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Authors: D. F. Jones
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argument.
Malin and four of the agents who had heard Arcasso’s address to the passengers and crew took statements from all except the flight deck personnel. Arcasso spoke to them himself.
Around midnight, with Papa Kilo’s human freight deep in alcoholic or sedated sleep, Arcasso called a meeting in his hotel room. The doctor gave his opinion that, apart from shock, passengers and crew showed only the expected after-effects of a long flight: exhaustion, swollen ankles, a little residual airsickness. As for the dead man, his medical record revealed a chronic heart condition. Shock had simply given him the final push.
Malin and his men had a stack of papers, amounting to practically nothing. The plane had vanished between the dawn radio call and the pilot’s failure to report two hours later. During that time the passengers and the cabin staff were either fast asleep or dozing. Arcasso had no better luck with the flight deck crew. The engineer said that until the captain had cried out at the suddenly bright sky, he’d seen nothing. Pilot and copilot told the same story: They had been on course, the sun rising slowly behind them; then, in the blink of an eye, they were in broad daylight with land visible far below. By sheer reflex action they had gone to emergency procedure. The ship was well below the programmed flight level. The pilot admitted that for a few seconds he’d lost control — he had no idea where the Jumbo had gone. He’d put the plane into a climb back to operating height and made the distress call.
It was the Ilyushin story all over again: in a word, inexplicable. Finally, the chief of the investigation team phoned. The examination of Papa Kilo was not yet completed, but nothing had been found so far.
Malin and Arcasso were left alone in the smoke-filled room. Empty glasses littered the long coffee table, ashtrays overflowed, reports littered the floor. Arcasso sprawled on a couch, dipping now and then into the papers, reading, making notes. Malin was exhausted and sat quietly in a lounge chair, trying to unwind with a cigarette.
With a sudden gesture of disgust, Arcasso threw a report onto the carpet Malin broke the silence.
“There’s not the faintest chance we’ll stop this story, Frank. We have to let those people go. All we’ve gained is a few hours.”
“D’you think I don’t know that? Why d’you think I pulled Joe’s time warp gag?”
Malin rocked gently back and forth, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “A statement has to be released by the Defense Department.”
“Not before we get the passengers home,” warned Arcasso. “If the TV boys get wind of this … ”
“Yeah.” Malin got up. “The big boss isn’t gonna care for this.”
“Who is?” Arcasso mashed a cigar butt savagely. “But he’s had long enough to argue about Joe’s time warp story. D’you have a better idea?”
“We could tell the truth.”
Arcasso regarded him thoughtfully. “You don’t mean that — you know we can’t! Imagine the President getting up and saying ‘Sorry, folks, we don’t know who or what causes ICARUS — but it ain’t us, or the Russians, or any human agency’!”
“The President can stay out of this,” Malin retorted, “the Pentagon takes the rap — we might need the Big Man if there’s another Event. Christ — that would be a real jam!”
“Alvin, we’re in the biggest jam in history, right now! Stop playing devil’s advocate; you know we have to stick to the story, no matter what.” He broke out a fresh cigar. “So the Treasury is out a few million bucks, and we get a little more egg on our face — what’s that compared with the effect the truth would have? Christ! — then the shit would really hit the fan!”
Malin shied away from the possibility. Arcasso was right; the immediate future looked grim enough without unleashing further hysteria. “I’m off to the local office; anything you want passed to Washington?”
“No. I have to stay here —
Malin and four of the agents who had heard Arcasso’s address to the passengers and crew took statements from all except the flight deck personnel. Arcasso spoke to them himself.
Around midnight, with Papa Kilo’s human freight deep in alcoholic or sedated sleep, Arcasso called a meeting in his hotel room. The doctor gave his opinion that, apart from shock, passengers and crew showed only the expected after-effects of a long flight: exhaustion, swollen ankles, a little residual airsickness. As for the dead man, his medical record revealed a chronic heart condition. Shock had simply given him the final push.
Malin and his men had a stack of papers, amounting to practically nothing. The plane had vanished between the dawn radio call and the pilot’s failure to report two hours later. During that time the passengers and the cabin staff were either fast asleep or dozing. Arcasso had no better luck with the flight deck crew. The engineer said that until the captain had cried out at the suddenly bright sky, he’d seen nothing. Pilot and copilot told the same story: They had been on course, the sun rising slowly behind them; then, in the blink of an eye, they were in broad daylight with land visible far below. By sheer reflex action they had gone to emergency procedure. The ship was well below the programmed flight level. The pilot admitted that for a few seconds he’d lost control — he had no idea where the Jumbo had gone. He’d put the plane into a climb back to operating height and made the distress call.
It was the Ilyushin story all over again: in a word, inexplicable. Finally, the chief of the investigation team phoned. The examination of Papa Kilo was not yet completed, but nothing had been found so far.
Malin and Arcasso were left alone in the smoke-filled room. Empty glasses littered the long coffee table, ashtrays overflowed, reports littered the floor. Arcasso sprawled on a couch, dipping now and then into the papers, reading, making notes. Malin was exhausted and sat quietly in a lounge chair, trying to unwind with a cigarette.
With a sudden gesture of disgust, Arcasso threw a report onto the carpet Malin broke the silence.
“There’s not the faintest chance we’ll stop this story, Frank. We have to let those people go. All we’ve gained is a few hours.”
“D’you think I don’t know that? Why d’you think I pulled Joe’s time warp gag?”
Malin rocked gently back and forth, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “A statement has to be released by the Defense Department.”
“Not before we get the passengers home,” warned Arcasso. “If the TV boys get wind of this … ”
“Yeah.” Malin got up. “The big boss isn’t gonna care for this.”
“Who is?” Arcasso mashed a cigar butt savagely. “But he’s had long enough to argue about Joe’s time warp story. D’you have a better idea?”
“We could tell the truth.”
Arcasso regarded him thoughtfully. “You don’t mean that — you know we can’t! Imagine the President getting up and saying ‘Sorry, folks, we don’t know who or what causes ICARUS — but it ain’t us, or the Russians, or any human agency’!”
“The President can stay out of this,” Malin retorted, “the Pentagon takes the rap — we might need the Big Man if there’s another Event. Christ — that would be a real jam!”
“Alvin, we’re in the biggest jam in history, right now! Stop playing devil’s advocate; you know we have to stick to the story, no matter what.” He broke out a fresh cigar. “So the Treasury is out a few million bucks, and we get a little more egg on our face — what’s that compared with the effect the truth would have? Christ! — then the shit would really hit the fan!”
Malin shied away from the possibility. Arcasso was right; the immediate future looked grim enough without unleashing further hysteria. “I’m off to the local office; anything you want passed to Washington?”
“No. I have to stay here —
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