more definite reports had begun to filter, unofficially, through the tower. Controllers passed information to each other as work gaps permitted... The flight had had a mid-air explosion. It was limping in with structural damage and injured people... Control of the airplane was in doubt. The pilots needed the longest runway---which might or might not be available... Captain Demerest's warning was repeated: ...on two five a broken airplane and dead people... The captain had sent a savage message to the airport manager. Now, the manager was out on three zero, trying to get the runway cleared... The time available was shortening.
Even among the controllers, to whom tension was as commonplace as traffic, there was now a shared nervous anxiety.
Keith's radar handoff man, seated alongside, passed on the news which came to him in snatches. As he did, Keith's awareness and apprehension grew. He didn't want this, or any part of it! There was nothing he sought to prove, or could; nothing he might retrieve, even if he handled the situation well. And if he didn't, if he mishandled it, he might send a planeload of people to their deaths,as he had done once before already.
Across the radar room, on a direct line, Wayne Tevis took a telephone call from the tower watch chief. A few minutes ago the chief had gone one floor above, into the tower cab, to remain beside the ground controller.
Hanging up, Tevis propelled his chair alongside Keith. "The old man just had word from center. Trans America Two---three minutes from handoff."
The supervisor moved on to departure control, checking that outward traffic was being routed clear of the approaching flight.
The man on Keith's left reported that out on the airfield they were still trying frantically to shift the stranded jet blocking runway three zero. They had the engines running, but the airplane wouldn't move. Keith's brother (tbe handoff man said) had taken charge, and if the airplane wouldn't move on its own, was going to smash it to pieces to clear the runway. But everybody was asking: was there time?
If Mel thought so, Keith reasoned, there probably was. Mel coped, he managed things; he always had. Keith couldn't cope---at least not always, and never in the same way as Mel. It was the difference between them.
Almost two minutes had gone by.
Alongside Keith, the handoff man said quietly, "They're coming on the scope." On the edge of the radarscope Keith could see the double blossom radar distress signal---unmistakably Trans America Two.
Keith wanted out! He couldn't do it! Someone else must take over; Wayne Tevis could himself. There was still time.
Keith swung away from the scope looking for Tevis. The supervisor was at departure control, his back toward Keith.
Keith opened his mouth to call. To his horror, no words came. He tried again... the same.
He realized: It was as in the dream, his nightmare; his voice had failed him... But this was no dream; this was reality! Wasn't it?... Still struggling to articulate, panic gripped him.
On a panel above the scope, a flashing white light indicated that Chicago Center was calling. The handoff man picked up a direct line phone and instructed, "Go ahead, center." He turned a selector, cutting in a speaker overhead so that Keith could hear.
"Lincoln, Trans America Two is thirty miles southeast of the airport. He's on a heading of two five zero."
"Roger, center. We have him in radar contact. Change him to our frequency." The handoff man replaced the phone.
Center, they knew, would now be instructing the flight to change radio frequency, and probably wishing them good luck. It usually happened that way when an aircraft was in trouble; it seemed the least that anyone could do from the secure comfort of the ground. In this isolated, comfortably warm room of low-key sounds, it was difficult to accept that somewhere outside, high in the night and darkness, buffeted by wind and storm, its survival in doubt, a crippled airliner was battling home.
The east arrivals radio frequency came alive. A harsh voice, unmistakably Vernon Demerest's; Keith hadn't thought about that until this moment. "Lincoln approach control, this is Trans America Two, maintaining six thousand feet, heading two five zero."
The handoff man was waiting expectantly. It was Keith's moment to acknowledge, to take over. But he wanted out! Wayne Tevis was still turned away! Keith's speech wouldn't come.
"Lincoln approach control," the voice from Trans America Two grated again, "where in hell are you?"
Where in hell...
Why wouldn't Tevis turn?
Keith seethed with sudden rage. Damn Tevis! Damn air