Airport (62 page)

“They’re afraid, all right,” Mel said. “If they’ve any sense, and provided they know what’s happening. I’d be afraid, too.”

He was remembering his own fear when he had been trapped in the sinking Navy airplane, long ago. As if triggered by memory, he felt a surge of pain around the old wound in his foot. In the past hour’s excitement he had adjusted to ignoring it, but as always, with tiredness and overstrain, the effect forced itself on him in the end. Mel compressed his lips tightly and hoped that soon the seizure would lessen or pass.

He had been waiting for another gap in ground-to-ground radio exchanges. As one occurred, Mel depressed his mike button once more.

“Mobile one to ground control. Do you have report on how critical is the requirement of the flight in distress for runway three zero?”

“Mobile one, we understand very critical. Is that Mr. Bakersfeld?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Stand by, sir. We’re getting more information now.”

Still driving, nearing runway three zero, Mel waited. What came next would determine whether or not to follow the drastic course of action he was contemplating.

“Ground control to mobile one. Following message just received, via Chicago Center, from flight in question. Message begins. Straight-in course to Lincoln no good if ends on runway two five. Airplane heavily loaded, will be landing very fast…”

The trio in the car listened tensely to the report of Vernon Demerest’s message. At the words, “If we’re brought in on two five there’ll be a broken airplane and dead people,” Mel heard Tanya’s sharp intake of breath, felt her shudder beside him.

He was about to acknowledge when ground control transmitted again.

“Mobile one–Mr. Bakersfeld, there is an addition to previous message, personal to you, from your brotherin-law. Can you reach a phone?”

“Negative,” Mel said. “Read it now, please.”

“Mobile one”–he sensed the controller hesitate–“the language is very personal.”

The controller was aware–as Mel was–that many ears around the airport would be listening.

“Does it concern the present situation?”

“Affirmative.”

“Then read it.”

“Yes, sir. Message begins. ‘You helped make this trouble, you bastard, by not listening to me about airport flight insurance…”

Mel’s mouth tightened, but he waited to the end, then acknowledged non-committally, “Roger, out.” He was sure that Vernon had enjoyed sending the message, as much as anything could be enjoyed aboard Flight Two at present, and would be even more pleased to learn the way it was received.

The extra message was unnecessary, though. Mel had already made his decision on the basis of the first.

His car was now speeding down runway three zero. The circle of floodlights and vehicles surrounding the mired Aéreo-Mexican 707 jet were coming into sight. Mel noted approvingly that the runway was only lightly snow-covered. Despite the blockage of one portion, the remainder had been kept plowed.

He switched his radio to the frequency of airport maintenance.

“Mobile one to Snow Desk.”

“This is Snow Desk.” Danny Farrow’s voice sounded tired, which was not surprising. “Go ahead.”

“Danny,” Mel said, “break the Conga Line. Send the Oshkosh plows and heavy graders across to runway three zero. They’re to head for where the stuck airplane is, and await instructions. Get them started now, then call me back.”

“Roger, wilco.” Danny seemed about to add a question, then apparently changed his mind. A moment later, on the same frequency, the occupants of the car heard him issue orders to the Conga Line convoy leader.

The
Tribune
reporter leaned forward around Tanya.

“I’m still fitting pieces together,” Tomlinson said. “That bit about flight insurance… Your brother-in-law’s an Air Line Pilots Association wheel, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” Mel halted the car on the runway, a few feet short of the circle of lights around the big, stalled aircraft. There was plenty of action, he could see; beneath the aircraft fuselage, and on both sides, men were digging feverishly. The stocky form of Joe Patroni was visible directing activities. In a moment Mel would join him, after the return radio call from Danny Farrow at the Snow Desk.

The reporter said thoughtfully, “I think I heard something awhile back. Didn’t your brother-in-law make a big play to cancel insurance vending here–the way ALPA wants to–and you turned him down?”

“I didn’t turn him down. The airport board did, though I agreed with them.”

“If it isn’t an unfair question, has what’s happened tonight made you change your mind?”

Tanya protested, “Surely this isn’t the time…”

“I’ll answer that,” Mel said. “I haven’t changed my mind, at least not yet. But I’m thinking about it.”

Mel reasoned: the time for a change of heart about flight insurance–if there was to be one–was not now, in the height of emotion and the wake of tragedy. In a day or two, what had occurred tonight would be seen in better perspective. Mel’s own decision–whether to urge the airport board to revise its policy, or not–should be made then. Meanwhile, no one could deny that tonight’s events added strength to Vernon Demerest’s–and the Air Line Pilots Association–arguments.

Possibly, Mel supposed, a compromise might be worked out. An ALPA spokesman once confided to him that the pilots did not expect their anti-airport insurance campaign to be won, either outright or quickly; success would take years and “would have to be cut like bologna–a slice at a time.” One slice at Lincoln International miglit be to prohibit use of non-supervised insurance vending machines, as some airports had already done. One state–Colorado–had outlawed the machines by Legislative Act. Other states, Mel knew, were considering similar legislation, though there was nothing to stop airports, meanwhile, from acting on their own.

It was the insurance vending machine system which Mel liked least, even though D. O. Guerrero’s huge insurance policy tonight had not been bought that way. Then, if over-the-counter sales remained–for a few more years until public opinion could be molded–there would have to be more safeguards…

Even though Mel had resolved not to make a firm decision, it was obvious to himself which way his reasoning was going.

The radio, still tuned to airport maintenance frequency, had been busy with calls between vehicles. Now it announced, “Snow Desk to mobile one.”

Mel responded, “Go ahead, Danny.”

“Four plows and three graders, with convoy leader, are on their way to runway three zero as instructed. What orders, please?”

Mel chose his words carefully, aware that somewhere in an electronic maze beneath the control tower they were being recorded on tape. Later he might have to justify them. He also wanted to be sure there was no misunderstanding.

“Mobile one to Snow Desk. All plows and graders, under direction of convoy leader, will stand by near Aéreo-Mexican aircraft which is blocking runway three zero. Vehicles are not, repeat not, initially to obstruct the aircraft, which in a few minutes will attempt to move under its own power. But if that attempt fails, plows and graders will be ordered in to push the aircraft sideways, and to clear the runway. This will be done at any cost, and with all speed. Runway three zero must be open for use in approximately thirty minutes, by which time the obstructing aircraft and all vehicles must be clear. I will coordinate with air traffic control to decide at what time the plows will be ordered in, if necessary. Acknowledge, and confirm. that these instructions are understood”

Inside the car the reporter, Tomlinson, whistled softly. Tanya turned toward Mel, her eyes searching his face.

On radio there were several seconds’ silence, then Danny Farrow’s voice. “I guess I understand. But I’d better be sure.” He repeated the gist of the message, and Mel could imagine Danny sweating again, as he had been earlier.

“Roger,” Mel acknowledged. “But be clear about one thing. If those plows and graders go in, I’ll give the order; no one else.”

“It’s clear,” Danny radioed. “And better you than me. Mel, I guess you’ve figured what that equipment of ours’ll do to a 707.”

“It’ll move it,” Mel said tersely. “Right now that’s the important thing.” There was, Mel knew, other motorized equipment in Airport Maintenance, capable of the same kind of brute force clearing job; but using the Conga Line units, already on the runways, would be surer and faster. He signed off, and replaced the radio mike.

Tomlinson said incredulously, “Move it! A six-million dollar airplane shoved sideways by snowplows! My God, you’ll tear it to pieces! And afterward, the owners and insurers’ll do the same to you.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Mel said. “Of course, a lot depends on your point of view. If the owners and insurers were on that other flight coming in, they might be cheering.”

“Well,” the reporter conceded, “I’ll grant you there are some decisions take a lot of guts.”

Tanya’s hand reached down beside her and found Mel’s. She said softly, emotion in her voice, “I’m cheering–for what you’re doing now. Whatever happens after, I’ll remember.”

The plows and graders which Mel had summoned were coming into sight, traveling fast down the runway, roof beacons flashing.

“It may never happen.” Mel squeezed Tanya’s hand before releasing it, then opened the car door. “We’ve twenty minutes to hope it won’t.”

WHEN MEL Bakersfeld approached him, Joe Patroni was stomping his feet in an effort to be warm; the effort was largely unsuccessful despite the fleece-lined boots and heavy parka the TWA maintenance chief was wearing. Apart from the brief time Patroni had spent on the aircraft flight deck when the Aéreo-Mexican captain and first officer departed, he had been continuously out in the storm since his arrival on the scene more than three hours ago. As well as being cold and physically tired from his various exertions of the day and night, his failure to move the stranded jet despite two attempts so far, had made his temper ready to erupt.

It almost did, at the news of Mel’s intention.

With anyone else, Joe Patroni would have stormed and ranted. Because Mel was a close friend, Patrord removed the unlighted cigar he had been chewing, and eyed Mel unbelievingly. “Shove an undamaged airplane with snowplows! Are you out of your mind?”

“No,” Mel said. “I’m out of runways.”

Mel fell a momentary depression at the thought that no one in authority, other than himself, seemed to understand the urgency of clearing three zero, at any cost. Obviously, if he went ahead as he intended, there would be few who would support his action afterward. On the other hand, Mel had not the least doubt there would be plenty of people tomorrow with hindsight–including Aéreo-Mexican officials–who would assert he could have done this or that, or that Flight Two should have landed on runway two five after all. Obviously his decision was to be a lonely one. It did not change Mel’s conviction that it should be made.

At the sight of the assembled plows and graders, now deployed in line on the runway, to their right, Patroni dropped his cigar altogether. As he produced another he growled, “I’ll save you from your own insanity. Keep those Dinky Toys of yours out of my hair and away from this airplane. In fifteen minutes, maybe less, I’ll drive it out.”

Mel shouted to make himself heard above the wind and roaring engines of vehicles around them. “Joe, let’s be clear about one thing. When the tower tells us we’re running out of time, that’s it; there’ll be no argument. People’s lives are involved on the flight that’s coming in. If you’ve engines running, they’re to be shut down. At the same time all equipment and the men must move clear immediately. Make sure in advance that all your people understand. The plows will move on my order. If and when they do, they won’t waste time.”

Patroni nodded gloomily. Despite his outburst, Mel thought, the maintenance chief’s usual cocky self-assurance seemed abated.

Mel returned to his car. Tanya and the reporter, huddled in their coats, had been standing outside, watching the work of digging around the aircraft. They got into the car with him, grateful for the warmth inside.

Once more, Mel called ground control on radio, this time asking for the tower watch chief. After a brief pause, the tower chief’s voice came on the air.

In a few words Met explained his intention. What he sought from air traffic control now was an estimate of how long he could wait before ordering the plows and graders to move. Once they did, it would take only minutes to have the obstructing aircraft clear.

“The way it looks now,” the tower chief said, “the flight in question will be here sooner than we thought. Chicago Center expects to hand over to our approach control in twelve minutes from now. After that we’ll be controlling the flight for eight to ten minutes before landing, which would make time of touchdown, at latest, 0128.”

Mel checked his watch in the dim light from the dash. It showed 1:01 A.M.

“A choice of which runway to use,” the tower chief said, “will have to be made no later than five minutes before landing. After that, they’ll be committed; we can’t turn them.”

So what it meant, Mel calculated, was that his own final decision must be made in another seventeen minutes, perhaps less, depending on the handover time from Chicago Center to Lincoln approach control. There was even less time remaining than he had told Joe Patroai.

Mel found he, too, was beginning to sweat.

Should he warn Patroni again, informing him of the reduced time? Mel decided not. The maintenance chief was already directing operations at the fastest pace he could. Nothing would be gained by harassing him further.

“Mobile one to ground control,” Mel radioed. “I’ll need to be kept informed of exact status of the approaching flight. Can we hold this frequency clear?”

“Affirmative,” the tower chief said. “We’ve already moved regular traffic to another frequency. We’ll keep you informed.”

Mel acknowledged and signed off.

Beside him, Tanya asked, “What happens now?”

“We wait.” Mel checked his watch again.

A minute went by. Two.

Outside they could see men working, still digging feverishly near the front and on each side of the mired aircraft. With a flash of headlights, another truck arrived; men jumped down from its tailgate and hastened to join the others. Joe Patroni’s stocky figure was moving constantly, instructing and exhorting.