Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

“I don’t like getting beat.”

“We still have our own mystery to solve.”

“Hell, Mike, there’s no mystery. The call was a hoax. The wreck was a coincidence.”

“That doesn’t sound like the reporter I used to know, the one who wouldn’t rest until the questions all had answers.”

“That’s my problem. I kept after those answers when I should have been asking the questions Justin Smith was asking.”

“Now you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Bullshit. I’m pissed, that’s all.”

“I gather you haven’t heard any more about the ID on the driver?”

“No. And I don’t know if I can get it today. Schaeffer wants me to stay on the main story, and I think I’ll do what he wants. I’m in such deep shit now, I might never shovel out.”

“You ever hear the story about the two brothers, optimist and pessimist?”

“I don’t know. Is this Aesop redux?”

“One kid is the happiest child in the world. The other, the saddest. Parents are desperate. Want little optimist to understand reality and little pessimist to lighten up. A psychiatrist suggests putting each in his own room, little pessimist with all the toys he ever wanted, and little optimist with ten tons of horse manure. Teach each of them that things are never as bad or as good as they think. Parents do it. Five hours later, they check on the kids. Little pessimist is crying. Parents ask him why. He says he’s played with all the toys and he’s bored. In the other room, little optimist is singing at the top of his lungs, digging in the manure as fast as he can. Parents ask the kid what he’s so happy about. Kid replies, ‘With all this shit, there must be a pony in here somewhere.’

“Hold the thought.”

George Thomas Greenwood hadn’t been surprised to find two messages from Harold Marshall waiting on his desk that morning. He was getting tired of nursemaiding the guy, but Marshall was taking some tough chances for Converse. Nobody could question his loyalty, so Greenwood would hold his hand as long as necessary. From the moment Cullen Ferguson called at 6:00 A.M. to tell Greenwood about The New York Times piece, the CEO had expected the next ring of his phone would be Marshall. So he’d turned the ringer off and enjoyed his breakfast.

“Harold, I can’t guess why you’re calling,” Greenwood said jovially when Marshall’s secretary put him through to the senator’s private office.

“I want to hear how your scenario stands up now,” Marshall said.

“It stands up fine. I’ve told you all along: no problem. I don’t know why you’re making so much of the Times story. So the crew tried to ram the plane into the air and the wing shattered. That’s Sexton’s problem, not ours. If their airfoil wasn’t tough enough, then the crash is in their laps and they’re welcome to it. We’re off the hook.”

“That’s a huge stretch,” Marshall said.

“We’re on very solid ground here, Harold. Don’t flare out on me.”

“I’m not flaring out,” Marshall protested. “I wanted to talk it through.”

“Okay, it’s talked through. Feel better?”

“About Converse? Yes. About Senator Harold Marshall? I think he sold his soul.”

“Perhaps,” said Greenwood. “But the price was right.”

NTA2464 flew a grueling round trip this day from New York to San Francisco and back. The flights were uneventful.

But inside the cowling of Number One engine, the twin hairline fractures in a titanium turbine disk continued to spread.

Pace struggled against the instinct to cancel his plans with Kathy. The possibility of a renewal of their relationship was a prospect too wonderful to risk by succumbing to a bad day at the office. He’d been beaten on stories before; he’d be beaten again. This one was especially painful because his editors attributed it more to his recalcitrance than to Justin Smith’s reporting skills. He wondered if they weren’t right.

His decision to go out anyway was the correct one. Kathy was a sympathetic ear.

“Did you have to try to match the Times story?” she asked.

“Yes, and that’s a humiliating thing to do,” Pace told her. “Everybody you talk to knows you got beat and you’re playing catch-up.”

“Maybe you’re attributing feelings to them they don’t really have,” she suggested.

“Some of them do. Con Phillips has been kidding me about having a crystal ball, seeing things other reporters don’t. Today he said he heard the crystal ball had been stolen. Offered to give me a tip on where I might find it. He thought it was pretty funny. Bureaucrats love to see reporters take headers in the dirt.”

“Maybe because reporters take so much delight in pointing it out when bureaucrats do,” Kathy suggested.

He smiled and tipped his glass of sangria in her direction.

They were having a late dinner at Diablo, a restaurant at 20th and K Streets that billed itself as gourmet Mexican.

“So did you get what you needed?” she asked.

He swallowed a sip of wine and nodded. “I got most of it. It’s still pretty speculative. The NTSB won’t release stuff from the flight data recorder, but Justin Smith must have gotten some access because the recorder is the only place there would be information on engine thrust.”

“But you got enough to write it?”

“I got enough to mention it. My story’s pegged to whether the FAA is thinking about grounding the 811 fleet.”

“Is it?”

“Apparently so. Nobody will come right out and say it, and it might not happen, but I got enough positive feedback to be able to write that it is under consideration.”

Kathy looked puzzled. “The chances of another 811 hitting another bird must be pretty slim,” she said.

“It doesn’t have to be a bird,” Pace replied. “A bird triggered this accident, but the engine should have been able to contain it. Something else is wrong.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “All we’ve done is babble on about my problems,” he said. “How was your day? How are you getting along?”

“It’s easier when I don’t talk about it, at least not in terms of how I feel,” she said. “I’m still pretty shaky. Everyone at the office was very solicitous. I talked to Daddy this morning, and he sounded strong. They’ve still got Betsy in bed, but I guess she’s talking about going back to Chicago tomorrow or the next day. I told Daddy to make sure she didn’t fly on a Sexton 811, and from what you’ve told me tonight, I’m glad I did.”

Pace felt the hairs bristle on his neck. Kathy saw a look of concern cross his face.

“What is it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I completely forgot to check Melissa’s flight Sunday. I don’t want her on an 811, either.”

“You can switch her to another flight,” Kathy said. “But if you’ve got a discount ticket, it’ll cost you some money.”

“A cost we can bear,” he said. She knew exactly what he meant.

“I remember when Sissy visited last year,” Kathy said. “I really liked her. I’d love to see her again if you have time to fit me into your busy schedule.”

“I think Sissy would like that, too,” Pace agreed. “I’m going to see about taking next Monday off. I thought we’d go up to the Blue Ridge for a picnic. It would be great to have you go along.”

“On a work day? I don’t think so.”

“Why not? The Senate’s not back from its spring break until Wednesday. Take a day’s vacation or personal leave.”

She cocked her head and smiled. It was the first time he’d seen her smile in over a year. “Maybe I’ll consider it,” she said. Then she grew pensive. “Do you think there’s something really wrong with the 811s?”