Authors: Arthur Hailey
Tags: #Mystery, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Crime, #Adult, #Adventure, #Contemporary
Several men were returning from the crew bus. A quartet put their shoulders to the ramp beside the aircraft and shoved it clear. Two others responded to the foreman’s shout against the wind, “Ready to start engines!”
One of the second pair stationed himself at the front of the aircraft, near the power cart. He wore a telephone headset plugged into the fuselage. The second man, with flashlight signal wands, walked forward to where he could be seen by the pilots above.
Joe Patroni, with borrowed protective head pads, joined the crewman with the telephone headset. The remainder of the men were now scrambling from the sheltering buses, intent on watching what came next.
In the cockpit, the pilots completed their checklist.
On the ground below, the crewman with the telephone set began the jet starting ritual. “Clear to start engines.”
A pause. The captain’s voice. “Ready to start, and pressurize the manifold.”
From the power cart blower, a stream of forced air hit the air turbine starter of number three engine. Compressor vanes turned, spun faster, whined. At fifteen percent speed, the first officer fed in aviation kerosene. As the fuel ignited, a smoke cloud belched back and the engine took hold with a deep-throated bellow.
“Clear to start four.”
Number four engine followed three. Generators on both engines charging.
The captain’s voice. “Switching to generators. Disconnect ground power.”
Above the power cart, electric lines came down. “Disconnected. Clear to start two.”
Number two took hold. Three engines now. An encompassing roar. Snow streaming behind.
Number one fired and held.
“Disconnect air.”
“Disconnected.”
The umbilical air hose slipped down. The foreman drove the power cart away.
Floodlights ahead of the aircraft had been moved to one side.
Patroni exchanged headsets with the crewman near the front of the fuselage. The maintenance chief now had the telephone set, and communication with the pilots.
“This’s Patroni. When you’re ready up there, let’s roll her out.”
Ahead of the aircraft nose, the crewman with the lighted wands held them up, ready to be a guide along an elliptical path beyond the trenches, also cleared at Joe Patroni’s direction. The crewman was ready to run if the 707 came out of the mud faster than expected.
Patroni crouched close to the nosewheel. If the airplane moved quickly, he, too, was vulnerable. He held a hand near the interphone plug, ready to disconnect. He watched the main landing gear intently for a sign of forward movement.
The captain’s voice. “I am opening up.”
The tempo of the jets increased. In a roar like sustained thunder, the airplane shook, the ground beneath it trembled. But the wheels remained still.
Patroni cupped his hands around the interphone mouthpiece. “More power! Throttles forward all the way!”
The engine noise heightened but only slightly. The wheels rose perceptibly, but still failed to move forward.
“Goddamit! All the way!”
For several seconds, the engine tempo remained as it was, then abruptly lessened. The captain’s voice rattled the interphone; it had a sarcastic note. “
Patroni, por favor
, if I open my throttles all the way, this airplane will stand on its nose. Instead of a stranded 707, we shall both have a wrecked one.”
The maintenance chief had been studying the landing gear wheels, which had now settled back, and the ground around them. “It’ll come out, I tell you! All it needs is the guts to pull full power.”
“Look to your own guts!” the captain snapped back. “I am shutting the engines down.”
Patroni shouted into the interphone. “Keep those motors running; hold ‘em at idle! I’m coming up!” Moving forward under the nose, he motioned urgently for the boarding ramp to be repositioned. But even as it was being pushed into place, all four engines quieted and died.
When he reached the cockpit, both pilots were unfastening their seat harnesses.
Patroni said accusingly, “You chickened out!”
The captain’s reaction was surprisingly mild. “
Es posible
. Perhaps it is the only intelligent thing I have done tonight.” He inquired formally, “Does your maintenance department accept this airplane?”
“Okay.” Patroni nodded. “We’ll take it over.”
The first officer glanced at his watch and made an entry in a log.
“When you have extricated this airplane, in whatever way,” the Aéreo-Mexican captain stated, “no doubt your company will be in touch with my company. Meanwhile,
buenas noches.
”
As the two pilots left, their heavy topcoats buttoned tightly at the neck, Joe Patroni made a swift, routine check of instruments and control settings. A minute or so later he followed the pilots down the outside ramp.
The Aéreo-Mexican foreman, Ingram, was waiting below. He nodded in the direction of the departing pilots, now hurrying toward one of the crew buses. “That was the same thing they done to me; not pulling enough power.” He motioned gloomily toward the aircraft’s main landing gear. “That’s why she went in deep before; now she’s dug herself in deeper still.”
It was what Joe Patroni had feared.
With Ingram holding an electric lantern, he ducked under the fuselage to inspect the landing gear wheels; they were back in mud and slush again, almost a foot deeper than before. Patroni took the light and shone it under the wings; all four engine nacelles were disquietingly closer to the ground.
“Nothing but a sky hook’ll help her now,” Ingram said.
The maintenance chief considered the situation, then shook his head. “We got one more chance. We’ll dig some more, bring the trenches down to where the wheels are now, then start the engines again. Only this time I’ll drive.”
The wind and snow still howled around them.
Shivering, Ingram acknowledged doubtfully, “I guess you’re the doctor. But better you than me.”
Joe Patroni grinned. “If I don’t blast her out, maybe I’ll blow her apart.”
Ingram headed for the remaining crew bus to call out the men; the other bus had taken the Aéreo-Mexican pilots to the terminal.
Patroni calculated: there was another hour’s work ahead before they could try moving the aircraft again. Therefore runway three zero would have to continue out of use for at least that long.
He went to his radio-equipped pickup to report to air traffic control.
T
HE THEORY
that an overburdened, exhausted mind can exercise its own safety valve by retreating into passive semiawareness was unknown to Inez Guerrero. Nevertheless, for her, the theory had proved true. At this moment she was a mental walking-wounded case.
The events of tonight affecting her personally, coupled with her accumulated distress and weariness of weeks, had proved a final crushing defeat. It prompted her mind–like an overloaded circuit–to switch off. The condition was temporary, not permanent, yet while it remained Inez Guerrero had forgotten where she was, or why.
The mean, uncouth taxi driver who had brought her to the airport had not helped. When bargaining downtown, he agreed to seven dollars as the price of the ride. Getting out, Inez proffered a ten dollar bill–almost the last money she had–expecting change. Mumbling that he had no change but would get some, the cabbie drove off. Inez waited for ten anxious minutes, watching the terminal clock which was nearing 11 P.M.–the time of Flight Two’s departure–before it dawned on her that the man had no intention of returning. She had noticed neither the taxi number nor the driver’s name–something the driver had gambled on. Even if she had, Inez Guerrero was not the kind who complained to authority; the driver had correctly guessed that, too.
Despite the initial slowness of her journey from downtown, she could have reached Flight Two before it left–but for the time spent waiting for the non-appearing change. As it was, she arrived at the departure gate to see the airplane taxiing away.
Even then, to find out if her husband, D.O., was really aboard, Inez had the presence of mind to use the subterfuge which the Trans America inquiries girl, Miss Young, suggested on the telephone. A uniformed agent was just leaving gate forty-seven, where Flight Two had been. Inez accosted him.
As Miss Young advised, Inez avoided asking a direct question, and made the statement, “My husband is on that flight which just left.” She explained that she had missed seeing her husband, but wanted to be sure he was safely aboard. Inez unfolded the yellow time-payment contract which she had discovered at home among D.O.‘s shirts, and showed it to the Trans America agent. He barely glanced at it, then checked the papers he was holding.
For a moment or two Inez wondered hopefully if she had made a mistake in presuming that D.O. was leaving on the flight; the idea of his going to Rome at all still seemed fantastic. Then the agent said, yes, there was a D. O. Guerrero aboard Flight Two, and he, the agent, was sorry that Mrs. Guerrero had missed seeing her husband, but everything was in a mixup tonight because of the storm, and now if she would please excuse him…
It was when the agent had gone and Inez realized that despite the press of people around her in the terminal, she was utterly alone, that she began to cry.
At first the tears came slowly; then, as she remembered all that had gone wrong, they streamed in great heaving sobs which shook her body. She cried for the past and for the present; for the home she had had and lost; for her children whom she could no longer keep with her; for D.O. who, despite his faults as a husband, and the failure to support his family, was at least familiar, but now had deserted her. She wept for what she herself had been and had become; for the fact that she had no money, nowhere to go but to the mean, cockroach-infested rooms downtown, from which she would be evicted tomorrow, having nothing left–after the taxi ride and driver’s theft–from the pathetically small amount with which she had hoped to stave off the landlord… she was not even sure if she had enough small change to return downtown. She cried because her shoes still hurt her feet; for her clothes which were shabby and sodden; for her weariness, and because she had a cold and a fever which she could feel getting worse. She cried for herself and all others for whom every hope was gone.
It was then, to avoid stares of people who were watching, that she began walking aimlessly through the terminal, still weeping as she went. Somewhere near that time, too, the defensive machinery of her mind took over, inducing a protective numbness, so that her sorrow persisted but its reasons, for a while, were mercifully blurred.
Soon after, an airport policeman found her and, with a sensitivity for which police are not always credited, placed her in as obscure a corner as he could find while telephoning his superiors for instructions. Lieutenant Ordway happened to be nearby and dealt with the matter personally. It was he who decided that Inez Guerrero, though incoherent and upset, was harmless, and had ordered her taken to the airport general manager’s office–the only place Ned Ordway could think of which was quiet, yet less intimidating than police headquarters.
Inez had gone docilely, in an elevator and along a mezzanine, only half-knowing that she was being taken anywhere at all, and not caring; and after, had sat quietly in a seat she was guided to, her body, if not her mind, grateful for the rest. She had been aware of people coming and going, and some had spoken, but she had brought neither the sight nor sound of them into focus, the effort seeming too much.
But after a while, her resilience–which is another word for strength of the human spirit, which all possess, however burdened or humble–brought her back to a realization, even though vague, that she must move on, because life moved on, and always had and would, no matter how many defeats it wrought, or dreary or empty as it might seem.
So Inez Guerrero stood up, still not sure where she was or how she had come there, but prepared to go.
It was then that the Meadowood delegation, escorted by Lieutenant Ordway, entered the anteroom to Mel Bakersfeld’s office, where Inez was. The delegation continued into the other room, then Ned Ordway had returned to speak with Inez Guerrero, and Mel observed the two of them togethet briefly before the door to his office closed.
Inez, through her miasma of uncertainty, was also conscious of the big Negro policeman, whom she had a feeling she had seen somewhere before, quite recently, and he bad been kind then, as he was being kind now, leading her with quiet, not-quite-questions, so that he seemed to understand, without her ever saying so, that she had to return downtown and wasn’t sure she had enough money for it. She started to fumble with her purse, intending to count what was there, but he stopped her. Then, with his back to the other room, he slipped three one-dollar bills into her hand, and came with her outside, pointing the way down to where, he said, she would find a bus, and added that what he had given her would be enough for the fare, with something over for wherever she had to go when she got to the city.
The policeman bad gone then, returning in the direction from which he had come, and Inez did what she was told, going down some stairs; then almost at the big door through which she was to go for the bus, she had seen a familiar sight–a hot dog counter; and at that moment she realized how hungry and thirsty she was, on top of everything else. She had groped in her purse, and found thirty-five cents, and bought a hot dog, and coffee in a paper cup, and somehow the sight of those two very ordinary things was reassuring. Not far from the food counter, she found a seat and tucked herself into a corner. She wasn’t sure how long ago that was but now, with the coffee gone and the hot dog eaten, awareness which earlier had started to come back, was receding from her once more in a comfortable way. There was something comforting, too, about the crowds around her, the noises, and loudspeaker announcements. Twice Inez thought she heard her own name on the loudspeakers, but knew it was imagination and couldn’t be true because no one would call her, or even know that she was here.