Across the radar room, on a direct line, Wayne Tevis took a telephone call from the tower watch chief. A few minutes ago the chief had gone one floor above, into the tower cab, to remain beside the ground controller.
Hanging up, Tevis propelled his chair alongside Keith. “The old man just had word from center. Trans America Two — three minutes from handoff.”
The supervisor moved on to departure control, checking that outward traffic was being routed clear of the approaching flight.
The man on Keith’s left reported that out on the airfield they were still trying frantically to shift the stranded jet blocking runway three zero. They had the engines running, but the airplane wouldn’t move. Keith’s brother (the handoff man said) had taken charge, and if the airplane wouldn’t move on its own, was going to smash it to pieces to clear the runway. But everybody was asking: was there time?
If Mel thought so, Keith reasoned, there probably was. Mel coped, he managed things; he always had. Keith couldn’t cope — at least not always, and never in the same way as Mel. It was the difference between them.
Almost two minutes had gone by.
Alongside Keith, the handoff man said quietly, “They’re coming on the scope.” On the edge of the radarscope Keith could see the double blossom radar distress signal — unmistakably Trans America Two.
Keith swung away from the scope looking for Tevis. The supervisor was at departure control, his back toward Keith.
Keith opened his mouth to call. To his horror, no words came. He tried again … the same.
He realized: It was as in the dream, his nightmare; his voice had failed him … But this was no dream; this was reality!
On a panel above the scope, a flashing white light indicated that Chicago Center was calling. The handoff man picked up a direct line phone and instructed, “Go ahead, center.” He turned a selector, cutting in a speaker overhead so that Keith could hear.
“Lincoln, Trans America Two is thirty miles southeast of the airport. He’s on a heading of two five zero.”
“Roger, center. We have him in radar contact. Change him to our frequency.” The handoff man replaced the phone.
Center, they knew, would now be instructing the flight to change radio frequency, and probably wishing them good luck. It usually happened that way when an aircraft was in trouble; it seemed the least that anyone could do from the secure comfort of the ground. In this isolated, comfortably warm room of low-key sounds, it was difficult to accept that somewhere outside, high in the night and darkness, buffeted by wind and storm, its survival in doubt, a crippled airliner was battling home.
The east arrivals radio frequency came alive. A harsh voice, unmistakably Vernon Demerest’s; Keith hadn’t thought about that until this moment. “Lincoln approach control, this is Trans America Two, maintaining six thousand feet, heading two five zero.”
The handoff man was waiting expectantly. It was Keith’s moment to acknowledge, to take over.
“Lincoln approach control,” the voice from Trans America Two grated again, “where in hell are you?”
Where in hell …
Keith seethed with sudden rage.
The handoff man was looking at Keith curiously. At any moment Trans America Two would call again. Keith knew that he was trapped. Wondering if his voice would work, he keyed his mike.
“Trans America Two,” Keith said, “this is Lincoln approach control. Sorry about the delay. We’re still hoping for runway three zero; we shall know in three to five minutes.”
A growled acknowledgment, “Roger, Lincoln. Keep us informed.”
Keith was concentrating now; the extra level of his mind had closed. He forgot Tevis, his father, Mel, himself. All else was excluded but the problem of Flight Two.
He radioed clearly and quietly, “Trans America Two, you are now twenty-five miles east of the outer marker. Begin descent at your discretion. Start a right turn to heading two six zero …”
One floor above Keith, in the glass-walled tower cab, the ground controller had advised Mel Bakersfeld that handoff from Chicago Center had occurred.
Mel radioed back, “Snowplows and graders have been ordered to move, and clear the Aereo-Mexican aircraft from the runway. Instruct Patroni to shut down all engines immediately. Tell him — if he can, get clear himself; if not, hold on tight. Stand by for advice when runway is clear.”
On a second frequency, the tower chief was already informing Joe Patroni.
15
Even before it happened, Joe Patroni knew he was running out of time.
He had deliberately not started the engines of the Aereo-Mexican 707 until the latest possible moment, wanting the work of clearing under and around the aircraft to continue as long as it could.
When he realized that he could wait no longer, Patroni made a final inspection. What he saw gave him grave misgivings.
The landing gear was still not as clear from surrounding earth, mud, and snow as it should. Nor were the trenches, inclining upward from the present level of the main wheels to the hard surface of the nearby taxiway, as wide or deep as he had wanted. Another fifteen minutes would have done it.
Patroni knew he didn’t have the time.
Reluctantly he ascended the boarding ramp, to make his second attempt at moving the mired aircraft, now with himself at the controls.
He shouted to Ingram, the Aereo-Mexican foreman, “Get everybody clear! We’re starting up.”
From under the aircraft, figures began to move out.
Snow was still falling, but more lightly than for several hours.
Joe Patroni called again from the boarding ramp. “I need somebody with me on the flight deck, but let’s keep the weight down. Send me a skinny guy who’s cockpit qualified.”
He let himself into the aircraft’s forward door.
Inside, through the flight deck windows, Patroni could see Mel Bakersfeld’s airport car, its bright yellow coloring reflected through the darkness. The car was parked on the runway, to the left. Near it was the line of snowplows and graders — a reminder, if he needed one, that he had only a few minutes more.
The maintenance chief had reacted with shocked disbelief when Mel announced his plan to shove the Aereo-Mexican aircraft clear of runway three zero by force, if necessary. The reaction was natural, but was not through indifference to the safety of those aboard Trans America Flight Two. Joe Patroni lived with thoughts of aircraft safety, which was the object of his daily work. It was simply that the idea of reducing an undamaged aircraft to a pile of scrap metal, or something close to it, was near-impossible for him to grasp. In Patroni’s eyes, an aircraft — any aircraft — represented devotion, skill, engineering know-how, hours of labor, and sometimes love. Almost anything was better than its deliberate destruction.
Patroni intended to save the airplane if he could.
Behind him, the fuselage door opened, and slammed closed.
A young mechanic, small and spare, came forward to the flight deck, shedding snow. Joe Patroni had already slipped off his parka and was strapping himself into the left seat.
