Airport

“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.”

13

On 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 separated 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, “All 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.”

“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