Authors: Thomas Kirkwood
“You can climb into the sack with him for all I care. Gentlemen, let’s get this done.”
***
Hutchinson was propped up on the elevated bed watching a college football game. In spite of the bandages, tubes, casts and traction devices, he looked pretty good.
“Who’s playing?” Warner asked.
“Iowa and Purdue, not too interesting.”
“May I turn it off?”
“Sure.”
Warner squeezed the remote. The picture shrank to a bright dot and vanished. “Captain Hutchinson, I’m Frank Warner of the NTSB. This is Mr. Simmons, my colleague. The big guy is Jeremy Little, attorney for ALPA. Don’t get the wrong idea. You’re not being investigated. His presence is a formality. It’s tough being up there in a jet with no power. I know. It happened to me in the Air Force.”
“You probably handled it better than I did.”
“Not exactly,” Warner said, pulling up a chair. “I punched out. I would have done it differently if I’d had the wisdom of hindsight. My plane nearly crashed into a school.” He sat down close to the bed. “When did you lose control?”
“At the very end. When the wing tip caught a wave. We had no information on surface winds or the direction of the sea. When we broke through the low clouds, we had to bank to get the aircraft parallel to the troughs. To tell you the truth, I thought I had it knocked. I was leveling off and preparing to set her down on the backside of a swell when it happened. I waited too long to come out of my turn. I guess I tried to be exactly parallel. I tried to make it too perfect a ditch – and you see the results. I’m prepared to take the blame.”
“Blame for what?” said Warner. “The odds of ditching safely without power in a Seven Five are less than a hundred to one. The odds weren’t with you that day or you wouldn’t have lost both engines.”
“Amen.”
“So, Captain Hutchinson, stop blaming yourself. You are not to blame. We need to move on to more substantive matters.”
“It just hurts to have come so close.”
“I understand. Now, Captain, can you give us any idea why those engines started losing oil? Was there an irregularity you noticed at any stage of the flight that could provide a clue?”
“Look, between you and me, it’s gotta be those maintenance yo-yos at SFO. I’d bet what’s left of my dick there’s some kind of cover-up going on there. Have you checked it out?”
“We have. There’s no cover-up. A supervisor and two line mechanics all saw the O-rings on the sender units when they were installed. We found the discarded parts I.D. numbers in the trash. They matched the computer record of the items requisitioned by the mechanics.”
Hutchinson tried to reposition himself and groaned. Warner helped him turn on his side.
“Thanks,” Hutchinson said. “I don’t necessarily mean the O-rings themselves. I’ve been lying here for thirty hours trying to figure out the same thing you are. This morning I thought of an old incident I’d all but forgotten. I was flying the 727 back in the seventies. It happened on that red-eye from New York to San Francisco, remember it? Stopped in Chicago, Denver and Salt Lake, and could be pretty miserable in winter.”
“I took it more than once,” Warner said. “I was always glad someone else was flying. What happened?”
“We got diverted to Des Moines, a blizzard in Chicago. It was past midnight and the maintenance crews were packing it in. Anyway, I needed the oil topped up in two of my engines. Maintenance got a couple guys out there who looked half asleep. They did the job, the passengers bound for Chicago got off and we continued on to the west. Everything remained uneventful until we reached cruising altitude coming out of Salt Lake City. All of a sudden the engines that had been topped up started pissing oil. Know what caused it?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Those dingbats in Des Moines had dumped in hydraulic fluid by mistake. The stuff ate through the O-rings after a few hours and caused the oil to hemorrhage. I was lucky they hadn’t touched the third engine or we would have ended up in the Sierras.”
“That’s an interesting parallel, Captain. It seems to me I vaguely remember the report of that incident. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself. All the elements of the present crash were there, weren’t they? A few hours of normal operation, then a sudden massive loss of oil.”
“They’re there all right. Can you look at the engines? How much of the wreck did you recover?”
“Floating debris only. The evidence is five thousand feet down. It’s gone, Captain. Which means we’ll have to concentrate on the other end, the maintenance fellows. You’ve certainly given me a fresh hypothesis to test. I appreciate it.”
“You’ll find something at SFO. I’m convinced of that.”
Warner’s cellular telephone, concealed in his briefcase, rang shrilly.
“Hey,” the doctor said, “those things aren’t allowed in this hospital. You could interfere with the operation of sophisticated medical equipment.”
Warner ignored him and took the call. The doctor got to his feet but Warner’s stare froze him on the spot.
Warner listened in disbelief. He rang off and shook his head, looking even more exhausted.
“What is it, chief?” Simmons asked.
Warner took his man aside. “Another Seven Six,” he whispered. “Crashed on take-off at Pittsburgh, two hundred twenty on board. Engine separation. Similar to the Atlanta mishap last spring, except that the aircraft exploded when the engine hit the wing.”
“This is crazy,” Simmons whispered back. “Look at the stats, Frank. From ’83 to Atlanta that’s eleven years – you’ve got a total of one crash involving a 757 or 767. Since last May – that’s what, five months? – you’ve got another three. It just doesn’t add up. There’s something strange going on here.”
“Let’s not speculate, Tim. Our job is to understand what caused each crash. I’m going back to San Francisco. I want you to assemble a Go Team for Pittsburgh.”
Warner returned to Hutchinson’s bedside. “I have to go now, Captain. Thanks again for your help. Give me a call when you get out and I’ll let you know what we found.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Warner. I’d like to get my hands on the bastard who fucked up.”
“So would I.” Warner turned the football game back on and walked out, his thoughts already on the most recent crash. If the aft engine mount had failed again, as it had in Atlanta, he might have his first solid lead.
***
Claussen, back from a brisk swim around the island, listened to the latest radio report of the Pittsburgh crash. Regrets were inevitable, he thought, pouring himself a shot of
Himbeer-geist
. The events of the last months proved beyond doubt that Volkov had underestimated the power of Operation Litvyak. Judging from the ease with which he had caused the disasters in Atlanta, over the Pacific and in Pittsburgh, Claussen no longer had any doubt that the Soviet Union in its prime possessed the capacity to bring American civil aviation to its knees.
If just two dozen modified parts judiciously placed in the parts stream could provoke this degree of havoc, he thought, what would have been the destructive potential of his entire inventory? A hundred crashes the first day the Americans attempted to airlift troops to Europe? Three hundred? Not at all unthinkable, given the involvement of the line mechanics Claussen had recruited with such care.
Volkov had wanted 10,000 American soldiers eliminated before they reached the front; Claussen would have delivered; and rewarded him with a bonus of 40,000 more.
With the publication of his memoirs after he had assumed his long-planned retirement identity in Bolivia, Claussen would have become the towering giant of wartime sabotage. His name would have become synonymous with brilliance, stealth, fearlessness, and the refusal to submit to the credo of the modern world – which was that important work was done by groups, that a single man could no longer make a difference.
Ah, well, he thought, gazing out at his cantankerous geese, it was not to be. He would have to content himself with a paltry dozen or so crashes of no long-term historical significance.
But not so fast, not so fast. These crashes were precisely the proof he needed to make the world believe that Operation Litvyak not only existed but could have effortlessly achieved what it was designed to do. Because of them, his memoirs would be credible. They would be received as the record of a genius at work rather than the rant of a lunatic. That was a benefit he should not despise.
He threw his geese some scraps, slammed the window shut before they distracted his thinking and moved to his roll top desk. He was leaving for Liechtenstein tomorrow to take care of some minor financial matters. It would be a good time to post the letter that represented his checkmate in the power struggle with his employers. He would compose it now; he was in the mood.
Claussen could not help smiling as he drew his pen and wrote:
Dear Georges,
I know you wanted to remain anonymous – it’s only human nature in situations such as these. But I never allow inequality to imbalance and ultimately threaten my working relationships.
Now that I know who you are, I would like to express my thanks to you, your colleague, Mr. Haussmann and, of course, to my old friend, Paul. I am pleased I could be of help to you in a matter that you consider vital to your country’s economic and cultural independence.
I am also pleased to report that everything is proceeding as planned and that you can look forward to a quick and successful conclusion of my assignment.
I want to stress that my knowing who you are in no way increases your risk of exposure. I have no interest in ever divulging a scheme that would take down all four of us. However, as a prudent man, I felt it wise to deliver you from the temptation to eliminate me after I fulfilled my part of the deal.
To this end, I have placed detailed records conclusively establishing your role in this operation with several of my attorneys. Copies of some of the evidence contained in my “files,” such as photographs of the three of you together at the Michelet country home and the visual and audio record of my initial meeting with Paul, will be delivered to you by special courier.
I stress again that my knowledge is harmless as long as your intentions toward me remain honorable. However, should I die or become incapacitated in the next five years
for any reason
, I have asked my attorneys to make your files public.
Take good care of me, gentlemen. It is in my best interest; and also in yours.
cc: Paul Delors
Albert Haussmann
Claussen reread the letter, made two copies, and addressed three envelopes. After sealing the letters, he placed them in the zippered pocket of his briefcase. He stretched and returned to his desk.