closing right now.”
“Beyond mid-Atlantic,” the weatherman said, “ everything looks good. There are scattered disturbances across southern Europe, as you can see, but at your altitudes they shouldn’t bother you. Rome is clear and sunny, and should stay that way for several days.”
Captain Demerest leaned over the southern Europe map. “How about Naples?”
The weatherman looked puzzled. “Your flight doesn’t go there.”
“No, but I’m interested.”
“It’s in the same high pressure system as Rome. The weather will be good.”
Demerest grinned.
The young forecaster launched into a dissertation concerning temperatures, and high and low pressure areas, and winds aloft. For the portion of the flight which would be over Canada he recommended a more northerly course than usual to avoid strong headwinds which would be encountered farther south. The pilots listened attentively. Whether by computer or human calculation, choosing the best altitudes and route was like a game of chess in which intellect could triumph over nature. All pilots were trained in such matters; so were company weather forecasters, more attuned to individual airline needs than their counterparts in the U.S. Weather Bureau.
“As soon as your fuel load permits,” the Trans America forecaster said, “I’d recommend an altitude of thirty-three thousand feet.”
The second officer checked his graphs; before N-731-TA could climb that high, they would have to burn off some of their initially heavy fuel load.
After a few moments the second officer reported, “We should be able to reach thirty-three thousand around Detroit.”
Anson Harris nodded. His gold ballpoint pen was racing as he filled in a flight plan which, in a few minutes’ time, he would file with air traffic control. ATC would then tell him whether or not the altitudes he sought were available and, if not, what others he might have. Vernon Demerest, who normally would have prepared his own flight plan, glanced over the form when Captain Harris finished, then signed it.
All preparations for Flight Two, it seemed, were going well. Despite the storm, it appeared as if
It was Gwen Meighen who met the three pilots as they came aboard the aircraft. She asked, “Did you hear?”
Anson Harris said, “Hear what?”
“We’re delayed an hour. The gate agent just had word.”
“Damn!” Vernon Demerest said. “Goddamn!”
“Apparently,” Gwen said, “a lot of passengers are on their way, but have been held up — I guess because of the snow. Some have phoned in, and Departure Control decided to allow them extra time.”
Anson Harris asked, “Is boarding being delayed too?”
“Yes, Captain. The flight hasn’t been announced. It won’t be for another half-hour, at least.”
Harris shrugged. “Oh, well; we might as well relax.” He moved toward the flight deck.
Gwen volunteered, “I can bring you all coffee, if you like.”
“I’ll get coffee in the terminal,” Vernon Demerest said. He nodded to Gwen. “Why don’t you come with me?”
She hesitated. “Well, I could.”
“Go ahead,” Harris said. “One of the other girls can bring mine, and there’s plenty of time.”
A minute or two later, Gwen walked beside Vernon Demerest, her heels clicking as she kept pace with his strides down the Trans America departure wing. They were heading for the main terminal concourse.
Demerest was thinking: the hour’s delay might not be a bad thing after all. Until this moment, with the essential business of Flight Two to think about, he had pushed all thoughts of Gwen’s pregnancy from his mind. But, over coffee and a cigarette, there would be a chance to continue the discussion they had begun earlier. Perhaps, now, the subject which he had not broached before — an abortion — could be brought into the open.
8
Nervously, D. O. Guerrero lit another cigarette from the stub of his previous one. Despite his efforts to control the motion of his hands, they trembled visibly. He was agitated, tense, anxious. As he had earlier, while putting his dynamite bomb together, he could feel rivulets of perspiration on his face and beneath his shirt.
The cause of his distress was time — the time remaining between now and the departure of Flight Two. It was running out, remorselessly, like sand from an hourglass; and much — too much — of the sand was gone.
Guerrero was in a bus en route to the airport. Half an hour ago the bus had entered the Kennedy Expressway, from which point, normally, there would have been a swift, fifteen-minute ride to Lincoln International. But the expressway, like every other highway in the state, was impeded by the storm, and jammed with traffic. At moments the traffic was halted, at other times merely inching along.
Before departure from downtown, the dozen or so bus passengers — all destined for Flight Two — had been told of their flight’s delay by one hour. Even so, at the present rate of progress, it appeared as if it might take another two hours, perhaps three, to get to the airport.
Others in the bus were worried, too.
Like D. O. Guerrero, they had checked in at the Trans America downtown terminal in the Loop. Then, they had been in plenty of time, but now, in view of the mounting delay, were wondering aloud whether Flight Two would wait for them indefinitely, or not.
The bus driver was not encouraging. In reply to questions, he declared that usually, if a bus from a downtown terminal was late, a flight was held until the bus arrived. But when conditions got really bad, like tonight, anything could happen. The airline might figure that the bus would be held up for hours more — as it could be — and that the flight should go. Also, the driver added, judging by the few people in the bus, it looked as if most passengers for Flight Two were out at the airport already. That often happened with international flights, he explained; relatives came to see passengers off, and drove them out by car.
The discussion went back and forth across the bus, though D. O. Guerrero, his spindly body hunched into his seat, took no part in it. Most of the other passengers appeared to be tourists, with the exception of a voluble Italian family — a man and woman with several children — who were talking animatedly in their own language.
“If I were you, folks, I wouldn’t worry,” the bus driver had announced a few minutes earlier. “The traffic ahead looks as if it’s loosenin’ up some. We might just make it.”
So far, however, the speed of the bus had not increased.
D. O. Guerrero had a double seat section, three rows back from the driver, to himself. The all-important attache case was held securely on his lap. He eased forward, as he had done several times already, straining to peer ahead into the darkness beyond the bus; all he could see, through the twin arcs cleared by the big, slapping windshield wipers, was what appeared to be an endless string of vehicle lights, disappearing into the falling snow. Despite his sweating, his pale, thin lips were dry; he moistened them with his tongue.
For Guerrero, “just making it” to the airport in time for Flight Two would simply not do. He needed an extra ten or fifteen minutes, at least, to buy flight insurance. He cursed himself for not having gone out to the airport sooner, and bought the flight insurance he needed in plenty of time. In his original plan, purchasing the insurance at the last minute, and thus minimizing any chance of inquiry, seemed a good idea. What he had not foreseen was the kind of night this had turned out to be — though he ought to have foreseen it, remembering the time of year. It was just that kind of thing — overlooking some significant, variable factor — which had dogged D.O. Guerrero through his business enterprises, and time after time brought grandiose schemes to naught. The trouble was, he realized, whenever he made plans, he convinced himself that everything would go exactly as he hoped; therefore he failed to allow for the unexpected. More to the point, he thought bitterly, he never seemed able to learn from past experience.
He supposed that when he got to the airport — assuming Flight Two had not already left — he could go to the Trans America flight counter and announce himself as being present. Then he would insist on being allowed
