the bodies?”
“Pardon me?”
“The corpses. Where are they putting the corpses?”
I think I’d upset him again. He looked nervous, anyway.
“Uh, I presume they’re taking them somewhere…but I—”
“It’s okay. You can’t do everything. I’ll find out where they are.” I patted him on the back and advised him to get some sleep, then looked around for Tom. He was talking to somebody I thought I recognized. I went over there.
Tom was about to introduce us, when I remembered the guy’s name.
“Ian Carpenter, right? Air Traffic Controllers’ Union?”
He looked pained at the word “union”—they’re a new group, and still pretty sensitive and quite aware that they rated just below Senators and Congress-critters in public esteem. That was a damn shame, in my book, where Air Traffic Controllers rate a bit higher than pilots—who are almost as clannish and self-protective as cops and doctors—and a damn sight higher than union-busting Presidents.
“Association, please,” he said, trying to make a joke out of it. “And you’re Bill Smith. I’ve heard of you.”
“Yeah? Who was handling those two planes when they hit?”
He grimaced. “You want to know what I heard about you? I heard you get right to the point. Okay. His name is Donald Janz. And before you ask, he isn’t a trainee, but he’s not what I’d call a veteran, either.”
We looked each other over. Maybe he knew what I was thinking; I had a pretty good idea what was going through his head. He didn’t want this crash pinned on the ATC’s, and he was afraid I’d see them as an easy target. It’s no secret that the Board has been unhappy about the state of Air Traffic Control for some time now. It’s been years since the mass firings, and the country’s network of air routes still isn’t back to normal. No matter what you may have heard, we’re still training people to fill the spots left vacant by the PATCO strike, and there ain’t no ATC University. They learn on the job, and these days they get shoved into the hotseat a lot quicker than they used to.
“Where’s Janz?”
“He’s at home, and he’s under sedation. Naturally, he’s very upset. I think I heard him talking about finding a lawyer.”
“Naturally. Can you have him here in two hours?”
“Is that an order?”
“I can’t give you orders, Carpenter. I’m asking you. He can bring his lawyer if he wants to. But you know I’ll have to talk to him sooner or later. And you know how rumors get started. If your boy isn’t at fault—and somehow, looking at you, I get the feeling you don’t think he is—isn’t it better to let me hear his story now?”
Tom had been trying to catch my eye, so I glanced over at him and he picked up the spiel without a pause.
“Ian, we’re ninety-nine percent sure the problem wasn’t with the planes. Weather seems unlikely. You been listening to the talk around here. You know what’s been said. It’s pilot error, controller error…or computer error. If you get your man in here, it could go a long way toward getting us off on the right foot.”
Carpenter had glanced up at the mention of computer error;something was smouldering inside the man, but I didn’t know what it was. He looked back at his shoes, still undecided.
“The press is going to want some answers, Carpenter. If they don’t get at least a hint soon, they’ll start to speculate. You know where that’s going to lead.”
He glared at me, but I don’t think I was really the target of his anger.
“All right. I’ll have him here in two hours.”
He turned on his heel and marched away. I looked at Tom.
“What was that all about?”
“He told me the air traffic computer was out when the planes hit. It was the third overload that day.”
“No shit.”
It was too early to tell if it was a break, but it was the first thing I’d heard so far that interested me.
“What the hell time is it, anyway?” I asked Tom.
“I’ve got
“Pardon me?”
“The corpses. Where are they putting the corpses?”
I think I’d upset him again. He looked nervous, anyway.
“Uh, I presume they’re taking them somewhere…but I—”
“It’s okay. You can’t do everything. I’ll find out where they are.” I patted him on the back and advised him to get some sleep, then looked around for Tom. He was talking to somebody I thought I recognized. I went over there.
Tom was about to introduce us, when I remembered the guy’s name.
“Ian Carpenter, right? Air Traffic Controllers’ Union?”
He looked pained at the word “union”—they’re a new group, and still pretty sensitive and quite aware that they rated just below Senators and Congress-critters in public esteem. That was a damn shame, in my book, where Air Traffic Controllers rate a bit higher than pilots—who are almost as clannish and self-protective as cops and doctors—and a damn sight higher than union-busting Presidents.
“Association, please,” he said, trying to make a joke out of it. “And you’re Bill Smith. I’ve heard of you.”
“Yeah? Who was handling those two planes when they hit?”
He grimaced. “You want to know what I heard about you? I heard you get right to the point. Okay. His name is Donald Janz. And before you ask, he isn’t a trainee, but he’s not what I’d call a veteran, either.”
We looked each other over. Maybe he knew what I was thinking; I had a pretty good idea what was going through his head. He didn’t want this crash pinned on the ATC’s, and he was afraid I’d see them as an easy target. It’s no secret that the Board has been unhappy about the state of Air Traffic Control for some time now. It’s been years since the mass firings, and the country’s network of air routes still isn’t back to normal. No matter what you may have heard, we’re still training people to fill the spots left vacant by the PATCO strike, and there ain’t no ATC University. They learn on the job, and these days they get shoved into the hotseat a lot quicker than they used to.
“Where’s Janz?”
“He’s at home, and he’s under sedation. Naturally, he’s very upset. I think I heard him talking about finding a lawyer.”
“Naturally. Can you have him here in two hours?”
“Is that an order?”
“I can’t give you orders, Carpenter. I’m asking you. He can bring his lawyer if he wants to. But you know I’ll have to talk to him sooner or later. And you know how rumors get started. If your boy isn’t at fault—and somehow, looking at you, I get the feeling you don’t think he is—isn’t it better to let me hear his story now?”
Tom had been trying to catch my eye, so I glanced over at him and he picked up the spiel without a pause.
“Ian, we’re ninety-nine percent sure the problem wasn’t with the planes. Weather seems unlikely. You been listening to the talk around here. You know what’s been said. It’s pilot error, controller error…or computer error. If you get your man in here, it could go a long way toward getting us off on the right foot.”
Carpenter had glanced up at the mention of computer error;something was smouldering inside the man, but I didn’t know what it was. He looked back at his shoes, still undecided.
“The press is going to want some answers, Carpenter. If they don’t get at least a hint soon, they’ll start to speculate. You know where that’s going to lead.”
He glared at me, but I don’t think I was really the target of his anger.
“All right. I’ll have him here in two hours.”
He turned on his heel and marched away. I looked at Tom.
“What was that all about?”
“He told me the air traffic computer was out when the planes hit. It was the third overload that day.”
“No shit.”
It was too early to tell if it was a break, but it was the first thing I’d heard so far that interested me.
“What the hell time is it, anyway?” I asked Tom.
“I’ve got
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