In the hour and a half since work began in the latest attempt to move the stranded jet from alongside runway three zero, Patroni's complement of help had almost doubled. He had begun with the original small crew of Aereo-Mexican, supplemented by some of his own people from TWA. Now, digging steadily with the others, were ground crews from Braniff, Pan Am, American, and Eastern.
As the various newcomers had arrived, in an assortment of airline vehicles, it became evident that news of Patroni's problem had spread quickly on the airport grapevine, and, without waiting to be asked, other maintenance departments had pitched in. It gave Joe Patroni a good, appreciative feeling.
Despite the extra help, Patroni's estimate of an hour's preparatory work had already been exceeded. Digging of twin trenches, floored by heavy timbers, in front of the airliner's main landing gear had gone ahead steadily---though slowly because of the need for all the men working to seek shelter periodically, to warm themselves. The shelter and the warmth, of a sort, were in two crew buses. As the men entered, they beat their hands and pinched their faces, numb from the biting wind still sweeping icily across the snow-covered airfield. The buses and other vehicles, including trucks, snow clearance equipment, a fuel tanker, assorted service cars, and a roaring power cart---most with beacon lights flashing---were still clustered on the taxiway close by. The whole scene was bathed by floodlights, creating a white oasis of snow-reflected light in the surrounding darkness.
The twin trenches, each six feet wide, now extended forward and upward from the big jet's main wheels to the firmer ground onto which Patroni hoped the airplane could be moved under its own power. At the deepest level of the trenches was a mess of mud beneath snow, which had originally trapped the momentarily strayed airliner. The mud and slush now mingled, but became less viscous as both trenches angled upward. A third trench, less deep, and narrower than the other two, had been dug to allow passage of the nosewheel. Once the firmer ground was reached, the aircraft would be clear of runway three zero, over which one of its wings now extended. It could also be maneuvered with reasonable ease onto the solid surface of the adjoining taxiway.
Now the preparatory work was almost complete, the success of what came next would depend on the aircraft's pilots, still waiting on the Boeing 707's flight deck, high above the current activity. What they would have to judge was how much power they could safely use to propel the aircraft forward, without upending it on its nose.
Through most of the time since he arrived, Joe Patroni had wielded a shovel with the rest of the men digging. Inactivity came hard to him. Sometimes, too, he welcomed the chance to keep himself fit; even now, more than twenty years since quitting the amateur boxing ring, he was in better shape physically than most men years his junior. The airline ground crewmen enjoyed seeing Patroni's cocky, stocky figure working with them. He led and exhorted... "Keep moving, son, or we'll figure we're gravediggers, and you the corpse."... "The way you guys keep heading for that bus, looks like you've got a woman stashed there."... "If you lean on that shovel any more, Jack, you'll freeze solid like Lot's wife."... "Men, we want this airplane moved before it's obsolete."
So far, Joe Patroni had not talked with the captain and first officer, having left that to the Aereo-Mexican foreman, Ingram, who had been in charge before Patroni's arrival. Ingram had passed up a message on the aircraft interphone, telling the pilots what was happening below.
Now, straightening his back, and thrusting his shovel at Ingram, the maintenance chief advised, "Five minutes more should do it. When you're ready, get the men and trucks clear." He motioned to the snow-shrouded airplane. "When this one comes out, she'll be like a cork from a champagne bottle."
Ingram, huddled into his parka, still pinched and cold as he had been earlier, nodded.
"While you're doing that," Patroni said, "I'll yak with the fly boys."
The old-fashioned boarding ramp which had been trundled from the terminal several hours ago to disembark the stranded passengers was still in place near the aircraft's nose. Joe Patroni climbed the ramp, its steps covered in deep snow, and let himself into the front passenger cabin. He went forward to the flight deck---with relief, lighting his inevitable cigar as he went.