Airport (65 page)

On interphone, Ingram’s voice was diminished by a background of wind and jet whine. “Power cart’s clear. So’s everything else down here.”

“Okay,” Patroni shouted back. “Disconnect interphone, and get the hell clear yourself.”

He told his cockpit companion, “Sit tight, son, and hang on.” The maintenance chief shifted his cigar, which contrary to regulations he had lighted a few minutes earlier, so that it was now jauntily in a corner of his mouth. Then, with chunky fingers spread, he eased the four main throttles forward.

With power at midpoint, the clamor of all four engines grew.

Ahead of the aircraft, in the snow, they could see a ground crewman with raised, lighted signal wands. Patroni grinned, “If we come out fast, I hope that guy’s a good runner.”

All brakes were off, flaps slightly down to engender lift. Tbe mechanic held the control yoke back. Patroni worked the rudder controls alternately, hoping by sideways strain to help the airplane forward.

Glancing left, he saw Mel Bakersfeld’s car was still in position. From an earlier calculation, Joe Patroni knew there could be only minutes–perhaps less than a minute–left.

Now, power was past three quarters. From the high-pitched note of engines, he could tell it was more power than the Aéreo-Mexican captain had used during the earlier attempt to get free. Vibration told why. Normally, at this setting, the airplane would be unimpeded, bowling fast down a runway. Because it was not, it was shaking severely, with every portion of its upper area straining forward, resisting the anchoring effect of the wheels below. The airplane’s inclination to stand on its nose was unmistakable. The mechanic glanced uneasily sideways.

Patroni saw the glance and grunted. “She’d better come out now, or she’s a dead duck.”

But the aircraft was not moving. Obstinately, as it had for hours, and through two earlier attempts, it was remaining stuck.

In the hope of rocking the wheels free, Patroni slackened engine power, then increased it.

Still the aircraft failed to move.

Joe Patroni’s cigar, moist from previous chewing, had gone out. Disgustedly, he flung it down and reached for another. His breast pocket was empty; the cigar had been his last.

He swore, and returned his right hand to the throttles. Moving them still farther forward, he snarled, “Come out! Come out, you son of a bitch!”

“Mr. Patroni!” the mechanic warned. “She won’t take much more.”

Abruptly, the overhead radio speakers came alive. The tower chief’s voice. “Joe Patroni, aboard Aéreo-Mexican. This is ground control. We have a message from Mr. Bakersfeld: ‘There is no more time. Stop all engines.’ Repeat–stop all engines.”

Glancing out, Patroni saw the plows and graders were already moving. They wouldn’t close in, he knew, until the aircraft engines were stopped. But he remembered Mel’s warning:
When the tower tells us we’re out of time, there’ll be no argument.

He thought:
Who’s arguing?

The radio again, urgently: “Joe Patroni, do you read? Acknowledge.”

“Mr. Patroni!” the mechanic shouted. “Do you hear? We have to shut down!”

Patroni shouted back, “Can’t hear a damn thing, son. Guess there’s too much noise.”

As any seasoned maintenance man knew, you always had a minute more than the panic-prone sales types in the front office said you had.

In the worst way, though, he needed a cigar. Suddenly Joe Patroni remembered–hours ago, Mel Bakersfeld bet him a box of cigars he couldn’t get this airplane free tonight.

He called across the cockpit, “I gotta stake in this, too. Let’s go for broke.” In a single, swift motion he shoved the throttles forward to their limit.

The din and vibration had seemed great before; now they were overwhelming. The airplane shuddered as if it might fall apart. Joe Patroni kicked the rudder pedals hard again.

Around the cockpit, engine warning lights flashed on. Afterward, the mechanic described the effect as “like a pinball machine at Vegas.”

Now, alarm in his voice, he called, “Exhaust gas temperature seven hundred.”

The radio speakers were still emitting orders, including something about Patroni getting clear himself. He supposed he would have to. IFEs hand tensed to close the throttles.

Suddenly the airplane shifted forward. At first, it moved slowly. Then, with startling speed, they were hurtling toward the taxiway. The mechanic shouted a warning. As Patroni snatched back all four throttles, he commandcd, “Flaps up!” Glancing below and ahead, both men had an impression of blurred figures running.

Fifty feet from the taxiway, they were still moving fast. Unless turned promptly, the airplane would cross the hard surface and roll into piled snow on the other side. As he felt the tires reach pavement, Patroni applied left brakes hard and slammed open the two starboard throttles. Brakes and engines responded, and the aircraft swung sharply left, in a ninety-degree arc. Halfway around, he slid back the two throttles and applied all brakes together. The Aéreo-Mexican 707 rolled forward briefly, then slowed and halted.

Joe Patroni grinned. They had stopped with the aircraft parked neatly, in the center of the taxiway paralleling runway three zero.

The runway, two hundred feet away, was no longer blocked.

IN MEL Bakersfeld’s car, on the runway, Tanya cried, “He’s done it! He’s done it!”

Beside her, Mel was already radioing the Snow Desk, ordering plows and graders to get clear.

Seconds earlier, Mel had been calling angrily to the tower, demanding for the third time that Joe Patroni stop engines immediately. Mel had been assured the messages were relayed, but Patroni ignored them. The heat of Mel’s anger still remained; even now, he could cause Joe Patroni serious trouble for the latter’s failure to obey, or even acknowledge, an airport management order in a matter of urgency and safety. But Mel knew he wouldn’t. Patroni had gotten away with it, and no one with sense quarreled with that kind of success. Also, Mel knew, after tonight there would be one more item to add to the Patroni legend.

The plows and graders were already moving.

Mel switched his radio back to tower frequency. “Mobile one to ground control. Obstructing aircraft has been moved from runway three zero. Vehicles following. I am inspecting for debris.”

Mel shone a spotlight from his car over the runway surface, Tanya and the reporter, Tomlinson, peered with him. Sometimes incidents like tonight’s resulted in work crews leaving tools or debris–a hazard to aircraft taking off or landing. The light showed nothing beyond an irregular surface of snow.

The last of the snowplows was turning off at the nearest intersection. Mel accelerated and followed. All three in the car were emotionally drained from tensions of the past few minutes, but aware that a greater cause for tension was still to come.

As they swung left, behind the plows, Mel reported, “Runway three zero clear and open.”

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T
RANS AMERICA
Flight Two,
The Golden Argosy
, was ten miles out, in cloud, at ftfteen hundred feet.

Anson Harris, after another brief respite, had resumed flying.

The Lincoln International approach controller–with a voice vaguely familiar to Vernon Demerest, though he hadn’t stopped to think about it–had guided them thus far on a series of courses, with gentle turns as they descended.

They had been, both pilots realized, skillfully positioned so that a final commitment toward either of the two possible runways could be made without major maneuvering. But the commitment would have to be made at any moment.

Tension of the pilots grew as that moment approached.

A few minutes earlier, Second Officer Cy Jordan had returned to the flight deck, on Demerest’s orders, to prepare an estimate of gross landing weight, allowing for the fuel they had used, and that remaining. Now, having done everything else necessary at his flight engineer’s position, Jordan had gone back to his emergency landing station in the forward passenger compartment.

Anson Harris, aided by Demerest, had already gone through emergency trim procedures in preparation for landing with their jammed stabilizer.

As they finished, Dr. Compagno appeared briefly behind them. “I thought you’d like to know–your stewardess, Miss Meighen, is holding her own. If we can get her to a hospital soon, I’m fairly sure she’ll come through.”

Demerest, finding it hard to conceal his sudden emotion, had resorted to not speaking. It was Anson Harris who half-turned and acknowledged, “Thank you, Doctor. We’ve only a few minutes to go.”

In both passenger cabins, all precautions which could be taken were complete. The injured, with the exception of Gwen Meighen, had been strapped in seats. Two of the doctors had stationed themselves on either side of Gwen, ready to support her as they landed. Other passengers had been shown how to brace themselves for what might prove an exceptionally heavy landing, with unknown consequences.

The old lady stowaway, Mrs. Quonsett, a little frightened at last, was tightly clutching the hand of her oboe player friend. Weariness, too, was creeping over her from the exertions of an exceedingly full day.

A short time earlier her spirits had been buoyed by a brief message from Captain Demerest, relayed through a stewardess. The captain thanked her, the stewardess said, for what she had done to help; since Mrs. Quonsett had kept her part of their bargain, after they landed Captain Demerest would keep his by arranging passage for her to New York. How wonderful of that dear man, Ada Ouonsett thought, to remember that when he had so much else to think of!… But now she wondered: would she be around to make the trip at all?

Judy, the niece of Customs Inspector Standish, had once more been holding the baby whose parents were in the seats beside her. Now she passed the child back to its mother. The baby–least concerned of anyone aboard the airplane–was asleep.

On the flight deck, in the right-hand seat, Vernon Demerest checked the weight information the second officer had given him against a weight-airspeed plaque on the pilots’ instrument panel. He announced tersely, “Bug speed 150 knots.”

It was the speed at which they must pass over the airfield boundary, allowing both for weight and the jammed stabilizer.

Harris nodded. Looking glum, he reached out to set a warning pointer on his airspeed indicator. Demerest did the same.

Even on the longest runway their landing would be risky.

The speed–more than 170 miles per hour–was diabolically fast for landing. Both pilots knew that it would mean an exceptionally long run after touchdown, with slow deceleration because of their heavy weight. Thus their weight became a dual liability. Yet to approach at anything less than the speed which Demerest had just computed would be suicidal; the aircraft would stall, and plummet earthward out of control.

Demerest reached for his radio mike.

Before he could transmit, the voice of Keith Bakersfeld announced, “Trans America Two, turn right on heading two eight five. Runway three zero is open.”

“Jesus Christ!” Demerest said. “And about time!”

He keyed his mike and acknowledged.

Together, both pilots ran through a pre-landing check list.

There was a “thud” through the airplane as their landing gear went down.

“I’m going in low,” Harris said, “and we’ll touch down early. We’re still going to need every bit of real estate they have down there.”

Demerest grunted agreement. He was peering ahead, straining to penetrate cloud and darkness, to catch a glimpse of the airport lights which must be visible soon. His thoughts, despite his own outward calm, were on the damage to the plane. They still didn’t know exactly how bad it was, or how it might have worsened during the rough flight in. There was that damned great hole; then there would be the heavy, fast landing…
God!– the whole tail assembly might come off…
If it does, Demerest thought, at a hundred and fifty knots we’ve had it…
That son-of-a-bitch who had set off the bomb!
A pity he had died! Demerest would like to have his hands on him now, to personally rip out his stinking life…

Beside him, Anson Harris, making an Instrument Landing System approach, increased the rate of descent from seven hundred to eight hundred feet per minute.

Demerest wished desperately he were flying himself. With anyone else but Harris–with a younger or less senior captain–Demerest would have taken full command. As it was, he couldn’t fault Harris for a thing… He hoped the landing would be the same way… His thoughts went back to the passenger cabin.
Gwen, we’re almost in! Keep on living!
His conviction about their child, that he and Gwen and Sarah would work out something, was as strong as ever.

On radio, Keith Bakersfeld’s voice reported, “Trans America Two, your course and descent look fine. There is medium to light snow on runway. Wind northwest, thirty knots. You are number one to land.”

Seconds later they emerged from cloud to see runway lights dead ahead.

“Lincoln approach control,” Demerest radioed, “we have the runway in sight.”

“Roger, Flight Two.” Relief in the controller’s voice was unmistakable. “The tower clears you to land; monitor their frequency when ready. Good luck, and out.”

Vernon Demerest clicked his mike button twice–an airman’s shorthand “thank you.”

Anson Harris ordered crisply, “Landing lights on. Fifty degrees flap.”

Demerest complied.

They were coming down fast.

Harris warned, “I may need help with rudder.”

“Right.” Demerest set his feet on the rudder pedals. When speed came off, the rudder–because of the destroyed boost mechanism–would be stiff, like a car’s power steering which had failed, only more so. After landing, both pilots might need to exert force, together, to maintain directional control.

They zoomed over the airfield edge, runway lights strung ahead like strands of converging pearls. On either side were piled banks of snow; beyond them, darkness. Harris had made his approach as low as he dared; the nearness to the ground revealed their exceptional speed. To both pilots, the mile and three quarters of runway in front had never looked shorter.