not, after all, been needed. But even with the heavy fuel load, they were still within safe takeoff limits, as Second Officer Jordan had just calculated, spreading out his graphs once more, as he would many times tonight and tomorrow before the flight ended.
Both Demerest’s and Harris’s radios were now switched to runway control frequency.
On runway two five, immediately ahead of Trans America, a British VC-10 of BOAC, received word to go. It moved forward, with lumbering slowness at first, then swiftly. Its company colors — blue, white, and gold — gleamed briefly in the reflection of other aircraft’s lights, then were gone in a flurry of whirling snow and black jet exhaust. Immediately the departure controller’s voice intoned, “Trans America Two, taxi into position, runway two five, and hold; traffic landing on runway one seven, left.”
One seven, left, was a runway which directly bisected runway two five. There was an element of danger in using the two runways together, but tower controllers had become adept at spacing aircraft — landing and taking off — so that no time was wasted, but no two airplanes reached the intersection at the same moment. Pilots, uncomfortably aware of the danger of collision when they heard by radio that both runways were in use, obeyed controllers’ orders implicitly.
Anson Harris swiftly and expertly jockeyed Flight Two on to runway two five.
Peering out, through snow flurries, Demerest could see the lights of an airplane, about to touch down on one seven. He thumbed his mike button. “Trans America Two, Roger. In position and holding. We see the landing traffic.”
Even before the landing aircraft had bisected their own runway, the controller’s voice returned. “Trans America Two, cleared for takeoff. Go, man, go!”
The final three words were not in any air traffic control manual, but to controller and pilots they had identical meaning:
Anson Harris had not waited. His outspread fingers slid the four main throttles forward to their full extent. He ordered, “Trim the throttles,” and briefly held his toe brakes on, allowing power to build, as Demerest set pressure ratios evenly for all four engines. The engines’ sound deepened from a steady whine to a thunderous roar. Then Harris released the brakes and N-731-TA leaped forward down the runway.
Vernon Demerest reported to the tower, “Trans America Two on the roll,” then applied forward pressure to the control yoke while Harris used nose wheel steering with his left hand, his right returning to the throttles.
Speed built. Demerest called, “Eighty knots.” Harris nodded, released nose wheel steering and took over the control yoke … Runway lights flashed by in swirling snow. Near crescendo, the big jets’ power surged … At a hundred and thirty-two knots, as calculated earlier, Demerest called out “V-one” — notification to Harris that they had reached “decision speed” at which the takeoff could still be aborted and the aircraft stopped. Beyond V-one the takeoff must continue … Now they were past V-one … Still gathering speed, they hurtled through the runways’ intersection, glimpsing to their right a flash of landing lights of the approaching plane; in mere seconds the other aircraft would cross where Flight Two had just passed. Another risk — skillfully calculated — had worked out; only pessimists believed that one day such a risk might not … As speed reached a hundred and fifty-four knots, Harris began rotation, easing the control column back. The nose wheel left the runway surface; they were in lift-off attitude, ready to quit the ground. A moment later, with speed still increasing, they were in the air.
Harris said quietly, “Gear up.”
Demerest reached out, raising a lever on the central instrument panel. The sound of the retracting landing gear reverberated through the aircraft, then stopped with a thud as the doors to the wheel wells closed.
They were going up fast — passing through four hundred feet. In a moment, the night and clouds would swallow them.
“Flaps twenty.”
Still performing first officer duty, Demerest obediently moved the control pedestal flap selector from thirty degrees to twenty. There was a brief sensation of sinking as the wing flaps — which provided extra lift at takeoff — came partially upward.
“Flaps up.”
Now the flaps were fully retracted.
Demerest noted, for his report later, that at no point during takeoff could he have faulted Anson Harris’s performance in the slightest degree. He had not expected to. Despite the earlier needling, Vernon Demerest was aware that Harris was a top-grade captain, as exacting in performance — his own and others — as Demerest was himself. It was the reason Demerest had known in advance that their flight to Rome tonight would be, for himself, an easy journey.
Only seconds had passed since leaving the ground; now, still climbing steeply, they passed over the runway’s end, the lights below already dimming through cloud and falling snow. Anson Harris had ceased looking out and was flying on instruments alone.
Second Officer Cy Jordan was reaching forward from his flight engineer’s seat, adjusting the throttles to equalize the power of all four engines.
Within the clouds there was a good deal of buffeting; at the outset of their journey, the passengers behind were getting a rough ride. Demerest snapped the “No Smoking” light switch off; the “Fasten Seat Belts” sign would remain on until Flight Two reached more stable air. Later, either Harris or Demerest would make an announcement to the passengers; but not yet. At the moment, flying was more important.
Demerest reported to departure control. “Turning port-side one eight zero; leaving fifteen hundred feet.”
He saw Anson Harris smile at his use of the words “turning portside” instead of “turning left.” The former was correct but unofficial. It was one of Demerest’s own phrases; many veteran pilots had them — a minor rebellion against ATC officialese which nowadays all flying people were supposed to hew to. Controllers on the ground frequently learned to recognize individual pilots by such personal idioms.
A moment later Flight Two received radio clearance to climb to twenty-five thousand feet. Demerest acknowledged while Anson Harris kept the aircraft climbing. Up there in a few minutes from now they would be in clear, calm air, the storm clouds far below, and high above, in sight, the stars.
The “turning portside” phrase
Keith had returned to radar watch more than an hour ago, after the time spent in the controllers’ locker room, alone, remembering the past and reaffirming his intention of tonight.
Several times since then Keith’s hand had gone instinctively into his pocket, touching the key of his covertly rented room at the O’Hagan Inn. Otherwise, he had concentrated on the radarscope in front of him. He was now handling arrivals from the east and the continuing heavy traffic volume demanded intensive concentration.
He was not concerned directly with Flight Two; however, the departure controller was only a few feet away and in a brief interval between his own transmissions Keith heard the “turning portside” phrase and recognized it, along with his brother-in-law’s voice. Until then, Keith had no idea that Vernon Demerest was flying tonight; there was no reason why he should. Keith and Vernon saw little of each other. Like Mel, Keith had never achieved any close rapport with his brother-in-law, though there had been none of the friction between them which marred relations between Demerest and Mel.
Shortly after Flight Two’s departure, Wayne Tevis, the radar supervisor, propelled his castor-equipped chair across to Keith.
“Take five, buddyboy,” Tevis said in his nasal Texan drawl. “I’ll spell you. Your big brother dropped in.”
As he unplugged his headset and turned, Keith made out the figure of Mel behind him in the shadows. He remembered his earlier hope that Mel would not come here tonight; at the time Keith feared that a meeting between the two of them might be more than he could handle emotionally. Now he found that he was glad Mel had come. They had always been good friends as well as brothers, and it was right and proper there should be a leave- taking, though Mel would not know that it was that — at least, until he learned tomorrow.
“Hi,” Mel said. “I was passing by. How have things been?”
Keith shrugged. “I guess, all right.”
“Coffee?” Mel had picked up two take-out coffees from one of the airport restaurants on his way. They were in a paper bag; he offered one of the cups to Keith and took the other himself.
