Airport (40 page)

She thought again: a bitter sweetness, and always the same single question recurring. Vernon’s child, and her own–an abortion or not?… Yes or no? To be or not to be?…
They were on the runway…
Abortion or no abortion?…
The engines’ tempo was increasing. They were rolling already, wasting no time; in seconds, no more, they would be in the air…
Yes or no? To permit to live or condemn to die? How, between love and reality, conscience and commonsense, did anyone decide?

AS IT HAPPENED, Gwen Meighen need not have made the announcement about power reduction.

On the flight deck, taxiing out, Captain Harris told Demerest gruffly, “I plan to ignore noise abatement procedures tonight.”

Vernon Demerest, who had just copied their complicated route clearance, received by radio–a task normally performed by the absent First Officer–nodded. “Damn right! I would too.”

Most pilots would have let it go at that, but, characteristically, Demerest pulled the flight log toward him and made an entry in the “Remarks” column: “N.A.P. not observed. Reason: weather, safety.”

Later, there might be trouble about that log entry, but it was the kind of trouble Demerest enjoyed and would meet head on.

The cockpit lights were dimmed. Pre-takeoff checks had been completed.

They had been lucky in the temporary traffic lull; it had allowed them to reach their takeoff point, at the head of runway two five, quickly, and without the long ground hiatus which had plagued most other flights tonight. Already though, for others following, the delay was building up again. Behind Trans America Flight Two was a growing line of waiting aircraft and a procession of others taxiing out from the terminal. On radio, the ATC ground controller was issuing a swift stream of instructions to flights of United Air Lines, Eastern, American, Air France, Flying Tiger, Lufthansa, Braniff, Continental, Lake Central, Delta, TWA, Ozark, Air Canada, Alitalia, and Pan Am, their assorted destinadons like an index of world geography.

Flight Two’s additional fuel reserves, ordered by Anson Harris to allow for extra ground running time, had 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 aircrafts’ lights, then were gone in a flurry of whirling snow and black jet exhaust. Immediately the ground 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 runwav, 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:
Get the hell moving, now! There’s another flight landing right after the last.
Already a fresh set of lights–ominously close to the airfield–was approaching runway one seven.

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 jet’s 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 expeeted 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 lookingout 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 portside 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
had
been noticed on the ground–by Keith Bakersfeld.

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 bad 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.

“Thanks.” Keith was grateful for the coffee as well as for the break. Now that he was away from the radarscope, if only briefly, he realized that his own mental tension had been accumulating again within the past hour. He observed, as if watching someone else, that his hand holding the coffee cup was not entirely steady.

Mel glanced around the busy radar room. He was careful not to look too obviously at Keith whose appearance–the gaunt, strained face with deep hollows beneath the eyes–had shocked him. Keith’s appearance had deteriorated over recent months; tonight, Mel thought, his brother looked worse than at any time before.

His mind still on Keith, he nodded toward the profusion of radar equipment. “I wonder what the old man would have thought of all this.”

The “old man” was–had been–their father, Wally (Wild Blue) Bakersfeld, stick-and-goggles aviator, stunt flier, crop duster, night mail carrier, and parachute jumper–the last when he needed money badly enough. Wild Blue had been a contemporary of Lindbergh, a crony of Orville Wright, and had flown to the end of his life, which terminated abruptly in a filmed Hollywood stunt sequence–an airplane crash, intended to be simulated, but which turned out to be real. It happened when Mel and Keith were in their teens, but not before Wild Blue had inculcated in both boys an acceptance of aviation as their way of life, which persisted into adulthood. In Keith’s case, Mel sometimes thought, the father had done his younger son a disservice.

Keith shook his head without answering Mel’s question, which didn’t matter because it had been only rhetorical, Mel marking time while wondering how best to approach what was uppermost in his mind. He decided to do it directly.

Keeping his voice low, Mel said, “Keith, you’re not well; you’re looking damned awful. I know it, you know it; so why pretend? If you’ll let me, I’d like to help. Can we talk–about whatever the trouble is? We’ve always been honest with each other.”

“Yes,” Keith acknowledged, “we’ve always been that.” He sipped his coffee, not meeting Mel’s eyes.

The reference to their father, though casual, had moved Keith strangely. He remembered Wild Blue well; he had been a poor provider–the Bakersfeld family was perpetually short of money–but a genial man with his children, especially if the talk was about flying, as the two boys usually wanted it to be. Yet in the end it was not Wild Blue who had been a father figure to Keith, but Mel; Mel Bakersfeld who possessed the sound sense and stability, as far back as Keith remembered, which their father lacked. It was Mel who always looked out for Keith, though never being ostentatious about it, or overprotective as some older brothers were, robbing a younger boy of dignity. Mel had a facility, even then, for doing things for people and making them feel good at the same time.

Mel had shared things with Keith, had been considerate and thoughtful, even in small ways. He still was. Bringing the coffee tonight was an example, Keith thought, then checked himself: Don’t wax sentimental over a carton of coffee just because this is a last meeting. This time, Keith’s aloneness, his anguish and guilt were beyond Mel’s fixing. Even Mel could not bring back to life little Valerie Redfern and her parents.

Mel motioned with his head and they moved to the corridor outside the radar room.

“Listen, old chum,” Mel said. “You need a break from all this–a long one; perhaps more than a break. Maybe you need to get away for good.”