Airport

Flight Two at the departure gate; if the flight had not yet left the gate, it certainly would within the next few moments. She wondered if the District Transportation Manager was in his office. If the D.T.M. thought the information important, he might notify Captain Demerest by radio while Flight Two was still on the ground and taxiing. Tanya hurried.

The D.T.M. was not in his office, but Peter Coakley was.

Tanya snapped, “What are you doing here?”

The young Trans America agent, whom the little old lady from San Diego had eluded, described sheepishly what had happened.

Peter Coakley had already received one dressing down. The doctor, summoned to the women’s washroom on a fool’s errand, had been articulate and wrathful. Young Coakley clearly expected more of the same from Mrs. Livingston. He was not disappointed.

Tanya exploded, “Damn, damn, damn!” She remonstrated, “Didn’t I warn you she had a barrelful of tricks?”

“Yes, you did, Mrs. Livingston. I guess I …”

“Never mind that now! Get on the phone to each of our gates. Warn them to be on the lookout for an old, innocent-looking woman in black — you know the description. She’s trying for New York, but may go a roundabout way. If she’s located, the gate agent is to detain her and call here. She is not to be allowed on any flight, no matter what she says. While you’re doing that, I’ll call the other airlines.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

There were several telephones in the office. Peter Coakley took one, Tanya another.

She knew by memory the airport numbers of TWA, American, United, and Northwest; all four airlines had direct New York flights. Talking first with her opposite number in TWA, Jenny Henline, she could hear Peter Coakley saying, “Yes, very old … in black … when you see her, you won’t believe it …”

A contest of minds had developed, Tanya realized, between herself and the ingenious, slippery Ada Quonsett. Who, in the end, Tanya wondered, would outwit the other?

For the moment she had forgotten both her conversation with Customs Inspector Standish and her intention to locate the D.T.M.

Aboard Flight Two, Captain Vernon Demerest fumed, “What in hell’s the holdup?”

Engines number three and four, on the starboard side of aircraft N-731-TA, were running. Throughout the airplane their subdued but powerful jet thrumming could be felt.

The pilots had received ramp supervisor’s clearance by interphone, several minutes ago, to start three and four, but were still awaiting clearance to start engines one and two, which were on the boarding side and normally not activated until all doors were closed. A red panel light had winked off a minute or two earlier, indicating that the rear fuselage door was closed and secure; immediately after, the rear boarding walkway was withdrawn. But another bright red light, still glowing, showed that the forward cabin door had not been closed, and a glance backward through the cockpit windows confirmed that the front boarding walkway was still in place.

Swinging around in his right-hand seat, Captain Demerest instructed Second Officer Jordan, “Open the door.”

Cy Jordan was seated behind the other two pilots at a complex panel of instruments and engine controls. Now he half rose and, extending his long, lean figure, released the flight deck door which opened outward. Through the doorway, in the forward passenger section, they could see a half dozen figures in Trans America uniform, Gwen Meighen among them.

“Gwen!” Demerest called. As she came into the flight deck, “What the devil’s happening?”

Gwen looked worried. “The tourist passenger count won’t tally. We’ve made it twice; we still can’t agree with the manifest and tickets.”

“Is the ramp supervisor there?”

“Yes, he’s checking our count now.”

“I want to see him.”

At this stage of any airline flight there was always a problem of divided authority. Nominally the captain was already in command, but he could neither start engines nor taxi away without authorization from the ramp supervisor. Both the captain and ramp chief had the same objective — to make an on-schedule departure. However, their differing duties sometimes produced a clash.

A moment later, the uniformed ramp supervisor, a single silver stripe denoting his rank, arrived on the flight deck.

“Look, chum,” Demerest said, “I know you’ve got problems, but so have we. How much longer do we sit here?”

“I’ve just ordered a ticket recheck, captain. There’s one more passenger in the tourist section than there ought to be.”

“All right,” Demerest said. “Now I’ll tell you something. Every second we sit here we’re burning fuel on three and four,which you gave the okay to start  … precious fuel which we need in the air tonight. So unless this airplane leaves right now, I’m shutting everything down and we’ll send for Fueling to top off our tanks. There’s another thing you ought to know: air traffic control just told us they have a temporary gap in traffic. If we taxi out right away, we can be off the ground fast; in ten minutes from now that may have changed. Now, you make the decision. What’s it to be?”

Torn between dual responsibilities, the ramp supervisor hesitated. He knew the captain was right about burning fuel; yet to stop engines now, and top off tanks, would mean a further half hour’s costly delay on top of the hour which Flight Two was late already. On the other hand, this was an important international flight on which the head count and ticket collection ought to agree. If there was really an unauthorized person aboard, and he was found and taken off, later the ramp supervisor could justify his decision to hold. But if the difference in tallies turned out to be a clerical error — as it might — the D.T.M. would roast him alive.

He made the obvious decision. Calling through the flight deck door, he ordered, “Cancel the ticket recheck. This flight is leaving now.”

As the flight deck door closed, a grinning Anson Harris was on the interphone to a crewman on the ground below. “Clear to start two?”

The reply rattled back, “Okay to start two.”

The forward fuselage door was closed and secured; in the cockpit, its red indicator light winked out.

Number two engine fired and held at a steady roar.

“Okay to start one?”

“Okay to start one.”

The forward boarding walkway, like a severed umbilical cord, was gliding back toward the terminal.

Vernon Demerest was calling ground control on radio for permission to taxi.

Number one engine fired and held.

In the left seat, Captain Harris, who would taxi out and fly the takeoff, had his feet braced on the rudder pedal toe brakes.

It was still snowing hard.

“Trans America Flight Two from ground control. You are clear to taxi …”

The engine tempo quickened.

Demerest thought:Rome … and Naples … here we come!

It was 11P .M., Central Standard Time.

In Concourse “D,” half running, half stumbling, a figure reached gate forty-seven.

Even if there had been breath to ask, questions were unneeded.

The boarding ramps were closed. Portable signs denoting the departure of Flight Two,The Golden Argosy , were being taken down. A taxiing aircraft was leaving the gate.

Helplessly, not knowing what she should do next, Inez Guerrero watched the airplane’s lights recede.