch up on our sleep.”

They shook hands on it.

As midnight approached, McGill paced his room and Pace sat quietly in a straight-backed chair, contemplating the carpet beneath his feet. The closer it came to the appointed hour, the more certain McGill was that the phone would not ring. Which was why he jumped when the oversized telephone bell shattered the silence in his room at 11:58, a full two minutes early.