flying tonight as captain, with Demerest performing first officer duty, Vernon Demerest — as check pilot — had overriding authority if he chose to exercise it.
Now, in response to Harris’s questioning glance, Demerest said brusquely, “You’re in the left seat. What are we waiting for?”
Harris considered only briefly, then announced, “We’ll turn back, but making a wide slow turn; that way, passengers shouldn’t notice. Then we’ll have Gwen Meighen locate this guy they’re worried about, because it’s a sure thing one of us can’t show up in the cabin, or we’ll alert him.” He shrugged. “After that, I guess we play it by ear.”
“Okay,” Demerest assented. “You get us faced around; I’ll handle the cabin end.” He depressed the stewardess call button, using a three-ring code to summon Gwen.
On a radio frequency he had been using earlier, Anson Harris called air route control. He announced laconically, “This is Trans America Two. We seem to have a problem here. Request clearance back to Lincoln, and radar vector from present position to Lincoln.”
Harris’s swift reasoning had already ruled out landing at an alternate airport. Ottawa, Toronto, and Detroit, they had been informed at briefing, were closed to air traffic because of the storm. Besides, to deal with the man they were concerned about back in the cabin, the crew of Flight Two needed time. Returning to Lincoln International would provide it.
He had no doubt that Demerest had reached the same conclusion.
From Toronto Air Route Center, more than six miles below, a controller’s voice responded. “Trans America Two, Roger.” A brief pause, then: “You may begin a left turn now to heading two seven zero. Stand by for an altitude change.”
“Roger, Toronto. We are commencing the turn. We’d like to make it wide and gradual.”
“Trans America Two. A wide turn approved.”
The exchange was low key, as such exchanges usually were. Both in the air and on the ground there was mutual awareness that most would be gained by calm, least by dramatics or excitement. By the nature of Flight Two’s request, the ground controller was instantly aware that an emergency — real or potential — existed. Jetliners, in flight at cruising altitude, did not abruptly reverse course without a major reason. But the controller also knew that if and when the captain was ready, he would officially declare an emergency and report its cause. Until then, the controller would not waste the time of the crew — undoubtedly occupied with urgent business of their own — by asking needless questions.
Whatever help was sought from air route control, however, would be given without query, and as speedily as possible.
Even now, on the ground, procedural wheels were turning. At Toronto Air Route Center, located in a handsome modern building some fourteen miles beyond the city limits, the controller receiving Flight Two’s transmission had summoned a supervisor. The supervisor was liaising with other sectors, clearing a path ahead of Flight Two, as well as altitudes immediately below — the last as a precaution. Cleveland Center, which earlier had passed the flight to Toronto Center and now would receive it back, had been alerted also. Chicago Center, which would take over from Cleveland, was being notified.
On the flight deck of Flight Two, a new air route control message was coming in. “Begin descent to flight level two eight zero. Report leaving flight level three three zero.”
Anson Harris acknowledged. “Toronto Center, this is Trans America Two. We are beginning descent now.”
On Harris’s orders, Second Officer Jordan was reporting to Trans America dispatch, by company radio, the decision to return.
The door from the forward cabin opened. Gwen Meighen came in.
“Listen,” she said, “if it’s more hors d’oeuvres, I’m sorry, but you can’t have them. In case you hadn’t noticed, we happen to have a few passengers aboard.”
“I’ll deal with the insubordination later,” Demerest said. “Right now” — he mimicked Gwen’s English accent — “we’ve got a spot o’ bother.”
Superficially, little had changed on the flight deck since a few moments ago when the message from D.T.M. Lincoln had come in. Yet, subtly, the relaxed mood prevailing earlier had vanished. Despite their studied composure, the three-man crew was all-professional and sharp, their minds at peak acuity, each sensing the adjustment in the other two. It was to achieve such moments, responsively and quickly, that years of training and experience marked the long route to airline captaincy. Flying itself — controlling an airplane — was not a difficult achievement; what commercial pilots were paid high salaries for was their reserve of resourcefulness, airmanship, and general aviation wisdom. Demerest, Harris, and — to a lesser extent — Cy Jordan, were summoning their reserves now. The situation aboard Flight Two was not yet critical; with luck, it might not be critical at all. But if a crisis arose, mentally the crew was ready.
“I want you to locate a passenger,” Demerest told Gwen. “He isn’t to know that you’re looking for him. We have a description here. You’d better read the whole thing.” He handed her the pad with the Selcal message. She moved nearer, holding it under the hooded light beside him.
As the aircraft rolled slightly, Gwen’s hand brushed Vernon Demerest’s shoulder. He was conscious of her closeness and a faint familiar perfume. Glancing sideways, he could see Gwen’s profile in the semidarkness. Her expression as she read was serious, but not dismayed; it reminded him of what he had admired so much earlier this evening — her strength in no way lessening her femininity. In a swift, fleeting second he remembered that twice tonight Gwen had declared she loved him. He had wondered then: had he ever truly been in love himself? When you kept tight rein on personal emotions, you were never absolutely sure. But at this moment, instinct told him, his feeling about Gwen was the closest to loving he would ever know.
Gwen was reading the message again, more slowly.
Momentarily he felt a savage anger at this new circumstance which was contriving to delay their plans — his own and Gwen’s — for Naples. Then he checked himself. This was a moment for professionalism only. Besides, what was happening now would merely mean delay, perhaps for a full twenty-four hours after their return to Lincoln; but eventually the flight would go. It did not occur to him that the bomb threat might not be disposed of quickly, or that it would fail to end as tamely as most others.
Alongside Demerest, Anson Harris was still holding the aircraft in its gentle turn, using only the slightest amount of bank. It was a perfect turn, exactly executed, as demonstrated by each pilot’s needle and ball indicator — the granddaddy of aviation flight instruments, still used on modern jets, as it was used in Lindbergh’s
Gwen handed the message pad back.
“What I want you to do,” Demerest instructed her, “is go back and locate this man. See if there’s any sign of the bag, and whether there’s a good chance of getting it away from him. You realize that one of us from here can’t go back — at least for now — in case we scare him.”
“Yes,” Gwen said. “I understand that. But I don’t need to go either.”
“Why?”
She said quietly, “I know where he is already. In seat fourteen A.”
Vernon Demerest regarded her searchingly. “I don’t have to tell you that this is important. If you’ve any doubt, go back and make sure.”
“I haven’t any doubt.”
Half an hour or so ago, Gwen explained, after serving dinners in first class, she had gone aft into the tourist section to help out there. One of the passengers — in a window seat on the left — had been dozing. When Gwen spoke to him he awakened instantly. He was nursing a small attache case on his knees and Gwen suggested that
