Артур Хейли
Airport. Аэропорт. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Уровень В2

© Загородняя И. Б., адаптация, сокращение, словарь, 2018

© ООО «Издательство «Антология», 2022

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PART ONE 6:30 P.M.
8:30 P.M. (CST)

01

At half-past six on a Friday evening in January, Lincoln International Airport, Illinois, was functioning, though with dififculty.

The airport was reeling from the roughest winter storm in six years. The storm had lasted three days. Now, trouble spots were erupting steadily.

A United Air Lines food truck, loaded with two hundred dinners, was lost somewhere on the airport perimeter. A search for the truck had so far failed to locate either the missing vehicle or its driver.

United’s Flight 111 – a non-stop DC-8 for Los Angeles, which the food truck had to service – was already several hours behind schedule. Similar delays, for varying reasons, were affecting at least a hundred ﬂights of twenty other airlines using Lincoln International.

Out on the airﬁeld, runway three zero[1] was out of use, blocked by an Aéreo-Mexican jet – a Boeing 707 – its wheels were deeply stuck in wet ground beneath snow, near the runway’s edge. Two hours of intensive efof rt had failed to make the big jet moved. Now, Aéreo-Mexican had appealed to TWA[2] for help. Air Trafifc Control[3] had limited the volume of incoming trafifc. Despite this, twenty incoming ﬂights were stacked up overhead, some of them were nearing low fuel limits. On the ground, forty planes were preparing for takeoff. But until the number of ﬂights in the air could be reduced, ATC[4] had ordered further delays of departures.

In the main passenger terminal, chaos predominated. Terminal waiting areas were jammed with thousands of passengers from delayed or canceled ﬂights. Baggage, in piles, was everywhere.

High on the terminal roof, the airport’s immodest slogan, LINCOLN INTERNATIONAL – AVIATION CROSSROADS OF THE WORLD, was completely obscured by snow.

“The wonder was,” Mel Bakersfeld thought, “that anything was continuing to operate at all.”

Mel, airport general manager – lean, tall, disciplined and energetic – was standing by the Snow Control Desk, high in the control tower. He peered out into the darkness. Normally, from this glasswalled room, the entire airport complex – runways, taxi strips, terminals, trafifc of the ground and air – was visible. But tonight only a faint blur of a few nearer lights penetrated the snow.

At the Snow Control Desk near Mel, Danny Farrow – at other times an assistant airport manager, now snow shift supervisor – was calling Maintenance Snow Center by radiophone.

“We’re losing the parking lots. I need six more Payloaders[5].”

Danny was seated at the Snow Desk, which was not really a desk at all, but a wide, three-position console. Confronting Danny and his two assistants – one on either side – was a battery of telephones and radios. Surrounding them were maps, charts, and bulletin boards recording the state and location of every piece of motorized snow-ﬁghting equipment, as well as men and supervisors. The Snow Desk was activated only for its one seasonal purpose. At other times of year, this room remained empty and silent.

Mel Bakersfeld was aware that conditions were awful. An hour ago, Mel had driven across the airﬁeld. He used service roads, but although he knew the airport layout very well, tonight he had trouble ﬁnding his way and several times was almost lost. Mel had gone to inspect the Maintenance Snow Center and then, as now, activity had been intensive. Where the tower Snow Control Desk was a command post, the Maintenance Snow Center was a front line headquarters. From here, weary crews and supervisors came and went, alternately sweating and freezing.

Like the Snow Desk in the control tower, the Maintenance Snow Center was activated for its winter function only. It was a big room above an airport truck garage, and it was presided over by a dispatcher.

The maintenance foreman’s voice came on the radiophone again. “We’re worried about the lost food truck too, Danny. The poor driver could freeze out there. Though if he isn’t foolish, he isn’t starving.”

The UAL[6] food truck had left the airline ﬂight kitchen for the main terminal nearly two hours ago. Its route lay around the perimeter track, a journey which usually took ﬁfteen minutes. But the truck had failed to arrive, and obviously the driver had lost his way. United ﬂight dispatch had ﬁrst sent out its own search party, without success. Now airport management had taken over.

Mel said, “That United ﬂight ﬁnally took off, didn’t it? Without food.”

Danny Farrow answered without looking up. “I hear the captain put it to the passengers[7]. Told them it’d take an hour to get another truck, that they had a movie and liquor aboard, and the sun was shining in California. Everybody voted to get out. I would, too.”

Mel nodded, resisting a temptation to take over and direct the search himself for the missing truck and driver. He was glad, a moment later, that he had not interfered. Danny was already doing the right thing – intensifying the truck search. The missing driver must be saved ﬁrst.

Between calls, Danny warned Mel, “Prepare yourself for more complaints. This search’ll block the perimeter road. We’ll hold up all the other food trucks till we ﬁnd the guy.

Mel nodded. Complaints were a stock-in-trade[8] of an airport manager’s job.

With one hand, Danny was using a red telephone; with the other, leaﬁng through emergency orders – Mel’s orders, carefully made for occasions such as this.

The red phone was to the airport’s duty ﬁre chief. Danny summarized the situation.

“And when we locate the truck, let’s get an ambulance out there, and you may need an inhalator or heat, could be both. But better not go until we know where exactly. We don’t want to dig you guys out, too.”

Reaching over Danny’s shoulder, Mel picked up a direct line phone to Air Trafifc Control. The tower watch chief answered.

“What’s the story on that Aéreo-Mexican 707?”

“Still there, Mr. Bakersfeld. They’ve been working a couple of hours trying to move it. No luck yet.”

That particular trouble had begun shortly after dark when an Aéreo-Mexican captain, taxiing out[9] for takeoff, mistakenly passed to the right instead of left of a blue taxi light[10]. Unfortunately, the ground to the right, which was normally grass covered, had a drainage problem, and there was still mud beneath the surface. Within seconds of its wrong-way turn, the hundred and twenty ton aircraft was deeply stuck.

When it became obvious that the aircraft could not get out, loaded, under its own power, the irritated passengers were disembarked and helped through mud and snow to buses. Now, more than two hours later, the big jet was still stuck, its fuselage and tail was blocking runway three zero.

Mel inquired, “The runway and taxi strip[11] are still out of use?”

“Afifrmative,”[12] the tower chief reported. “We’re holding all outbound trafifc at the gates, then sending them the long route to the other runways.”

“Pretty slow?”

“Slowing us ﬁfty percent. Right now we’re holding ten ﬂights for taxi clearance[13], another dozen is waiting to start engines.”

“It was a demonstration,” Mel thought, “of how urgently the airport needed additional runways and taxiways.” For three years he had been asking for construction of a new runway to parallel three zero, as well as other operational improvements. But the Board of Airport Commissioners, under political pressure from downtown, refused to approve. The pressure was because city councilmen, for reasons of their own, wanted to avoid new expenses.

“The other thing,” the tower watch chief said, “is that with three zero out of use, we’re having to route takeoffs over Meadowood. The complaints have started coming in already.”

Mel groaned. The community of Meadowood was a constant thorn to himself and an impediment to ﬂight operations. Though the airport had been established long before the community, Meadowood’s residents complained constantly and bitterly about noise from aircraft overhead. Press publicity followed. It attracted even more complaints. Eventually, after long negotiations involving politics and publicity, the airport and the Federal Aviation Administration had agreed that jet takeofsf and landings directly over Meadowood would be made only when essential in special circumstances.

Moreover, it was also agreed that aircraft taking off toward Meadowood would follow noise abatement procedures[14]. This, in turn, produced protests from pilots, who considered the procedures dangerous. The airlines, however – conscious of the public furor and their corporate images – had ordered the pilots to conform.

Yet even this failed to satisfy the Meadowood residents. Their aggressive leaders were still protesting, organizing, and – according to latest rumors – planning legal harassment[15] of the airport.

All sorts of problems had gone on for three days and nights since the present snowfall started.

Fifteen minutes ago a note was delivered to Mel by messenger. The note read:

M –

thought should warn u – airlines snow committee (on vern demerest’s urging …why does your bro-in-law dislike you?) ﬁ ling critical report becos runways & taxiways snow clearance (v. d. says) lousy, inef ifcient… report blames airport (meaning u) for ﬂight delays… also claims stuck 707 wouldn’t have if taxiway plowed sooner, better… and where are you – in the drift? climb out & buy me cof fee soon.

luv

t

The “t” was for Tanya – Tanya Livingston, passenger relations agent for Trans America, and a special friend of Mel’s. Mel read the note again, as he usually did messages from Tanya, which became clearer the second time. Tanya, whose job combined troubleshooting and public relations, objected to capitals[16]. She even asked a Trans America mechanic to remove all capitals from her ofifce typewriter.

The Vern Demerest in the note was Captain Vernon Demerest, also of Trans America. He was one of the airline’s more senior captains, a militant campaigner for the Air Line Pilots Association, and, this season, a member of the Airlines Snow Committee at Lincoln International. The committee inspected runways and taxiways during snow periods and pronounced them ﬁt, or otherwise, for aircraft use. It always included an active ﬂying captain.

Vernon Demerest was also Mel’s brother-in-law, married to Mel’s older sister, Sarah. However, there was little cordiality between Mel and his brother-in-law, whom Mel considered snobbish and arrogant. Others, he knew, held the same opinion. Recently, Mel and Captain Demerest had had an angry exchange at a meeting of the Board of Airport Commissioners, where Demerest appeared on behalf of the pilots’ association. Mel suspected that the critical snow report – apparently initiated by his brother-in-law – was his revenge.

Mel was not greatly worried about the report. He knew they were coping with the storm as well as any organization could. But the report was a nuisance. Copies would go to all airlines, and tomorrow there would be inquiring phone calls and memos, and a need for explanations.

Mel supposed he had better get ready. He decided he would make an inspection of the present snow clearance situation at the same time that he was out on the airﬁeld checking on the blocked runway and the stuck Aéreo-Mexican jet.

At the Snow Desk, Danny Farrow was talking with Airport Maintenance again. When there was a moment’s break, Mel interjected, “I’ll be in the terminal, then on the ﬁeld.”

He had remembered what Tanya said in her note about having coffee together. He would stop at his own oficf e ﬁrst, then, on his way through the terminal, he would drop by Trans America to see her. The thought excited him.

02

Mel used the private elevator to descend from the tower to the administrative part of the building. He entered his own interior oficf e. From a closet, near the wide desk he used in daytime, he took out a heavy topcoat and fur-lined boots.

Tonight Mel himself was without speciﬁc duties at the airport. The reason he had stayed, through most of the three-day storm, was to be available for emergencies. “Otherwise,” he thought, as he pulled on the boots, “now I would be home with Cindy and the children.”

Or would he?

“No matter how objective you try to be,” Mel reasoned, “it is hard to be sure of your own real motives.” Not going home, in fact, has become the pattern of his life lately. His job was a cause, of course. It provided plenty of reasons to remain extra hours at the airport. But – if he was honest with himself – the airport also offered an escape from the quarrels between himself and Cindy which occured nowadays whenever they spent time together.

“Oh, hell!” Mel’s exclamation cut across the silence of the ofifce.

He had just recalled that tonight there was another of his wife’s boring charity affairs. A week ago, reluctantly, Mel had promised to attend. It was a cocktail party and dinner, downtown. What the charity was, he didn’t remember. But it made no difference. The causes with which Cindy Bakersfeld involved herself were depressingly similar. The test of worthiness – as Cindy saw it – was the social importance of her fellow committee members.

Fortunately, for the sake of peace[17] with Cindy, the starting time was late – almost two hours from now. So he could still make it[18], even after inspecting the airﬁeld. Mel could come back, shave and change in his oficf e, and be downtown only a little late. He decided to warn Cindy, though. Mel dialed his home number.

Roberta, his elder daughter, answered.

“Hi,” Mel said. “This is your old man[19].”

Roberta’s voice came coolly down the line. “Yes, I know.”

“How was school today?”

“Could you be speciﬁc, Father? There were several classes. Which do you want to know about?”

Mel sighed. Roberta, he could tell, was in what Cindy called one of her bad moods. “Do all fathers,” he thought, “abruptly lose communication with their daughters at age thirteen?” Less than a year ago, the two of them had seemed as close as father and daughter could be. Mel loved both his daughters deeply – Roberta, and her younger sister, Libby. There were times when he realized they were the only reasons his marriage had survived. As to Roberta, he had known that as a teenager she would develop interests which he could neither share nor wholly understand. He had been prepared for this. What he had not expected was to be shut out entirely or treated with a mixture of indifference and disrespect. Though, to be objective, he supposed the conﬂict between Cindy and himself had not helped. Children were sensitive.

“Never mind,” Mel said. “Is your mother home?”

“She went out. She said if you phoned to tell you that you have to be downtown to meet her, and for once[20] try not to be late.”

Mel felt irritation. Roberta was undoubtedly repeating Cindy’s words exactly. He could almost hear his wife saying them.

“If your mother calls, tell her I might be a little late, and that I can’t help it[21].” There was a silence, and he asked, “Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” Roberta said. “Is there anything else, Father? I have homework to do.”

He said, “Yes, there is something else. You’ll change your tone of voice, young lady, and show a little more respect. Furthermore, we’ll end this conversation when I’m good and ready.”

“If you say so, Father.”

“And stop calling me Father!”

“Very well, Father.”

Mel smiled and asked, “Is everything all right at home?”

“Yes. But Libby wants to talk to you.”

“In a minute. I was just going to tell you – because of the storm I may not be home tonight. There’s a lot happening at the airport. I’ll probably come back and sleep here.”

Again a pause, as if Roberta was thinking whether or not she could answer: So what else is new? Apparently she decided not. “Will you speak to Libby now?”

“Yes, I will. Goodnight, Robbie.”

“Goodnight.”

There was an impatient shufelf as the telephone changed hands, then Libby’s small breathless voice.

“Daddy, Daddy! Guess what!”

“Let me think,” Mel said. “I know – you had fun in the snow today.”

“Yes, I did, but it wasn’t that.”

“Then I can’t guess. You’ll have to tell me.”

“Well, at school, Miss Curzon said for homework we have to write down all the good things we think will happen next month.”

He thought affectionately: he could understand Libby’s enthusiasm. To her, almost everything was exciting and good, and the few things which were not were brushed aside and quickly forgotten. He wondered how much longer her happy innocence would last.

“That’s nice,” Mel said. “I like that.”

“Daddy, Daddy! Will you help me?”

“If I can.”

“I want a map of February.”

Mel smiled. Libby had a verbal shorthand of her own which sometimes seemed more expressive than conventional words. It occurred to him that he could use a map of February himself.

“There’s a calendar in my desk.” Mel told her where to ﬁnd it and heard her small feet running from the room; the telephone was forgotten. It was Roberta, Mel assumed, who silently hung up.

Mel left the general manager’s oficf e. He carried the heavy topcoat with him.

On the main concourse[22], he headed toward the Trans America wing. Near the check-in counters, a uniformed supervisor stepped forward. “Evening, Mr. Bakersfeld. Were you looking for Mrs. Livingston?”

“No matter how busy the airport became,” Mel thought, “there would always be time for gossip.” He wondered how widely his own name and Tanya’s had been linked already.

“Yes,” he said. “I was.”

The supervisor nodded toward a door marked, AIRLINE PERSONNEL ONLY.

“You’ll ﬁnd her through there, Mr. Bakersfeld.”

03

Mel knocked at the door. It opened, and he leaned in. “I was coming by,” he told Tanya.

She said brightly, “Hullo. You got my note?”

“I came to thank you for it.”

Tanya looked at him. Her eyes – a bright, clear blue – had a quality of directness. Her head was tilted, and an overhead light reﬂected red highlights from her hair. A slim ﬁgure, yet with a fullness which the airline uniform heightened… Mel was conscious, as at other times, of her desirability and warmth.

“I might invite you to my place today,” she said. “If you let me cook you dinner. Say, a Lamb Casserole[23].”

He hesitated, then reluctantly shook his head. “I wish I could. But we’ve some trouble here, and afterward I have to be downtown.” He got up. “Let’s have coffee, anyway.”

“All right.”

Mel held the door open, and they went out into the noisy main concourse.

As they made their way through the crowds and increasing piles of luggage, she moderated her normally brisk pace to Mel’s slower one. He was limping rather more than usual, she noticed. She wanted to take his arm and help him, but supposed she had better not[24]. She was still in Trans America uniform. Gossip spread fast enough without helping it actively. The two of them had been seen a lot lately in each other’s company, and Tanya was sure that the airport rumor machine had already taken note. Probably it was assumed that she and Mel were sleeping together, though, that was untrue.

They were headed for the Cloud Captain’s Coffee Shop in the central lobby.

“About that Lamb Casserole,” Mel said. “Could we make it another night? Say, the day after tomorrow?”

The sudden invitation from Tanya had surprised him. Although they had had several dates together – for drinks or dinner – until now she had not suggested visiting her apartment. Of course, going there could be for dinner only. Still… there was always the possibility that it might not.

Lately, Mel had sensed that if their meetings away from the airport continued, there could be a natural and obvious progression. But he had moved cautiously; instinct was warning him that an afaf ir with Tanya would be no casual romance but a deeply emotional involvement for them both. It was strange, he thought, that when a marriage was secure it seemed easier to manage an afaf ir than when the same marriage was shaky. Just the same[25], Tanya’s invitation seemed too tempting to pass up.

“The day after tomorrow is Sunday,” she said. “But I’ll be off duty, and if you can manage it, I’ll have more time.”

Mel grinned. “Candles and wine?”

“Okay,” she said. “Candles and wine.”

Mel had forgotten it would be Sunday. But he would have to come to the airport anyway because, even if the storm moved on, there would be aftereffects. As to Cindy, there had been several Sundays when she had been out, herself, without an announced reason.

As they entered the coffee shop, an energetic hostess recognized Mel and led him, ahead of others, to a small table, marked RESERVED, which airport ofifcials often used. When they sat down, Tanya said, “Did you ever see such crowds? This has been the wildest three days I remember.”

“If you think this is a big crowd tonight, wait until the civil version of the C-5A[26] goes into service,” answered Mel.

“I know – we can barely cope with the 747s[27]; but a thousand passengers arriving all at once at a check-in counter… God help us!” Tanya shuddered. “Can you imagine what it’ll be like when they collect their baggage? I don’t even want to think about it.”

Mel was amused to ﬁnd that their conversation had already drifted into aviation. Airplanes and airlines held a fascination for Tanya, and she liked talking about them. So did Mel, which was one of the reasons he enjoyed her company.

“You remember,” he said, “a few years ago, when the jets ﬁrst started ﬂying – what conditions were like at airports which had been designed for DC-4s[28].”

“I remember,” Tanya said. “I worked at one. On normal days you couldn’t move for the crowds; on busy days you couldn’t breathe. We used to say it was like holding the World Series in a sand lot.”

“What’s coming in the 1970s,” Mel predicted, “is going to be worse. And not just people congestion. We’ll be choking on other things, too.”

“Such as what?”

“Airways and trafifc control for one, but that’s another whole story. The really big thing is that we’re moving toward the day – fast – when air freight[29] business will be bigger than passenger traficf. If you want a sign of the way things are moving, watch some of the young men who are going into airline management now. Not long ago, hardly anybody wanted to work in air freight departments; passenger business had the glamour. Not any more! Now the bright boys are heading for air freight. They know that’s where the future and the big promotions lie.”

Tanya laughed. “I’ll be old-fashioned and stick with people. Somehow freight…”

A waitress came to their table. They ordered coffee, Tanya cinnamon toast, and Mel a fried egg sandwich.

When the waitress had gone, Mel grinned. “I guess I started to make a speech. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe you need the practice. You haven’t made many lately.”

“I’m not president of the Airport Operators Council any more. I don’t get to Washington as much.” But it was not the whole reason for not making speeches and being less in the public eye. He suspected Tanya knew it.

Curiously, it was a speech of Mel’s which had brought them together. At one of the rare interline meetings which airlines held, he had talked about coming developments in aviation, and the lag in ground organization compared with progress in the air. He had used the occasion as a practice for a speech he intended to deliver at a national forum a week or so later. Tanya had been among the Trans America contingent, and next day had sent him one of her lower case notes[30]:

mr. b

spch great. all’v us earthside slaves cheering u 4 admitting airport policy-makers asleep at drawing boards. somebody needed 2 say it. mind suggestion? wd all be more alive if fewer fax, more abt people… passenger, once inside belly (air plane or whale, remember jonah?) thinks only of self, not system much. i’ll bet wilbur felt same way once off ground. wright?

tl

As well as amusing him, the note had caused him to think. It was true, he realized – he had concentrated on facts and systems to the exclusion of people as individuals. He revised his speech notes, shifting the emphasis as Tanya suggested. The result was the most successful presentation he had ever made. It gained him an ovation and was widely reported internationally. Afterward he had telephoned Tanya to thank her. That was when they had started seeing each other.

The thought of Tanya’s ﬁrst message was a reminder of the note she had sent this evening. “I appreciate that tip about the snow committee report, though I’m curious how you managed to see it before I have.”

“No mystery. It was typed in the Trans America ofifce. I saw our Captain Demerest checking it, and chortling.”

“Vernon showed it to you?”

“No, but he had it spread out, and I can read upside down. Which reminds me, you didn’t answer my question: Why does your brother-in-law dislike you?”

Mel grimaced. “I guess he knows I’m not very keen on him. ”

“If you wanted to,” Tanya said, “you could tell him now. There’s the great man himself.” She nodded toward the cashier’s desk, and Mel turned his head.

Captain Vernon Demerest of Trans America was counting out change as he paid a bill. A tall, broadshouldered, with a striking ﬁgure, he towered above others around him. He was dressed informally in a Harris tweed jacket and impeccably creased slacks, yet managed to convey an impression of authority – “like a Regular Army General,” Mel thought, “temporarily in civilian clothes.” Demerest’s strong, aristocratic features were unsmiling as he addressed a four-striper Trans America captain – in uniform – who was with him. It appeared that Demerest was giving instructions; the other nodded. Captain Demerest glanced brieﬂy around the coffee shop and, observing Mel and Tanya, gave a cool nod.

Then, checking his watch, and with a ﬁnal word to the other captain, he walked out.

“He appeared in a hurry,” Tanya said. “Though wherever he’s going, it won’t be for long. Captain D. is taking Flight Two to Rome tonight.”

Mel smiled. “The Golden Argosy? ”

“Yes. I see, sir, you read our advertising.”

“It’s hard not to.” Mel was aware, as were millions of others who admired the four-color double page spreads[31] in Life, Look, the Post, and other national magazines, that Trans America Flight Two – The Golden Argosy – was the airline’s excellent, prestige ﬂight. He also knew that only the line’s most senior captains ever commanded it.

“It seems to be agreed,” Mel said, “that Vernon is one of the ﬁnest pilots.”

“I agree. Mr. Youngquist, our president, said, ‘Keep that arrogant guy out of my hair[32], but book me on his flights.’ “

Mel chuckled. He wondered idly where his brother-in-law was going at the moment, and if it involved one of his amorous adventures. Looking toward the central lobby, Mel saw that Captain Demerest had already been swallowed up in the crowds outside.

Across the table, Tanya smoothed her skirt with a swift stroking gesture which Mel had noticed before and liked. Tanya looked very feminine in uniform.

Some airlines, Mel knew, let their senior passenger agents out of uniform, but Trans America liked the authority which its blue and gold showed. Two gold rings edged with white, on Tanya’s cuffs, proclaimed her Job and seniority.

As if guessing his thoughts, she said, “I may be out of uniform soon.”

“Why?”

“Our District Transportation Manager is being transferred to New York. The Assistant D.T.M.[33] is moving up, and I’ve applied for his job.”

He looked at her with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. “I believe you’ll get it. And that won’t be the end, either.”

Her eyebrows went up. “You think I might make vice-president?”

“I believe you could. That is, if it’s the kind of thing you want.”

Tanya said softly, “I’m not sure if it’s what I want, or not.”

The waitress brought their order. When they were alone again, Tanya said, “Sometimes we – working girls – don’t get a lot of choice. If you’re not satisﬁed to stay in the job you have through pension time – and lots of us aren’t – the only way out is up.”

“You’re excluding marriage?”

She selected a piece of cinnamon toast. “I’m not excluding it. But it didn’t work for me once, and it may not again. Besides which, there aren’t many takers for used bride with baby.”

“You might ﬁnd an exception.”

“I might win a lottery. Speaking from experience, Mel dear, I can tell you that men like their women unencumbered. Ask my ex-husband. If you can ﬁnd him, that is; I never could.”

“He left you after your baby was born?”

“Goodness, no! I think it was on a Thursday I told him I was pregnant. On Friday when I came home from work, Roy’s clothes were gone. So was Roy.”

“You haven’t seen him since?”

She shook her head. “In the end, it made the divorce much simpler – desertion[34]; no complications like another woman. I have to be fair, though. Roy wasn’t all bad. He didn’t empty our joint checking account. I must admit I’ve sometimes wondered if it was kindness, or if he just forgot. Anyway, I had all that eighty dollars to myself.”

Mel said, “You’ve never mentioned that before.”

“What for?”

“For sympathy, maybe.”

She shook her head. “If you understood me better, you’d know the reason I’m telling you now is because I don’t need sympathy. Everything has worked out ﬁne.” Tanya smiled. “I may even become an airline vice-president. You just said so.”

At the table next to theirs, a woman said loudly, “Oh! Look at the time!”

Instinctively, Mel did. It was three quarters of an hour since he had left Danny Farrow at the Snow Control Desk. Getting up from the table, he told Tanya, “Don’t go away. I have to make a call.”

There was a telephone at the cashier’s counter, and Mel dialed one of the Snow Desk numbers. Danny Farrow’s voice said, “Hold it,” then, a few moments later, returned on the line.

“I was going to call you,” Danny said. “I just had a report on that stuck 707 of Aéreo-Mexican.”

“Go ahead.”

“You knew Mexican had asked TWA for help?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they’ve got trucks, cranes, God knows what out there now. The runway and taxiway are blocked off completely, but they still haven’t shifted the damn airplane. Finally TWA has sent for Joe Patroni.”

Mel said, “I’m glad to hear it.”

Joe Patroni was airport maintenance chief for TWA, and a born troubleshooter[35]. He was also a down-to-earth, dynamic character and a close friend of Mel’s.

“If anyone can get that airplane moved tonight,” Mel conceded, “it’ll be Joe.”

“Oh, a bit of good news,” Danny said, “we found that United food truck.”

“The driver okay?”

“He was unconscious under the snow. Motor was still running, and there was carbon monoxide[36]. But they got an inhalator on him, and he’ll be all right.”

“Good! I’m going out on the ﬁeld now to do some checking for myself. I’ll radio you from there.”

Tanya was still at the table when Mel returned, though preparing to go.

“Hold on,” he said, “I’m coming, too.”

She motioned to his untouched sandwich. “How about dinner? If that’s what it was.”

“This will do for now.” He bolted a mouthful[37], washed it down hastily with coffee, and picked up his topcoat. “Anyway, I’m having dinner downtown.”

As Mel paid their check, two Trans America ticket agents entered the coffee shop. One was the supervising agent whom Mel had spoken to earlier. Observing Tanya, he came across.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bakersfeld… Mrs. Livingston, the D.T.M.’s looking for you. He has another problem. There is a stowaway – on Flight 80 from Los Angeles.”

“Is that all?” Tanya appeared surprised. Aerial stowaways – though all airlines had them – were seldom a cause of great concern.

“This one’s unusual,” the agent said. “There’s been a radio message from the captain, and a security guard has gone to the gate to meet the ﬂight. Anyway, Mrs. Livingston, whatever the trouble is, they’re calling for you.” With a friendly nod, he went off to rejoin his companion.

Mel walked with Tanya from the coffee shop into the central lobby. They stopped at the elevator which would take Mel to the basement garage where his car was parked.

“Drive carefully out there,” she cautioned. “Don’t get in the way of any airplanes.”

“If I do, I’m sure you’ll hear about it.” He shrugged into the heavy topcoat. “Your stowaway sounds interesting. I’ll try to drop by before I leave, to ﬁnd out what it’s all about.” He hesitated, then added, “It’ll give me a reason to see you again tonight.”

They were close together. As one, each reached out and their hands touched. Tanya said softly, “Who needs a reason?”

In the elevator, going down, he could still feel the warm smoothness of her ﬂesh, and hear her voice.

04

Joe Patroni was on his way to the airport. The cocky, stocky Italian-American, who was airport maintenance chief for TWA, had left his suburban, ranch-style bungalow by automobile about twenty minutes earlier. The going was very slow.

At the moment, Joe Patroni’s Buick Wildcat was halted in a trafifc jam. Patroni lit a fresh cigar.

Legends had grown up around Joe Patroni; some professional, others personal.

He had begun his working life as a grease monkey[38] in a garage. Then Joe quit the garage and took a job as an airline mechanic. He studied at night school, became a lead mechanic, then a foreman with a reputation as a ﬁrst-class troubleshooter. His crew could change an engine faster than an airplane manufacturer said it could be done; and with absolute reliability. After a while, whenever there was pressure, or a dificf ult repair job, the word went out: get Joe Patroni.

Soon Joe was promoted to senior supervisor, and a few years later was given the important post of maintenance chief at Lincoln International.

On a personal level, another report said that Joe Patroni made love to his wife, Marie, most nights, the way other men enjoyed a pre-dinner drink. This was true. In fact, he had been thus engaged when the telephone message came from the airport about the stuck Aéreo-Mexican jet which TWA had been asked to help get out.

Another thing about Joe Patroni was that he never panicked in emergencies. Instead, he quickly assessed each situation, deciding what priority the emergency rated, and whether or not he should complete other tasks before coping with it. In the case of the stuck 707, instinct told him there was time to ﬁnish what he was doing, or have dinner, but not both. So, he abandoned dinner. Soon after, Marie raced to the kitchen in her robe and made sandwiches for Joe to eat during his twenty-ﬁve-mile drive to the airport. He started eating a sandwich now.

Being recalled to the airport after performing a full day’s work was not a new experience, but tonight the weather was worse than any other occasion he remembered. Accumulated effects of the three-day storm were everywhere, making driving dangerous.

Patroni checked his watch. Both his own car and the one immediately ahead had been stationary for several minutes. He called the airline’s maintenance department at the airport to report on his delay, and, in return, was informed of Mel Bakersfeld’s message about the urgent need for runway three zero to be cleared and usable.

Joe Patroni gave some instructions over the telephone, but was aware that the most important thing was to be on the airﬁeld himself as speedily as possible.

05

The elevator, which Mel Bakersfeld had taken after leaving Tanya, deposited him in the terminal basement. His ofifcial airport car – mustard yellow, and radio-equipped – was in a privileged parking stall close by.

Mel drove out, meeting the storm.

Immediately ahead were airplanes parked at gate positions. Through breaks in the snow, Mel could see into the lighted interiors of several aircraft, which had passengers already seated. Obviously, several flights were ready to leave. Their continued delay was a result of the blockage of runway three zero. Farther out on the airfield and runways, he could make out blurred shapes and navigation lights of other airplanes – recent arrivals, with engines running. These were in a holding area, which pilots called the penalty box, and would move in as gate positions became vacant.

The two-way radio in Mel’s car, tuned to ground control frequency, got alive.

“Tower to Eastern seventeen,” a controller said, “you are cleared to runway two ﬁve. Change frequency now for your airways clearance.”

A burst of static. “Eastern seventeen. Roger[39].”

The talk between tower and aircraft was continuous, with no gaps between transmissions. When one exchange ended, Mel snapped his own mike[40] button down.

“Ground control from mobile one. I’m at gate sixty-ﬁve, proceeding to runway three zero, site of the stuck 707.”

He listened while the controller[41] gave instructions to two other ﬂights which had just landed. Then: “Tower to mobile one. Roger, follow the Air Canada DC-9 pulling out of the gate ahead of you.”

Mel acknowledged[42]. He could see the Air Canada ﬂight, at this moment going out from a terminal gate. The jet cleared the terminal and was increasing taxi speed[43]. Mel accelerated to keep up.

It took a quarter of an hour to reach the intersection where runway three zero was blocked by the Aéreo-Mexican 707. Before then, Mel had separated from the stream of taxiing aircraft which were destined for takeoff on the two other active runways.

He stopped the car and got out. In the dark and loneliness out here, the storm seemed even more wintry and violent than nearer the terminal. The wind howled across the deserted runway.

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. His face was 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 behind them.

Mel identiﬁed himself, then asked, “Who are you?”

“Ingram, sir. Aéreo-Mexican maintenance foreman. Right now, I wish I had some other job.”

Mel pulled the collar of his topcoat tightly around him. “We need this runway urgently – tonight.”

For the briefest instant he had a premonition. A hint, no more; an intuition; the smell of greater trouble coming. He should ignore it, of course; impulse, premonitions, had no place in pragmatic management.

He glanced at the 707 again. It was snow-covered now. Commonsense told him: apart from the runway blockage and the inconvenience of takeofsf over Meadowood, the situation was harmless.

“Let’s go to my car,” he told the Aéreo-Mexican foreman. “We’ll get on the radio and ﬁnd out what’s happening.”

On the way, he reminded himself that Cindy would shortly be waiting impatiently downtown.

Mel had left the car heater turned on, and inside the car it was comfortingly warm. Ingram loosened his coat and bent forward to hold his hands in the stream of warm air.

Mel switched the radio to the frequency of airport maintenance.

“Mobile one to Snow Desk. Danny, I’m at the blocked intersection of three zero. Call TWA maintenance and check on Joe Patroni. Where is he? When coming? Over[44].”

Danny Farrow’s voice crisped back through the speaker on the dash[45]. “Snow Desk to mobile one. Wilco.[46] And, Mel, your wife called.”

Mel pressed the mike button. “Did she leave a number?”

“Afifrmative.”[47]

“Mobile one to Snow Desk. Please call her, Danny. Tell her I’m sorry, I’ll be a little late. But check on Patroni first.”

“Understood. Stand by.[48]” The radio went silent.

Mel reached inside his topcoat for a pack of Marlboros. He offered them to Ingram.

“Thanks.”

They lit up, watching the windshield wipers move back and forth.

Ingram nodded toward the Aéreo-Mexican jet. “Know where that ﬂight was going?”

Mel shook his head.

“Acapulco.” The foreman chuckled. “Can you imagine – getting aboard, 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 traficf. He’ll be another hour, at least. He sent a message. You read me[49] 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 Aéreo-Mexican crowd are real sure of what they’re doing, they should hold off any more tries until Joe gets there.”

Mel glanced at Ingram. “How does the Aéreo-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 pressed the mike button. “It’s clear.”

“Okay. 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.”

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 walking 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.

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.

06

The subject of Mel’s thoughts – Captain Vernon Demerest of Trans America – was at the moment about three miles from the airport. He was driving his Mercedes 230 SL Roadster to a group of three-story apartment blocks, close to the airport, known 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. The apartments were known as stewardess nests.

The nests were often the scene of lively parties, and sometimes headquarters for the amorous affairs which occurred, with predictable regularity, between stewardesses and male ﬂying crews.

Both the stewardesses and male crew members whom they met – captains, and ﬁrst and second oficf ers – were, without exception, high-caliber people. All had reached their jobs through a tough 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 of affairs with beautiful and intelligent young women. The stewardesses whom Demerest and fellow pilots knew, and regularly made love to, were not whores. They were alive and sexually endowed girls, who valued quality, and took it when so obviously and conveniently close to hand.

One who had taken it – so to speak – from Vernon Demerest was a cheerful, attractive, English-born brunette, Gwen Meighen. She was a farmer’s daughter who had left home to come to the United States ten years earlier at the age of eighteen. Before joining Trans America she was brieﬂy a fashion model in Chicago. Perhaps because of her varied background, she combined an unreserved sexuality in bed with elegance and style when out of it.

It was to Gwen Meighen’s apartment that Vernon Demerest was headed now.

Later tonight, the two of them would leave for Rome on Trans America Flight Two. On the ﬂight deck, Captain Demerest would command. In the passenger cabins, Gwen Meighen would be senior stewardess. At the Rome end of the journey, there would be a three-day layover[50] for the crew, while another crew – already in Italy for its own layover – would ﬂy the airplane back to Lincoln International.

The word “layover” had long ago been adopted officially by airlines and was used unemotionally. Possibly, whoever introduced the term had a sense of humor; in any case, flying crews frequently gave it a practical application as well as its official one. Demerest and Gwen Meighen were planning a personal definition now. On arrival in Rome, they would leave immediately for Naples for a forty-eight-hour “layover” together. It was an idyllic prospect, and Vernon Demerest smiled at the thought of it. He was nearing Stewardess Row, and as he reminded himself of how well other things had gone this evening, his smile broadened.

He had arrived at the airport early, after leaving Sarah, his wife, who – placidly as usual – had wished him a pleasant trip.

Sarah Demerest was placid and dull. These were qualities her husband had come to accept and, in a strange way, valued. Between ﬂying trips and afaf irs with more interesting women, he thought of his sojourns at home, and sometimes spoke of them, as “going into the hangar for a stand down.” His marriage had another convenience. While it existed, the women he made love to could become as emotional and demanding as they liked, but he could never be expected to meet the ultimate demand of matrimony. In this way, he had a permanent protection against his own rushed action in the heat of passion. He was sure that Sarah suspected his philandering. But, characteristically, she would prefer not to know, an arrangement in which Vernon Demerest was happy to cooperate.

Another thing which had pleased him this evening was the Airlines Snow Committee report in which he had delivered a verbal kick in the crotch[51], aimed at his stuffed-shirt[52] brother-in-law, Mel Bakersfeld.

The critical report had been solely Demerest’s idea. The other two airline representatives on the committee had at ﬁrst taken the view that the airport management was doing its best under exceptional conditions. Captain Demerest argued otherwise. The others had ﬁnally gone along with him and agreed that Demerest would personally write the report, which he made as wounding as he could.

A revenge, Vernon Demerest thought pleasurably – small but satisfying – had been exacted. Now, perhaps, his limping, quarter-cripple brother-in-law would think twice before antagonizing Captain Demerest and the Air Line Pilots Association, as Mel Bakersfeld had presumed to do – in public – two weeks ago.

Captain Demerest swung the Mercedes into an apartment building parking lot. He stopped the car smoothly and got out. He was a little early, he noticed – a quarter of an hour before the time he had said he would collect Gwen and drive her to the airport. He decided to go up, anyway.

As he entered the building, using the passkey Gwen had given him, he hummed softly to himself, then smiled, realizing the tune was O Sole Mio[53]. Well, why not? It was appropriate. Naples… a warm night instead of snow, the view above the bay in starlight, soft music from mandolins, Chianti with dinner, and Gwen Meighen beside him…. all were less than twenty-four hours away. Yes, indeed! – O Sole Mio. He continued humming it.

In the elevator going up, he remembered another good thing. The ﬂight to Rome would be an easy one.

Tonight, though Captain Demerest was in command of Flight Two – The Golden Argosy – he would do little of the work which the flight entailed. The reason was that he was flying as a line check captain. Another four-striper captain[54] – Anson Harris, almost as senior as Demerest himself – had been assigned to the flight and would occupy the command pilot’s left seat. Demerest would use the right seat – normally the first officer’s position[55] – from where he would observe and report on Captain Harris’s performance.

The check ﬂight arrangement had come up because Captain Harris had been elected to transfer from Trans America domestic operations to international. However, before that, he was required to make two ﬂights over an overseas route with a regular line captain who also held instructor’s qualiﬁcations. Vernon Demerest did.

After Captain Harris’s two ﬂights, of which tonight’s would be the second, he would be given a ﬁnal check by a senior supervisory captain before being accepted for international command.

Such checks – as well as regular six-monthly check ﬂights, which all pilots of all airlines were required to undergo – entailed an aerial scrutiny of ability and ﬂying habits.

Despite the fact that captains checked each other, the tests, both regular and special, were usually very serious. The pilots wanted them that way. Too much was at stake[56] – public safety and high professional standards – for weaknesses to be overlooked.

Yet, while performance standards were not relaxed, senior captains undergoing ﬂight checks were treated by their colleagues with particular courtesy. Except by Vernon Demerest.

Demerest treated any pilot he was assigned to test, junior or senior to himself, in precisely the same way – like a naughty schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s presence. Moreover, in the headmaster’s role, Demerest was arrogant and tough. He made no secret of his conviction that no one else’s ability as a pilot was superior to his own. Colleagues who received this treatment raged silently, but had no choice but to sit and take it. Subsequently they vowed to one another that when Demerest’s own time came they would give him the toughest check ride he had ever had. They invariably did, with a single consistent result – Vernon Demerest gave a ﬂawless performance which could not be faulted.

“Yes, it would be an easy ﬂight tonight – for me,” Vernon Demerest smiled to himself again.

His thoughts returned to the present as the apartment block elevator stopped at the third ﬂoor. He stepped into the carpeted corridor and headed for the apartment which Gwen Meighen shared with a stewardess of United Air Lines. The other girl was away on an overnight ﬂight. On the apartment door bell he tapped out their usual signal, his initials in Morse[57]… dit-dit-dit-dah dah-dit-dit… then went in, using the same key which opened the door below.

Gwen was in the shower. He could hear the water running. When he went to her bedroom door, she called out, “Vernon, is that you?” Even competing with the shower, her voice – with its ﬂawless English accent, which he liked so much – sounded soft and exciting. He thought: “Small wonder Gwen had so much success with passengers.”

He called back, “Yes, honey.”

“I’m glad you came early,” she called again. “I want to have a talk before we leave.”

“Sure, we’ve time.”

“You can make tea, if you like.”

“Okay.”

She had converted him to the English habit of tea at all times of day.

He went to the tiny kitchen and put a kettle of water on the stove. He poured milk into a jug from a carton in the refrigerator, then drank some milk himself before putting the carton back.

He heard the shower stop. In the silence he began humming once again. Happily. O Sole Mio.

07

The biting wind across the airﬁeld was as strong as ever, and still driving the heavily falling snow before it.

Inside his car, Mel Bakersfeld shivered. He was heading for runway one seven. Was the shivering due to the cold outside, Mel wondered, or to memory, which the scent of trouble a few minutes ago, plus the nagging reminder from the old injury of his foot, had triggered?

The injury had happened sixteen years ago off the coast of Korea when Mel had been a Navy pilot ﬂying ﬁghter[58] missions. Through the previous twelve hours he had had a premonition of trouble coming. Next day, Mel’s Navy F9F-5[59] had been shot down into the sea.

He managed a controlled ditching[60], but though unhurt himself, his left foot was trapped by a blocked rudder pedal. With the airplane sinking fast – an F9F-5 had the ﬂoating characteristics of a brick – Mel used a survival-kit hunting knife to slash desperately, wildly, at his foot and the pedal. Somehow, underwater, his foot came free. In intense pain, half-drowned, he got to the surface.

He had spent the next eight hours in the sea before he was picked up. Later he learned he had cut off the ligaments in front of his ankle.

In time, Navy medics repaired the foot, though Mel had never ﬂown – as a pilot – since then. But at intervals the pain still returned, reminding him that long ago, as on other later occasions, his instinct for trouble had been right. He had the same kind of instinct now.

Handling his car cautiously, Mel was nearing runway one seven, left. This was the runway which, the tower chief had indicated, Air Trafifc Control would seek to use when the wind shifted.

At the moment, on the airﬁeld, two runways were in use: one seven, right, and runway two ﬁve.

Lincoln International had ﬁve runways altogether. The longest and widest of the ﬁve was three zero, the runway now blocked by Aéreo-Mexican. This runway was almost two miles long and as wide as a short city block.

Each of the other four runways was half a mile or so shorter, and less wide.

Without ceasing, since the storm began, the miles of runways had been plowed, vacuumed, brushed, and sanded.

The sight was spectacular. Giant columns of snow cascaded to the right in arcs of a hundred and fifty feet. The arcs shimmered from the added color of twenty revolving beacons – one on the roof of each vehicle in the group.

Airport men called the group a Conga Line. It had a head, a tail, a body, and it progressed down a runway with the precision of choreography.

A convoy leader was the head. He was a senior foreman from airport maintenance and drove an airport car – bright yellow, like all other equipment in the Line. The leader had two radios and remained permanently in touch with the Snow Desk and Air Traficf Control. By a system of lights, he could signal drivers following – green for “speed up,” yellow for “maintain pace,” red for “slow down,” and ﬂashing red for “stop.” He was required to carry in his head a detailed map of the airport, and must know precisely where he was, even on the darkest night, as now.

Then came a Snowblast, in echelon with the plows, six hundred roaring horsepower strong. A Snowblast cost sixty thousand dollars and was the Cadillac of snow clearance. With mighty blowers it swallowed up the snow which both plows piled, and hurled it in a herculean arc beyond the runway’s edge.

In a second echelon, farther to the right, were two more plows, a second Snowblast. After the plows and Snowblasts came the graders. The graders towed revolving brushes. The brushes swept the runway surface like monstrous yard brooms.

Next were sanders which spread sand out evenly. The sand was special. Elsewhere around the airport, on roadways and areas which the public used, salt was added to the sand as a means of melting ice. But never for aeronautical areas. Salt corroded metal, shortening its life, and airplanes were treated with more respect than cars.

Last in the Conga Line was an assistant foreman in a second car. His job was to insure that the line stayed unbroken. He was in radio touch with the convoy leader.

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Notes

1

взлётно-посадочная полоса три-ноль

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2

Trans World Airlines – авиакомпания США

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3

авиадиспетчерская служба

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4

Air Traficf Control

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5

здесь: снегоуборочные машины

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6

United Airlines – крупная американская авиакомпания

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7

предложил решить пассажирам

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8

обычное дело

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9

выруливая

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10

рулёжная фара

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11

рулёжная дорожка

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12

«Подтверждаю» – типовое сообщение по связи

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13

разрешение на руление

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14

принимать меры для уменьшения шума

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15

преследовать в судебном порядке

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16

заглавные буквы

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17

ради мира

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18

он мог ещё успеть

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19

(разг.) предок

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20

в кои-то веки

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21

это зависит не от меня

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22

зал ожидания

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23

ягнёнок, тушённый с овощами

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24

ей лучше этого не делать

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25

И тем не менее

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26

гражданская версия стратегического военно-транспортного самолёта C-5A

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27

пассажирские самолёты Boeing 747

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28

Douglas DC-4 – американский четырёхмоторный поршневой авиалайнер. Был разработан и серийно производился предприятием Douglas Aircraft Company с 1938 по 1947 гг.

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29

грузовые авиаперевозки

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30

записка без заглавных букв

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31

разворот на две страницы

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32

Держите этого высокомерного парня подальше от меня

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33

D.T.M. = District Transportation Manager

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34

(юр.) оставление (семьи, жены)

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35

ремонтный мастер

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36

угарный газ

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37

поспешно откусил большой кусок сэндвича

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38

(амер., разг.) автослесарь

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39

Вас понял (ответ при радиообмене)

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40

микрофон (разг., сокр. от microphone)

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41

диспетчер

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42

подтвердил приём

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43

скорость руления

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44

Перехожу на приём (код радиообмена)

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45

сокр. от dashboard – приборная панель

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46

сокр. от will comply – «Вас понял. Выполняю»

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47

Подтверждаю

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48

Будьте на приёме

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49

слышите меня

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50

«привал»

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51

удар ниже пояса

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52

(разг.) напыщенное ничтожество

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53

«Моё солнце» – неаполитанская песня

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54

капитан первого ранга (с четырьмя золотыми нашивками на рукаве)

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55

место второго пилота

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56

поставлено на карту

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57

азбукой Морзе

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58

истребитель

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59

модификация палубного истребителя «Пантера»; во время войны в Корее это был основной истребитель ВМС США.

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60

Вынужденная посадка на воду

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