by radio. While awaiting their arrival, the driver of the first tow truck was attaching chains, under Patroni's direction, to the axles of the capsized tractor-trailer. The situation had already assumed a proficient, get-on-with-it pattern---a trademark of any proceeding in which the energetic TWA maintenance chief became involved.
Patroni himself had remembered several times, with concern, his reason for being out at all tonight, and the fact that by now he was long overdue at the airport. But helping to clear the blocked highway, he calculated, was the fastest means of getting there. Obviously, his own car and others could not move forward until the wrecked tractor-trailer had been dragged clear from the center of the road. To go back and try an alternate route was equally impossible because traffic behind was backed up, with continuous lines of vehicles extending---so the police assured him---for miles to the rear.
He went back to his car to use the radio telephone he had installed at his employers' suggestion, and for which they picked up the monthly bills. He called the airline's maintenance department at the airport to report on his delay, and, in return, was informed of Mel Bakersfeld's message about the urgent need for runway three zero to be cleared and usable.
Joe Patroni gave some instructions over the telephone, but was aware that the most important thing was to be on the airfield himself as speedily as possible.
When he left the Buick for the second time, snow was still falling heavily. Dodging drifts which had formed around the line of waiting cars, he returned to the road block at a jog trot and was relieved to see that the first of the two extra tow trucks had arrived.
PART ONE Chapter Five
THE ELEVATOR, which Mel Bakersfeld had taken after leaving Tanya, deposited him in the terminal basement. His official airport car---mustard yellow, and radio-equipped---was in a privileged parking stall close by.
Mel drove out, meeting the storm where the building exit joined an aircraft parking ramp outside. As he left the shelter of the terminal, wind and whirling snow slammed savagely against the car's windshield. The wiper blades slapped swiftly back and forth, though barely maintaining sufficient clear space for forward vision. Through a fractionally opened window, a blast of icy air and snow rushed in. Mel closed the window hastily. The transition from the terminal's warm snugness to the harshness of the night outside was startling.
Immediately ahead were airplanes parked at gate positions on the ramp. Through breaks in the snow, as the wind whipped and eddied around concourse buildings, Mel could see into the lighted interiors of several aircraft, which had passengers already seated. Obviously, several flights were ready to leave. These would be awaiting word from the tower to start engines, their continued delay a result of the blockage of runway three zero. Farther out on the airfield and runways, he could make out blurred shapes and navigation lights of other airplanes---recent arrivals, with engines running. These were in a holding area, which pilots called the penalty box, and would move in as gate positions became vacant. Undoubtedly, the same thing was happening in the other seven aircraft concourses grouped around the terminal.
The two-way radio in Mel's car, tuned to ground control frequency, crackled alive.
"Tower to Eastern seventeen," a controller intoned, "you are cleared to runway two five. Change frequency now for your airways clearance."
A burst of static. "Eastern seventeen. Roger."
A stronger voice rasped irritably. "Ground control from Pan Am fifty-four on outer taxiway to two five. There's a private Cessna in front---a twin-engine tortoise. I'm standing on my brakes to keep behind."
"Pan Am fifty-four, stand by." The briefest pause, then the controller's voice aqain: "Cessna seven three metro from ground control. Enter the next right intersection, hold, and let Pan American pass you."
Unexpectedly, a pleasant woman's voice responded. "Ground control from Cessna seven three metro. I'm turning now. Go ahead, Pan Am, you great big bully."
A chuckle, then, "Thanks, honey. You can fix your lipstick while you wait."
The controller's voice rebuked. "Tower to all aircraft. Confine your messages to official business."
The controller was edgy, Mel could tell, despite the routine, studied calmness. But who wouldn't be tonight, with conditions and traffic the way they were? He thought uneasily again about his brother, Keith, involved with the unrelenting pressure of west arrival control.
The talk between tower and aircraft was continuous, with no gaps between transmissions. When one exchange ended, Mel snapped his own mike button down. "Ground control from mobile one. I'm