Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

He’d brushed off Steve Pace’s question the day before about the need to ground the Sexton fleet just as Lund had brushed it off. But in reality, he wasn’t certain Pace didn’t have a valid point. There was a good deal about the performance of the Converse-Fan still in doubt. And they still didn’t know what had caused the problem with the TransAm C-Fan in Seattle. Were the turbine disks defective? Were the two incidents connected?

He didn’t want to undercut Lund, and it was Lund’s considered opinion there was no cause to ground the 811 fleet. But, damn it, if safety was the ultimate goal, didn’t common sense dictate that all the C-Fan engines be inspected?

The decision made itself.

He thumbed through his Rolodex and found the home phone number for Lane Simmons, administrator of the FAA. It would be Lane’s call. Sachs could only recommend. But he was confident about the recommendation.

The 811 fleet had to come down until the reliability of its engines was assured.

“Are you out of your mind? During one of the heaviest travel season of the year?” Simmons exploded through the telephone into Sachs’s ear. “You’ve got college kids all over the country trying to get home or to the beach for the spring break. The City Council of Fort Lauderdale would have us lynched!”

“I’m not talking about the whole industry, Lane,” Sachs snapped. “I’m talking about a couple dozen aircraft. The airlines can haul out other equipment to take up the load.”

“Not on this short notice! Spring break began today!”

“We’re talking about basic safety here.”

“We’re talking about revenue here, too,” Simmons said. “These new-generation aircraft cost a bloody fortune. How are the airlines supposed to pay for them? They don’t generate revenue when they aren’t flying.”

“And what do they generate when they crash?” Sachs demanded.

“That’s a low blow, Ken. If I was convinced there was a safety factor, I’d order ’em down regardless of cost.”

“Then do it.”

“What’s the safety factor? Your own man said yesterday there is absolutely no reason to ground the 811s.”

“I know. I’ve come to believe he’s wrong.”

“Shouldn’t the whole board make that decision?”

“The whole board isn’t here today.”

“Your fellow members might think you a little high-handed making the recommendation without consulting them. Vernon Lund might be downright pissed. I would be, in his place.”

“That’s my problem. I’ll deal with it.”

“You won’t have to deal with it if I don’t go along. Nobody will ever know.”

“Please reconsider, Lane. I’m begging you.”

“No,” Simmons said. “The 811s fly.”

“Oh, man, this is bogus!” The teenager stood with her mother before the passenger agent at the United Air Lines gate at San Diego International-Lindbergh Field.

“What alternatives are there?” the mother asked.

“There are several,” the agent said, smiling at Melissa Pace. “You’ll get to Washington today. I promise.”

“I hate it when things like this happen,” Melissa said.

“Well, if the plane’s going to break, it’s better to have it break on the ground than after you’re in the air,” Joan Pace told her daughter.

“Better to not have it break at all,” Sissy replied with a teenager’s impatience.

The United agent pointed across the aisle. “If you’ll step over to our customer-service counter, an agent there will get you on another flight at no change in price,” he said. “Then we’ll transfer your luggage.”

He handed the tickets from the canceled United flight back to Sissy and pointed again at the customer-service desk. Already there were nine people lined up before the four agents, waiting for transfers to different flights or different airlines.

“If you want to get to Dulles right about on the schedule, there’s an American flight leaving in twenty minutes, but we can’t guarantee your luggage will make that flight,” the customer-service representative told Sissy when she got to the front of the line. “We can put your bags on the first flight after that, and they’ll be delivered to you anywhere in the Washington metropolitan area.”

“What’s available if I want my bags to get there with me?” Sissy asked.

“How about a TransAm flight leaving in, oh, just over an hour?” the agent suggested. “There’s no chance your bags will miss that plane.”

Melissa turned to her mother. “I want to fly with my luggage,” she said.

Her mother nodded. “I’ll call your father after you take off and give him your new arrival information,” she said.

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” the agent said. “It looks like you’re scheduled to arrive in Washington only about fifteen minutes later than you would have on the United flight.”

“How can that be?” Sissy asked. “It’s leaving more than an hour later.”

“It’s a fast airplane,” the agent said. “A lot faster than the older planes.”

When they reached the TransAm gate, Sissy’s plane was parked there, and was being serviced by fuel trucks, baggage handlers, and caterers for the long trip East.

“Wow, that’s def,” the girl said, smiling as she noticed the blue-and-silver hull gleam under the morning sun.

“It is pretty,” Joan Pace agreed. “I think you made a good choice.” Neither noticed that the big Sexton 811, about to leave San Diego for Washington Dulles as Flight 957, carried the registration number: NTA2464.

“The NTSB wants what?” George Greenwood was stretched out on a lounge chair beside his pool in the warm spring sunshine, reading the Sunday Youngstown Vindicator. It was after 11:00 A.M., Eastern Daylight Time. Sissy Pace’s flight east had just been handed off to San Diego Departure Control when the call to Greenwood’s home came from Harry Birkenkopf, Converse Corporation’s chief of contracting.

“I got the call from Ken Sachs himself,” Birkenkopf was saying. “He wants the Seattle report, and he wants it faxed to him today. Now.”

“Do we have it?” Greenwood asked.

“We have a preliminary we got from the subcontractor a few weeks ago,” Birkenkopf replied. “The final isn’t due for, I dunno, maybe a week or two.”

“How much different will the final be?”

“Not much, I don’t think.”

Greenwood paused. “Why does Sachs want it today? It’s Sunday, for chrissake.”

“He was adamant, Mr. Greenwood.”

“Tell me again what the report says.”

“It suggests the turbine disk in Seattle was subjected to some unusual vibrations.”

“How?” Greenwood demanded. “What kind of vibrations? From what source?”

“Unknown,” Birkenkopf replied. “We hope the final report will tell us.”

“Is it possible a flaw was manufactured into the disk?”

“You know how those things are inspected. I doubt a flaw could have gotten by.”

“Is it possible the engine was vibrating excessively?”

“Also unknown. After it got a new disk, the engine was bench-tested. Vibrations were nominal. There’s been no repeat of the incident since the engine went back online.”

Greenwood took a deep breath and blew it out. “So that still doesn’t get us to what the NTSB wants with this report on a Sunday.”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ask?”

“I only said I’d have to call you.”

“Call Sachs and tell the asshole to call me,” Greenwood said. “I’ll decide what we do.”

Greenwood’s phone rang again in fewer than five minutes.

“Why you workin’ on Sunday, Ken?” the CEO asked jovially. “Tryin’ to show me my tax dollars hard at work?”