Airport (61 page)

He remembered something about the child–his child–who had been born eleven years ago. For weeks before the birth, he debated with himself whether he should confess his infidelity to Sarah, with the suggestion that they adopt the baby as their own. In the end, his courage had failed him. He dreaded his wife’s shocked reaction; he feared that Sarah would never accept the child, whose presence she would regard as a permanent reproach.

Long after, and too late, he realized he had done Sarali an injustice. True, she would have been shocked and hurt, just as she would be shocked and hurt now, if she learned about Gwen. But afterward, in a short time, Sarah’s habit of coping would have taken over. For all Sarah’s placidity and what Demerest thought of as her dullness, despite her suburban bourgeois activities–the curling Club and amateur oil painting–his wife had a core of sane solidity. He supposed it was why they had stayed married; why, even now, he could not contemplate divorce.

Sarah would have worked something out. She would have made him squirm and suffer for a while, perhaps for a long time. But she would have agreed to the adoption, and the one who would not have suffered at all would have been the child. Sarah would have seen to that; she was that kind of person. He thought: if only…

Demerest said aloud, “Life’s full of goddamned ‘if onlys.’ “

He leveled out at six thousand feet, advancing the throttles to maintain speed. The jet whine rose in pitch.

Harris had been busy changing radio frequencies and–now they had passed the handoff point–reporting to Chicago Center. He asked, “Did you say something?” Demerest shook his head.

The storm’s turbulence was as bad as ever, the aircraft still being thrown around.

“Trans America Two, we have you in radar contact,” a new voice from Chicago Center rasped.

Harris was still attending to communications.

Vernon Demerest reasoned: So far as Gwen was concerned, he might just as well make a decision now.

All right, he decided; he would face Sarah’s tears and denunciations, and perhaps her anger, but he would tell her about Gwen.

He would admit his responsibdity for Gwen’s pregnancy.

At home, the resulting hysteria might last several days and the aftereffects for weeks or even months, during which time he would suffer mightily. But when the worst was over they would work something out. Strangely–and he supposed it showed his confidence in Sarah–he had not the slightest doubt they would.

He had no idea what they might do, and a good deal would depend on Gwen. Despite what the doctor had just said about the seriousness of Gwen’s injuries, Demerest had a conviction she would come through. Gwen had spunk and courage; even unconsciously she would fight to live, and eventually, whatever impairment she suffered, would adjust to it. She would also have her own ideas about the baby. She might not give it up easily or at all. Gwen was not one to be pushed around, or to be told what to do. She did her own thinking.

The result might be that he would have two women on his hands–plus child–instead of one.
That
would take some working out!

It would also pose the question: just how far would Sarah go?

God!–what a mess.

But now that his own first decision was taken, he had the conviction that something good might result. He reflected grimly: For all it was going to cost him, in anguish and hard cash, it better had.

The unwinding altimeter showed they were passing through five thousand feet.

There would be the child, of course. Already be was beginning to think of that part in a new and different way. Naturally, he wouldn’t let himself get sickly sentimental, the way some people–Anson Harris, for example–were about children; but it would be his child, after all. The experience would certainly be new.

What was it Gwen had said in the car on their way to the airport tonight?…
a little Vernon Demerest inside me. If we had a boy we could call him Vernon Demerest, Junior, the way Americans do.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. He chuckled.

Harris glanced sideways. “What are you laughing at?”

Demerest exploded. “I’m not laughing! Why the hell would I laugh? What is there for any of us to laugh about?”

Harris shrugged, “I thought I heard you.”

“That’s the second time you’ve heard things that didn’t happen. After this check ride I suggest you have an ear checkup.”

“There’s no need to be unpleasant.”

“Isn’t there?
Isn’t there?
” Demerest came angrily alert. “Maybe what this whole situation needs is for someone to get unpleasant.”

“If that’s true,” Harris said, “there’s no one better qualified than you.”

“Then when you’re through with damnfool questions, start flying again, and let me talk to those duffers on the ground.”

Anson Harris slid his seat forward. “If you want to, why not?” He nodded. “I have it.”

Relinquishing the controls, Demerest reached for the radio mike. He felt better, stronger, for a decision taken. Now he would contend with more immediate things. He let his voice grate harshly. “Chicago Center, this is Captain Demerest of Trans America Two. Are you still listening down there, or have you taken sleeping pills and quit?”

“This is Chicago Center, Captain. We’re listening, and no one’s quit.” The controllers voice held a note of reproach; Demerest ignored it.

“Then why in blazes aren’t we getting action? This flight is in serious trouble. We need help.”

“Stand by, please.” There was a pause, then a new voice. “This is Chicago Center supervisor. Captain, Trans America Two, I heard your last transmission. Please understand we’re doing everything we can. Before you came into our area we had a dozen people working, clearing other traffic. They’re still doing it. We’re giving you priority, a clear radio frequency, and a straight-in course for Lincoln.”

Demerest barked, “It isn’t enough.” He paused, holding down the mike button, then continued. “Chicago supervisor, listen carefully. A straight-in course to Lincoln is no good if it ends on runway two five, or any runway except three zero. Don’t tell me three zero’s out of use; I’ve heard it already, and I know why. Now, write this down, and see that Lincoln understands it too: This airplane is heavily loaded; we’ll be landing very fast. As well as that, we’ve structural damage including unserviceable stabilizer trim and doubtful rudder control. If we’re broutzht in on two five, there’ll be a broken airplane and dead people before the next hour is over. So call Lincoln, mister, and turn the screws. Tell them I don’t care how they do it–they can blow apart what’s blocking three zero if they have to–but we need that runway. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Trans America Two, we understand very well.” The supervisor’s voice was unruffled, but a shade more human than before. “Your message is being passed to Lincoln now.”

“Good.” Demerest held the transmit button down again. “I have another message. This one is to Mel Bakersfeld, airport General manager at Lincoln. Give him the previous message, then add this–personal from his brother-in-law: ‘You helped make this trouble, you bastard, by not listening to me about airport flight insurance. Now you owe it to me and all others on this flight to climb off your penguin’s butt and get that runway clear.’ “

This time the supervisor’s voice was doubtful. “Trans America Two, we’ve copied your message. Captain, are you sure you want us to use those words?”

“Chicago Center,” Demerest’s voice slammed back, “you’re damn right you’ll use those words! I’m ordering you to send that message–fast, and loud, and clear.”

Go to Next Chapter

Back to Table of Contents

O
N THE GROUND
control radio in his speeding car, Mel Bakersfeld could hear airport emergency vehicles being summoned and positioned.

“Ground control to city twenty-five.”

Twenty-five was the call sign of the airport fire chief.

“This is city twenty-five rolling. Go ahead ground.”

“Further information, Category two emergency in approximately thirty-five minutes. The flight in question is disabled and landing on runway three zero, if runway open. If not open, will use runway two five.”

Whenever they could, airport controllers avoided naming, on radio, an airline involved in any accident, or a potential one, The phrase “the flight in question” was used as a cover. Airlines were touchy about such things, taking the view that the fewer times their name was repeated in that kind of context, the better.

Just the same, Mel was aware, what had happened tonight would get plenty of publicity, most likely worldwide.

“City twenty-five to ground control. Is the pilot requesting foam on runway?”

“No foam. Repeat, no foam.”

The absence of foam meant that the aircraft had serviceable landing gear and would not require a belly landing.

All emergency vehicles, Mel knew–pumpers, salvage trucks, and ambulances–would be following the fire chief, who also had a separate radio channel to communicate with them individually. When an emergency was notified, no one waited. They observed the principle: better to be ready too soon than too late. Emergency crews would now take up position between the two runways, ready to move to either as necessary. The procedure was no improvisation. Every move for situations like this was detailed in an airport emergency master plan.

When there was a break in transmissions, Mel thumbed on his own radio mike.

“Ground control from mobile one.”

“Mobile one, go ahead.”

“Has Joe Patroni, with stalled aircraft on runway three zero, been advised of new emergency situation?”

“Affirmative. We are in radio touch.”

“What is Patroni’s report on progress?”

“He expects to move the obstructing aircraft in twenty minutes.”

“Is he certain?”

“Negative.”

Mel Bakersfeld waited before transmitting again. He was heading across the airfield for the second time tonight, one hand on the wheel, the other on the microphone–driving as fast as he dared in the continued blowing snow and restricted visibility. Taxi and runway lights, guidelines in the dark, flashed by. Beside him on the car’s front seat were Tanya Livingston and the
Tribune
reporter, Tomlinson.

A few minutes ago, when Tanya had handed Mel her note about the explosion aboard Flight Two, and the flight’s attempt to reach Lincoln International, Mel had broken free instantly from the crowd of Meadowood residents. With Tanya beside him, he headed for the elevators which would take him to the basement garage two floors below, and his official airport car. Mel’s place now was on runway three zero, if necessary to take charge. Shouldering his way through the crowd in the main concourse, he had caught sight of the
Tribune
reporter and said tersely, “Come with me.” He owed Tomlinson a favor in return for the reporter’s tip-off about Elliott Freemantle–both the legal contract form and the lawyer’s mendacious statements later, which Mel had been able to repudiate. When Tomlinson hesitated, Mel snapped, “I haven’t time to waste. But I’m giving you a chance you may be sorry for not taking.” Without further questioning, Tomlinson fell in step beside him.

Now, as they drove, Mel accelerating ahead of taxiing aircraft where he could, Tanya repeated the substance of the news about Flight Two.

“Let me get this straight,” Tomlinson said. “There’s only one runway long enough, and facing the right direction?”

Mel said grimly, “That’s the way it is. Even though there should be two.” He was remembering bitterly the proposals he had made, over three successive years, for an additional runway to parallel three zero. The airport needed it. Traffic volume and aircraft safety cried out for implementation of Mel’s report, particularly since the runway would take two years to build. But other influences proved stronger. Money had not been found, the new runway had not been built. Nor had construction–despite Mel’s further pleas–yet been approved.

With a good many projects, Mel could swing the Board of Airport Commissioners his way. In the case of the proposed new runway, he had canvassed them individually and received promises of support, but later the promises were withdrawn. Theoretically, airport commissioners were independent of political pressure; in fact, they owed their appointments to the mayor and, in most cases, were political partisans themselves. If pressure was put on the mayor to delay an airport bond issue because of other projects, similarly financed and more likely to swing votes, the pressure penetrated through. In the case of the proposed new runway it not only penetrated, but three times had proved effective. Ironically, as Mel remembered earlier tonight, triple-decking of the airport’s public parking lots–less necessary, but more visible–had
not
been held up.

Briefly, and in plain words, which until now he had reserved for private sessions, Mel described the situation, including its political overtones.

“I’d like to use all that as coming from you.” Tomlinson’s voice held the controlled excitement of a reporter who knew he was on to a good story. “May I?”

There would be the devil to pay after it appeared in print, Mel realized; he could imagine the indignant telephone calls from City Hall on Monday morning. But someone should say it. The public ought to know how serious the situation was.

“Go ahead,” Mel said. “I guess I’m in a quoting mood.”

“That’s what I thought.” From the far side of the car the reporter regarded Mel quizzically. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you’ve been in great form tonight. Just now, and with the lawyer and those Meadowood people. More like your old self. I haven’t heard you speak out like that in a long while.”

Mel kept his eyes on the taxiway ahead, waiting to pass an Eastern DC-8, which was turning left. But he was thinking: Had his demeanor of the past year or two, the absence of his old fiery spirit, been so obvious that others had noticed it also?

Beside him, close enough so that Mel was conscious of her nearness and warmth, Tanya said softly, “Ali the time we’re talking… about runways, the public, Meadowood, other things… I’m thinking about those people on Flight Two. I wonder how they’re feeling, if they’re afraid.”