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  Swift exchanges, jargon-loaded, flowed back and forth.

  “This piece is picture-poor.”

  “Make that copy shorter, pithy.”

  “Tape room: We’re killing ‘16: Corruption.’ But it may come back in if we don’t get Dallas.”

  “The last fifteen seconds of that piece is deadly. We’ll be telling people what they already know.”

  “The old lady in Omaha doesn’t know.”

  “Then she never will. Drop it.”

  “First segment just finished. Have gone to commercial. We’re forty seconds heavy.”

  “What did the competition have from Dallas?”

  “A tell story, same as us.”

  “I need a bumper and cutline fast for ‘Drug Bust.’”

  “Take out that sequence. It does nothing.”

  “What we’re trying to do here is put twelve pounds of shit into a ten-pound bag.”

  An observer unfamiliar with the scene might wonder: Are these people human? Don’t they care? Have they no emotion, no feelings of involvement, not an ounce of grief? Have any of them spared a thought for the nearly three hundred terrified souls on that airplane approaching DFW who may shortly die? Isn’t there anyone here to whom that matters?

  And someone knowledgeable about news would answer: Yes, there are people here to whom it matters, and they will care, maybe right after the broadcast. Or, when some have reached home, the horror of it all will touch them, and depending on how it all turns out, a few may weep. At this moment, though, no one has the time. These are news people. Their job is to record the passing parade, the bad with the good, and to do it swiftly, efficiently, plainly so that—in a news phrase from an older time—“he who runs may read.”

  Therefore at 6:40 P.M., ten minutes into the National Evening News half hour, the key remaining question for those around the Horseshoe and others in the newsroom, studio and control room was: Will there or won’t there be a story soon, with pictures, from DFW?

  2

  For the group of five journalists at Dallas–Fort Worth Airport, the sequence of events had begun a couple of hours earlier and reached a high point at about 5:10 P.M., central daylight time.

  The five were Harry Partridge, Rita Abrams, Minh Van Canh, Ken O’Hara, the CBA crew’s sound man, and Graham Broderick, a foreign correspondent for the New York Times. That same morning, in predawn darkness, they had left El Salvador and flown to Mexico City, then, after delay and a flight change, traveled onward to DFW. Now they were awaiting other flight connections, some to differing destinations.

  All were weary, not just from today’s long journey, but from two months or more of rough and dangerous living while reporting on several nasty wars in unpleasant parts of Latin America.

  While waiting for their flights, they were in a bar in Terminal 2E, one of twenty-four busy bars in the airport. The bar’s decor was mod-utilitarian. Surrounded by an imitation garden wall containing plants, it sported hanging fabric panels overhead in pale blue plaid, lit by concealed pink lighting. The Timesman said it reminded him of a whorehouse he had once been in in Mandalay.

  From their table near a window they could see the aircraft ramp and Gate 20. It was from that gate Harry Partridge had expected to leave, a few minutes from now, on an American Airlines flight to Toronto. But this evening the flight was late and an hour’s delay had just been announced.

  Partridge, a tall and lanky figure, had an untidy shock of fair hair that had always made him look boyish and still did, despite his forty-odd years and the fact that the hair was graying. At this moment he was relaxed and not much caring about flight delays or anything else. He had ahead of him three weeks of R&R, and rest and relaxation were what he sorely needed.

  Rita Abrams’ connecting flight would be to Minneapolis–St. Paul, from where she was headed for a holiday on a friend’s farm in Minnesota. She also had a weekend rendezvous planned there with a married senior CBA official, a piece of information she was keeping to herself. Minh Van Canh and Ken O’Hara were going home to New York. So was Graham Broderick.

  The trio of Partridge, Rita and Minh was a frequent working combination. On their most recent trip, O’Hara had been with them, as sound recordist, for the first time. He was young, pale, pencil-thin, and spent most of his spare time absorbed in electronics magazines; he had one open now.

  Broderick was the odd man out, though he and the TV-ers often covered the same assignments and mostly were on good terms. At this moment, however, the Timesman—rotund, dignified and slightly pompous—was being antagonistic.

  Three of the group had had a little too much to drink. The exceptions were Van Canh, who drank only club soda, and the sound man, who had nursed a beer for a long time and declined more.

  “Listen, you affluent son of a bitch,” Broderick said to Partridge, who had pulled a billfold from his pocket, “I said I’d pay for this round, and so I will.” He put two bills, a twenty and a five, on a waiter’s tray on which three double scotches and a club soda had been delivered. “Just because you pull down twice as much as I do for half the work is no reason to hand the print press charity.”

  “Oh, for chrissakes!” Rita said. “Brod, why don’t you throw away that old cracked record.”

  Rita had spoken loudly, as she sometimes did. Two uniformed officers from the airport’s Department of Public Safety force, which policed DFW, had been walking through the bar; they turned their heads curiously. Observing them, Rita smiled and waved a hand. The officers’ eyes took in the group and, around them, the assortment of cameras and equipment on which the CBA logo was prominent. Both DPS men returned the smile and moved on.

  Harry Partridge, who had been watching, thought: Rita was showing her age today. Even though she exuded a strong sexuality which had drawn many men to her, there were telltale lines on her face; also, the toughness which made her as demanding of herself as of those she worked with came through in imperious little mannerisms, not always attractively. There was recent reason, of course—the strain and heavy work load which she, Harry and the other two had shared through the past two months.

  Rita was forty-three, and six years ago was still appearing on camera as a news correspondent, though far less often than when she was younger and more glamorous. Everyone knew it was a rotten, unfair system that allowed men to continue as correspondents, to keep on facing the camera even when their faces revealed them to be growing older, whereas women couldn’t and were shunted aside like discarded concubines. A few women had tried to fight and beat the system—Christine Craft, a reporter and anchorwoman, pursued the issue through the courts, but had not succeeded.

  But Rita, instead of starting a fight she knew she wouldn’t win, had switched to producing and, behind the camera instead of in front of it, had been triumphantly successful. Along the way she had badgered senior producers into giving her some of the tough foreign assignments which almost always went to men. For a while her male bosses had resisted, then they had given in, and soon Rita was sent automatically—along with Harry—to where the fighting was fiercest and the living hardest.

  Broderick, who had been pondering Rita’s last remark, now said, “It isn’t as if your glamour gang is doing anything important. Every night that tiny news hole has only tooth pickings of all that’s happened in the world. How long is it—nineteen minutes?”

  “If you’re shooting at us sitting ducks,” Partridge said amiably, “at least the print press should get its facts straight. It’s twenty-one and a half.”

  “Leaving seven minutes for commercials,” Rita added, “which, among other things, pay Harry’s excessive salary which turns you green with jealousy.”

  Rita, with her usual bluntness, was on the nose about jealousy, Partridge thought. With print press people, the difference between their own and TV news pay was always a sore point. In contrast with Partridge’s earnings, which were $250,000 a year, Broderick, a first-class, highly competent reporter, probably got $85,000.

  As if his trai
n of thought had not been interrupted, the Timesman continued, “What your entire network news department produces in a day would only fill half of one of our paper’s pages.”

  “A dumb comparison,” Rita shot back, “because everyone knows a picture is worth a thousand words. We have hundreds of pictures and we take people to where the news is so they can see it for themselves. No newspaper in history ever did that.”

  Broderick, holding in one hand the fresh double scotch he had been sipping, waved the other hand dismissingly. “’S not relevant.” The last word gave him trouble; he pronounced it “revelant.”

  It was Minh Van Canh, not usually a great talker, who asked, “Why not?”

  “Because you people are dodos. TV network news is dying. All you ever were was a headline service and now the local stations are taking over even that, using technology to bring in outside news themselves, picking off pieces of you like vultures at a carcass.”

  “Well,” Partridge said, still agreeably relaxed, “there are some who’ve been saying that for years. But look at us. We’re still around, and still strong, because people watch network news for quality.”

  “You’re goddamn right,” Rita said. “And something else you have wrong, Brod, is the notion that local TV news is getting better. It isn’t. It’s getting worse. Some of the people who left networks with high hopes to work in local news have gone back to the networks in disgust.”

  Broderick asked, “Why so?”

  “Because local station managements see news as hype, promotion, massive revenue. They use that new technology you talk about to pander to the lowest viewer tastes. And when they send someone from their news department on a big outside story, it’s usually a kid, out of his depth, who can’t compete with a network reporter’s know-how and backup.”

  Harry Partridge yawned. The thing about this conversation, he realized, was that it was a retread, a game that filled vacant time but required no intellectual effort, and they had indulged in the game many times before.

  Then he became aware of some activity nearby.

  The two DPS officers were still in the bar through which they had moved casually, but had suddenly become attentive and were listening to their walkie-talkies. An announcement was being transmitted. Partridge caught the words, “… condition Alert Two … midair collision … approaching runway one-seven left … all DPS personnel report …” Abruptly, hurrying, the officers left the bar.

  The others in the group had heard too. “Hey!” Minh Van Canh said. “Maybe …”

  Rita jumped up. “I’ll find out what’s happening.” She left the bar hurriedly.

  Van Canh and O’Hara began to gather together their camera and sound gear. Partridge and Broderick did the same with their belongings.

  One of the DPS officers was still in sight. Rita caught up with him near an American Airlines check-in counter, noting that he was youthfully handsome with the physique of a football player.

  “I’m from CBA News.” She showed her network press card.

  His eyes were frankly appraising. “Yes, I know.”

  In other circumstances, she thought briefly, she might have introduced him to the pleasures of an older woman. Unfortunately there wasn’t time. She asked, “What’s going on?”

  The officer hesitated. “You’re supposed to call the Public Information Office—”

  Rita said impatiently, “I’ll do that later. It’s urgent, isn’t it? So tell me.”

  “Muskegon Airlines is in trouble. One of their Airbuses had a midair. It’s coming in on fire. We’re on Alert Two, which means all the emergency stuff is rolling, heading for runway one-seven left.” His voice was serious. “Looks pretty bad.”

  “I want my camera crew out there. Now and fast. Which way do we go?”

  The DPS man shook his head. “If you try it unescorted, you won’t get beyond the ramp. You’ll be arrested.”

  Rita remembered something she had once been told, that DFW airport prided itself on cooperating with the press. She pointed to the officer’s walkie-talkie. “Can you call Public Information on that?”

  “I could.”

  “Do it. Please!”

  Her persuasion worked. The officer called and was answered. Taking Rita’s press card, he read from it, explaining her request.

  A reply came back. “Tell them they must first come to public safety station number one to sign in and get media badges.”

  Rita groaned. She gestured to the walkie-talkie. “Let me speak.”

  The DPS officer pressed a transmit button. He held the radio out.

  She spoke urgently into the built-in mike: “There isn’t time; you must know that. We’re network. We have every kind of credential. We’ll do any paperwork you want afterward. But please, please, get us to the scene now.”

  “Stand by.” A pause, then a new voice with crisp authority. “Okay, get to gate nineteen fast. Ask someone there to direct you to the ramp. Look for a station wagon with flashing lights. I’m on my way to you.”

  Rita squeezed the officer’s arm. “Thanks, pal!”

  Then she was hurrying back toward Partridge and the others who were leaving the bar. Broderick was last. As he left, the New York Times man cast a regretful glance back at the unconsumed drinks for which he had paid.

  Briskly, Rita related what she had learned, telling Partridge, Minh and O’Hara, “This can be big. Go out on the airfield. Don’t waste time. I’ll do some phoning, then come to find you.” She glanced at her watch: 5:20 P.M., 6:20 in New York. “If we’re fast we can make the first feed.” But privately she doubted it.

  Partridge nodded, accepting Rita’s orders. At any time, the relationship between a correspondent and producer was an imprecise one. Officially, a field producer such as Rita Abrams was in charge of an entire crew, including the correspondent, and if anything went wrong on an assignment the producer got the blame. If things went right, of course, the correspondent whose face and name were featured received the praise, even though the producer undoubtedly helped shape the story and contributed to the script.

  However, in the case of a “Big Foot” senior correspondent like Harry Partridge, the official pecking order sometimes got turned around, with the correspondent taking charge and a producer being overawed and sometimes overruled. But when Partridge and Rita worked together, neither gave a damn about status. They simply wanted to send back the best reports that the two of them, in harness, could produce.

  While Rita hurried to a pay phone, Partridge, Minh and O’Hara moved quickly toward gate 19, looking for an exit to the air traffic ramp below. Graham Broderick, quickly sobered by what was happening, was close behind.

  Near the gate was a doorway marked:

  RAMP—RESTRICTED AREA

  EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY

  ALARM WILL SOUND

  No official person was in sight and without hesitation Partridge pushed his way through, the others following. As they clattered down a metal stairway, a loud alarm bell sounded behind them. They ignored it and emerged onto the ramp.

  It was a busy time of day and the ramp was crowded with aircraft and airline vehicles. Suddenly a station wagon appeared, traveling fast, with roof lights flashing. Its tires screeched as it halted at gate 19.

  Minh, who was nearest, opened a door and jumped inside. The others piled in after him. The driver, a slim young black man in a brown business suit, pulled away, driving as swiftly as he had come. Without looking back he said, “Hiya, guys! I’m Vernon—Public Info.”

  Partridge introduced himself and the others.

  Reaching down to the seat beside him, Vernon came up with three green media badges. He passed them back. “These are temp; better clip them on. I already broke some rules, but like your girlfriend said, we ain’t burdened with time.”

  They had left the ramp area, crossed two taxiways and were traveling east on a parallel access road. Two runways were ahead and to the right. Alongside the farther runway, emergency vehicles were assembling.

 
Rita Abrams, in the terminal, was talking on a pay phone with CBA’s Dallas bureau. The bureau chief, she had discovered, already knew of the airport emergency and had been trying to get a local CBA crew to the scene. He learned with delight of the presence of Rita and the others.

  She told him to advise New York, then asked, “What’s our satellite feed situation?”

  “Good. There’s a mobile satellite van on the way from Arlington.”

  Arlington, she learned, was only thirteen miles away. The van, which belonged to a CBA affiliate station, KDLS-TV, had been setting up for a sports broadcast from Arlington Stadium, but now that story had been abandoned and the van dispatched to DFW. The driver and technician would be advised by cellular phone to cooperate with Rita, Partridge and the others.

  The news excited and elated her. There was, she realized, now a good possibility of getting a story and pictures to New York in time for the first-feed National Evening News.

  The station wagon carrying the CBA trio and the Timesman was nearing runway 17L—the figures denoted a magnetic heading of 170 degrees, almost due south; the L showed it to be the left runway of two that were parallel. As at all airports, the designation was in large white characters on the runway surface.

  Still driving fast, Vernon explained, “A pilot in distress gets to choose the runway he wants. Here it’s usually one-seven left. That baby is two hundred feet wide and closest to emergency help.”

  The station wagon halted on a taxiway that intersected 17L and from where the incoming aircraft’s approach and landing would be seen.

  “This will be the on-site command post,” Vernon said.

  Emergency vehicles were still arriving, some converging around them. From the airport’s fire-fighting force were seven yellow trucks—four mammoth Oshkosh M15 foam vehicles, an aerial ladder truck and two smaller Rapid Intervention Vehicles. The foam trucks, riding on giant tires nearly six feet high, with two engines, front and rear, and high-pressure projection nozzles, were like self-contained fire stations. The RIV’s, fast and maneuverable, were designed to go in close and quickly to a burning aircraft.