Airport (93 page)

Every pilot bid, each month, for the route he wanted to fly, and those who were most senior got first choice. Demerest invariably got what he bid for; so did Gwen Meighen, whose seniority among the stewardesses was correspondingly high. It was the bidding system which made it possible for pilots and stewardesses to make mutual layover plans much as Demerest and Gwen had done in advance of tonight.

Anson Harris had finished the hasty amending of his flight manuals.

Vernon Demerest grinned. “I guess your manuals are okay, Anson. I’ve changed my mind; I won’t inspect them.”

Captain Harris gave no sign, except a tightening around his mouth.

The second officer for the flight, a young two-striper named Cy Jordan had joined them. Jordan was flight engineer; also a qualified pilot. He was lean and angular, with a hollow-cbeeked, mournful face, and always looked as if he needed a good meal. Stewardesses heaped extra food upon him, but it never seemed to make any difference.

The first officer who usually flew as second-in-command to Demerest, tonight had been told to stay home, though under his union contract he would receive full pay for the round-trip flight. In the first officer’s absence, Demerest would do some of the first officer duties, Jordan the rest. Anson Harris would do most of the flying.

“Okay,” Demerest told the other two, “let’s get moving.”

The crew bus, snow-covered, its windows steamed inside, was waiting at the hangar door. The five stewardesses for Flight Two were already in the bus, and there was a chorus of “Good evening, Captain… good evening, Captain,” as Demerest and Anson Harris clambered in, followed by Jordan. A gust of wind, and snow flurries, accompanied the pilots. The bus driver hastily closed the door.

“Hi, girls!” Vernon Demerest waved cheerfully, and winked at Gwen. More conventionally, Anson Harris added a “Good evening.”

The wind buffeted the bus as the driver felt his way warily around the plowed perimeter track, the snowbanks high on either side. Word had filtered around the airport of the experience of the United Air Lines food truck earlier in the evening, and all vehicle drivers were being cautious as a result. As the crew bus neared its destination, the bright terminal lights were a beacon in the darkness. Farther out on the airfield a steady stream of aircraft was taking off and landing.

The bus stopped and the crew scrambled out, diving for the shelter of the nearest door. They were now in the Trans America wing of the terminal at lower level. The passenger departure gates–including gate forty-seven, where Flight Two was being readied–were above.

The stewardesses went off to complete their own preflight procedures while the three pilots headed for the Trans America international dispatch office.

The dispatcher, as always, had prepared a folder with the complex information which the flight crew would need. He spread it out on the dispatch office counter and the three pilots pored over it. Behind the counter a half-dozen clerks were assembling world-wide information on airways, airport conditions, and weather which other international flights of Trans America would require tonight. A similar dispatch room for domestic flights was down the hall.

It was at that point that Anson Harris tapped a preliminary load report with his pipestem and asked for the extra two thousand pounds of fuel for taxiing. He glanced at the second officer, Jordan, who was checking fuel consumption graphs, and Demerest. Both nodded agreemew, and the dispatcher scribbled an order which would be relayed to the ramp fueling office.

The company weather forecaster joined the other four. He was a pale young man, scholarly behind rimless glasses, who looked as if he rarely ventured out into the weather personally.

Demerest inquired, “What have the computers given us tonight, John? Something better than here, I hope.”

More and more, airline weather forecasts and flight plans were being spewed out by computers. Trans America and other airlines still maintained a personal element, with individuals liaising between computers and flight crews, but predictions were that the human weathermen would disappear soon.

The forecaster shook his head as he spread out several facsimile weather charts. “Nothing better until you’re over mid-Atlantic, I’m afraid. We have some improved weather coming in here soon, but since you’re going east you’ll catch up with what’s already left us. The storm we’re in now extends all the way from here to Newfoundland, and beyond.” He used a pencil point to trace the storm’s wide swathe. “Along your route, incidentally, Detroit Metropolitan and Toronto airports are both below limits and have closed down.”

The dispatcher scanned a teletype slip which a clerk had handed him. He interjected, “Add Ottawa; they’re closing right now.”

“Beyond mid-Atlantic,” the weatherman said, “everything looks good. There are scattered disturbances across southern Europe, as you can see, but at your altitudes they shouldn’t bother you. Rome is clear and sunny, and should stay that way for several days.”

Captain Demerest leaned over the southern Europe map. “How about Naples?”

The weatherman looked puzzled. “Your flight doesn’t go there.”

“No, but I’m interested.”

“It’s in the same high pressure system as Rome. The weather will be good.”

Demerest grinned.

The young forecaster launched into a dissertation concerning temperatures, and high and low pressure areas, and winds aloft. For the portion of the flight which would be over Canada he recommended a more northerly course than usual to avoid strong headwinds which would be encountered farther south. The pilots listened attentively. Whether by computer or human calculation, choosing the best altitudes and route was like a game of chess in which intellect could triumph over nature. All pilots were trained in such matters; so were company weather forecasters, more attuned to individual airline needs than their counterparts in the U. S. Weather Bureau.

“As soon as your fuel load permits,” the Trans America forecaster said, “I’d recommend an altitude of thirty-three thousand feet.”

The second officer checked his graphs; before N-731-TA could climb that high, they would have to burn off some of their initially heavy fuel load.

After a few moments the second officer reported, “We should be able to reach thirty-three thousand around Detroit.”

Anson Harris nodded. His gold ballpoint pen was racing as he filled in a flight plan which, in a few minutes’ time, he would file with air traffic control. ATC would then tell him whether or not the altitudes he sought were available and, if not, what others he might have. Vernon Demerest, who normally would have prepared his own flight plan, glanced over the form when Captain Harris finished, then signed it.

All preparations for Flight Two, it seemed, were going well. Despite the storm, it appeared as if
The Golden Argosy
, pride of Trans America, would depart on time.

It was Gwen Meighen who met the three pilots as they came aboard the aircraft. She asked, “Did you hear?”

Anson Harris said, “Hear what?”

“We’re delayed an hour. The gate agent just had word.”

“Damn!” Vernon Demerest said. “Goddam!”

“Apparently,” Gwen said, “a lot of passengers are on their way, but have been held up–I guess because of the snow. Some have phoned in, and Departure Control decided to allow them extra time.”

Anson Harris asked, “Is boarding being delayed too?”

“Yes, Captain. The flight hasn’t been announced. It won’t be for another half-hour, at least.”

Harris shrugged. “Oh, well; we might as well relax.” He moved toward the flight deck.

Gwen volunteered, “I can bring you all coffee, if you like.”

“I’ll get coffee in the terminal,” Vernon Demerest said. He nodded to Gwen. “Why don’t you come with me?”

She hesitated. “Well, I could.”

“Go ahead,” Harris said. “One of the other girls can bring mine, and there’s plenty of time.”

A minute or two later, Gwen walked beside Vernon Demerest, her heels clicking as she kept pace with his strides down the Trans America departure wing. They were heading for the main terminal concourse.

Demerest was thinking: the hour’s delay might not be a bad thing, after all. Until this moment, with the essential business of Flight Two to think about, he had pushed all thoughts of Gwen’s pregnancy from his mind. But, over coffee and a cigarette, there would be a chance to continue the discussion they had begun earlier. Perhaps, now, the subject which he had not broached before–an abortion–could be brought into the open.

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N
ERVOUSLY
, D. O. Guerrero lit another cigarette from the stub of his previous one. Despite his efforts to control the motion of his hands, they trembled visibly. He was agitated, tense, anxious. As he had earlier, while putting his dynamite bomb together, he could feel rivulets of perspiration on his face and beneath his shirt.

The cause of his distress was time–the time remaining between now and the departure of Flight Two. It was running out, remorselessly, like sand from an hourglass; and much–too much–of the sand was gone.

Guerrero was in a bus en route to the airport. Half an hour ago the bus had entered the Kennedy Expressway, from which point, normally, there would have been a swift, fifteen-minute ride to Lincoln International. But the expressway, like every other highway in the state, was impeded by the storm, and jammed with traffic. At moments the traffic was halted, at other times merely inching along.

Before departure from downtown, the dozen or so bus passengers–all destined for Flight Two–had been told of their flight’s delay by one hour. Even so, at the present rate of progress, it appeared as if it might take another two hours, perhaps three, to get to the airport.

Others in the bus were worried, too.

Like D. O. Guerrero, they had checked in at the Trans America downtown terminal in the Loop. Then, they had been in plenty of time, but now, in view of the mounting delay, were wondering aloud whether Flight Two would wait for them indefinitely, or not.

The bus driver was not encouraging. In reply to questions, he declared that usually, if a bus from a downtown terminal was late, a flight was held until the bus arrived. But when conditions got really bad, like tonight, anything could happen. The airline might figure that the bus would be held up for hours more–as it could be–and that the flight should go. Also, the driver added, judging by the few people in the bus, it looked as if most passengers for Flight Two were out at the airport already. That often happened with international flights, he explained; relatives came to see passengers off, and drove them out by car.

The discussion went back and forth across the bus, though D. O. Guerrero, his spindly body hunched into his seat, took no part in it. Most of the other passengers appeared to be tourists, with the exception of a voluble Italian family–a man and woman with several children–who were talking animatedly in their own language.

“If I were you, folks, I wouldn’t worry,” the bus driver had announced a few minutes earlier. “The traffic ahead looks as if it’s loosenin’ up some. We might just make it.”

So far, however, the speed of the bus had not increased.

D. O. Guerrero had a double seat section, three rows back from the driver, to himself. The all-important attaché case was held securely on his lap. He eased forward, as he had done several times already, straining to peer ahead into the darkness beyond the bus; all he could see, through the twin arcs cleared by the big, slapping windshield wipers, was what appeared to be an endless string of vehicle lights, disappearing into the falling snow. Despite his sweating, his pale, thin lips were dry; he moistened them with his tongue.

For Guerrero, “just making it” to the airport in time for Flight Two would simply not do. He needed an extra ten or fifteen minutes, at least, to buy flight insurance. He cursed himself for not having gone out to the airport sooner, and bought the flight insurance he needed in plenty of time. In his original plan, purchasing the insurance at the last minute, and thus minimizing any chance of inquiry, seemed a good idea. What he had not foreseen was the kind of night this had turned out to be–though he ought to have foreseen it, remembering the time of year. It was just that kind of thing–overlooking some significant, variable factor–which had dogged D. O. Guerrero through his business enterprises, and time after time brought grandiose schemes to naught. The trouble was, he realized, whenever he made plans, he convinced himself that everything would go exactly as he hoped; therefore he failed to allow for the unexpected. More to the point, he thought bitterly, he never seemed able to learn from past experience.

He supposed that when he got to the airport–assuming Flight Two had not already left–he could go to the Trans America flight counter and announce himself as being present. Then he would insist on being allowed time to buy flight insurance before the flight took off. But it would involve the one thing he desperately wanted to avoid: drawing attention to himself, in the same way that he had drawn attention already–and for the stupidest omission he could possibly have made.

He had failed to bring any baggage, other than the small, slim attaché case in which he was carrying the dynamite bomb.

At the check-in counter downtown the ticket agent had asked, “Is that your baggage, sir?” He pointed to a large pile of suitcases belonging to a man in line behind.

“No.” D. O. Guerrero hesitated, then held up the small attaché-briefcase. “I… er…. don’t have anything except this.”

The agent’s eyebrows went up. “No baggage for a trip to Rome, sir? You really are traveling light.” He motioned to the attaché case. “Do you wish to check that?”

“No, thank you.” All D. O. Guerrero wanted at that moment was his airline ticket, and to get away from the counter, and secure an inconspicuous seat on the airport bus. But the agent glanced curiously at him a second time, and Guerrero knew that, from this moment onward, he would be remembered. He had stamped himself indelibly on the ticket agent’s memory–all because he forgot to bring a suitcase, which he could so easily have done. Of course, the reason he had not done so was instinctive. D. O. Guerrero knew–as others did not–that Flight Two would never reach its destination; therefore no baggage was necessary. But he
ought
to have had baggage, as a cover. Now, at the inquiry which would inevitably follow the flight’s loss, the fact that one passenger–himself–had boarded without baggage, would be remembered and commented on. It would underscore whatever other suspicions about D. O. Guerrero investigators might, by that time, have.