"Acapulco. Before this happened, I'd have given up six months' screwing to be on it." The foreman chuckled. "Can you imagine, though---getting aboard, and your ass all settled, then having to get off in this. You should have heard the passengers cursing, especially the women. I learned some new words tonight."
The radio came alive again.
"Snow Desk to mobile one," Danny Farrow said. "I talked with TWA about Joe Patroni. They've heard from him, but he's held up in traffic. He'll be another hour, at least. He sent a message. You read me so far?"
"We read," Mel said. "Let's have the message."
"Patroni warns not to get the airplane deeper in the mud than it is already. Says it can happen easily. So, unless the Aereo-Mexican crowd are real sure of what they're doing, they should hold off any more tries until Joe gets there."
Mel glanced sideways at Ingram. "How does the Aereo-Mexican crowd feel about that?"
The foreman nodded. "Patroni can have all the tries he wants. We'll wait."
Danny Farrow said, "Did you get that? Is it clear?"
Mel thumbed the mike button. "It's clear."
"Okay. There's more. TWA is rounding up some extra ground crew to help. And, Mel, your wife phoned again. I gave her your message." Mel sensed Danny hesitating, aware that others whose radios were on the airport maintenance frequency were listening, too.
Mel said, "She wasn't happy?"
"I guess not." There was a second's silence. "You'd better get to a phone when you can."
It was a safe bet, Mel thought, that Cindy had been more than usually snippy with Danny, but, loyally, he wasn't saying so.
As for the Aereo-Mexican 707, obviously there was nothing more to be done until Joe Patroni arrived. Patroni's advice about not getting the aircraft more deeply mired made good sense.
Ingram was pulling on heavy mitts and refastening his coat. "Thanks for the warm-up." He went out, into the wind and snow, slamming the door quickly. A few moments later, Mel could see him plodding through deep drifts toward the assembled vehicles on the taxiway.
On radio, the Snow Desk was speaking to Maintenance Snow Center. Mel waited until the exchange finished, then held the transmit button down. "This is mobile one, Danny. I'm going to the Conga Line."
He eased the car forward, picking his way carefully in the blowing snow and darkness, with only widely spaced runway lights to guide him.
The Conga Line, both spearhead and prime mover of the airport snow-fighting system, was----at the moment---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.
PART ONE Chapter Six
THE SUBJECT of Mel's thoughts---Captain Vernon Demerest of Trans America---was at the moment, some three miles from the airport. He was driving his Mercedes 230 SL Roadster and, compared with the journey he had made to the airport earlier from home, was having little trouble negotiating local streets, which had been recently plowed. Snow was still falling heavily, abetted by a strong wind, but the fresh covering on the ground was not yet deep enough to make conditions difficult.
Demerest's destination was a group of three-story apartment blocks, close to the airport, known colloquially to flying crews as Stewardess Row. It was here that many of the stewardesses based at Lincoln International---from all airlines---maintained apartments. Each apartment was usually shared by two or three girls, and the initiated also had a name for the individual menages. They were known as stewardess nests.
The nests were often the scene of lively, off-duty parties, and sometimes headquarters for the amorous affairs which occurred, with predictable regularity, between stewardesses and male flying crews.
Taken as a whole, the stewardess nests were neither more nor less freewheeling than other apartments occupied by single girls elsewhere. The difference was that most of what transpired in the way of swinging, amoral activities, involved airline personnel.
There was good reason for this. Both the stewardesses and male crew members whom they met---captains, and first and second officers---were, without exception, high-caliber people. All had reached their jobs, which many others coveted, through a tough, exacting process of elimination in which those less talented were totally eclipsed. The comparative few who remained were the brightest and best. The result was a broth of sharp, enlightened personalities with a zest for life and the perceptiveness to appreciate one another.
Vernon Demerest, in his time, had appreciated many stewardesses, as they had appreciated him. He had, in fact, had a succession