Airport

As always at the beginning of a flight, Senior Stewardess Gwen Meighen
experienced a sense of relief as the forward cabin door slammed closed
and, a few moments later, the aircraft began moving.
An airliner in a terminal was like a dependent relative, subject to the
whims and succor of its family. Such life as it had was never
independent. Its identity was blurred; supply lines hobbled it;
strangers, who would never join its airborne complement, moved in and
out.
But when doors were sealed as the airplane prepared for takeoff, it
became once more an entity. Crew members were most keenly aware of the
change; they were returned to a familiar, self-contained environment in
which they could function with skill and independence for which they had
been trained. No one impeded them; nothing was underfoot, except what
they were used to and at home with. Their tools and equipment were the
finest; their resources and Ihnitations were inventoried and known.
Self-reliance returned. The camaraderie of the air-intangible, yet real
to all who shared it-was theirs once more.
Even passengers-the more sensitive ones-were attuned to a mental
transformation and, once in the air, awareness of the change increased.
At high altitude, looking down, concerns of the everyday world seemed
less important. Some, more analytical than others, saw the new
perspective as a shedding of the pettiness of earth.

297

Gwen Meighen, occupied with pre-takeoff rituals, bad no time for such
analysis. While four of the five stewardesses busied themselves with
housekeeping chores around the airplane, Gwen used the p.a. system to
welcome passengers aboard. With her soft English voice, she did the best
she could with the treacly, insincere paragraph from her stewardess
manual, which the company insisted must be read on every flight.
"On behalf of Captain Demerest and your crew our most sincere wish that
your flight will be pleasant and relaxing … shortly we shall have the
pleasure of serving … if there is anything we can do to make your
flight more enjoyable . . ."
Gwen wondered sometimes when airlines would realize that most passengers
found such announcements, at the beginning and end of every flight, a
boring intrusion.
More essential were the announcements about emergency exits, oxygen
masks, and ditching. With two of the other stewardesses demonstrating,
she accomplished them quickly.
They were still taxiing, Gwen observed-tonight more slowly than usual,
taking longer to reach their takeoff runway. No doubt the reason was
traffic and the storm. From outside she could hear an occasional splatter
of wind-driven snow on windows and fuselage.
There was one more announcement to be made-that which aircrews liked
least. It was required before takeoffs at Lincoln International, New
York, Boston, Cleveland, San Francisco, and other airports with resi-
dential areas nearby.
"Shortly after takeoff you will notice a marked decrease in engine noise,
due to a reduction in power. This is perfectly normal and is done as a
courtesy to those who live near the airport and in the direct flight
path."
The second statement was a lie. The power reduction was neither normal
nor desirable. The truth was: it was a concession-some said a mere public
relations gesture –involving risk to aircraft safety and human life.
Pilots fought noise abatement power restrictions bitterly. Many pilots,
at risk of their careers, refused to observe them.

Gwen had heard Vernon Demerest parody, in private, the announcement she had
just made . . . "Ladies and gentlemen, at the most critical point of
takeoff, when we need our best power and have a hundred other things to do
in the cockpit, we are about to th,~ottle back drastically, then make a
steep climbing turn at high gross weight and minimum speed. This is an
exceedingly foolish maneuver for which a student pilot would be thrown out
of flying school. However, we are doing it on orders from our airline
employers and the Federal Aviation Administration because a few people down
below, who built their houses long after the airport was established, are
insisting that we tiptoe past. They don't give a damn about air safety, or
that we are risking your lives and ours. So hang on tight, folks! Good luck
to us all, and please start praying."
Gwen smiled, remembering. There were so many things she appreciated about
Vernon. He was energetically alive; he possessed strong feelings; when
something interested him, he became actively involved. Even his
failings-the abrasive manner, his conceit-were masculine and interesting.
He could be tender, too-and was, in lovemaking, though responding eagerly
to passion as Gwen had cause to know. Of all the men she knew, there was no
one whose child she would bear more gladly than Vernon Dernerest's. In the
thought there was a bitter sweetness.
Replacing the p.a. microphone in its forward cabin niche, she was aware
that the aircraft's taxiing pace had slowed; they must be near the takeoff
point. These were the last few minutes she would have-for several hours to
come-with any opportunity for private thoughts. After takeoff there would
be no time for anything but work. Gwen had four stewardesses to supervise,
as well as her own duties in the first class cabin. A good many overseas
flights had male stewards directing cabin service, but Trans America
encouraged senior women staffers like Gwen to take charge when they proved
themselves capable.
Now the aircraft had stopped. From a window Gwen could see the lights of
another aircraft ahead, several others in line behind. The one ahead was
turning onto a

runway; Flight Two would be next. Gwen pulled down a folding seat and
strapped herself in. The other girls had found seats elsewhere.
She thought again: a bitter sweetness, and always the same single
question recurring. Vernon's child, and her own-an abortion or not? …
Yes or no? To be or not to be? … They were on the runway … Abortion
or no abortion? … The engines' tempo was increasing. They were rolling
already, wasting no time; in seconds, no more, they would be in the air
… Yes or no? To permit to live or condemn to die? How, between love and
reality, conscience and commousense, did anyone decide?

As it happened, Gwen Meighen need not have made the announcement about
power reduction.
On the flight deck, taxiing out, Captain Harris told Demerest gruffly,
"I plan to ignore noise abatement procedures tonight."
Vernon Demerest, who had just copied their complicated route clearance,
received by radio-a task normally performed by the absent First
Officer-nodded. "Damn right! I would too."
Most pilots would have let it go at that, but, characteristically,
Demerest pulled the flight log toward him and made an entry in the
"Remarks" column: "N.A.P. not observed. Reason: weather, safety."
Later, there might be trouble about that log entry, but it was the kind
of trouble Demerest enjoyed and would meet head on.
The cockpit lights were dimmed. Pre-takeoff checks had been completed.
They had been lucky in the temporary traffic lull; it had allowed them
to reach their takeoff point, at the head of runway two five, quickly,
and without the long ground hiatus which had plagued most other flights
tonight. Already though, for others following, the delay was building up
again. Behind Trans America Flight Two was a growing line of waiting
aircraft and a procession of others taxiing out from the terminal. On
radio, the ATC ground controller was issuing a swift stream of

instructions to flights of United Air Lines, Eastern, American, Air
France, Flying Tiger, Lufthansa, Braniff, Contineiital, Lake Central,
Delta, TWA, Ozark, Air Canada, Alitalia, and Pan Am, their assorted
destinadons like~an index of world geography.
Flight Two's additional fuel reserves, ordered by Anson Harris to allow
for extra ground running time, had not, after all, been needed. But even
with the heavy fuel load, they were still within safe takeoff limits, as
Second Officer Jordan had just calculated, spreading out his graphs once
more, as he would many times tonight and tomorrow before the flight
ended.
Both Demerest's and Harris's radios were now switched to runway control
frequency.
On runway two five, immediately ahead of Trans America, a British VC-10
of BOAC, received word to go. It moved forward, with lumbering slowness
at first, then swiftly. Its company colors-blue, white, and gold –gleamed
briefly in the reflection of other aircrafts' lights, then were gone in
a flurry of whirling snow and black jet exhaust. Immediately the ground
controller's voice intoned, "Trans America Two, taxi into position,
runway two five, and hold; traffic landing on runway one seven, left."
One seven, left, was a runway which directly bisected runway two five.
There was an element of danger in using the two runways together, but
tower controllers had become adept at spacing aircraft-landing and taking
off-so that no time was wasted, but no two airplanes reached the
intersection at the same moment. Pilots, uncomfortably aware of the
danger of collision when they heard by radio that both runways were in
use, obeyed controllers' orders implicitly.
Anson Harris swiftly and expertly jockeyed FEght Two on to runway two
five.
Peering out, through snow flurries, Demerest could see the lights of an
airplane, about to touch down on one seven. He thumbed his mike button.
"Trans America Two, Roger. In position and holding. We see the landing
traffic."
Even before the landing aircraft had bisected their

own runwav, the controller's voice returned. "Trans America Two, cleared for
takeoff. Go, man, go!"
The final three words were not in any air traffic control manual, but to
controller and pilots they had identical meaning: Get the hell moving, now!
There's another flight landing right after the last. Already a fresh set of
lights-ominously close to the airfield-was approaching runway one seven.
Anson Harris had not waited. His outspread fingers slid the four main
throttles forward to their full extent. He ordered, "Trim the throttles,"
and briefly held his toe brakes on, allowing power to build, as Demerest
set pressure ratios evenly for all four engines. The engines' sound
deepened from a steady whine to a thunderous roar. Then Harris released the
brakes and N-731-TA leaped forward down the runway.
Vernon Dernerest reported to the tower, "Trans America Two on the roll,"
then applied forward pressure to the control yoke while Harris used nose
wheel steering with his left hand, his right returning to the throttles.
Speed built. Demerest called, "Eighty knots." Harris nodded, released nose
wheel steering and took over the control yoke . . . Runway lights flashed
by in swirling snow. Near crescendo, the big jet's power surged … At a
hundred and thirty-two knots, as calculated earlier, Demerest called out
"V-one"-notification to Harris that they had reached "decision speed" at
which the takeoff could still be aborted and the aircraft stopped. Beyond
V-one the takeoff must continue . . . Now they were past V-one … Still
gathering speed, they hurtled through the runways' intersection, glimpsing
to their right a flash of landing fights of the approaching plane; in mere
seconds the other aircraft would cross where Flight Two had just passed.
Another risk-skillfully calculated-had worked out; only pessimists believed
that one day such a risk might not … As speed reached a hundred and
fifty-four knots, Harris began rotation, easing the control column back.
The nose wheel left the runway surface; they were in lift-off attitude,
ready to

quit the ground. A moment later, with speed still increasimy, they were
in the air.
Harris said quietly, "Gear up."
Demerest reached out, raising a lever on the central instrument panel.
The sound of the retracting landing gear reverberated through the
aircraft, then stopped with a thud as the doors to the wheel wells
closed.
They were going up fast-passing through four hundred feet. In a moment,
the night and clouds would swallow them.
"Flaps twenty."
Still performing first officer duty, Demerest obediently moved the
control pedestal flap selector from thirty degrees to twenty. There was
a brief sensation of sinking as the wing flaps-which provided extra lift
at takeoff –came partially upward.
"Flaps up."
Now the flaps were fully retracted.
Demerest noted, for his report later, that at no point during takeoff
could he have faulted Anson Harris's performance in the slightest degree.
He had not expeeted to. Despite the earlier needling, Vernon Demerest was
aware that Harris was a top-grade captain, as exacting in performance-his
own and others-as Demere,,).t was himself. It was the reason Dernerest
had known in advance that their flight to Rome tonight would be, for
himself, an easy journey.
Only seconds had passed since leaving the ground; now, still climbing
steeply, they passed over the runway's end, the lights below already
dimming through cloud and falling snow. Anson Harris had ceased
lookingout and was flying on instruments alone.
Second Officer Cy Jordan was reaching forward from his flight engineer's
seat, adjusting the throttles to equalize the power of all four engines.
Within the clouds there was a good deal of buffeting; at the outset of
their journey, the passengers behind were getting a rough ride. Dernerest
snapped the "No Smoking" light switch off; the "Fasten Seat Belts" sign
would remain on until Flight Two reached more stable air. Later, either
Harris or Demerest would make an

announcement to the passengers; but not yet. At the moment, flying was
more important.
Demerest reported to departure control. "Turning portside one eight zero;
leaving fifteen hundred feet."
He saw Anson Harris smile at his use of the words "turning portside"
instead of "turning left." The former was correct but unofficial. It was
one of Demerest's own phrases; many veteran pilots had them-a minor
rebellion against ATC officialese which nowadays all flying people were
supposed to hew to. Controllers on the ground frequently learned to
recognize individual pilots by such personal idioms.
A moment later Flight Two received radio clearance to climb to
twenty-five thousand feet. Demerest acknowledged while Anson Harris kept
the aircraft climbing. Up there in a few minutes from now they would be
in clear, calm air, the storm clouds far below, and high above, in sight,
the stars.

The "turning portside" phrase had been noticed on the ground-by Keith
Bakersfeld.
Keith had returned to radar watch more than an hour ago, after the time
spent in the controllers' locker room, alone, remembering the past and
reaffirming his intention of tonight.
Several times since then Keith's hand had gone instinctively into his
pocket, touching the key of his covertly rented room at the O'Hagan Inn.
Otherwise, he had concentrated on the radarscope in front of him. He was
now handling arrivals from the east and the continuing heavy traffic
volume demanded intensive concentration.
He was no): concerned directly with Flight Two; however, the departure
controller was only a few feet away and in a brief interval between his
own transmissions Keith heard the "turning portside" phrase and recog-
nized it, along with his brother-in-law's voice. Until then, Keith had
no idea that Vernon Demerest was flying tonight; there was no reason why
he should. Keith and Vernon saw little of each other. Like Mel, Keith had
never achieved any close rapport with his brother-

in-law, though there bad been none of the friction between thern which
marred relations between Dernerest and Mel.
Shortly after Flight Two's departure, Wayne Tevis, the radar supervisor,
propelled his castor-equipped chair across to Keith.
"Take live, buddyboy," Tevis said in his nasal Texan drawl. "I'll spell
you. Your big brother dropped in."
As he unplugged his headset and turned, Keith made out the fig-ure of Mel
behind him in the shadows. He remembered his earlier hope that Mel would
not come here tonight; at the time Keith feared that a meeting between
the two of them might be more than he could handle emotionally, Now he
found that he was glad Mel had come. They bad always been good friends
as well as brothers, and it was right and proper there should be a
leave-taking, though Mel would not know that it was that-at least, until
he learned tomorrow.
"Hi," Mel said. "I was passing by. How have things been?"
Keith shrugged. "I guess, all right."
"Coffee?" Mel had picked up two take-out coffees from one of the airport
restaurants on his way. They were in a paper bag; he offered one of the
cups to Keith and took the other himself.
"Thanks." Keith was grateful for the coffee as well as for the break. Now
that he was away from the radarscope, if only briefly, he realized that
his own mental tension had been accumulating again within the past hour.
He observed, as if watching someone else, that his hand holding the
coffee cup was not entirely steady.
Mel glanced around the busy radar room. He was careful not to look too
obviously at Keith whose appearance-tbe gaunt, strained face with deep
hollows beneath the eyes-had shocked him. Keith's appearance had
deteriorated over recent months; tonight, Mel thought, his brother looked
worse than at any time before.
His mind still on Keith, he nodded toward the profusion of radar
equipment. "I wonder what the old man would have thought of all this."

The "old man" was-had been-their father, Wally (Wild Blue) Bakersfeld,
stick-and-goggles aviator, stunt flier, crop duster, night mail carrier,
and parachute jumper-the last when he needed money badly enough. Wild
Blue had been a contemporary of Lindbergh, a crony of Orville Wright, and
had flown to the end of his life, which terminated abruptly in a filmed
Hollywood stunt sequence-an airplane crash, intended to be simulated, but
which turned out to be real. It happened when Mel and Keith were in their
teens, but not before Wild Blue had inculcated in both boys an acceptance
of aviation as their way of life, which persisted into adulthood. In
Keith's case, Mel sometimes thought, the father had done his younger son
a disservice.
Keith shook his head without answering Mel's question, which didn't
matter because it had been only rhetorical, Mel marking time while
wondering how best to approach what was uppermost in his mind. He decided
to do it directly-,
Keeping his voice low, Mel said, "Keith, you're not well; you're looking
damned awful. I know it, you know it; so why pretend? If you'll let me,
I'd like to help. Can we talk-about whatever the trouble is? We've always
been honest with each other."
"Yes," Keith acknowledged, "we've always been that." He sipped his
coffee, not meeting Mel's eyes.
The reference to their father, though casual, had moved Keith strangely.
He remembered Wild Blue well; he had been a poor provider-the Bakersfeld
family was perpetually short of money-but a genial man with his children,
especially if the talk was about flying, as the two boys usually wanted
it to be. Yet in the end it was not Wild Blue who had been a father
figure to Keith, but Mel; Met Bakersfeld who possessed the sound sense
and stability, as far back as Keith remembered, whicE their father
lacked. It was Mel who always looked out for Keith, though never being
ostentatious about it, or –werprotective as some older brothers were,
robbing a y,)unger boy of dignity. Mel had a facility, even then, for
doing things for people and making them feel good at the same time.

Mel had shared things with Keith, had been considerate and thoughtful,
even in small ways. He still was. Bringing the coffee tonight was an
example, Keith thought, then checked himself: Don't wax sentimental over
a carton of coffee just because this is a last meeting. This time,
Keith's aloneness, his anguish and guilt were beyond Mel's fixing. Even
Mel could not bring back to life little Valerie Redfern and her parents.
Mel motioned with his bead and they moved to the corridor outside the
radar room.
"Listen, old chum," Mel said. "You need a break from all this-a long one;
perhaps more than a break. Maybe you need to get away for good."
For the first time Keith smiled. "You've been listening to Natalie."
"Natalie's apt to talk a lot of sense."
Whatever Keith's other problems might be, Mel reflected, he had been
outstandingly fortunate in Natalie. The thought of his sister-in-law
reminded Mel of his own wife, Cindy, who presumably was still on her way
to the airport. Comparing your own marriage unfavorably with someone
else's was disloyal, Mel supposed; at times, though, it was hard not to
do it. He wondered if Keith really knew just how lucky-at least in that
important area-he had been.
"There's something else," Mel said. "I haven't brought it up before, but
maybe now's the time. I don't think you've ever told me the whole of what
happened at Leesburg-that day, the accident. Maybe you didn't tell
anyone, because I've read all the testimony. Is there something else;
that you've never told?"
Keith hesitated only momentarily. "Yes."
"I figur,.-d there might be." Met chose his words carefully; he sensed
that what was passing between them could be of critical importance. "But
I also figured if you wantod me to know, you'd tell me; and if you
didn't, wcll, it was none of my business. Sometimes, though, if you care
about someone enough-say, like a brother-you ought to make it your
business, whether they want you to butt in or not. So I'm making this
mine now." He added softly, "You hear me?"

"Yes," Keith said, "I hear you." He thought: He could stop this
conversation, of course; perhaps he should stop it now, at once-since it
was pointless-by excusing himself and going back to the radarscope. Mel
would assume they could resume later, not knowing that for the two of
them together, there would be no later.
"That day at Leesburg," Mel insisted. "The part you've never told-it has
something to do with the way you feel, the way you are, right now. Hasn't
it?"
Keith shook his head. "Leave it alone, Mel. Please!"
"Then I'm right. There is a relationship, isn't there?"
What was the point of denying the obvious? Keith nodded. "Yes."
"Won't you tell me? You have to tell someone; sooner or later you have
to." Mel's voice was pleading, urgent. "You can't live with this
thing-whatever it is –inside you forever. Who better to tell than me? I'd
understand."
You can't live with this . . . Who better to tell than me?
It seemed to Keith that his brother's voice, even the sight of Mel, was
coming to him through a tunnel, from the distant end, far away. At the
farther end of the tunnel, too, were all the other people-Natalie, Brian,
Theo, Perry Yount, Keith's friends-with whom he had lost communication
long since. Now, of them all, Mel alone was reaching out, striving to
bridge the gap between them … but the tunnel was long, their apartness