LACKING VIRTUES Read Online Free Page B
Author: Thomas Kirkwood
idea.”
***
Warner stared in silence out a window of the Bell Jet Ranger. If someone had the inclination to loot a shopping mall across town, he thought, there would be no obstacle. Every police car, fire truck and rescue vehicle in the Atlanta metro area seemed to be jammed into the parking lots around the Ford plant.
It had been a direct hit, precisely the sort of thing they had all been dreading since the big jets took to the air. Perhaps the young idealist, Kendall, was right. Perhaps he should have pushed the NTSB to put more pressure on Congress, though he doubted it would have done any good.
Their helicopter flew closer.
The center section of the Taurus assembly line building was a mass of blazing rubble. The fire was still spreading to wings of the plant that had not been hit directly by the plane. Stone and metal were no match for a hundred thousand pounds of aviation fuel.
“Jesus, there’s the tail!” Simmons exclaimed. “Look at that, Frank.”
“Yes, I see it.” The inverted tail section of the 767, with one rudder still attached, loomed like a great wounded beast above the shadows of an outlying lot. The blaze a couple hundred yards away lit up the Delta markings on its aluminum skin. They looked as fresh and reassuring as they did in the TV commercials.
Warner remembered the days when the first people on the site of a crash were the airline paint crews, working in fire and wind to white out the company name. This was a terrible accident, one that would not sit well with the flying public. He imagined the more mercenary corporate souls down in the bowels of Operations scrambling around for paint. They would be too late. He could see at least three separate news crews filming the tail. In 1999 the media beat them all to the punch.
Warner frowned. He had just noticed something that made his blood boil. “Do either one of you see any cops around the tail or the first-impact debris?”
“No cops. TV people and souvenir hunters,” Kendall said. “They’re like vultures.”
“This is unconscionable. The cockpit voice recorder and black box are in the tail. Doesn’t anyone understand we can’t solve a crash without those parts?”
Chapter Three
They entered the terminal building at 11:30 p.m., three hours after the crash. Television news crews roamed the A Concourse like jackals, latching on to anyone who would talk to them. When they recognized Warner and his team, they attacked in a hungry swarm, blocking his progress.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in his flat but authoritative voice, “show the good judgment you ask of your government officials and move out of the way. The first hours of an investigation can be critical. You are impeding our progress, and hence the safety of future air travel. I can’t imagine that will help your ratings. Step aside, please.”
Miraculously they obeyed. Warner had that effect on people, even reporters.
The throng outside the Crown Room, which Delta officials were using as their crisis center, resembled an angry, grieving mob. Relatives and spouses of workers at the Ford plant had joined those who had lost loved-ones in the crash. Rabble rousers shouted down the Delta spokesman, who fielded all questions but refused to give substantive answers. Warner grabbed a cop, showed his I.D. and asked for an escort to the door.
Inside the elegantly appointed room, Delta executives, attorneys, crash investigators and media consultants had organized into groups to deal with the many-headed monster the crisis had spawned. There were decisions that had to be made quickly. How, for example, were they going to keep Delta reservations from plummeting in the days ahead? How could they best show an empathetic corporate face to those who had suffered loss in the crash without appearing to admit guilt – guilt which, if established, could cost the company hundreds of
***
Warner stared in silence out a window of the Bell Jet Ranger. If someone had the inclination to loot a shopping mall across town, he thought, there would be no obstacle. Every police car, fire truck and rescue vehicle in the Atlanta metro area seemed to be jammed into the parking lots around the Ford plant.
It had been a direct hit, precisely the sort of thing they had all been dreading since the big jets took to the air. Perhaps the young idealist, Kendall, was right. Perhaps he should have pushed the NTSB to put more pressure on Congress, though he doubted it would have done any good.
Their helicopter flew closer.
The center section of the Taurus assembly line building was a mass of blazing rubble. The fire was still spreading to wings of the plant that had not been hit directly by the plane. Stone and metal were no match for a hundred thousand pounds of aviation fuel.
“Jesus, there’s the tail!” Simmons exclaimed. “Look at that, Frank.”
“Yes, I see it.” The inverted tail section of the 767, with one rudder still attached, loomed like a great wounded beast above the shadows of an outlying lot. The blaze a couple hundred yards away lit up the Delta markings on its aluminum skin. They looked as fresh and reassuring as they did in the TV commercials.
Warner remembered the days when the first people on the site of a crash were the airline paint crews, working in fire and wind to white out the company name. This was a terrible accident, one that would not sit well with the flying public. He imagined the more mercenary corporate souls down in the bowels of Operations scrambling around for paint. They would be too late. He could see at least three separate news crews filming the tail. In 1999 the media beat them all to the punch.
Warner frowned. He had just noticed something that made his blood boil. “Do either one of you see any cops around the tail or the first-impact debris?”
“No cops. TV people and souvenir hunters,” Kendall said. “They’re like vultures.”
“This is unconscionable. The cockpit voice recorder and black box are in the tail. Doesn’t anyone understand we can’t solve a crash without those parts?”
Chapter Three
They entered the terminal building at 11:30 p.m., three hours after the crash. Television news crews roamed the A Concourse like jackals, latching on to anyone who would talk to them. When they recognized Warner and his team, they attacked in a hungry swarm, blocking his progress.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in his flat but authoritative voice, “show the good judgment you ask of your government officials and move out of the way. The first hours of an investigation can be critical. You are impeding our progress, and hence the safety of future air travel. I can’t imagine that will help your ratings. Step aside, please.”
Miraculously they obeyed. Warner had that effect on people, even reporters.
The throng outside the Crown Room, which Delta officials were using as their crisis center, resembled an angry, grieving mob. Relatives and spouses of workers at the Ford plant had joined those who had lost loved-ones in the crash. Rabble rousers shouted down the Delta spokesman, who fielded all questions but refused to give substantive answers. Warner grabbed a cop, showed his I.D. and asked for an escort to the door.
Inside the elegantly appointed room, Delta executives, attorneys, crash investigators and media consultants had organized into groups to deal with the many-headed monster the crisis had spawned. There were decisions that had to be made quickly. How, for example, were they going to keep Delta reservations from plummeting in the days ahead? How could they best show an empathetic corporate face to those who had suffered loss in the crash without appearing to admit guilt – guilt which, if established, could cost the company hundreds of
Readers choose
Jonathan Moeller
Jane Finnis
Mary Logue
C. L. Murray
A. J. Quinnell
Melody Grace
Jessica Day George
A. R. Wise
Marilyn Todd
L. Douglas Hogan