Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(82)

Mueller steps to an available landline on the desk in front of him. “I can get you the roster. Give me three minutes.”

“Thank you, Dave. If we put that guy on the air and he starts yelling Ba Ba Booey, I’m going to kill somebody.”

Samantha looks around the control room. Half the people are on phones in low voices, lining up experts and eyewitnesses to come on the newscast. The rest are preparing graphics and data for the show, researching information, typing editorial into the prompter to be read by Ken, after Paul has read it over first, though it is mostly just the names of the upcoming guests on the show. There are no scripts for breaking news and the anchor is ad-libbing.

The door behind her is solid metal with no window, so she can’t see the newsroom where Ken is seated in the glass box but she can hear him talking about Saint Elmo’s fire. “A luminous glow appears in the cockpit. It is generated by an electric field, often due to a thunderstorm or volcanic eruption. Sailors through the centuries have talked about it as an omen of bad luck as it would throw off compass headings.”

“Jesus Christ,” says Paul. “Get me somebody from Airbus.”

All of Samantha’s senses are devoted to the absorption of events and none to calculating the passage of time. Then she remembers to tap a text message to the associate lawyer assisting her on the two cases she’s currently working. She’s a litigator and new partner at Davis Polk. She had budgeted ninety minutes for the interview at UBS and now clears more room on her schedule.

A faxed page is handed to Mueller who hands it to the woman who is speaking with the husband of the attendant. Mueller turns to Paul. “You better screen this guy yourself.”

Paul walks around the desk and down the aisle to the woman and takes her phone. He crouches over the paper with the phone to his ear.

Three seconds later he drops the paper from his left hand and raises that arm, clenched fist with extended thumb.

Mueller is standing with arms folded in front of him as though he’s surveying it all from a much greater distance, a faraway hill over a battle fought in preindustrial times when no weapon can reach him. “Jesus, this is TV gold.” Only Samantha hears him. She looks at him, then back to the room.

The room has a heartbeat. The newspeople are having a different experience than the people to whom they are speaking. Under pressure, there’s a shorthand between them, everyone must perform and no mistakes can be made, and it’s when they’re at their best and love their job the most.

Paul sprints up the short aisle, around the corner, and back to his place. He presses the same button in front of him. “Ken, we have a voicemail recording from a flight attendant to her husband in the last seconds of the flight while it was going down. Tease the recording, we’ll have it in one minute.”

Ken responds on air like a nickel in a jukebox. Samantha can’t believe how smooth. He emphasizes the husband-wife relationship and their last words on earth.

The production reminds her of the image of a duck on water. On the surface, calm and beautiful while beneath the surface the bony, orange legs are thrashing like mad.

The pace, intensity, the spoken and unspoken teamwork to make a product with instant gratification. Millions of people not only watch it, they depend on it.

Samantha has the feeling people get when they find what they think they’re supposed to do. Whether the feeling is real or rationalized, it’s the idea that their whole life has been a practice for this calling.

Ken Grant continues. “I must warn you that in a few seconds we will play the recording of a voice message from Sarah Friar, a flight attendant on Air France Flight 477, to her husband, David Friar, in the final seconds of the flight. This recording is tragic and horrifying and you may want to turn down the volume or leave the room.”

No viewer will move and Ken knows it. The screen cuts to a photo of Sarah Friar from her Facebook page and the lower third of the screen reads “Final Words of AF 477 Flight Attendant.”

David, it’s me. If you’re there pick up. I want to talk to you. [pause] Something’s wrong here, on the flight. It might be nothing. But it might be bad. I went to deliver coffee to the cockpit. They were . . . confused in there. Some sort of fight, argument. They ordered me out right away and I couldn’t tell what they were fighting about. Now the plane is flying funny and I have a bad feeling. We’re only a few minutes out but we’re over water.

The recording goes silent for a few seconds.

Oh, God! David, there was a thud. Something banged against the cabin door. I’m on the flight crew phone outside the cockpit. It sounded like a body ran against the cabin door from the inside.

There is a beep as the message ends and a mechanical voice says “Next message.”

David, please get this! We’re not at altitude but we’re standing at sharp angles to the deck. The passengers are starting to realize something is way off.

There is a crack of hard plastic on hard plastic and many voices jump on top of each other but no words can be understood, only that there is fear and distress.

David! [She is yelling now, over yells in the background that are constant and more panicked.] The plane jolted. We’re too low. We’re getting . . . I think we’re getting lower, it’s hard to tell looking out. Mark, can you reach the captain? Try knocking on the door.

A “No” comes through more clearly than the screams.