Miller cleared his throat. “I do think he has a chance, Mr. Metz. He seems competent. The messages reflect that.” He glanced between Johnson and the printout of the data-link messages lying on the console.
Johnson nodded.
Miller picked up the messages. “All the data-link messages are here if you’d like to see them.”
Johnson pulled them from Miller’s hand and thrust them toward Metz. “Go ahead, Wayne. Read them. They’re good for your ulcer. That goddamned Straton. I knew that goddamned airplane would get us.”
Metz took the sheets and began reading. He subconsciously shook his head. The impersonal words, spelled out in that odd computer type, somehow made the news much worse. Made it infinitely more believable in any case.Lack of air pressure caused brain damage .
Miller glanced at Metz, then at Johnson. He barely knew Metz, but felt an instinctive dislike for the man. Too meticulously dressed. His hair was styled like a movie star’s. Miller didn’t trust men like that, although he knew it wasn’t a fair way to judge. The fact that Johnson had asked Metz to come in was indicative of the way this airline was run these days. Ten or twenty years before, this room would have been filled with men in shirtsleeves, smoking, and drinking coffee—pilots, flight instructors, executives, dispatchers, the Straton Aircraft people, anyone who cared about Trans-United and who could lend a hand. Today, when an aircraft got into trouble, they called the insurance man and the corporation lawyers before anyone else. No one dared to smoke a cigarette, or say anything that wasn’t politically correct. It was time, thought Miller, to get out of the business.
Metz handed the messages back to Miller and turned to Johnson. “Are you certain these messages are an accurate appraisal?”
Johnson tapped his finger on the stack of printouts. “If he says people are dead, they’re dead. I imagine that he also knows what two holes look like.”
“I’m talking about the brain damage business. And why do you think it’s irrevocable?”
“My expert,” he nodded toward Miller, “tells me that, more than likely, what Berry is observing is in fact brain damage. Is it irrevocable? Probably. It’s caused by cells dying. That’s irrevocable. But who’s to say for sure what state those poor bastards are in? Berry is an amateur pilot, not a neurosurgeon. For all we know, Berry could be the son-of-a-bitch who planted the bomb in the first place, although that doesn’t seem too likely.”
Metz nodded. “Well, it certainly looks bad.”
“Very perceptive,” said Johnson. “Thank you for sharing. I’m glad I asked you here.”
Metz decided to play it cool. “Whydid you ask me here?”
Johnson stared at him a long time. He answered, finally, “Evans called you because you’re in the emergency handbook.”
Metz looked pointedly around the empty room.
Johnson smiled to himself. Metz was a sharp customer. He was playing hard to get. “All right, I wanted some assurances from you, Mr. Insurance Man. First of all, are we completely covered for this type of thing?”
“You would seem to be. Your hull carrier will cover the damage to the aircraft, of course. But everything else is our potential responsibility.”
Johnson didn’t like “seem” or “potential.” He said, “Including any claims that arise if the Straton smacks into San Francisco? Everything it hits? Everybody on the ground?”
“That’s basically correct.”
Johnson paced for a few seconds. He hadn’t gotten the bad news that Metz wanted to give him, because he hadn’t yet asked the right questions. He looked up at Metz. “Can your company afford this?”
Metz gave a barely perceptible shrug.
Johnson stopped pacing. A chill ran up his spine. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that no one can answer that until the damage is done. It also means that it is the responsibility of the insured to take every reasonable step to minimize the loss. It also means that Trans-United Airlines had better be able to prove that the accident was not a direct result of negligence on its part. It—”
“Wait a goddamned minute. First of all, you’dbetter have the money. Secondly, weare trying to minimize the loss. That’s what we’re here to do. Thirdly, there wasno negligence on …” But even as he said it, Johnson wondered again if any of his recent cutbacks in maintenance could have contributed to the accident—or could be made to look that way by some lawyer.
“Someone with a bomb slipped through your security. Maybe Berry. You almost said so yourself.”
Johnson took a step toward Metz, then turned to Miller. “Call the legal department, Jack. Then escort Mr. Metz out of here.”
Metz realized he had pushed too far. “Wait. There are a few things I’d like to speak to you about first.” He nodded toward Miller. “Privately.”
Before Johnson could respond, there was a knock at the door. All three men turned.
Dennis Evans stood on the other side of the glass, nervously clutching a piece of paper.
Edward Johnson walked to the door and unlocked it. “What is it, Evans?”
“I’ve got a call about the Straton,” said Evans waving the paper in his hand. “From Air Traffic Control. They can’t contact Flight 52. They want to know if we can contact them on a company frequency. The guy who called, Malone, thought the flight might be having radio trouble.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing, sir. I put him off.” He handed Johnson the piece of paper. “This is his name and phone number. I told him we’d call him back.”
Johnson took the note and stuck it into his pocket. “Okay, Evans. Good work.” He closed the door before Evans could reply. Johnson turned and approached the telephone.
Metz placed himself between Johnson and the phone. “Hold on, Ed. Can’t we have that talk first?”
Johnson was not accustomed to having someone try to intimidatehim . He decided that Wayne Metz was either very brash or very desperate. In either case, he had something on his mind. “I have to call them. It should have been done first thing, only this accident is happening all ass-backwards. Normally, there’d be a search-and-rescue operation heading toward them already. We’re probably going to be in a shit pot of trouble over these delays as it is.”
Jack Miller moved around the men and picked up the phone. “I’ll take the rap for that. Give me the number, Ed. I’ll call.”
Johnson shook his head impatiently. “Don’t be an idiot. I’ll hang Evans with it. He’s the stupid son-of-a-bitch who was supposed to make all the calls.”
“I’m the man in charge.”
“Jack, let me handle it.” Johnson turned and spoke to Metz. “First of all, there was always the possibility that the data-link messages were a hoax. That’s why we delayed in calling. Second, like I said, this accident happened ass-backwards. Air Traffic Control is always the first to find out, and they, in turn, notify the airline involved. Having a distress message come in on the company data-link is highly unusual. Actually, it’s never happened to any airline. It isn’t even covered in the company’s emergency handbook. And don’t forget thatyou asked me not to call any—”
Metz shook his head impatiently. “This FAA business is no concern of mine. I only want to plan our announcement before you make any calls. We should keep the operations and the liability conversations separate. Otherwise, it might compromise our posture in court. I need a minute with you. One minute.”
Johnson looked at Miller. “Jack …”
Miller shook his head. “Now, wait a minute. Flight 52 is my flight, Ed. I have to know what’s going on.”
Johnson put his hand on Miller’s shoulder. “This is just insurance crap, Jack. You don’t want to hear it, because if you do, you’ll be asked about it someday. Give us just one minute.”
Miller looked at the two men. Trans-United was still like a big family—but it had become a family that had something to hide. Miller realized that there was no point in trying to buck Edward Johnson—not on t
his point. “All right …” He walked to the door and left the room.
Johnson rebolted the door, then turned back to Metz. “Okay. You have your minute.”
Metz took a deep breath and sat himself in a chair. “Okay. We’ve got to be very careful from a liability standpoint. We can’t contribute to the problems of the Straton. Legally, we’re better off doing nothing than doing the wrong things.”
“In other words, don’t give them landing instructions?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. The courts and juries have set the precedent. Everyone’s a Monday-morning quarterback. Whatever you do now will be judged later in court and it will be judged by the results of your actions, not your good intentions. In other words, if you talk him down and he crashes, you’re worse off than if you hadn’t tried. Your only obligation as I see it is to mount a rescue operation.”
Johnson looked at Metz. He was saying one thing but meaning something else. “That sounds like bullshit to me. But if that’s true, then we’ve done the right thing so far by sitting on our thumbs and not giving Berry correspondence courses in flying a supersonic jet. And I’ll tell you something else—talking a pilot down by radio is a bitch; talking him into a final approach and landing by data-link is a joke. When I get the chief pilot here and tell him what he has to do, he’ll shit.” He paused. “Of course, with the way my luck has been going, Fitzgerald will pull it off and become an overnight national hero. He and Berry will do the talk-show circuit. Terrific.”
Metz sat up in his chair. “Then there is a chance that the Straton can be landed?”
Johnson shrugged. “There’s always a chance. Stranger things have happened in the air. All kinds of bullshit about God in the copilot’s seat, bombers landing with dead crews, mysterious lights showing the way to the airport in a storm. And don’t forget that Berry may well be an excellent pilot. Who knows?”
Metz nodded. The phone call from Air Traffic Control was something he hadn’t planned on, and he wondered what other surprises were still in store. He had to have more facts. “Why doesn’t Air Traffic Control know where the Straton is? Aren’t they supposed to be watching on radar?”
“There’s no radar that far out over the ocean. Each aircraft determines its own position, then radios it in to ATC. They, in turn, work like a central clearinghouse. They coordinate the flights so that none of them try to fly the same route at the same time. With the Straton 797 it’s very simple. It flies so high that there’s no one else up there except for an occasional Concorde or a military jet. That’s probably why ATC isn’t too excited by the loss of radio contact with 52. There’s nobody up there to conflict with.”
Metz leaned forward in his chair. “Then Air Traffic Control still thinks the Straton is on its normal course and headed for … Where did you say … Japan?”
“Right.” Johnson heard an unmistakable tone of eagerness in Metz’s voice. Clearly, the man was leading up to something, and his first statement about not giving landing instructions was a clue. That bullshit about courts and juries was just a trial balloon. Maybe Metz had something that would lessen their personal liability in this thing.
Metz stared down at the floor. There was an exact psychological moment to go in for the kill, and it had not yet arrived—but it was close. He looked up. “So it’s not unusual to lose radio contact?”
Johnson nodded. “Not too. Radios have problems. I’m told that all sorts of things affect radios at sixty-two thousand feet. Sunspots. The variables of the stratosphere. But all those things are temporary. If contact isn’t established soon, everyone will know there’s been trouble.”
Metz nodded again. “So if ATC can later pinpoint the time of the accident, Trans-United is in trouble?”
Johnson didn’t answer.
Metz let the statement take hold for a few seconds, then changed the subject. “How far out will the Air Traffic Control radar pick up the Straton?”
“Depends on altitude. They’re flying low now. They won’t be seen by radar until they get within fifty miles of the coast.”
“That close?”
“Right. But what the hell does this have to do with my liability coverage, Wayne? You’re like my goddamned automobile insurance broker. Wants to know all about the accident while I want to know when you’re going to pay.”
Metz forced a smile. “It’s all related.”
“Is it?” Johnson could sense that Metz was about to make a proposition, and he tried to look less intimidating and more receptive. He sat down on a high stool and smiled. “What are you getting at, Wayne? Time’s wasting.”
“I can speak freely?”
“Sure. Just cut through all the bullshit and give it to me straight. If it sounds good for Ed Johnson and Trans-United, you probably have a deal. But if it sounds good for Wayne Metz and company, I’m going to toss your ass out of this office. Hurry. I have to call ATC.”
Metz stood. He looked at Ed Johnson for a long time, then spoke softly. “Ed … the Straton has to go down. And it has to go down over the water, not over land. No survivors on the aircraft. No further casualties on the ground.”
Johnson stood also. Metz’s proposition was not a complete surprise. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”
Metz exhaled softly. Johnson had not immediately thrown him out of the office, and that in itself was encouraging. He knew enough to say nothing further.
Johnson turned and faced the Pacific chart. He stared up at it, then looked down at the floor and began pacing. He stopped and stared at Metz. “Okay. I’ll bite. What do we gain if it goes down in the drink?”
Metz knew he was in a position to score. He let the silence drag on, then he spoke. “We gain everything. We save our companies, our jobs, and we insure our future prosperity in this rat race of life.”
“All that? Sounds great. And all we have to do is commit mass murder.”
“This is no joke, Ed.”
“No, it’s not. Murder is no joke.” He paused. “And how would you propose we deep-six that Straton? There are no guided missiles or fighters in our fleet at the moment.”
“We’ll come to that later—if you’re interested.” Metz glanced at the door as though he were offering to leave.
Johnson pretended not to see the offer. “I’m interested. I’m interested in listening.”
Metz nodded. “All right. Listen to this. Beneficial’s liability potential is manageable if those people die. The death benefit wouldn’t be pleasant to pay, but it’s within our calculable exposure. We’ll pay it all, and we won’t involve Trans-United.” He paused. “But … if they come back and that pilot is correct about their condition, our liability is enormous. Beyond enormous. It would bankrupt Beneficial Insurance and—”
“Before they paid all the bills?”
“That’s right. We will be totally liable for each of those three hundred poor bastardsfor the remainder of their lives . And we’d be totally liable to every relative and organization that is dependent on them. Potentially, that liability might span another seventy-five years.”
“And Trans-United might get stuck for the amount you couldn’t pay?”
“That’s right. The amount we couldn’t pay, plus the amount we don’t have to pay because of the limits of liability on your policy. Your limits of liability are very high, but I know you’ll exceed it if that aircraft lands.”
“Maybe it won’t exceed it.”
“I’m talking billions, Ed.Billions . And let me just mention again, without you getting too excited, that Beneficial will undoubtedly subrogate against Trans-United. In other words, we’ll try to stick you with half the bills from the first dollar on by going to court and claiming negligence on your part. And that won’t be too hard to do. The bomb was on the Straton becauseyour people allowed it to be there. There have been cases like this before, you know; Trans-United will be guilty of contributory negligence. Poor security. Poor supervision. Inadequate safeguards. Look at what Lockerbie did to the old Pan Am—it was
what finally drove them out of business. Besides, maybe you’ve done something in your maintenance or engineering programs that’ll look bad in hindsight. You know, the Valujet scenario. Then Beneficial will gang up with the FAA and make you look real bad.”
“I’m not buying that,” Johnson said, but in his heart he knew that it was all true. Even if the basic cause of the accident was an onboard bomb and nothing more, the lawyers and government bureaucrats could still make his maintenance economy program look responsible. Pan Am had some Arabs blow a 747 out of the sky, and eventually it put them out of business. Valujet put the wrong shipment into the cargo compartment of that doomed DC-9 out of Miami, and the FAA shut the airline down a few weeks later forbad maintenance . Metz was absolutely right.
Metz shrugged. “You’re not the jury. And there’s no sense arguing with me. This is the age of liability and automatic fault. Cause and effect. Modern logic says that whenever something goes wrong, then itmust be someone’s fault. Risk avoidance is today’s buzzword. Try to convince a judge and jury that the Straton just ran into a shitload of bad luck and see how sympathetic they’ll be to Trans-United. Picture, if you will, three hundred drooling plaintiffs in the courtroom. We’ll take you right down the tube with us. The FAA would probably ground you—at least for a month or two. It’ll make them look more efficient to the press.”
“Unfortunately, you’re right about that.”
“It’s a tough business. Tougher when you don’t have an insurance pool.”
“We fucked up there, didn’t we?” Johnson said.
“Sure did,” Metz agreed.
Johnson sat heavily into a chair. “You bastard. Okay. You just try to prove negligence, then.”
Metz moved to the door. He put his hand on the knob, then turned to Johnson. “Ed, I’m sorry I suggested such a thing. The best we can hope for now is that the Straton lands with a minimum loss of life on the ground. Just do us all a favor and suggest to ATC that they try to land him at sea, near a rescue ship. San Francisco is a nice town. I wouldn’t want to see a Straton 797 plow through it.”
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