times he’d done this ritual
enabled him to watch himself as he set the card at the base of the panel and entered the figures into the fuel totalizer.
As the computer added the weight of the plane and release fuel and displayed the total, he marveled at the precision, his
own and the machine’s.
“One-forty-six point five,” he read aloud. He thumbed through a packet of flip-cards, thinking that it all was completely
second nature to him, every step. He located the page for 147,000 pounds, and set the packet next to the weight card. They
were 2,500 pounds below maximum allowable takeoff weight. Both be and Boyd adjusted the pointers on their airspeed indicators.
Then they finished the before-takeoff checklist.
Now they were number two for the runway. Pate stared at the heat waves boiling from the engines of the jet parked ahead of
them. He had never really noticed before how furiously the heat attacked the cold air. He looked to his right, out his side
window. An American 757, its bare metal gleaming in the gray light, was about to touch down. A current of envy worked through
him. American had somehow kept clear of Farraday and all the trouble he’d caused. Sheer luck, he supposed. The toss of the
dice. He thought again about Senator Sanford and Mariella Ponti, and how luck of the draw played a part in everything.
“You want the first leg?” Boyd asked.
With a faint puff of blue smoke from its tires, the 757 touched down. Pate watched it decelerate. He’d always wanted to fly
a 757. Westar had never owned one, though, and, thanks to Farraday, New World couldn’t afford to upgrade its fleet. “No. You
go ahead and take it,” he said to Boyd. “I’ve got the radios.”
Boyd made a quick, canned briefing covering procedures in case of an engine failure or other major problem. A minute later
the tower cleared the aircraft ahead of them for takeoff. Boyd released the brakes and brought the nose around, and they moved
into the number one position. He set the parking brake, and they sat in silence, waiting again. Now the plane ahead of them
was at the far end of the runway, leaving the ground and climbing up into the gray sky, sooty trails of exhaust in its wake.
The runway seemed barren, vast. A hundred feet in front of them on the pale concrete were the black skid marks of tenthousand
touchdowns. Pate suddenly wished he’d called Katherine. Then he drove his mind away from that thought, focused it again on
the narrow, blank runway, stretching out, as pale as a piece of the sky.
The tower controller’s voice crackled in his earphone. “New World Five-fifty-five, wind zero four zero at twelve knots. Cleared
for takeoff.”
Pate acknowledged. He checked his watch; 11:42 Eastern, 16:42 Greenwich Mean Time. Boyd released the brakes and advanced the
throttles and steered the airplane around onto the runway centerline.
“Landing lights,” Pate said.
“On.”
“Checklist complete.”
Boyd advanced the throttles further, to vertical. Pate checked the N1 tachometers; they stabilized at near 60 per cent.
“Power stable.”
Boyd engaged automatic throttles, and the levers motored forward. Pate followed them up with his hand.
“Takeoff thrust set.”
With a gentle jolt, Flight 555 began accelerating down the runway, the nosegear humping over the expansion joints in the concrete,
the airframe shaking with each impact. Pate scanned the engine instruments and the airspeed. All was normal.
“Vee one, rotate,” he called as the needle passed 146 knots.
Boyd eased his control column aft, bringing the nose up steadily, and at 152 knots ship 109 broke from the ground. Abruptly
the thumping and shaking ceased, and they soared up into the cold, fluid light.
“Positive rate. Gear up.” Boyd emphasized the call with a palm-up motion of his hand.
Pate leaned forward and threw the gear lever up. The “clunk” of hydraulic actuators sounded through the cockpit, and,
enabled him to watch himself as he set the card at the base of the panel and entered the figures into the fuel totalizer.
As the computer added the weight of the plane and release fuel and displayed the total, he marveled at the precision, his
own and the machine’s.
“One-forty-six point five,” he read aloud. He thumbed through a packet of flip-cards, thinking that it all was completely
second nature to him, every step. He located the page for 147,000 pounds, and set the packet next to the weight card. They
were 2,500 pounds below maximum allowable takeoff weight. Both be and Boyd adjusted the pointers on their airspeed indicators.
Then they finished the before-takeoff checklist.
Now they were number two for the runway. Pate stared at the heat waves boiling from the engines of the jet parked ahead of
them. He had never really noticed before how furiously the heat attacked the cold air. He looked to his right, out his side
window. An American 757, its bare metal gleaming in the gray light, was about to touch down. A current of envy worked through
him. American had somehow kept clear of Farraday and all the trouble he’d caused. Sheer luck, he supposed. The toss of the
dice. He thought again about Senator Sanford and Mariella Ponti, and how luck of the draw played a part in everything.
“You want the first leg?” Boyd asked.
With a faint puff of blue smoke from its tires, the 757 touched down. Pate watched it decelerate. He’d always wanted to fly
a 757. Westar had never owned one, though, and, thanks to Farraday, New World couldn’t afford to upgrade its fleet. “No. You
go ahead and take it,” he said to Boyd. “I’ve got the radios.”
Boyd made a quick, canned briefing covering procedures in case of an engine failure or other major problem. A minute later
the tower cleared the aircraft ahead of them for takeoff. Boyd released the brakes and brought the nose around, and they moved
into the number one position. He set the parking brake, and they sat in silence, waiting again. Now the plane ahead of them
was at the far end of the runway, leaving the ground and climbing up into the gray sky, sooty trails of exhaust in its wake.
The runway seemed barren, vast. A hundred feet in front of them on the pale concrete were the black skid marks of tenthousand
touchdowns. Pate suddenly wished he’d called Katherine. Then he drove his mind away from that thought, focused it again on
the narrow, blank runway, stretching out, as pale as a piece of the sky.
The tower controller’s voice crackled in his earphone. “New World Five-fifty-five, wind zero four zero at twelve knots. Cleared
for takeoff.”
Pate acknowledged. He checked his watch; 11:42 Eastern, 16:42 Greenwich Mean Time. Boyd released the brakes and advanced the
throttles and steered the airplane around onto the runway centerline.
“Landing lights,” Pate said.
“On.”
“Checklist complete.”
Boyd advanced the throttles further, to vertical. Pate checked the N1 tachometers; they stabilized at near 60 per cent.
“Power stable.”
Boyd engaged automatic throttles, and the levers motored forward. Pate followed them up with his hand.
“Takeoff thrust set.”
With a gentle jolt, Flight 555 began accelerating down the runway, the nosegear humping over the expansion joints in the concrete,
the airframe shaking with each impact. Pate scanned the engine instruments and the airspeed. All was normal.
“Vee one, rotate,” he called as the needle passed 146 knots.
Boyd eased his control column aft, bringing the nose up steadily, and at 152 knots ship 109 broke from the ground. Abruptly
the thumping and shaking ceased, and they soared up into the cold, fluid light.
“Positive rate. Gear up.” Boyd emphasized the call with a palm-up motion of his hand.
Pate leaned forward and threw the gear lever up. The “clunk” of hydraulic actuators sounded through the cockpit, and,
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