“briefings” — during which all regional headquarters, bases, and outfield stations were connected through a continent-wide closed-circuit hookup. Directed by a head office vice-president, the briefings were, in fact, critiques and information exchanges on the way the airline had operated during the past twenty-four hours. Senior people throughout the company’s system talked freely and frankly with one another. Operations and sales departments each had their own daily briefing; so did maintenance — the latter, in Patroni’s opinion, by far the most important.
During the maintenance sessions, in which Joe Patroni took part five days a week, stations reported one by one. Where delays in service — for mechanical reasons — had occurred the previous day, those in charge were required to account for them. Nobody bothered making excuses. As Patroni put it: “If you goofed, you say so.” Accidents or failures of equipment, even minor, were reported; the objective, to pool knowledge and prevent recurrence. At next Monday’s session, Patroni would report tonight’s experience with the Aereo-Mexican 707, and his success or failure, however it turned out. The daily discussions were strictly no-nonsense, largely because the maintenance men were tough cookies who knew they couldn’t fool one another.
After each official conference — and usually unknown to senior managements — unofficial ones began. Patroni and others would exchange telephone calls with cronies in maintenance departments of competing airlines. They would compare notes about one another’s daily conferences, passing on whatever information seemed worthwhile. Rarely was any intelligence withheld.
With more urgent matters — especially those affecting safety — word was passed from airline to airline in the same way, but without the day’s delay. If Delta, for example, had a rotor blade failure on a DC-9 in flight, maintenance departments of Eastern, TWA, Continental, and others using DC-9s, were told within hours; the information might help prevent similar failures on other aircraft. Later, photographs of the disassembled engine, and a technical report, would follow. If they wished, foremen and mechanics from other airlines could widen their knowledge by dropping over for a look-see at the failed part, and any engine damage.
Those who, like Patroni, worked in this give-and-take milieu were fond of pointing out that if sales and administration departments of competing airlines had occasion to consult, their people seldom went to one another’s headquarters, but met on neutral ground. Maintenance men, in contrast, visited competitors’ premises with the assurance of a common freemasonry. At other times, if one maintenance department was in trouble, others helped as they were able.
This second kind of help had been sent, tonight, to Joe Patroni.
In the hour and a half since work began in the latest attempt to move the stranded jet from alongside runway three zero, Patroni’s complement of help had almost doubled. He had begun with the original small crew of Aereo-Mexican, supplemented by some of his own people from TWA. Now, digging steadily with the others, were ground crews from Braniff, Pan Am, American, and Eastern.
As the various newcomers had arrived, in an assortment of airline vehicles, it became evident that news of Patroni’s problem had spread quickly on the airport grapevine, and, without waiting to be asked, other maintenance departments had pitched in. It gave Joe Patroni a good, appreciative feeling.
Despite the extra help, Patroni’s estimate of an hour’s preparatory work had already been exceeded. Digging of twin trenches, floored by heavy timbers, in front of the airliner’s main landing gear had gone ahead steadily — though slowly because of the need for all the men working to seek shelter periodically, to warm themselves. The shelter and the warmth, of a sort, were in two crew buses. As the men entered, they beat their hands and pinched their faces, numb from the biting wind still sweeping icily across the snow-covered airfield. The buses and other vehicles, including trucks, snow clearance equipment, a fuel tanker, assorted service cars, and a roaring power cart — most with beacon lights flashing — were still clustered on the taxiway close by. The whole scene was bathed by floodlights, creating a white oasis of snow-reflected light in the surrounding darkness.
The twin trenches, each six feet wide, now extended forward and upward from the big jet’s main wheels to the firmer ground onto which Patroni hoped the airplane could be moved under its own power. At the deepest level of the trenches was a mess of mud beneath snow, which had originally trapped the momentarily strayed airliner. The mud and slush now mingled, but became less viscous as both trenches angled upward. A third trench, less deep, and narrower than the other two, had been dug to allow passage of the nosewheel. Once the firmer ground was reached, the aircraft would be clear of runway three zero, over which one of its wings now extended. It could also be maneuvered with reasonable ease onto the solid surface of the adjoining taxiway.
Now that preparatory work was almost complete, the success of what came next would depend on the aircraft’s pilots, still waiting on the Boeing 707’s flight deck, high above the current activity. What they would have to judge was how much power they could safely use to propel the aircraft forward, without upending it on its nose.
Through most of the time since he arrived, Joe Patroni had wielded a shovel with the rest of the men digging. Inactivity came hard to him. Sometimes, too, he welcomed the chance to keep himself fit; even now, more than twenty years since quitting the amateur boxing ring, he was in better shape physically than most men years his junior. The airline ground crewmen enjoyed seeing Patroni’s cocky, stocky figure working with them. He led and exhorted … “
So far, Joe Patroni had not talked with the captain and first officer, having left that to the Aereo-Mexican foreman, Ingram, who had been in charge before Patroni’s arrival. Ingram had passed up a message on the aircraft interphone, telling the pilots what was happening below.
Now, straightening his back, and thrusting his shovel at Ingram, the maintenance chief advised, “Five minutes more should do it. When you’re ready, get the men and trucks clear.” He motioned to the snow-shrouded airplane. “When this one comes out, she’ll be like a cork from a champagne bottle.”
Ingram, huddled into his parka, still pinched and cold as he had been earlier, nodded.
“While you’re doing that,” Patroni said, “I’ll yak with the fly boys.”
The old-fashioned boarding ramp which had been trundled from the terminal several hours ago to disembark the stranded passengers was still in place near the aircraft’s nose. Joe Patroni climbed the ramp, its steps covered in deep snow, and let himself into the front passenger cabin. He went forward to the flight deck — with relief, lighting his inevitable cigar as he went.
In contrast to the cold and windblown snow outside, the pilots’ cockpit was snug and quiet. One of the communications radios was tuned to soft music of a commercial station. As Patroni entered, the Aereo-Mexican first officer, in shirtsleeves, snapped a switch and the music stopped.
“Don’t worry about doing that.” The chunky maintenance chief shook himself like a bull terrier while snow cascaded from his clothing. “Nothing wrong with taking things easy. After all, we didn’t expect you to come down and shovel.”
Only the first officer and captain were in the cockpit. Patroni remembered hearing that the flight engineer had gone with the stewardesses and passengers to the terminal.
The captain, a heavyset, swarthy man who resembled Anthony Quinn, swiveled around in his port-side seat. He said stiffly, “We have our job to do. You have yours.” His English was precise.
“That’s right,” Patroni acknowledged. “Only trouble is, our job gets fouled up and added to. By other people.”
“If you are speaking of what has happened here,” the captain said, “
“No, I don’t.” Patroni discarded his cigar, which was maimed from chewing, put a new one in his mouth, and lit it. “But now it’s there, I want to make sure we get it out — this next time we try. If we don’t, the airplane’ll be in a whole lot deeper; so will all of us, including you.” He nodded toward the captain’s seat. “How’d you like me to sit there and drive it out?”
The captain flushed. Few people in any airline talked as casually to four-stripers as Joe Patroni.
“No, thank you,” the captain said coldly. He might have replied even more unpleasantly, except that at the moment he was suffering acute embarrassment for having got into his present predicament at all. Tomorrow in Mexico City, he suspected, he would face an unhappy, searing session with his airline’s chief pilot. He raged inwardly:
“There’s a lotta half-frozen guys outside who’ve been busting their guts,” Patroni insisted. “Getting out now’s
