traffic control! Damn his dead father, Wild Blue Bakersfeld, who led his sons into a vocation Keith hadn't wanted to begin with! Damn Mel, with his infuriating self-sufficient competence! Damn here and now! Damn everything!...
The handoff man was looking at Keith curiously. At any moment Trans America Two would call again. Keith knew that he was trapped. Wondering if his voice would work, he keyed his mike.
"Trans America Two," Keith said, "this is Lincoln approach control. Sorry about the delay. We're still hoping for runway three zero; we shall know in three to five minutes."
A growled acknowledgment, "Roger, Lincoln. Keep us informed."
Keith was concentrating now; the extra level of his mind had closed. He forgot Tevis, his father, Mel, himself. All else was excluded but the problem of Flight Two.
He radioed clearly and quietly, "Trans America Two, you are now twenty-five miles east of the outer marker. Begin descent at your discretion. Start a right turn to heading two six zero..."
ONE FLOOR above Keith, in the glass-walled tower cab, the ground controller had advised Mel Bakersfeld that handoff from Chicago Center had occurred.
Mel radioed back, "Snowplows and graders have been ordered to move, and clear the Aereo-Mexican aircraft from the runway. Instruct Patroni to shut down all engines immediately. Tell him---if he can, get clear himself; if not, hold on tight. Stand by for advice when runway is clear."
On a second frequency, the tower chief was already informing Joe Patroni.
PART THREE Chapter Fifteen
EVEN BEFORE it happened, Joe Patroni knew he was running out of time.
He had deliberately not started the engines of the Aereo-Mexican 707 until the latest possible moment, wanting the work of clearing under and around the aircraft to continue as long as it could.
When he realized that he could wait no longer, Patroni made a final inspection. What he saw gave him grave misgivings.
The landing gear was still not as clear from surrounding earth, mud, and snow as it should be. Nor were the trenches, inclining upward from the present level of the main wheels to the hard surface of the nearby taxiway, as wide or deep as he had wanted. Another fifteen minutes would have done it.
Patroni knew he didn't have the time.
Reluctantly he ascended the boarding ramp, to make his second attempt at moving the mired aircraft, now with himself at the controls.
He shouted to Ingram, the Aerco-Mexican foreman, "Get everybody clear! We're starting up."
From under the aircraft, figures began to move out.
Snow was still falling, but more lightly than for several hours.
Joe Patroni called again from the boarding ramp. "I need somebody with me on the flight deck, but let's keep the weight down. Send me a skinny guy who's cockpit qualified."
He let himself into the aircraft's forward door.
Inside, through the flight deck windows, Patroni could see Mel Bakersfeld's airport car, its bright yellow coloring reflected through the darkness. The car was parked on the runway, to the left. Near it was the line of snowplows and graders---a reminder, if he needed one, that he had only a few minutes more.
The maintenance chief had reacted with shocked disbelief when Mel announced his plan to shove the Aereo-Mexican aircraft clear of runway three zero by force, if necessary. The reaction was natural, but was not through indifference to the safety of those aboard Trans America Flight Two. Joe Patroni lived with thoughts of aircraft safety, which was the object of his daily work, It was simply that the idea of reducing an undamaged aircraft to a pile of scrap metal, or something close to it, was near-impossible for him to grasp. In Patroni's eyes, an aircraft---any aircraft---represented devotion, skill, engineering know-how, hours of labor, and sometimes love. Almost anything was better than its deliberate destruction. Almost anything.
Patroni intended to save the airplane if he could.
Behind him, the fuselage door opened, and slammed closed.
A young mechanic, small and spare, came forward to the flight deck, shedding snow. Joe Patroni had already slipped off his parka and was strapping himself into the left seat.
"What's your name, son?"
"Rolling, sir."
Patroni chuckled. "That's what we're trying to get this airplane doin'. Maybe you're an omen."
As the mechanic removed his own parka and slid into the right seat, Patroni looked through the window behind his left shoulder. Outside, the boarding ramp was being trundled clear.
The interphone chimed, and Patroni answered. The foreman, Ingram, was calling from below. "Ready to start when you are."