across the deserted runway. If wolves appeared tonight, Mel thought, it would not be surprising.
A shadowy figure hailed him. “Is that Mr. Patroni?”
“No, it isn’t.” Mel found that he, too, had to shout to make himself heard above the wind. “But Joe Patroni’s on the way.”
The other man came closer. He was huddled into a parka, his face blue with cold. “When he gets here, we’ll be glad to see him. Though I’m damned if I know what Patroni’ll do. We’ve tried about everything to get this bastard out.” He gestured to the airplane looming, shadowy, behind them. “She’s stuck, but good.”
Mel identified himself, then asked, “Who are you?”
“Ingram, sir. Aéreo-Mexican maintenance foreman. Right now, I wish I had some other job.”
As the two men talked, they moved nearer to the stalled Boeing 707, instinctively seeking shelter under the wings and fuselage, high above them. Under the big jet’s belly, a red hazard light winked rhythmically, In its reflection Mel could see the mud beneath snow in which the aircraft’s wheels were deeply mired. On the runway and adjoining taxiway, clustered like anxious relatives, were a profusion of trucks and service vehicles, including a fuel tanker, baggage tenders, a post office van, two crew buses, and a roaring power cart.
Mel pulled the collar of his topcoat tightly around him. “We need this runway urgently–tonight. What have you done so far?”
In the past two hours, Ingram reported, old-fashioned boarding ramps had been trundled from the terminal, manhandled to the aircraft, and passengers guided down them. It bad been a slow, tricky job because steps were icing as fast as they were cleared. An elderly woman had been carried down by two mechanics. Babies were passed from hand to hand in blankets. Now, all passengers were gone–in buses, along with the stewardesses and the second officer. The captain and first officer remained.
“Since the passengers left–have you tried to get the airplane moving?”
The foreman nodded affirmatively. “Had the engines running twice. The captain’s put on all the power he dare. But she won’t come free. Just seems to dig herself in deeper.”
“What’s happening now?”
“We’re taking off more weight, hoping that’ll help.” Most of the fuel, Ingram added, had been sucked out by tankers–a heavy load since tanks were full for takeoff. Baggage and freight compartments in the belly had been emptied. A post office truck was retrieving mailbags.
Mel nodded. The mail, he knew, would have come off anyway. The airport post office kept a minute-to-minute watch on airline schedules. They knew exactly where their mailbags were and, if delays occurred, postal employees quickly switched mail from one airline to another. Mail from the stranded jet, in fact, would fare better than passengers. In half an hour at most, it would be on its way by another flight, if necessary on an alternate route.
Mel asked, “Have you all the help you need?”
“Yes. sir–for all we can do now. I’ve got most of our crew from Aéreo-Mexican here–a dozen men. Right now, half of ‘em are thawing out in one of the buses. Patroni may want more people, depending on what his ideas are.” Ingram turned, surveying the silent aircraft gloomily. “But if you ask me, it’s going to be a long job. and we’ll need heavy cranes, jacks, and maybe pneumatic bags to lift the wings. For most of those, we’d have to wait until daylight. The whole thing could take most of tomorrow.”
Mel said sharply, “It can’t take most of tomorrow, or even tonight. This runway has to be cleared…” He stopped abruptly, shivering with a suddenness which startled him. The intensity was unexpected, almost eerie.
Mel shivered again. What was it? He assured himself: the weather–the fierce, harsh wind across the airport, driving the whirling snow. Yet, strangely, since leaving the car until this moment, his body had adjusted to the
A shadowy figure hailed him. “Is that Mr. Patroni?”
“No, it isn’t.” Mel found that he, too, had to shout to make himself heard above the wind. “But Joe Patroni’s on the way.”
The other man came closer. He was huddled into a parka, his face blue with cold. “When he gets here, we’ll be glad to see him. Though I’m damned if I know what Patroni’ll do. We’ve tried about everything to get this bastard out.” He gestured to the airplane looming, shadowy, behind them. “She’s stuck, but good.”
Mel identified himself, then asked, “Who are you?”
“Ingram, sir. Aéreo-Mexican maintenance foreman. Right now, I wish I had some other job.”
As the two men talked, they moved nearer to the stalled Boeing 707, instinctively seeking shelter under the wings and fuselage, high above them. Under the big jet’s belly, a red hazard light winked rhythmically, In its reflection Mel could see the mud beneath snow in which the aircraft’s wheels were deeply mired. On the runway and adjoining taxiway, clustered like anxious relatives, were a profusion of trucks and service vehicles, including a fuel tanker, baggage tenders, a post office van, two crew buses, and a roaring power cart.
Mel pulled the collar of his topcoat tightly around him. “We need this runway urgently–tonight. What have you done so far?”
In the past two hours, Ingram reported, old-fashioned boarding ramps had been trundled from the terminal, manhandled to the aircraft, and passengers guided down them. It bad been a slow, tricky job because steps were icing as fast as they were cleared. An elderly woman had been carried down by two mechanics. Babies were passed from hand to hand in blankets. Now, all passengers were gone–in buses, along with the stewardesses and the second officer. The captain and first officer remained.
“Since the passengers left–have you tried to get the airplane moving?”
The foreman nodded affirmatively. “Had the engines running twice. The captain’s put on all the power he dare. But she won’t come free. Just seems to dig herself in deeper.”
“What’s happening now?”
“We’re taking off more weight, hoping that’ll help.” Most of the fuel, Ingram added, had been sucked out by tankers–a heavy load since tanks were full for takeoff. Baggage and freight compartments in the belly had been emptied. A post office truck was retrieving mailbags.
Mel nodded. The mail, he knew, would have come off anyway. The airport post office kept a minute-to-minute watch on airline schedules. They knew exactly where their mailbags were and, if delays occurred, postal employees quickly switched mail from one airline to another. Mail from the stranded jet, in fact, would fare better than passengers. In half an hour at most, it would be on its way by another flight, if necessary on an alternate route.
Mel asked, “Have you all the help you need?”
“Yes. sir–for all we can do now. I’ve got most of our crew from Aéreo-Mexican here–a dozen men. Right now, half of ‘em are thawing out in one of the buses. Patroni may want more people, depending on what his ideas are.” Ingram turned, surveying the silent aircraft gloomily. “But if you ask me, it’s going to be a long job. and we’ll need heavy cranes, jacks, and maybe pneumatic bags to lift the wings. For most of those, we’d have to wait until daylight. The whole thing could take most of tomorrow.”
Mel said sharply, “It can’t take most of tomorrow, or even tonight. This runway has to be cleared…” He stopped abruptly, shivering with a suddenness which startled him. The intensity was unexpected, almost eerie.
Mel shivered again. What was it? He assured himself: the weather–the fierce, harsh wind across the airport, driving the whirling snow. Yet, strangely, since leaving the car until this moment, his body had adjusted to the
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