Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

When the phone at his left hand rang at 2:43, he was so deeply involved in the sorting process that he resented the interruption and cursed softly.

“Pace,” he snapped.

“I don’t have much time, and I don’t have much inclination to consume it with you, but Sylvia made an eloquent case on your behalf, so I’m returning your call.”

Pace felt himself squeeze the receiver when he recognized Sachs’s voice.

“Ken, I called for two reasons. I want to apologize sincerely for the intrusion the other night. I was drunk, as I think you suggested at the time. I was upset about the shooting. You were the last one outside people at my office and in the restaurant to see Mike and me together. At the time, in my condition, it was clear to me you must have had something to do with his murder.”

“I told you then and I repeat now, that is absolutely ludicrous,” Sachs said. “I have no motive to order a murder and no means to carry one out. Moreover, it isn’t clear to me at all, as I gather it isn’t clear to the police, that Mike was anything but an innocent bystander.”

“My stories the last two days should make you think otherwise.”

“I saw your stories, and it’s still supposition.”

“Well, regardless of what I thought at the time or think now, I didn’t have any right to barge in on you, and I am sorry. I hope you’ll convey my regrets to your wife.”

Sachs didn’t acknowledge the apology. “What was your other reason for calling?”

“The press conference today,” Pace said. “Vernon said there still isn’t an explanation of why debris got sucked into the engine instead—”

“I know,” Sachs interrupted impatiently. “I saw the press conference on television, and I was fully briefed beforehand.”

“Fine,” Pace said. “Then you heard me ask if it would be a good idea to recommend grounding the 811s as a precaution?”

“Yes.”

“And you heard Vernon take my head off. He said the paper was trying to make a sinister mystery of the accident. We never said anything like that, Ken. What gives?”

“I think your recent stories are saying something close… if not explicit.”

“A sinister mystery? Isn’t that a little strong? I wrote about a tragic coincidence.”

“If you say so.”

“Then what was Vernon talking about?”

Sachs paused for a few seconds. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “He knows about the little problem we had the other night, and maybe he jumped on you out of loyalty to me.”

“I guess that’s understandable. Let me ask you the same question I asked him. If there’s a mysterious—no, check that. If there’s no explanation for why the engine didn’t act as it was supposed to, as it was designed to, isn’t there cause to recommend that the FAA ground the Sextons until the questions are answered?”

“Vernon seems to think not.”

“You’re the chairman. What do you think?”

“He’s the supervising member of the board. It’s his call at this point.”

“Damn it, I don’t get your reasoning.”

“You don’t have to. It’s not for you to understand. It’s our responsibility, and if you media people will leave us alone, we’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, come on, Ken. That bureaucratic bullshit’s beneath you.”

“Let me put it this way, then. We have proof positive of a bird strike. We are calling that the primary cause of the accident. There are still additional matters under investigation. Period.”

“You mean it’s possible the aircraft could have survived the bird strike, but something else went wrong?”

“Pace, I didn’t say that, goddamn it!”

“What are you saying? We were going to work this together, remember?”

“I remember the agreement, but that was before the other night. At this time, I have no outstanding obligation to you. Your action abrogated everything.”

“Even getting at the truth?”

Pace winced as the line went dead.

Harold Marshall slept Friday night every bit as well as he expected.

But he woke up Saturday morning with a severe headache, and that would be the best part of his day.

“Everybody’s calling the case closed except the Chronicle, and they keep sniffing around the body like dogs on a bitch in heat.”

Harold Marshall snarled into the telephone and paced behind his desk as an anxious lion might pace the back of its cage at feeding time. That he had to come to work on the weekend only added to his anxiety. He was supposed to be with Evelyn Bracken today, and she was not taking his absence well.

The extra-long cord spiraling from the telephone flipped snakelike on the floor, coiling and uncoiling as the tension changed, extending first to one side and then the other as Marshall walked and talked. He frequently paced during important conversations. He claimed he thought better on his feet. But the pressure on the carpeting was evident in the rut of threadbare nap marking his habitual course. After his last election, Evelyn pestered him to have the carpeting replaced, arguing the nation’s taxpayers could afford to spruce up the office of a three-term United States senator. He brushed her off the way he was now brushing off the calming words from the Converse CEO, George Thomas Greenwood.

Marshall was infuriated and frustrated by Greenwood’s inexplicable lack of concern in the face of his company’s profound predicament. Although Vernon Lund had come through with a resounding defense of the C-Fan, the media persisted in keeping lingering doubts alive. Yesterday Marshall would have bet a month’s salary the issue had been laid to rest. Hadn’t he been the one to reassure Chappy Davis? And now he was the one being reassured, and he didn’t believe it from Greenwood today any more than Davis had believed it from him yesterday.

Damn the Chronicle, anyway. Why did it even have to bring up unanswered questions? The basic question, the only important question, was answered: No defect in the Converse Fan was responsible for the nation’s worst air disaster.

End of story.

But it wasn’t.

“The public criticizes the media all the time, but they believe what they read, George,” Marshall continued. “This constant pick, pick, pick is going to erode public confidence eventually. Believe me, I know.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong, Harold, I’m saying don’t overreact,” Greenwood replied. “I caught the NBC and CBS news shows last night. Both of them keyed on the fact that a bird was blamed for the accident. You tell me the Times and the Post did the same thing this morning, so I don’t see it’s any kind of big deal for one newspaper to get cranky.”

“It isn’t that simple, my friend. The Chronicle is more than cranky. Listen to the way the story starts: ‘Acknowledging still-unanswered questions about the performance of the Converse engines on the Sexton 811 that crashed last week at Dulles International Airport, the National Transportation Safety Board nonetheless blames the accident on a bird sucked into the plane’s right engine.’ The reporter—this Pace—gives the official NTSB statement four paragraphs and then goes on for eleven or so about these so-called unanswered questions. And even though the Post and the Times didn’t mention questions in their leads, they dealt with them at length farther down.”

“I know. You told me already.”

“But it’s getting picked up, George! AP is carrying it. CNN showed tape of Lund’s press conference. It’s bad stuff and we don’t need it. Pace doesn’t show any sign of letting up. God knows where he’s going with this double-murder bullshit. He’s got to be stopped.”