love to his wife, Marie, most nights, the way other men enjoyed a pre-dinner drink. In fact, he had been thus engaged when the telephone message came from the airport.
The same rumor continued: Patroni made love the same way he did everything else—with a long, thin cigar. This was untrue, at least nowadays. Marie, having coped with several pillow fires during their early years of marriage had forbidden any more cigars in bed. Joe complied with the edict because he loved his wife. He had reason to. When he married her, she was probably the most popular and beautiful hostess in the entire airline system, and twelve years and three children later she could still hold her own with most successors.
Another thing about Joe Patroni was that he never panicked in emergencies. Instead, he quickly assessed each situation. In the case of the mired 707, instinct told him there was time to finish what he was doing. Soon after, Marie raced to the kitchen in her robe and threw sandwiches together for Joe to eat during his twenty-five-mile drive to the airport. He nibbled on 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. Traffic was moving at a crawl, or not at all. Both his own car and the one immediately ahead had been stationary for several minutes.
Five minutes went by. Ahead, Joe Patroni could see people getting out of cars and walking forward.
Someone shouted, “There’s been an accident. It’s a real mess.”
A large, dark shadow ahead proved to be a massive tractor-trailer unit on its side. The cumbersome eighteen-wheeled vehicle was spread across the road, blocking all traffic movement.
Two state police patrol cars were at the scene. They were questioning the truck driver, who appeared unhurt.
“All I did was touch the goddam brakes,” the driver protested loudly.
A tow truck, amber roof-beacon flashing, approached, moving slowly, on the opposite side of the obstruction.
Joe Patroni shoved forward. He puffed on his cigar, which glowed redly in the wind, and prodded the state trooper sharply on the shoulder. “Listen, son, you’ll never move that with one tow truck.”
“First, mister, there’s spilled gasoline around here. You’d better get that cigar out.”
Patroni ignored the instruction, as he ignored almost all smoking regulations. He waved the cigar toward the overturned tractor-trailer. “What’s more, son, you’d be wasting everybody’s time, including mine and yours, trying to get that hunk of junk right side up tonight. You’ll have to drag it clear so traffic can move, and to do that you need two more tow trucks.” He began moving around, using his electric lantern to inspect the big vehicle from various angles. As always, when considering a problem, he was totally absorbed.
Ten minutes later, working with the police officers, Joe Patroni had virtually taken charge. Helping to clear the blocked highway, he calculated, was the fastest means of getting there.
5
As Mel drove out of the terminal, wind and whirling snow slammed savagely against the car’s windshield.
Mel snapped his mike button down. “Ground control from mobile one. I’m at gate sixty-five, proceeding to runway three zero, site of the stuck 707.”
It took a quarter of an hour to reach the intersection where runway three zero was blocked by the Aéreo-Mexican 707. He stopped the car and got out.
Mel identified himself, then asked a man nearby, “Who are you?”
“Ingram, sir. Aéreo-Mexican maintenance foreman.”
In the past two hours, old-fashioned boarding ramps had been trundled from the terminal and passengers guided down them. The captain and first officer remained.
“Had the engines running twice. But she won’t come free. Just seems to dig herself in deeper. Now we’re taking off more weight, hoping that’ll help.”
Mel shivered. What was it? It was true, wasn’t it?—for the briefest instant he had had a premonition. He should ignore it, of course. Except that once, long ago, he had had the same feeling…
Back in his car Mel held the transmit button down. “This is mobile one, Danny. I’m going to the Conga Line.”
The Conga Line, prime mover of the airport snow-fighting system, was 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.
6
Captain Vernon Demerest of Trans America had had a succession of affairs with beautiful and intelligent young women. One of them was a vivacious, attractive, English-born brunette, Gwen Meighen, to whose apartment Vernon Demerest was headed now. Later tonight, the two of them would leave for Rome on Trans America Flight Two. At the Rome end of the journey, there would be a three-day layover for the crew, which they could spend together. The idea excited him.
Another thing which had pleased him this evening was the Airlines Snow Committee report. The critical report had been solely Demerest’s idea. He made certain that the widely circulated report would cause a maximum of embarrassment and irritation to Mel Bakersfeld.
Captain Demerest stopped the car smoothly and got out. He was a little early.
Today’s flight to Rome would be an easy one. The reason was that he was flying as a line check captain. 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 position—from where he would observe and report on Captain Harris’s performance.
Despite the fact that captains checked each other, the tests, both regular and special, were usually serious, exacting sessions. The pilots wanted them that way. Too much was at stake—public safety and high professional standards—for any mutual back-scratching, or for weaknesses to be overlooked.
Yet, Demerest treated any pilot he was assigned to test, junior or senior to himself, in precisely the same way—like a schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s presence. When Demerest’s own time came they would give him the meanest, toughest check ride he had ever had, but Vernon Demerest turned in a flawless performance which could not be faulted.
This afternoon Demerest prefaced his check session by telephoning Captain Anson Harris at home. “It’ll be a bad night for driving. I like my crew to be punctual, so I suggest you allow plenty of time to get to the airport.”
Anson Harris, who in twenty-two unblemished years with Trans America had never been late for a single flight, was so outraged, he almost choked.
He arrived at the airport almost three hours ahead of flight time instead of the usual one hour.
“Hi, Anson.” Vernon Demerest dropped into an adjoining seat at the counter. “I see you took my good advice.”
“Good evening, Vern.”
“We’ll start the pre-flight briefing twenty minutes earlier than usual,” Demerest said. “I want to check your flight manuals.”
Thank God, Harris thought, his wife had gone through his manuals only yesterday, inserting the very latest amendments.
“You’re
