Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

“You’ve got the big boss interested, though,” McGill pointed out.

“This is true, but I can’t afford to alienate Paul. As much as I sometimes wish it weren’t so, I have to work for him every day.”

“So don’t push him, but get to that police captain, even if you have to do it on your own time. This stuff is fascinating. I’m beginning to feel like someone picked me up and set me down in a Ken Follett novel.”

“Just so it isn’t The Twilight Zone ,” Pace said.

“I’ll call you later tonight,” McGill told him. “Don’t try to reach me unless it’s an emergency. You know the old line: the walls have ears.”

“Christ,” Pace said. “It is The Twilight Zone . ”

By 6:30, Pace was back at Dulles, sitting in the NTSB’s conference room. He hated leaving his side investigation, but he didn’t dare miss another briefing, not after Paul’s fit. He hoped the session would be short and vowed not to ask any questions of Lund that might prolong things. The bird evidence had taken the mystery out of the crash, and answers about the Converse engines probably were months away.

Lund announced that the last of the bodies had been recovered from the fuselage, and the next morning the main section of aircraft would be hoisted by a crane onto a motorized dolly that would carry it into Hangar Three. An area near the hangar had been roped off for media wishing to film or photograph the event.

The session deteriorated rapidly into redundancy. There were fewer reporters present, a sign the story was receding for lack of developments. Those who came had few questions, and the briefing lapsed into a debate on the apparent inability of the C-Fan to survive a bird strike.

“You think we can reach a consensus here, but that isn’t going to happen,” Lund said by way of ending the session. “The answer will come through painstaking investigative work, and the evidence probably will not be made public until we go to the public-hearing phase.” He paused, and there were no further questions or comments.

“Now,” he continued, “that brings me to the announcement that we are suspending these daily briefings. We don’t expect any major new developments, and it seems unnecessary to tie everyone to this fixed schedule. I will continue to be available as needed, as will Mitch Gabriel, to answer questions on a one-to-one basis. However, if something should develop and we feel the need to get to all of you, a briefing announcement will be placed on the wire-service daybooks. In that event, we would endeavor to give you at least several hours’ notice.”

As the reporters shuffled out of the room, Justin Smith of The New York Times wound up at Pace’s side.

“So what are you going to hit us with tomorrow, Steve?” Smith asked.

“I don’t want to hit anything but a bed,” Pace replied. And he meant it.

Shortly after 9:00 P.M., Pace transmitted his story into the storage file for the national-desk editors. As he listened to the ticks and purrs of the computer complying with his commands, he wondered if Suzy O’Connor was around this late. He’d been antsy all afternoon about talking to the state police captain, and it occurred to him it would be most productive to talk when Helm was off duty and more relaxed about discussing an ongoing investigation. He took the stairs and found O’Connor at her desk, on the phone.

“You are not working for the women’s section of the Catfish Falls Gazette, although you might be if you send me another piece of shit like this,” she was saying. Actually, hissing would have been a better way to describe the manner of her speech. “This is the worst kind of shoddy reporting. The story doesn’t tell me enough about why Loudoun County housing prices are soaring, and it doesn’t have a goddamn single example of the average family, driven out of Fairfax County by exorbitant costs and taxes, now having to go beyond Loudoun County to find a home they can afford. In short, it doesn’t tell me shit!”

There was a pause. Pace hurt for the green reporter who must have been struggling for composure on the other end of the line.

“You’re damned right you’re going back to redo it, Sally,” O’Connor answered what must have been an apology on the other end. She listened for a moment, then hung up.

Pace was suddenly wary.

Sally? That’s the kid she wants me to work with. Wonderful. I’m supposed to share an investigation of a possible conspiracy with a rookie who can’t get a housing story right?

O’Connor turned around, and Pace saw her smile at the uneasiness that must have been obvious on his face.

“Hey, just because she can’t report a housing story doesn’t mean she can’t handle a mysterious traffic accident,” O’Connor said, reading his mind and grinning. “Actually,” she continued, “Sally has set up something for you and her and Clayton Helm at seven tomorrow night in the Heritage House Restaurant in Reston. Can you make that?”

“I can make it. The NTSB called off any more scheduled briefings. They figure they’ve got the cause of the crash. The Heritage House?”

“Yeah,” O’Connor replied. “Know it?”

“No, but I’ll find it. It’s a good idea to catch the guy off duty.”

“That was Sally’s first instinct. She ain’t bad.”

“That’s not the message I just heard.”

“Oh, this?” O’Connor said, waving toward her terminal. “It’s part of the series about how the high cost of living is spreading. Sally didn’t do a bad job. Just a few things missing.”

“From the way you were chewing on her, it sounded like more than a few things.”

“That’s the way I wanted it to sound.” O’Connor smiled. “If you tell them they’re great all the time, there’s no pressure to get better.”

“Suze, do you ever tell them they’re great?”

“Yeah. When they leave me to join you. I tell ’em not to let you assholes intimidate them, ’cause they’re good as any of you or I wouldn’t let ’em go.”

“All things considered, George, I’d say you are relatively unscathed. A mea culpa here and a little contriteness there, you’ll come through with no permanent damage. You just have to take a little care your explanations are plausible and cover all the bases.” Senator Harold Marshall was holding what had become his daily morning telephone meeting with George Thomas Greenwood, chief executive officer of the Converse Corporation, in Youngstown, Ohio. Marshall sat with his back to his massive desk, gazing through his Hart Senate Office Building window at gray storm clouds blowing in over Washington from the west. “You can imagine I’m still somewhat concerned about my role in this coming to light,” he added.

“Harold, none of us has it entirely the way he wants it,” Greenwood replied. His voice was raspy, as though he’d been up too late the night before, drinking too much and smoking too many of his precious Cuban cigars. “I don’t like having to send notices to our customers to do disk inspections, but what the hell… If it restores airline and public confidence in the C-Fan, it’s a small price to pay. If we find any more like Seattle, we’ll make a show of replacing them under warranty and announcing a change in subcontractors. It’ll put all the onus on the old sub and make us look earnest and forthright.”

“You still have to explain why the Fan didn’t contain this failure.”

“Harold, you worry too much. Some problems even the NTSB can never explain. This will go down as an inexplicable case of a bird hitting the fan blades and starting a chain reaction of catastrophic proportions. Nobody will ever be able to determine why. It’s a done deal.”