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 train 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.

A half-dozen blue-and-white police cruisers disgorged officers who opened the cars’ trunks, pulled out silver fire suits and climbed into them. Airport police were cross-trained in fire fighting, Vernon explained. On the station wagon’s DPS radio a stream of orders could be heard.

The fire trucks, supervised by a lieutenant in a yellow sedan, were taking positions on ramps at intervals down the runway’s length. Ambulances summoned from nearby communities were streaming into the airport and assembling nearby, but clear of the runway area.

Partridge had been the first to jump from the station wagon and, standing beside it, was scribbling notes. Broderick, less hurriedly, was doing the same. Minh Van Canh had clambered to the station wagon’s roof and now, standing, his camera ready, was scanning the sky to the north. Behind him was Ken O’Hara, trailing wires and a sound recorder.

Almost at once the stricken inbound flight was visible, about five miles out, with heavy black smoke behind it. Minh raised his camera, holding it steady, one eye tight against the viewfinder.

He was a sturdy, stocky figure, not much more than five feet tall, but with broad shoulders and long, muscular arms. His squarish dark face, pockmarked from a childhood bout with smallpox, held wide brown eyes which looked out impassively, unrevealing of what thoughts might lie behind them. Those who were close to Minh said it took a long time to get to know him.

About some things, though, there was consensus—namely, that Minh was industrious, reliable, honest, and one of the best TV cameramen in the business. His pictures were more than good; they were invariably attention-getting and oftentimes artistic. He had worked for CBA first in Vietnam, as a local recruit who learned his trade from an American cameraman for whom Minh carried equipment amid the jungle fighting. When his mentor was killed after stepping on a land mine, Minh, unaided, carried his body back for burial, then returned with the camera into the jungle where he continued filming. No one at CBA could ever remember hiring him. His employment simply became a fait accompli.

In 1975, with the fall of Saigon imminent, Minh, his wife and two children were among the all-too-few lucky ones airlifted from the U.S. Embassy courtyard by CH-53 military helicopter to the safety of the American Seventh Fleet at sea. Even then Minh filmed it all, and much of his footage was used on the National Evening News.

Now he was filming another aerial story, different but dramatic, whose ending had yet to be determined.

In the viewfinder the shape of the approaching Airbus was becoming clearer. Also clearer was a halo of bright flame on the right side with smoke continuing to stream behind. It was possible to see the fire coming from where an engine had been, and where now only a part of the engine pylon remained. To Minh and others watching, it seemed amazing that the entire airplane had not yet been engulfed.

Inside the station wagon, Vernon had switched on an aviation band radio. Air Traffic Control could be heard speaking with the Airbus pilots. The calm voice of a controller, monitoring their approach by radar, cautioned, “You are slightly below glide path … drifting left of center line … Now on glide path, on center line …”

But the Airbus pilots were clearly having trouble holding altitude and an even course. The plane seemed to be crabbing in, the damaged right wing lower than the left. At moments the plane’s nose veered away; then, as if from urgent efforts in the cockpit, swung back toward the runway. There was an uneven up-and-down movement as at one moment too much height was lost, at the next retrieved, but barely. Those on the ground were asking themselves the tense, unspoken question: Having come this far, would the Airbus make it all the way in? The answer seemed in doubt.

On the radio, the voice of one of the pilots could be heard. “Tower, we have landing-gear problems … hydraulic failure.” A pause. “We are trying the gear down ‘free fall’ … now.”

A fire captain, also listening, had stopped beside them. Partridge asked him, “What does that mean?”

“On big passenger planes there’s an emergency system to get the landing wheels down if hydraulic power is out. The pilots release all hydraulic power so the gear, which is heavy, should fall under its own weight, then lock. But once it’s down they can’t get it up again, even if they want to.”

As the fireman spoke, the Airbus landing gear could be seen slowly coming down.

Moments later, once more the calm voice of an air traffic controller: “Muskegon, we see your gear down. Be advised that flames are close to the right front gear.”

It was obvious that if the right front tires were consumed by fire, as seemed probable, that side of the landing gear might collapse on impact, skewing the airplane to the right at high speed.

Minh, fondling a zoom lens, had his camera running. He too could see the flames which had now reached the tires. The Airbus was floating over the airport boundary … Then it was closer in, barely a quarter mile from the runway … It was going to make it to the ground, but the fire was greater, more intense, clearly being fed by fuel, and two of the four right-side tires were burning, the rubber melting … There was a flash as one of the tires exploded.

Now the burning Airbus was over the runway, its landing speed 150 mph. As the aircraft passed the waiting emergency vehicles, one by one they swung onto the runway, following at top speed, tires screaming. Two yellow foam trucks were the first to move, the other fire trucks close behind.

On the runway, as the airplane’s landing gear made contact with the ground, another right-side tire exploded, then another. Suddenly all right tires disintegrated … the wheels were down to their rims. Simultaneously there was a banshee screech of metal, a shower of sparks, and a cloud of dust and cement fragments rose into the air … Somehow, miraculously, the pilots managed to hold the Airbus on the runway … It seemed to continue a long way and for a long time … At last it stopped. As it did, the fire flared up.

Still moving fast, the fire trucks closed in, within seconds pumping foam. Gigantic whorls of it piled up with incredible speed, like a mountain of shave cream.

On the airplane, several passenger doors were opening, escape slides tumbling out. The forward door was open on the right side, but on that side fire was blocking the mid-fuselage exits. On the left side, away from the fire, another forward door and a mid-fuselage door were open. Some passengers were already coming down the slides.

But at the rear, where there were two escape doors on each side, none had so far opened.

Through the three open doors, smoke from inside the airplane was pouring out. Some passengers were already on the ground. The latest ones emerged coughing, many vomiting, all gasping for fresh air.

By now the exterior fire was dying down under a mass of foam on one side of the airplane.

Firemen from the RIV’s, wearing silver protective clothing and breathing apparatus, had swiftly moved in and rigged ladders to the unopened rear doors. As the doors were opened manually from outside, more smoke poured out. The firemen hurried inside, intent on extinguishing any interior fire. Other firemen, entering the wrecked Airbus through the forward doors, helped passengers to leave, some of them dazed and weak.

Noticeably, the outward flow of passengers slowed. Harry Partridge made a quick estimate that nearly two hundred people had emerged from the plane’s interior, though from the information he had gathered he knew that 297, including crew, were reportedly aboard. Firemen began to carry some who appeared badly burned—among them two women flight attendants. Smoke was still drifting from inside, though less of it than earlier.

Minh Van Canh continued to videotape the action around him, thinking only professionally, excluding other thoughts, though aware that he was the only cameraman on the scene and in his camera he had something special and unique. Probably not since the Hindenburg airship disaster had a major air crash been recorded visually in such detail, while it happened.

Ambulances had been summoned to the on-site command post. A dozen were already there, with more arriving. Paramedics worked on the injured, loading them onto numbered backboards. Within minutes the crash victims would be on their way to area hospitals alerted to receive them. With the arrival of a helicopter bringing doctors and nurses, the command post near the Airbus was becoming an improvised field hospital with a functioning triage system.

The speed with which everything was happening spoke well, Partridge thought, of the airport’s emergency planning. He overheard the fire captain report that a hundred and ninety passengers, more or less, were out of the Airbus and alive. At the same time that left nearly a hundred unaccounted for.

A fireman, pulling off his respirator to wipe the sweat from his face, was heard to say, “Oh Christ! The back seats are chock full of dead. It must have been where the smoke was thickest.” It also explained why the four rear escape doors had not been opened from inside.

As always with an aircraft accident, the dead would be left where they were until a National Transportation Safety Board field officer, reportedly on the way, gave authority to move them after approving identification procedures.

The flight-deck crew emerged from the Airbus, pointedly declining help. The captain, a grizzled four-striper, looking around him at the injured and already knowing of the many dead, was openly crying. Guessing that despite the casualties the pilots would be acclaimed for bringing the airplane in, Minh held the captain’s grief-stricken face in closeup. It proved to be Minh’s final shot as a voice called, “Harry! Minh! Ken! Stop now. Hurry! Bring what you’ve got and come with me. We’re feeding to New York by satellite.”

The voice belonged to Rita Abrams, who had arrived on a Public Information shuttle bus. Some distance away, the promised mobile satellite van could be seen. The van’s satellite dish, which folded like a fan for travel, was being opened and aimed skyward.

Accepting the order, Minh lowered his camera. Two other TV crews had arrived on the same shuttle bus as Rita—one from KDLS, the CBA affiliate—along with print press reporters and photographers. They and others, Minh knew, would carry the story on. But only Minh had the real thing, the crash exclusive pictures, and he knew with inward pride that today and in days to come, his pictures would be seen around the world and would remain a piece of history.

They went with Vernon in the PIO station wagon to the satellite van. On the way Partridge began drafting the words he would shortly speak. Rita told him, “Make your script a minute forty-five. As soon as you’re ready, cut a sound track, do a closing standup. Meanwhile, I’ll feed quick and dirty to New York.”

As Partridge nodded acknowledgment, Rita glanced at her watch: 5:43 P.M., 6:43 in New York. For the first-feed National Evening News, there was barely fifteen minutes left of broadcast time.

Partridge was continuing to write, mouthing words silently, changing what he had already written. Minh handed two precious tape cassettes to Rita, then put a fresh cassette in the camera, ready for Partridge’s audio track and standup close.

Vernon dropped them immediately alongside the satellite van. Broderick, who had come too, was going on to the terminal to phone his own report to New York. His parting words were, “Thanks, guys. Remember, if you want the in-depth dope tomorrow, buy the Times.”

O’Hara, the high-technology buff, regarded the equipment-packed satellite van admiringly. “How I love these babies!”

The fifteen-foot-wide dish mounted on the van’s platform body was now fully open and elevated with a 20-kilowatt generator running. Inside, in a small control room with editing and transmitting equipment tightly packed in tiers, a technician from the two-man crew was aligning the van’s uplink transmitter with a Ku-band satellite 22,300 miles above them—Spacenet 2. Whatever they transmitted would go to transponder 21 on the satellite, then instantly by downlink to New York to be rerecorded.

Inside the van, working alongside the technician, Rita expertly ran Minh’s tape cassettes through an editing machine, viewing them on a TV monitor. Not surprisingly, she thought, the pictures were superb.

On normal assignments, and working with an editor as an extra team member, producer and editor together would select portions of the tapes, then, over a sound track of a correspondent’s comments, put all components together as a fully edited piece. But that took forty-five minutes, sometimes longer, and today there wasn’t time. So, making fast decisions, Rita chose several of the most dramatic scenes which the technician transmitted as they were—in TV jargon, “quick and dirty.”

Outside the satellite van, seated on some metal steps, Partridge completed his script and, after conferring briefly with Minh and the sound man, recorded a sound track.

Having allowed for the anchorman’s introduction, which would be written in New York and have the story’s up-front facts, Partridge began:

“Pilots in a long-ago war called it comin’ in on a wing and a prayer. There was a song with that name … It’s unlikely anyone will write a song about today.

“The Muskegon Airlines Airbus was sixty miles out from Dallas–Fort Worth … with a near-full passenger load … having come from Chicago … when the mid-air collision happened …”

As always, when an experienced correspondent wrote for TV news, Partridge had written “slightly off the pictures.” It was a specialized art form, difficult to learn, and some in television never quite succeeded. Even among professional writers the talent did not receive the recognition it deserved, because the words were written to accompany pictures and seldom read well alone.

The trick, as Harry Partridge and others like him knew, was not to describe the pictures. A television viewer would be seeing, visually, what was happening on the screen and did not need verbal description. Yet the spoken words must not be so far removed from the pictures as to split the viewer’s consciousness. It was a literary balancing act, much of it instinctive.

Something else TV news people recognized: The best news writing was not in neat sentences and paragraphs. Fragments of sentences worked better. Facts must be taut, verbs strong and active; a script should crackle. Finally, by manner and intonation the correspondent should convey a meaning too. Yes, he or she had to be an excellent reporter, but an actor also. At all those things Partridge was expert, though today he had a handicap: he had not seen the pictures, as a correspondent normally did. But he knew, more or less, what they would be.

Partridge concluded with a standup—himself, head and shoulders, speaking directly to the camera. Behind him, activity was continuing around the wrecked Airbus.

“There is more of this story to come … tragic details, the toll of dead and injured. But what is clear, even now, is that collision dangers are multiplying … on the airways, in our crowded skies … Harry Partridge, CBA News, Dallas–Fort Worth.”

The cassette with the narration and standup was passed to Rita inside the van. Still trusting Partridge, knowing him too well to waste precious time checking, she ordered it sent to New York without review. Moments later, watching and listening as the technician transmitted, she was admiring. Remembering the discussion half an hour earlier in the terminal bar she reflected: with his multitalents, Partridge was demonstrating why his pay was so much higher than that of the reporter for the New York Times.

Outside, Partridge was performing still one more of a correspondent’s duties—an audio report, spoken from notes and largely ad-libbed, for CBA Radio News. When the TV transmission was finished, that would go to New York by satellite too.