high flyers

Four of the most powerful men in modern media publishing were sitting in conference together on an executive jet.
The jet was 36,000 feet up.
The conference between these titans of the news industry was taking place in utmost secrecy.
They sat around a square table in the plush office section of the plane.
The air itself seemed charged with the aura of raw power.
At one side of the table sat Sir Anthony O'Reilly, President Emeritus of Independent Newspapers.
Next to him hunched a wryly smiling Ted Turner, founder of Time Warner CNN.
In the third chair lounged Rupert Murdoch, his eyes ever watchful and alert, the Chairman and owner of News International.
Finally there was John Fry, Chief Executive of the Johnston Press.
The tycoons had been talking in discretely modulated tones for hours while the plane flew onward into the night.
Normally no one would dare to interrupt them.
Some three hours into the conference the plane dipped suddenly and started to descend.
The pilot's terrified voice came on the intercom.
"We're going down," he screamed. "Engines are failing. If we don't lose weight we're dead."
Tony O'Reilly stood up.
Without a word he strode to the emergency door and opened it.
He looked back at the other billionaires.
In that moment he no longer appeared an old man.
He carried himself now with the unmistakeable gallantry, the indupitable elan, of a knight at arms.
You could see why the Irish had once thought of him as a sort of young prince.
The shock of golden hair.
The cornflower blue eyes.
Tony O'Reilly smiled briefly at his confreres.
"Long live Independent Newspapers!" he cried.
And leapt from the plane.
The descent of the aircraft did indeed lessen slightly.
But presently the pilot was back on the intercom.
"It's not enough," he screeched. "We're still falling. We've got to lose more weight."
With a faint roguish smile Ted Turner climbed to his feet.
He followed O'Reilly's path to the door.
He too turned and looked back.
He was a man who had tasted much of triumph and disaster.
Death for him would be just another adventure.
"Long live CNN," he roared.
And stepped quickly into the abyss.
The plane bucked and rocked as the load lessened.
In a moment the pilot was on the intercom again.
"We're still going down," he shrieked. "It's not enough. We've got to lose more weight."
Rupert Murdoch was on his feet in an instant.
The old Australian cobber knew a thing or two about courage.
His ancestors had carved an empire out of the cruellest terrain on earth.
Murdoch stood at the door.
"Long live the Leinster Leader," he roared.
And he grabbed John Fry by the scruff of the neck and slung him out of the plane.