"John Varley - Millennium" - читать интересную книгу автора (Varley John)

me was trying to digest an accident bigger than Tenerife.
Outsiders might think we're talking about places when we mention Chicago, Paris,
Everglades, and so forth. We're not. Chicago is a DC-10 losing an engine on take-off, killing
all aboard. Everglades was an L-1011, a survivor crash, bellying into the swamp while the
crew was troubleshooting a nose-gear light. San Diego was a big, grinning PSA 727 getting
tangled up with a Cessna in Indian Country -- the low elevations swarming with Navajos,
Cherokees, and Piper Cubs. And Canary Islands ...
In 1978, at the Tenerife Airport, Canary islands, an unthinkable thing happened. A fully-
fueled, loaded Boeing 747 began its take-off while another 747 was still on the runway
ahead of it, invisible in thick fog. The two planes collided and burned on the ground, as if
they'd been lumbering city buses in rush-hour traffic instead of sleek, lovely, sophisticated
flying machines.
It was, or had been until I got the phone call, the worst disaster in the history of aviation.
"Where in California, Gordy?"
"Oakland, east of Oakland, in the hills."
"Who was involved?"
"A Pan Am 747 and a United DC-10."
"Mid-air?"
"Yes. Both planes fully loaded. I don't have any definite numbers yet -- "
"Don't worry about it. I think I've got all I need right now. I'll meet you at the airport in
about -- "
"I'll be taking a morning flight out of Dulles," he said. "Mr Ryan suggested I remain here a
few more hours to coordinate the public affairs side of things while -- "
"Sure, sure. Okay. See you around noon."


I was out of the house no more than twenty minutes after I hung up. In that time I had
shaved, dressed, packed, and had a cup of coffee and a Swanson's breakfast of scrambled
eggs and sausage. It was a source of some pride to me that I had never done it faster, even
before the divorce.
 The secret is preparation, establishing habits and never varying from them. You plan your
moves, do what you can beforehand, and when the call comes in you're ready.
So I showered in the downstairs bath instead of the one by the master bedroom, because
that took me through the kitchen where I could punch the pre-programmed button on the
microwave and flip the switch on the Mr Coffee, both of which had been loaded the night
before, drunk or sober. Out of the shower, electric razor in hand, I ate standing up while I
shaved, then carried the razor upstairs and tossed it into the suitcase, which already was full
of underwear, shirts, pants, and toiletries. It was only at that point I had to make my first
decisions of the day, based on where I was going. I have been sent on short notice to the
Mojave Desert and to Mount Erebus, in Antarctica. Obviously you bring different clothes.
The big yellow poncho was already packed; you always prepare for rain at a crash site.
The Oakland hills in December presented no big challenges.
Close and lock the suitcase, pick up the stack of papers on the desk and shove them in
the smaller case which held the items I always had ready for a go-team call: camera, lots of
film, notebook, magnifying glass, flashlight and fresh batteries, tape recorder, cassettes,
calculator, compass. Then down the stairs again, pour a second cup of coffee and carry
everything through the door to the garage -- left open the night before -- hit the garage-
door button with my elbow on the way out, kick the door shut and locked behind me, toss
the suitcase and briefcase into the open trunk, hop in the car, back out, hit the button on
the Genie garage-door picker-upper and watch to make sure it closes all the way.