gently slid out from under his wife to let her have the sofa and pulled the blanket up around her shoulders. She slept a lot lately.
12
Austral Clipper
They patiently waited their turn for takeoff as flight 1204, the Gulf Clipper , roared down the runway, destined for Dubai. The noise reverberated through their windshields. Tom craned his neck to watch it lift off into the night, trailing a radiant yellow exhaust plume which illuminated the barren Colorado plains beneath. “Beautiful,” he said to himself, just as his thoughts were interrupted by voices in his headset.
“Clipper 501 Heavy, you’re number one for takeoff. Taxi into position and hold.”
Tom guided them onto the runway with a small steering tiller by his knee. The landing gear’s small wheels and long legs made for a bumpy ride along the pavement. It was at least a mercifully short trip. Denver’s vast airport featured six long runways arranged in a pinwheel around three separate concourses, like islands in a sea of concrete. If the winds had favored a different direction, just getting into position would have made for a long scenic tour of the airport and surrounding plains.
They came to a stop along the dashed white centerline as Tom slipped his toes onto the brakes above the rudder pedals. “How’re you doing back there, Mister Kelly?”
Wade gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up from his position behind them. “Ready to blast off.”
“Okay gents, sterile cockpit procedures from here on—no idle conversation until we pass 18,000 feet,” he added for their guest’s benefit. “But that won’t take long.”
“501 heavy, cleared for takeoff, Yellowstone departure. Clock is started at two-zero-four Zulu,” the tower directed as the Gulf Clipper disappeared ahead of them. The flight was now being officially monitored for their record attempt.
Tom repeated their clearance back and simultaneously punched a cabin chime, cueing Marcy that they were about to depart. He smoothly pushed the throttles up to the stops and the Clipper sank forward like a tiger kneeling to pounce, shuddering and howling as it strained against its own power. The instant his toes lifted from the pedals, they were pressed hard into their seats as the plane flung itself down the runway.
Tom’s eyes remained fixed on the runway end as Ryan kept his gaze locked on the instruments, monitoring their acceleration and engine condition. “80 knots…100 knots,” he said above the noise as they hurtled down the runway. “140 knots…V1,” which meant they were committed. They would continue the takeoff no matter what now—the plane was going too fast to stop on what little runway was left ahead. “Rotate.”
Their nose wheel lifted off the runway as Tom eased the control yoke into his lap, and he soon felt the main tires leave the pavement as they began climbing away.
“V2…positive climb rate.”
“Positive rate,” Tom agreed. “Gear up”.
Ryan pulled the gear handle and slammed it firmly up into the detent. “Three green, up and locked.”
“Passing eight thousand feet—flaps up,” Tom said as the ground swiftly receded behind them. Their climb angle was so steep that to the passengers they appeared to be heading straight up. “Looking good,” he observed as much for himself as for their guest. “We set to fill the O2 tanks?”
“Affirmative,” Ryan said. “Intakes and heat exchangers on standby.”
…
Narrow ducts opened along the engine intakes, diverting some of the incoming air to be super-cooled as it passed through heat exchangers on its way to storage tanks inside the wings. Their engines would need the liquid oxygen they were creating to climb above the atmosphere before they flamed out and suffocated in the thinning air.
As they gained speed, conical inlet spikes along the bottom of the plane began inching forward, disrupting the shock waves that threatened to ricochet around inside the engines. They would soon close up
12
Austral Clipper
They patiently waited their turn for takeoff as flight 1204, the Gulf Clipper , roared down the runway, destined for Dubai. The noise reverberated through their windshields. Tom craned his neck to watch it lift off into the night, trailing a radiant yellow exhaust plume which illuminated the barren Colorado plains beneath. “Beautiful,” he said to himself, just as his thoughts were interrupted by voices in his headset.
“Clipper 501 Heavy, you’re number one for takeoff. Taxi into position and hold.”
Tom guided them onto the runway with a small steering tiller by his knee. The landing gear’s small wheels and long legs made for a bumpy ride along the pavement. It was at least a mercifully short trip. Denver’s vast airport featured six long runways arranged in a pinwheel around three separate concourses, like islands in a sea of concrete. If the winds had favored a different direction, just getting into position would have made for a long scenic tour of the airport and surrounding plains.
They came to a stop along the dashed white centerline as Tom slipped his toes onto the brakes above the rudder pedals. “How’re you doing back there, Mister Kelly?”
Wade gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up from his position behind them. “Ready to blast off.”
“Okay gents, sterile cockpit procedures from here on—no idle conversation until we pass 18,000 feet,” he added for their guest’s benefit. “But that won’t take long.”
“501 heavy, cleared for takeoff, Yellowstone departure. Clock is started at two-zero-four Zulu,” the tower directed as the Gulf Clipper disappeared ahead of them. The flight was now being officially monitored for their record attempt.
Tom repeated their clearance back and simultaneously punched a cabin chime, cueing Marcy that they were about to depart. He smoothly pushed the throttles up to the stops and the Clipper sank forward like a tiger kneeling to pounce, shuddering and howling as it strained against its own power. The instant his toes lifted from the pedals, they were pressed hard into their seats as the plane flung itself down the runway.
Tom’s eyes remained fixed on the runway end as Ryan kept his gaze locked on the instruments, monitoring their acceleration and engine condition. “80 knots…100 knots,” he said above the noise as they hurtled down the runway. “140 knots…V1,” which meant they were committed. They would continue the takeoff no matter what now—the plane was going too fast to stop on what little runway was left ahead. “Rotate.”
Their nose wheel lifted off the runway as Tom eased the control yoke into his lap, and he soon felt the main tires leave the pavement as they began climbing away.
“V2…positive climb rate.”
“Positive rate,” Tom agreed. “Gear up”.
Ryan pulled the gear handle and slammed it firmly up into the detent. “Three green, up and locked.”
“Passing eight thousand feet—flaps up,” Tom said as the ground swiftly receded behind them. Their climb angle was so steep that to the passengers they appeared to be heading straight up. “Looking good,” he observed as much for himself as for their guest. “We set to fill the O2 tanks?”
“Affirmative,” Ryan said. “Intakes and heat exchangers on standby.”
…
Narrow ducts opened along the engine intakes, diverting some of the incoming air to be super-cooled as it passed through heat exchangers on its way to storage tanks inside the wings. Their engines would need the liquid oxygen they were creating to climb above the atmosphere before they flamed out and suffocated in the thinning air.
As they gained speed, conical inlet spikes along the bottom of the plane began inching forward, disrupting the shock waves that threatened to ricochet around inside the engines. They would soon close up
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