Arthur Hailey - Evening News

The premises would probably be a small abandoned factory or warehouse, or a large house. If a house, most likely old, run-down and therefore not much sought after. The house probably with outbuildings having space to garage several vehicles and contain a vehicle paint shop. An untenanted farm a strong possibility. Other types of accommodation matching the general concept to be looked for and imagination utilized.

Living accommodation for at least four or five people and possibly other housing space. However, the occupants would be capable of "roughing it,” so living quarters might not be evident in any advertised description. (In "other housing” Cooper mentally included imprisonment of the kidnap victims, but would not mention that specifically.)

The location and premises might be undesirable to someone seeking normal business space or somewhere to live. Therefore special attention should be paid to any advertisement appearing for an extended time, then abruptly stopping. That sequence might indicate no takers, followed by a sudden renting or sale for an unusual purpose.

The cost of renting, leasing or even ownership should not be a factor in the advertising search. The people being pursued almost certainly had ample funds.

That was sufficient, Cooper decided. While he wanted to convey a broad general idea, he didn't wish to be too limiting or discourage initiative. He also intended to talk to Uncle Arthur's recruits when they arrived early the next day and had asked Rita to arrange a suitable place.

Shortly after noon, Cooper joined Uncle Arthur for lunch in the CBA News cafeteria. Uncle Arthur chose a tuna sandwich and milk, Cooper a rectangle of meat covered by glutinous gravy, a canary-yellow pie and—with a look of resignation—a cup of warm water and a tea bag.

”Unfortunately,” Uncle Arthur said apologetically, “'21' is closed today. Perhaps some other time.”

Because it was Sunday, with fewer people than usual in the building, they had a table to themselves. Soon after settling down Cooper began, "I'd like to ask you, sir . . .”

Uncle Arthur stopped him with a gesture.”Your British respect is refreshing. But you are now in the land of great leveling where commoners address kings as 'Joe' or 'Hey you!' and a decreasing number of people use 'Mr.' on an envelope. Here I'm known to all and sundry by my first name.”

"Well, Arthur,” Cooper said, a shade awkwardly, "I was only wondering how you feel about TV news right now compared with when . . .”

“Compared with the olden days when I counted for something? Well, my answer may surprise you. It's much better all around. The people who do reporting and producing are an improvement over those in my time, including myself. But that's because coverage of the news is always getting better. It always has.”

Cooper raised his eyebrows.”Lotsa people feel the other way.,

"That's because, my dear Teddy, there are those who suffer from nostalgia constipation. What those people need is a mental enema. One way to get it is to visit the Museum of Broadcasting here in New York and watch—as I did recently some of the old news broadcasts, from the sixties for example. Measured by the standards of today, most seem weak, even amateurish, and I speak not just of technical quality but the depth of journalistic probing.”

"Some who don't like us say nowadays we probe too much.”

"A criticism coming usually from those with something to hide.”

As Cooper chuckled, Uncle Arthur continued expansively, "One measure of our improving journalism is that fewer things which ought to be exposed stay hidden. Abuses of the public trust are dragged into the open. Of course, even the good people in public life pay penalties for that. Their loss of privacy is one. But in the end society is better served.”

"So you don't think the old-time reporters were better than those today?”

"Not only were they not better, but most didn't have the ruthlessness, the indifference to authority, the willingness to go for the jugular that a first-rate newsperson requires today. Of course, the old reporters were good by the standards of their times and a few were exceptional. But even those, if around today, would be embarrassed by the sainthood now conferred on them.”

Cooper wrinkled his eyes in curiosity.”Sainthood?”

"Oh, yes. Didn't you know we dedicated news people regard our calling as a religion? We use buzz words like news being a 'sacred trust.' We pontificate about a 'golden age of television'—in the past, naturally—and then we canonize our journalistic stars. Over at CBS they've created Saint Ed Murrow—who was outstanding, no doubt about it. But Ed had his worldly weaknesses, though legend prefers to overlook them. Eventually CBS will create Saint Cronkite, though Walter, I'm afraid, will have to die first. A living person can't sustain such eminence. And that's just CBS, the senior news establishment. The other, younger networks will create their saints in time ABC inevitably will have Saint Arledge. After all, Roone, more than any other single person, shaped network news into its modem form.”

Uncle Arthur rose.”Listening to your views, my dear Teddy, has been most enlightening. But I must now return to that ubiquitous master of our lives, the telephone.”

By the end of the day Uncle Arthur made known that fifty-eight of his "brightest and best”would be reporting for duty Monday morning.

Early on Sunday the Learjet 55LR entered airspace over San Martin Province in the sparsely populated Selva, or jungle, region of Peru. Aboard the jet Jessica, Nicholas and Angus Sloane were still in caskets and sedated.

After a five-and-a-quarter-hour flight from Opa Locka, Florida, the Lear was nearing its destination—Sion airstrip in the Andes foothills. The local time was 4:15 A.M.

On the dimly lighted flight deck both pilots craned forward, their eyes searching the darkness ahead. The airplane's altitude was 3,500 feet above sea level, though only 1,000 feet above the jungle floor below. Not far ahead were high mountain ranges.

Eighteen minutes earlier they had left a regular airway with its dependable radio beacons and, to locate the airstrip, had switched to a GNS-500 VLF navigation system, a device so precise that pilots sometimes described it as "able to find a pimple on a fly's ass.” However, when they were near or over the airstrip, there should be a visual signal from the ground.

They had reduced airspeed substantially, but were still cruising at more than 300 knots.

The copilot, Faulkner, was first to see the white light of the ground beacon. It flashed three times, then went out, but not before Faulkner, who was at the controls, had put the aircraft into a turn and settled on a compass heading to where the light had been.

Captain Underhill, who had seen the light a moment after Faulkner, was now busy with a radio, using a special frequency and a message in code. ' Atencion, amigos de Huallaga. Este es el avion La Dorada.'Les traemos el embarque Pizarro.”

The prearranged call sign had been given to Underhill when the charter was negotiated. It worked, and a reply shot back, "Somos sus amigos de la tierra. Les estamos esperando. Ea Dorada, ' se Puede aterrizar. No hay viento.”

The permission to land was welcome, but the news of no ground wind to help slow the heavy 55LR was not. However, as Underhill transmitted an acknowledgment, the same beacon light came on again and continued flashing intermittently. Moments later, beyond it, three flares sprang into view along the hard-dirt strip. Underhill, who had been here twice before, was sure the radio that had just been used was hand-held field equipment and probably carried on the same truck as a portable searchlight. The sophisticated gear did not surprise him. Drug traffickers frequently landed here, and when it came to equipment the drug cartels spent freely.