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businessman had welded together the 400 or so airlines that
were the loss-making fragments of the once-mighty Soviet
Aeroflot. He had head-hunted ruthlessly for talent, creaming
off the best men and women from the world's airlines,
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and had confounded his critics by turning Commonwealth
Air into the first great commercial success story of the
twenty-first century. At any hour of any day, there was a
Commonwealth 950-seater theatre-body Tupolev TU1000
giant, either landing or taking off at all the world's major
airports.
Luckily the canny Slav always pondered his replies at
length. Paul rose unhurriedly to his feet, smiling as always.
The taciturn Segal was too important a prey to be pounced
on by a pack of press pumas. He thanked the journalists for
their long wait and stressed that the next great event would
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be the roll-out ceremony of Sabre 005 in June, followed by
the start of scheduled services in one year. It was the signal
that the conference was over. The press crews didn't need
much prompting - it had been a long day. Lights were
switched off and there was a swirl of activity as cameras and
equipment were dumped in cases.
Jez saw his opportunity and closed in on Len Allenby and
Simone Frankel but was too late - Jim Curtis, Director of
Terminal 6 Pic, moved more quickly and engaged the Sabre's
flight-deck crew in earnest conversation. But there was
someone else . . .
Paul Santos was exhausted, anxious to avoid off-the-cuff
interviews. He was about to summon his car when the boy
he had noticed earlier spoke to him.
'Mr Santos?'
Paul regarded Jez and decided that he looked in need of
regular meals. He adopted a pleading expression but his
tone was firm. 'Please forgive me, but no more questions.
I've had a most tiring day.' As always, he was extremely
polite. This youngster was probably the son of an airline
VIP.
'Could I trouble you for your autograph please, sir?'
For once Paul's customary poise deserted him. He actually
looked surprised. 'My autograph?'
'If you could sign it 'To Jez' that's J-E-Z, I'd be very grateful, sir.' Jez
could match politeness any day.
'Does your father work for an airline, er - Jez?'
It was Jez's turn to look surprised. 'No, sir - a bank.'
'Are you sure you don't want Sir Richard's autograph?
He's now the oldest man to go into space.'
Jez glanced across the lounge at Sir Richard Branson. His
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retinue were gathered around him, listening with interest to
his account of the flight.
'Jets belong in the past,' said Jez dismissively. 'The Sabre
is the future.'
Paul smiled. 'I don't think he'd like to hear you saying
that. The Sabre is practical only for long-haul flights of
8,000 to 12,000-miles. Eighty per cent of airline passenger
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journeys are less than that. The conventional jet will be with
us for many years to come.'
'But that twenty per cent extra-long-haul traffic represents
a twenty billion a year market,' Jez pointed out. 'And
you only have to sell twenty-five Sabres this year to break
even. From Sabre 030 onwards you'll be running into profit,
provided you get those orders in now. And I'm sure you
will.'
'Only twenty-five!' Paul echoed. He looked hard at Jez's
earnest young face and put his age at about twelve. But this
wasn't a case of a space-besotted youth; this lad had made a
real study of the Sabre. Good for him. 'I only wish others
shared your confidence, Jez,' said Paul regretfully.
'I've got the Sabre flight simulator program on my computer,'
Jez blurted, not wanting this conversation with the
great Paul Santos to end.
'Ha ... Which version?'
'Six, sir.'
Paul smiled and tried not to sound patronising. 'You need
version seven, Jez. There's been a lot of design mods over the
past year.'
'Oh, I know,' said Jez enthusiastically. 'Mostly to do with
weight reduction. I've flown London to Sydney thousands
of times when I'm supposed to be doing homework.'
Paul chuckled. He produced a Sabre pen, signed the
offered autograph book with an expansive flourish and gave
the pen to a delighted Jez.
5
In Seattle, former union boss Joe Yavanoski switched off his
lathe, bit down angrily on his cigar, and glowered at his
workshop TV. He punched the control box. God-damnit,
even the local cable feeds were carrying stories and interviews
about the flight of the Sabre. It had finally happened:
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the god-damned thing had been test flying for years with
hardly any press coverage and had suddenly grabbed every33
one's imagination by unexpectedly flying a load of
passengers from London to Sydney and back in a day.
Hadn't he warned those blind, do-nothing cretins in
Washington that this would happen sooner rather than
later? How many committees had he gone before and laid it
on the line that giving the Euros virtually unlimited access to
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