Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

“You won’t,” he assured her. “It’ll be good for you. Did you talk to Boston today?”

“Yes. Dad’s fine, and Betsy’s better. She’s going back to Chicago tomorrow, but she’s not going to do her TV show for another week or so… you know, give herself some time to come back. Then, if she feels up to it, work will probably be a good catharsis.”

He was going to fill her in on his day, but he saw Schaeffer shrug into his suit jacket, ready to leave. “Gotta go, Kath,” he said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

The Sexton 811 carrying the registration NTA2464 was freshly washed and polished; it gleamed in the last rays of afternoon sunlight filtering through the perpetual haze over Jamaica Bay. TransAmerican Captain Everett Kinsley turned the nose of Flight 994 to the centerline of Runway 31L at John F. Kennedy International Airport, next up for takeoff after a 47-minute delay for traffic. The exasperation of inching along a taxiway would be offset by the thrill of seeing Manhattan at sunset as the 811 climbed out and headed west for Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. Passengers on the right side would be able to share the thrill, while those on the left would have to be satisfied with Brooklyn and Bayonne. The Statue of Liberty would pass under the 811’s nose.

NTA2464 was passing through 3,000 feet when the skyline rose into view like hundreds of symmetrical stalagmites in a gigantic cave. Everything was bathed in the orange glow of the sun setting through smog, and Kinsley heard First Officer Evan Gibson’s sharp intake of breath.

“No matter how many times I see it, it gives me a kick,” Kinsley said sympathetically.

“What amazes me is that the whole island doesn’t sink under all that weight,” said Second Officer Bruce Patrick.

Kinsley scanned the skies as the 811 continued to climb. He saw a number of other aircraft, all identified in radio transmissions and flying predictable patterns. He squinted out to the southwest. Even the polarizing lenses in his dark glasses didn’t make it easy to spot something flying out of that sun. He saw nothing and reached for the cabin mike to alert passengers to the breathtaking sight about to come up on the right.

He’d just keyed the mike to speak when TCASII, the on-board collision-avoidance display, commanded him to climb.

Kinsley slammed the microphone back in place and hit the double throttles, jamming them to the wall even as he pulled back on the yoke to pitch up the aircraft’s nose. The 811 was already in a steep climb when a controller’s urgent voice filled the cockpit crew’s headsets.

“TransAm niner-niner-four, climb now!” the controller ordered. “Climb and turn right to zero-three-zero. Unidentified traffic at your nine-o’clock, one mile, indicating same altitude, closing rapidly. Climb and turn right to zero-three-zero! Acknowledge!”

“TransAm niner-niner-four, roger,” Kinsley replied calmly. “Climbing and turning to zero-three-zero.”

The captain strained to see past the sun’s glare, but nothing came into focus. He felt the ship tremble slightly under his hands and eased forward marginally on the yoke, leveling her by several degrees so she wouldn’t stall, yet maintaining a steep rate of climb.

Then it was there. A blue-and-white Learjet flashed out of the sun and under the 811, the two aircraft missing by less than 300 vertical feet. Gibson glanced outside and down over his right shoulder as the Lear emerged from beneath them and continued streaking east.

“Damned fool,” he muttered. “What’s he think this is, a life-size pinball game?”

The radio crackled again. “TransAm niner-niner-four, you’re clear of the traffic. Turn left to two-niner-zero. You’re clear to climb and maintain flight level. Did you see him?”

“Niner-niner-four, roger,” Kinsley said calmly. “We saw him. Blue-over-white Lear. Couldn’t get an N-number.”

“We’ve got a good transponder track on him,” the controller said. “We’ll get him. This one’ll have to go into the book.”

“Niner-niner-four, roger. We’ll file a full report when we reach O-R-D. It looked like less than three hundred feet vertical. Thanks for your help today.”

“Have a good one.”

The rest of the trip to Chicago O’Hare went without incident.

But the strain of emergency maneuvers over Upper New York Bay stretched the longer of the turbine-disk cracks in Number One engine to within 3.7 inches of the disk’s edge. The next flight operation would push the crack through the rim and unbalance the disk by a tiny fraction. It would be enough, however, to produce a microscopic wobble and a slight increase in vibrations that would compound themselves until the disk shattered.

Schaeffer, Pace, and McGill started their meal with two rounds of drinks and an appetizer of something with smoked salmon that the chef did especially for Schaeffer.

They followed with veal, each choosing a different preparation, but all compatible with Schaeffer’s choice of a 1985 Volnay.

McGill begged off after one glass of wine, pleading the need to arrive with some degree of sobriety back at the Dulles Marriott. So Pace and Schaeffer split the rest, and neither was feeling any pain when the mousse, cognac, and coffee arrived.

During the meal, no one spoke of the Dulles accident or any facet of the investigation and the turmoil surrounding it. They talked of the new baseball season and the inability of Washington to get a pro franchise despite the presence of a great stadium, of the chances the Green Bay Packers would ever again have a championship team, of politics and Presidents, of Watergate and other old political scandals.

When McGill checked his watch, it was after 9:30.

“This has been outstanding,” he said. “I needed it. I’d like to leave some money with you and get on my way. It’s a long trip back to Dulles, and I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to buy your way out,” Schaeffer said. “This is on us. We owe you.”

“Why don’t we part even-up?” McGill suggested. “I accept dinner in return for the help on your stories. No debts owed or collectible.”

“Sounds like a fair deal, Mike,” Schaeffer said, extending his hand. “How are you getting back to Dulles?”

“I’ve got my rental in town,” he said. “I followed Steve in this afternoon. Thanks again for dinner. It was a great break.” He turned to Pace. “Is there a drugstore near here? I ran out of shaving cream this morning, and I hate getting ripped off at hotel newsstands.”

Pace gave him directions.

McGill collected his leather jacket from the comely redhead at the checkroom, dropping a dollar bill on the brown plastic tray sitting on the lower half of the closet’s Dutch door. He shrugged into the coat, returning a smile from the young lady that suggested she wouldn’t mind getting to know him without his coat and other selected items of clothing. Too bad, he thought. There’s never time when I need it.

Outside, McGill spotted the drugstore at the same moment the passenger sitting across the street in a blue Ford van glimpsed him leaving Maison Rouge. Without taking his eyes off the pilot, Wade Stock reached over and tapped Sylvester Bonaro and jerked his head in McGill’s direction. They saw that McGill wasn’t heading for the garage where he’d parked his car. They exchanged a few words and left the van, walking quickly across the street at mid-block. When McGill went into the drugstore, they followed.

Inside the store, they spotted the pilot immediately. He had a can of shave cream in his hand and was walking the aisles, apparently looking for something else. Stock unzipped the front of his windbreaker and walked to the prescription counter. Bonaro remained near the door, crouching down as if to look at a bottom rack of magazines but, in fact, concealing his face from other customers. He saw his partner talking to the pharmacist behind the high counter and noticed with satisfaction the look of fear that crossed the pharmacist’s face. Although he couldn’t see it, he knew Stock had drawn his gun and was demanding a bag filled with amphetamines. The pharmacist started shaking his head when an elderly woman screamed.