magnetic tape. It would tell us everything from flap settings to engine rpm’s and temperatures. The new FDR’s were a big improvement except for one thing. They were not quite as tough as the old metal-foil machines.
Tom and I stuck around until the workers came up with the second flight recorder, and we lugged them out ourselves. Roger didn’t offer to help, but I didn’t expect him to. The chopper came back and returned us to the other crash site.
* * *
The sun was coming up by the time we got back to the airport.
This time we went in the back door and airport security managed to keep the press away from us. We were shown to the rooms the Oakland Airport had made available to us. There was a small one for the top brass—me and my people—a medium-sized one for the nightly meetings when all the people we’d gathered to investigate the crash got together to exchange findings and compare notes, and a big one, for press conferences. I didn’t give a damn about the latter. Presumably C. Gordon Petcher would be here before long and that was his job. It washis photogenic mug everybody would see on their television sets at six o’clock, not my bleary and unshaven one.
I checked out the facilities, got introduced to liaison people from United, Pan Am, and the airport management, and once again met Kevin Briley. He seemed a lot happier than the last time I ran into him. He dropped a couple of keys into my hand.
“This is to your car, and this is to your hotel room,” he said. “The car is at the Hertz lot, and the room is at the Holiday Inn about a mile from here. You go out the airport access road—”
“Hell, I can find a Holiday Inn, Briley,” I said. “They don’t exactly hide them. You did good. Sorry I jumped on you so hard.”
He looked at his watch.
“It’s 7:15. I told the reporters you’d be talking to them at noon.”
“Me? Hell that’s not my job. Where’s Gordy?”
He obviously didn’t know who I was talking about.
“C. Gordon Petcher.” Still a blank. “Member of the Board. You know, the National Transportation Safety—”
“Oh, of course. Of course.” He rubbed his forehead and I thought he swayed slightly. I realized the guy was at least as tired as I was. Probably more tired; I’d had a few hours sleep at home, and a few on the plane. The crash had happened at 9:11 P.M. , his time, so he’d certainly been awake all night.
“He called,” Briley said. “He won’t be in until later this evening. He said you should handle the noon press briefing.”
“He said…the hell I will. I’ve got a fucking
job
to do, Briley. I don’t have time to smile pretty for the fucking cameras.” I realized I was yelling at the poor stooge again, when I ought to be yelling at Petcher. “Sorry. Listen, you get him on the phone and tell him he’d better get out here. When we start the hearing phase, he’s the big cheese. Technically, he’s in charge of the whole damn thing, but he doesn’t know shit about airplanes and he’s
aware
of his ignorance and he knows damn well that without me and my boys to feed him the stuff we find out he’s going to look like a fool…so for all practical purposes
I’m
in chargehere for the next couple of weeks. And that means he will do his job, which is to suffer the gentlemen of the goddam press gracefully. It’s all he’s good for anyway.”
Briley watched me for a while, wondering, I guess, if I’d get violent.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather tell him yourself?”
I grinned at him. “I’d love to,” I said, “but I’ll have to pass it up. I’ve got to deal with him day-to-day in Washington, and you’re safe out here on the coast. Now where are they stacking the scrap iron?”
“United has a hangar at the north side of the field. They’re bringing everything out there.”
“And the Pan Am?”
“They’re renting space from United. Both planes will be brought there.”
“Good. That’ll be handy. What about
Tom and I stuck around until the workers came up with the second flight recorder, and we lugged them out ourselves. Roger didn’t offer to help, but I didn’t expect him to. The chopper came back and returned us to the other crash site.
* * *
The sun was coming up by the time we got back to the airport.
This time we went in the back door and airport security managed to keep the press away from us. We were shown to the rooms the Oakland Airport had made available to us. There was a small one for the top brass—me and my people—a medium-sized one for the nightly meetings when all the people we’d gathered to investigate the crash got together to exchange findings and compare notes, and a big one, for press conferences. I didn’t give a damn about the latter. Presumably C. Gordon Petcher would be here before long and that was his job. It washis photogenic mug everybody would see on their television sets at six o’clock, not my bleary and unshaven one.
I checked out the facilities, got introduced to liaison people from United, Pan Am, and the airport management, and once again met Kevin Briley. He seemed a lot happier than the last time I ran into him. He dropped a couple of keys into my hand.
“This is to your car, and this is to your hotel room,” he said. “The car is at the Hertz lot, and the room is at the Holiday Inn about a mile from here. You go out the airport access road—”
“Hell, I can find a Holiday Inn, Briley,” I said. “They don’t exactly hide them. You did good. Sorry I jumped on you so hard.”
He looked at his watch.
“It’s 7:15. I told the reporters you’d be talking to them at noon.”
“Me? Hell that’s not my job. Where’s Gordy?”
He obviously didn’t know who I was talking about.
“C. Gordon Petcher.” Still a blank. “Member of the Board. You know, the National Transportation Safety—”
“Oh, of course. Of course.” He rubbed his forehead and I thought he swayed slightly. I realized the guy was at least as tired as I was. Probably more tired; I’d had a few hours sleep at home, and a few on the plane. The crash had happened at 9:11 P.M. , his time, so he’d certainly been awake all night.
“He called,” Briley said. “He won’t be in until later this evening. He said you should handle the noon press briefing.”
“He said…the hell I will. I’ve got a fucking
job
to do, Briley. I don’t have time to smile pretty for the fucking cameras.” I realized I was yelling at the poor stooge again, when I ought to be yelling at Petcher. “Sorry. Listen, you get him on the phone and tell him he’d better get out here. When we start the hearing phase, he’s the big cheese. Technically, he’s in charge of the whole damn thing, but he doesn’t know shit about airplanes and he’s
aware
of his ignorance and he knows damn well that without me and my boys to feed him the stuff we find out he’s going to look like a fool…so for all practical purposes
I’m
in chargehere for the next couple of weeks. And that means he will do his job, which is to suffer the gentlemen of the goddam press gracefully. It’s all he’s good for anyway.”
Briley watched me for a while, wondering, I guess, if I’d get violent.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather tell him yourself?”
I grinned at him. “I’d love to,” I said, “but I’ll have to pass it up. I’ve got to deal with him day-to-day in Washington, and you’re safe out here on the coast. Now where are they stacking the scrap iron?”
“United has a hangar at the north side of the field. They’re bringing everything out there.”
“And the Pan Am?”
“They’re renting space from United. Both planes will be brought there.”
“Good. That’ll be handy. What about
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