Kitabı oku: «Airport / Аэропорт», sayfa 2
Mel said, “I’m glad to hear it.”
Joe Patroni was airport maintenance chief for TWA, and a born troubleshooter35. He was also a down-to-earth, dynamic character and a close friend of Mel’s.
“If anyone can get that airplane moved tonight,” Mel conceded, “it’ll be Joe.”
“Oh, a bit of good news,” Danny said, “we found that United food truck.”
“The driver okay?”
“He was unconscious under the snow. Motor was still running, and there was carbon monoxide36. But they got an inhalator on him, and he’ll be all right.”
“Good! I’m going out on the field now to do some checking for myself. I’ll radio you from there.”
Tanya was still at the table when Mel returned, though preparing to go.
“Hold on,” he said, “I’m coming, too.”
She motioned to his untouched sandwich. “How about dinner? If that’s what it was.”
“This will do for now.” He bolted a mouthful37, washed it down hastily with coffee, and picked up his topcoat. “Anyway, I’m having dinner downtown.”
As Mel paid their check, two Trans America ticket agents entered the coffee shop. One was the supervising agent whom Mel had spoken to earlier. Observing Tanya, he came across.
“Excuse me, Mr. Bakersfeld… Mrs. Livingston, the D.T.M.’s looking for you. He has another problem. There is a stowaway – on Flight 80 from Los Angeles.”
“Is that all?” Tanya appeared surprised. Aerial stowaways – though all airlines had them – were seldom a cause of great concern.
“This one’s unusual,” the agent said. “There’s been a radio message from the captain, and a security guard has gone to the gate to meet the flight. Anyway, Mrs. Livingston, whatever the trouble is, they’re calling for you.” With a friendly nod, he went off to rejoin his companion.
Mel walked with Tanya from the coffee shop into the central lobby. They stopped at the elevator which would take Mel to the basement garage where his car was parked.
“Drive carefully out there,” she cautioned. “Don’t get in the way of any airplanes.”
“If I do, I’m sure you’ll hear about it.” He shrugged into the heavy topcoat. “Your stowaway sounds interesting. I’ll try to drop by before I leave, to find out what it’s all about.” He hesitated, then added, “It’ll give me a reason to see you again tonight.”
They were close together. As one, each reached out and their hands touched. Tanya said softly, “Who needs a reason?”
In the elevator, going down, he could still feel the warm smoothness of her flesh, and hear her voice.
04
Joe Patroni was on his way to the airport. The cocky, stocky Italian-American, who was airport maintenance chief for TWA, had left his suburban, ranch-style bungalow by automobile about twenty minutes earlier. The going was very slow.
At the moment, Joe Patroni’s Buick Wildcat was halted in a trafifc jam. Patroni lit a fresh cigar.
Legends had grown up around Joe Patroni; some professional, others personal.
He had begun his working life as a grease monkey38 in a garage. Then Joe quit the garage and took a job as an airline mechanic. He studied at night school, became a lead mechanic, then a foreman with a reputation as a first-class troubleshooter. His crew could change an engine faster than an airplane manufacturer said it could be done; and with absolute reliability. After a while, whenever there was pressure, or a dificf ult repair job, the word went out: get Joe Patroni.
Soon Joe was promoted to senior supervisor, and a few years later was given the important post of maintenance chief at Lincoln International.
On a personal level, another report said that Joe Patroni made love to his wife, Marie, most nights, the way other men enjoyed a pre-dinner drink. This was true. In fact, he had been thus engaged when the telephone message came from the airport about the stuck Aéreo-Mexican jet which TWA had been asked to help get out.
Another thing about Joe Patroni was that he never panicked in emergencies. Instead, he quickly assessed each situation, deciding what priority the emergency rated, and whether or not he should complete other tasks before coping with it. In the case of the stuck 707, instinct told him there was time to finish what he was doing, or have dinner, but not both. So, he abandoned dinner. Soon after, Marie raced to the kitchen in her robe and made sandwiches for Joe to eat during his twenty-five-mile drive to the airport. He started eating a sandwich now.
Being recalled to the airport after performing a full day’s work was not a new experience, but tonight the weather was worse than any other occasion he remembered. Accumulated effects of the three-day storm were everywhere, making driving dangerous.
Patroni checked his watch. Both his own car and the one immediately ahead had been stationary for several minutes. He called the airline’s maintenance department at the airport to report on his delay, and, in return, was informed of Mel Bakersfeld’s message about the urgent need for runway three zero to be cleared and usable.
Joe Patroni gave some instructions over the telephone, but was aware that the most important thing was to be on the airfield himself as speedily as possible.
05
The elevator, which Mel Bakersfeld had taken after leaving Tanya, deposited him in the terminal basement. His ofifcial airport car – mustard yellow, and radio-equipped – was in a privileged parking stall close by.
Mel drove out, meeting the storm.
Immediately ahead were airplanes parked at gate positions. Through breaks in the snow, Mel could see into the lighted interiors of several aircraft, which had passengers already seated. Obviously, several flights were ready to leave. Their continued delay was a result of the blockage of runway three zero. Farther out on the airfield and runways, he could make out blurred shapes and navigation lights of other airplanes – recent arrivals, with engines running. These were in a holding area, which pilots called the penalty box, and would move in as gate positions became vacant.
The two-way radio in Mel’s car, tuned to ground control frequency, got alive.
“Tower to Eastern seventeen,” a controller said, “you are cleared to runway two five. Change frequency now for your airways clearance.”
A burst of static. “Eastern seventeen. Roger39.”
The talk between tower and aircraft was continuous, with no gaps between transmissions. When one exchange ended, Mel snapped his own mike40 button down.
“Ground control from mobile one. I’m at gate sixty-five, proceeding to runway three zero, site of the stuck 707.”
He listened while the controller41 gave instructions to two other flights which had just landed. Then: “Tower to mobile one. Roger, follow the Air Canada DC-9 pulling out of the gate ahead of you.”
Mel acknowledged42. He could see the Air Canada flight, at this moment going out from a terminal gate. The jet cleared the terminal and was increasing taxi speed43. Mel accelerated to keep up.
It took a quarter of an hour to reach the intersection where runway three zero was blocked by the Aéreo-Mexican 707. Before then, Mel had separated from the stream of taxiing aircraft which were destined for takeoff on the two other active runways.
He stopped the car and got out. In the dark and loneliness out here, the storm seemed even more wintry and violent than nearer the terminal. The wind howled across the deserted runway.
A shadowy figure hailed him. “Is that Mr. Patroni?”
“No, it isn’t.” Mel found that he, too, had to shout to make himself heard above the wind. “But Joe Patroni’s on the way.”
The other man came closer. His face was blue with cold. “When he gets here, we’ll be glad to see him. Though I’m damned if I know what Patroni’ll do. We’ve tried about everything to get this bastard out.” He gestured to the airplane behind them.
Mel identified himself, then asked, “Who are you?”
“Ingram, sir. Aéreo-Mexican maintenance foreman. Right now, I wish I had some other job.”
Mel pulled the collar of his topcoat tightly around him. “We need this runway urgently – tonight.”
For the briefest instant he had a premonition. A hint, no more; an intuition; the smell of greater trouble coming. He should ignore it, of course; impulse, premonitions, had no place in pragmatic management.
He glanced at the 707 again. It was snow-covered now. Commonsense told him: apart from the runway blockage and the inconvenience of takeofsf over Meadowood, the situation was harmless.
“Let’s go to my car,” he told the Aéreo-Mexican foreman. “We’ll get on the radio and find out what’s happening.”
On the way, he reminded himself that Cindy would shortly be waiting impatiently downtown.
Mel had left the car heater turned on, and inside the car it was comfortingly warm. Ingram loosened his coat and bent forward to hold his hands in the stream of warm air.
Mel switched the radio to the frequency of airport maintenance.
“Mobile one to Snow Desk. Danny, I’m at the blocked intersection of three zero. Call TWA maintenance and check on Joe Patroni. Where is he? When coming? Over44.”
Danny Farrow’s voice crisped back through the speaker on the dash45. “Snow Desk to mobile one. Wilco.46 And, Mel, your wife called.”
Mel pressed the mike button. “Did she leave a number?”
“Afifrmative.”47
“Mobile one to Snow Desk. Please call her, Danny. Tell her I’m sorry, I’ll be a little late. But check on Patroni first.”
“Understood. Stand by.48” The radio went silent.
Mel reached inside his topcoat for a pack of Marlboros. He offered them to Ingram.
“Thanks.”
They lit up, watching the windshield wipers move back and forth.
Ingram nodded toward the Aéreo-Mexican jet. “Know where that flight was going?”
Mel shook his head.
“Acapulco.” The foreman chuckled. “Can you imagine – getting aboard, then having to get off in this. You should have heard the passengers cursing, especially the women. I learned some new words tonight.”
The radio came alive again.
“Snow Desk to mobile one,” Danny Farrow said. “I talked with TWA about Joe Patroni. They’ve heard from him, but he’s held up in traficf. He’ll be another hour, at least. He sent a message. You read me49 so far?”
“We read,” Mel said. “Let’s have the message.”
“Patroni warns not to get the airplane deeper in the mud than it is already. Says it can happen easily. So, unless the Aéreo-Mexican crowd are real sure of what they’re doing, they should hold off any more tries until Joe gets there.”
Mel glanced at Ingram. “How does the Aéreo-Mexican crowd feel about that?”
The foreman nodded. “Patroni can have all the tries he wants. We’ll wait.”
Danny Farrow said, “Did you get that? Is it clear?”
Mel pressed the mike button. “It’s clear.”
“Okay. And, Mel, your wife phoned again. I gave her your message.” Mel sensed Danny hesitating, aware that others whose radios were on the airport maintenance frequency were listening, too.
Mel said, “She wasn’t happy?”
“I guess not.” There was a second’s silence. “You’d better get to a phone when you can.”
Ingram was pulling on heavy mitts and refastening his coat. “Thanks for the warm-up.” He went out, into the wind and snow, slamming the door quickly. A few moments later,
Mel could see him walking through deep drifts toward the assembled vehicles on the taxiway.
On radio, the Snow Desk was speaking to Maintenance Snow Center. Mel waited until the exchange finished, then held the transmit button down. “This is mobile one, Danny. I’m going to the Conga Line.”
He eased the car forward, picking his way carefully in the blowing snow and darkness.
The Conga Line, both spearhead and prime mover of the airport snow-fighting system, was – at the moment – on runway one seven, left. In a few minutes, Mel thought grimly, he would find out for himself if there was truth, or merely malice, in the critical report of Captain Demerest’s Airlines Snow Committee.
06
The subject of Mel’s thoughts – Captain Vernon Demerest of Trans America – was at the moment about three miles from the airport. He was driving his Mercedes 230 SL Roadster to a group of three-story apartment blocks, close to the airport, known as Stewardess Row. It was here that many of the stewardesses based at Lincoln International – from all airlines – maintained apartments. Each apartment was usually shared by two or three girls. The apartments were known as stewardess nests.
The nests were often the scene of lively parties, and sometimes headquarters for the amorous affairs which occurred, with predictable regularity, between stewardesses and male flying crews.
Both the stewardesses and male crew members whom they met – captains, and first and second oficf ers – were, without exception, high-caliber people. All had reached their jobs through a tough process of elimination in which those less talented were totally eclipsed. The comparative few who remained were the brightest and best. The result was a broth of sharp, enlightened personalities with a zest for life and the perceptiveness to appreciate one another.
Vernon Demerest, in his time, had appreciated many stewardesses, as they had appreciated him. He had, in fact, had a succession of affairs with beautiful and intelligent young women. The stewardesses whom Demerest and fellow pilots knew, and regularly made love to, were not whores. They were alive and sexually endowed girls, who valued quality, and took it when so obviously and conveniently close to hand.
One who had taken it – so to speak – from Vernon Demerest was a cheerful, attractive, English-born brunette, Gwen Meighen. She was a farmer’s daughter who had left home to come to the United States ten years earlier at the age of eighteen. Before joining Trans America she was briefly a fashion model in Chicago. Perhaps because of her varied background, she combined an unreserved sexuality in bed with elegance and style when out of it.
It was to Gwen Meighen’s apartment that Vernon Demerest was headed now.
Later tonight, the two of them would leave for Rome on Trans America Flight Two. On the flight deck, Captain Demerest would command. In the passenger cabins, Gwen Meighen would be senior stewardess. At the Rome end of the journey, there would be a three-day layover50 for the crew, while another crew – already in Italy for its own layover – would fly the airplane back to Lincoln International.
The word “layover” had long ago been adopted officially by airlines and was used unemotionally. Possibly, whoever introduced the term had a sense of humor; in any case, flying crews frequently gave it a practical application as well as its official one. Demerest and Gwen Meighen were planning a personal definition now. On arrival in Rome, they would leave immediately for Naples for a forty-eight-hour “layover” together. It was an idyllic prospect, and Vernon Demerest smiled at the thought of it. He was nearing Stewardess Row, and as he reminded himself of how well other things had gone this evening, his smile broadened.
He had arrived at the airport early, after leaving Sarah, his wife, who – placidly as usual – had wished him a pleasant trip.
Sarah Demerest was placid and dull. These were qualities her husband had come to accept and, in a strange way, valued. Between flying trips and afaf irs with more interesting women, he thought of his sojourns at home, and sometimes spoke of them, as “going into the hangar for a stand down.” His marriage had another convenience. While it existed, the women he made love to could become as emotional and demanding as they liked, but he could never be expected to meet the ultimate demand of matrimony. In this way, he had a permanent protection against his own rushed action in the heat of passion. He was sure that Sarah suspected his philandering. But, characteristically, she would prefer not to know, an arrangement in which Vernon Demerest was happy to cooperate.
Another thing which had pleased him this evening was the Airlines Snow Committee report in which he had delivered a verbal kick in the crotch51, aimed at his stuffed-shirt52 brother-in-law, Mel Bakersfeld.
The critical report had been solely Demerest’s idea. The other two airline representatives on the committee had at first taken the view that the airport management was doing its best under exceptional conditions. Captain Demerest argued otherwise. The others had finally gone along with him and agreed that Demerest would personally write the report, which he made as wounding as he could.
A revenge, Vernon Demerest thought pleasurably – small but satisfying – had been exacted. Now, perhaps, his limping, quarter-cripple brother-in-law would think twice before antagonizing Captain Demerest and the Air Line Pilots Association, as Mel Bakersfeld had presumed to do – in public – two weeks ago.
Captain Demerest swung the Mercedes into an apartment building parking lot. He stopped the car smoothly and got out. He was a little early, he noticed – a quarter of an hour before the time he had said he would collect Gwen and drive her to the airport. He decided to go up, anyway.
As he entered the building, using the passkey Gwen had given him, he hummed softly to himself, then smiled, realizing the tune was O Sole Mio53. Well, why not? It was appropriate. Naples… a warm night instead of snow, the view above the bay in starlight, soft music from mandolins, Chianti with dinner, and Gwen Meighen beside him…. all were less than twenty-four hours away. Yes, indeed! – O Sole Mio. He continued humming it.
In the elevator going up, he remembered another good thing. The flight to Rome would be an easy one.
Tonight, though Captain Demerest was in command of Flight Two – The Golden Argosy – he would do little of the work which the flight entailed. The reason was that he was flying as a line check captain. Another four-striper captain54 – Anson Harris, almost as senior as Demerest himself – had been assigned to the flight and would occupy the command pilot’s left seat. Demerest would use the right seat – normally the first officer’s position55 – from where he would observe and report on Captain Harris’s performance.
The check flight arrangement had come up because Captain Harris had been elected to transfer from Trans America domestic operations to international. However, before that, he was required to make two flights over an overseas route with a regular line captain who also held instructor’s qualifications. Vernon Demerest did.
After Captain Harris’s two flights, of which tonight’s would be the second, he would be given a final check by a senior supervisory captain before being accepted for international command.
Such checks – as well as regular six-monthly check flights, which all pilots of all airlines were required to undergo – entailed an aerial scrutiny of ability and flying habits.
Despite the fact that captains checked each other, the tests, both regular and special, were usually very serious. The pilots wanted them that way. Too much was at stake56 – public safety and high professional standards – for weaknesses to be overlooked.
Yet, while performance standards were not relaxed, senior captains undergoing flight checks were treated by their colleagues with particular courtesy. Except by Vernon Demerest.
Demerest treated any pilot he was assigned to test, junior or senior to himself, in precisely the same way – like a naughty schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s presence. Moreover, in the headmaster’s role, Demerest was arrogant and tough. He made no secret of his conviction that no one else’s ability as a pilot was superior to his own. Colleagues who received this treatment raged silently, but had no choice but to sit and take it. Subsequently they vowed to one another that when Demerest’s own time came they would give him the toughest check ride he had ever had. They invariably did, with a single consistent result – Vernon Demerest gave a flawless performance which could not be faulted.
“Yes, it would be an easy flight tonight – for me,” Vernon Demerest smiled to himself again.
His thoughts returned to the present as the apartment block elevator stopped at the third floor. He stepped into the carpeted corridor and headed for the apartment which Gwen Meighen shared with a stewardess of United Air Lines. The other girl was away on an overnight flight. On the apartment door bell he tapped out their usual signal, his initials in Morse57… dit-dit-dit-dah dah-dit-dit… then went in, using the same key which opened the door below.
Gwen was in the shower. He could hear the water running. When he went to her bedroom door, she called out, “Vernon, is that you?” Even competing with the shower, her voice – with its flawless English accent, which he liked so much – sounded soft and exciting. He thought: “Small wonder Gwen had so much success with passengers.”
He called back, “Yes, honey.”
“I’m glad you came early,” she called again. “I want to have a talk before we leave.”
“Sure, we’ve time.”
“You can make tea, if you like.”
“Okay.”
She had converted him to the English habit of tea at all times of day.
He went to the tiny kitchen and put a kettle of water on the stove. He poured milk into a jug from a carton in the refrigerator, then drank some milk himself before putting the carton back.
He heard the shower stop. In the silence he began humming once again. Happily. O Sole Mio.
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