Airport. Part 35

Mel had been blunter than he at first intended, and he bad also been excessively reckless, he supposed, in going quite this far. If Elliott Freernantle chose, he could certainly make trouble. In a matter in which the airportand therefore Melhad active interest, Mel had interposed between clients and lawyer, casting doubt upon the latter's probity. Judging by the hatred in the lawyer's eyes, he would be delighted to do any harm to Mel he could. Yet instinct told Mel that the last thing Freemantle wanted was a searching public scrutiny of his client recruiting methods and working habits. A trial judge, sensitive about legal ethics, might ask awkward questions, later still, so might the Bar a.s.sociation, which safeguarded the legal profession's standards. The more Mel thought about it, the less inclined he was to worry.

Though Mel didn't know it, Elliott Freemantle had reached the same conclusion.

Whatever else Freemantle might be, he was a pragmatist. He had long ago recognized that in life there were gambits which you won, others that you lost. Sometimes the loss was sudden and illogical. A chance, a quirk, a nettle in the gra.s.s, could turn an almost-grasped success into mortifying defeat. Fortunately for people like Freemantle, the reverse was sometimes true. The airport manager, Bakersfeld, had proven to be a nettlecarelessly grasped which should have been avoided. Even after their first brush, which Elliott Freemantle now realized could have been a warning to him, he had continued to underestimate his opponent by remaining at the airport instead of quitting while ahead. Another thing Freemantle had discovered too late was that Bakersfeld, while shrewd, was a gambler too. Only a gambler would have gone out on such a limb as Bakersfeld had a moment ago. And only Elliott Freemantleat this pointknew that Bakersfeld had won.

Freemantle was aware that the Bar a.s.sociation might regard this night's activity unfavorably. More to the point: He had had a brush with an a.s.sociation investigating committee once already, and had no intention of provoking another.

Bakersfeld had been right, Elliott Freemantle thought. There would be no attempted debt collecting, through the courts, on the basis of the signed legal retainer forms. The hazards were too great, the spoils uncertain.

He would not give up entirely, of course. Tomorrow, Freemantle decided, he would draft a letter to all Meadowood residents who had signed the forms; in it he would do his best to persuade them that retention of himself as legal counsel, at the individual fee specified, should continue. He doubted, though, if many would respond. The suspicion which Bakersfeld had effectively implantedd.a.m.n his guts!was too great. There might be some small pickings left, from a few people who would be willing to continue, and later it would be necessary to decide if they were worth while. But the prospect of a big killing was gone.

Something else, though, he supposed, would turn up soon. It always had.

Ned Ordway and several other policemen were now dispersing the crowd; normal traffic through the concourse was resuming. The portable p.a. system was at last being disa.s.sembled and removed.

Mel Bakersfeld noticed that Tanya, whom he had caught sight of a moment or two ago, was making her way in his direction.

A woman--one of the Meadowood residents whom Mel had noticed several times beforeconfronted him. She had a strong intelligent face and shoulder-length brown hair.

"Mr. Bakersfeld," the woman said quietly. "We've all talked a lot, and we understand a few things better than we did. But I still haven't heard anything that I can tell my children when they cry, and ask why the noise won't stop so they can sleep."

Mel shook his head regretfully. In a few words the woman bad pointed up the futility of everything which had happened tonight. He knew he had no answer for her. He doubtedwhile airports and dwellings remained in proximityif there would ever be one.

He was still wondering what to say when Tanya handed him a folded sheet of paper.

Opening it, he read the message which showed signs of being hastily typed: Flight 2 had mid-air explosion. structural damage & injuries. now heading here 4 emergency landing, est. arrival 0130. capt. says must have runway three zero. tower reports runway still blocked.

12.

IN THE b.l.o.o.d.y shambles which was the rear of the tourist cabin of Flight Two, Dr. Milton Compagno, general pract.i.tioner, was exerting the utmost of his professional skill in an attempt to save Gwen Meighen's life. He was not sure he would succeed.

When the initial explosion from D. O. Guerrero's dynamite bomb occurred, Gwennext to Guerrero himselfwas closest to the explosion's center.

In other circ.u.mstances she would have been killed instantly, as was D. O. Guerrero. Two thingsfor the momentsaved her.

Interposed between Gwen and the explosion were Guerrero's body and the aircraft toilet door. Neither was an effective s.h.i.+eld, yet the two together were sufficient to delay the blast's initial force the fraction of a second.

Within that fractional time the airplane's skin ripped, and the second explosion explosive decompressionoccurred.

The dynamite blast still struck Gwen, hurling her backward, gravely injured and bleeding, but its force now had an opposing forcethe outward rush of air through the hole in the fuselage at the aircraft's rear. The effect was as if two tornadoes met head on. An instant later the decompression triumphed, sweeping the original explosion out with it into the high-alt.i.tude, darkened night.

Despite the forcefulness of the explosion, injuries were not widespread.

Gwen Meighen, the most critically hurt, lay unconscious in the aisle. Next to her, the owlish young man who had emerged from the toilet and startled Guerrero, was wounded, bleeding badly, and dazed, but still on his feet and conscious. A half dozen pa.s.sengers nearby sustained cuts and contusions from splinters and bomb fragments. Others were struck, and stunned or bruised by hurtling objects impelled toward the aircraft's rear by the explosive decompression, but none of the latter injuries was major.

At first, after decompression, all who were not secure in seats were impelled by suction toward the gaping hole in the aircraft's rear. From this danger, too, Gwen Meighen was in gravest peril. But she had fallen so that an arminstinctively or accidentallyencircled a seat base. It prevented her from being dragged farther, and her body blocked others.

After the initial outrush of air, the suction lessened.

Now, thc greatest immediate danger for allinjured or notwas lack of oxygen.

Although oxygen masks dropped promptly from their housings, only a handful of pa.s.sengers had grasped and put them on at once.

Before it was too late, however, a few people had acted. Stewardesses, responding to their training, and wherever they happened to be, seized masks and motioned others to do likewise. Three doctors, traveling with their wives as members of an offseason vacation tour, realized the need for speed, donned masks themselves and gave hasty instructions to those around them. Judy, the alert, eighteen-year-old niece of Customs Inspector Standish, placed a mask over the face of the baby in the seat beside her, as well as over her own. She then immediately signaled the baby's parents, and others across the aisle, to use oxygen. Mrs. Quonsett, the old lady stowaway, having observed oxygen demonstrations many times during her illegal flights, knew what to do. She took a mask herself and handed one to her friend, the oboe player, whom she pulled back into his seat beside her. Mrs. Quonsett had no idea if she was going to live or die, and found herself not greatly worried; but whatever happened, she intended to know what was going on until the very last moment.

Someone thrust a mask at the young man near Gwen who had been wounded. Though swaying, and scarcely aware of what was happening, he managed to hold it to his face.

Even so, barely half the pa.s.sengers were on oxygen at the end of fifteen seconds-the critical time. By then, those not breathing oxygen were lapsing into drowsy stupor; in another fifteen seconds, most were unconscious.

Gwen Meighen received no oxygen, nor immediate help. The unconsciousness, caused by her injuries, deepened.

Then, on the flight deck, Anson Harris, accepting the risk of further structural damage and possible total destruction of the aircraft, made his decision for a high speed dive, saving Gwen and others from asphyxiation.

The dive began at twenty-eight thousand feet alt.i.tude; it ended, two and a half minutes later, at ten thousand feet.

A human being can survive without oxygen for three to four minutes without damage to the brain.

For the first half of the divefor a minute and a quarter, down to nineteen thousand feetthe air continued to be rarefied, and insufficient to support life. Below that point, increasing amounts of oxygen were present and breathable.

At twelve thousand feet regular breathing was possible. By tenwith little time to spare, but enoughconsciousness returned to all aboard Flight Two who had lost it, excepting Gwen. Many were unaware of having been unconscious at all.

Gradually, as initial shock wore off, pa.s.sengers and the remaining stewardesses took stock of their situation. The stewardess who was second in seniority after Gwen a pert blonde from Oak Lawn, Illinoishurried toward the injured at the rear. Though her face paled, she called urgently, "Is there a doctor, please?"

"Yes, miss." Dr. Compagno had already moved from his seat without waiting to be called. A small, sharp-featured man who moved impatiently and talked quickly with a Brooklyn accent, he surveyed the scene hurriedly, conscious of the already biting cold, the wind streaming noisily through the gaping hole in the fuselage. Where the toilets and rear galley had been was a twisted mess of charred and bloodstained wood and metal. The back of the fuselage to the interior of the tail was open, with control wires and structural a.s.semblies exposed.

The doctor raised his voice to make himself heard above the noise of wind and engines, constant and encompa.s.sing now that the cabin was no longer sealed.

"I suggest you move as many people as you can nearer the front. Keep everyone as warm as possible. We'll need blankets for those who are hurt."

The stewardess said doubtfully, "I'll try to find some." Many of the blankets normally stored in overhead racks had been swept out, along with pa.s.sengers' extra clothing and other objects, in the whirlwind of decompression.

The two other doctors from Dr. Compagno's tour party joined him. One instructed another stewardess, "Bring us all the first aid equipment you have." Compagno already on his knees beside Gwenwas the only one of the three with a medical bag.

Carrying a bag with emergency supplies wherever he went was characteristic of Milton Compagno. So was taking charge now, even thoughas a G.P.he was outranked professionally by the other two doctors who were internists.

Milton Compagno never considered himself off duty. Thirty-five years ago, as a young man who had fought an upward battle from a New York slum, he hung out a s.h.i.+ngle in Chicago's Little Italy, near MHwaukee and Grand Avenues. Since thenas his wife told it, usually with resignationthe only time he ceased practicing medicine was while he slept. He enjoyed being needed. He acted as if his profession were a prize he had won, which, if not guarded, would slip away. He had never been known to refuse to see a patient at any hour, or to fail to make a house call if sent for. He never drove past an accident scene as did many of his medical brethren, fearing malpractice suits; he always stopped, got out of his car, and did what he could. He kept conscientiously up to date. Yet the more he worked, the more he seemed to thrive. He gave the impression of running through each day as if he planned to a.s.suage the world's ailments in a lifetime, of which too little was left.

The journey to Romemany years postponedwas to visit the birthplace of his parents. With his wife, Dr. Compagno was to be away a month, and because he was growing old, he had agreed that the time should be a total rest. Yet he fully antic.i.p.ated that somewhere en route, or perhaps in Italy (never mind regulations about not being licensed) he would be needed. If so, he was ready. It did not surprise him that he was needed now.

He moved first to Gwen who was clearly most critical among those hurt. He told his colleagues, over his shoulder, "You attend to the others."

In the narrow aisle, Dr. Compagno turned Gwen over partially, leaning forward to detect if she was breathing. She was, but her breath was light and shallow. He called to the stewardess he had been speaking to, "I need oxygen down here." While the girl brought a portable bottle and mask, he checked Gwen's mouth for an un.o.bstructed airway; there were smashed teeth, which he removed, and a good deal of blood; he made sure the bleeding was not preventing respiration. He told the stewardess, "Hold the mask in place." The oxygen hissed. Within a minute or two a vestige of color returned to Gwen's skin, which had been ominously white.

Meanwhile, he began to control bleeding, extensive around the face and chest. Working quickly, he used a hemostat to clamp off a facial arteryworst site of external hemorrhageand pressure dressings elsewhere. He had already detected a probable fracture of the clavicle and left arm, which would need to be splinted later. He was distressed to see what appeared to be splinters from the explosion in the patient's left eye; he was less sure about the right.

Second Officer Jordan, having moved carefully around Dr. Compagno and Gwen, took charge of the remaining stewardesses and was supervising the movement of pa.s.sengers forward in the aircraft. As many tourist pa.s.sengers as possible were being moved into the first cla.s.s section, some squeezed in, two to a seat, others directed to the small, semicircular first cla.s.s lounge, where spare seats were available. Such extra clothing as remained was distributed among those who appeared to need it most, without regard to owners.h.i.+p. As always, in such situations, people showed a willingness to help one another, unselfishness, and even flashes of humor.

The other two doctors were bandaging pa.s.sengers who had received cuts, none excessively serious. The young man with gla.s.ses, who was behind Gwen at the moment of the explosion, had a deep gash in one arm, but it could be repaired and would heal. He had other minor cuts about the face and shoulders. For the time being, pressure dressings were applied to his injured arm, and he was given morphine, while being made as comfortable and warm as possible.

Both the medical attention and movement of pa.s.sengers was being made more difficult by heavy buffeting which the aircraft, at its present low alt.i.tude, was taking from the storm. There was constant turbulence, punctuated every few minutes by violent pitching or sideways movements. Several pa.s.sengers were finding airsickness added to their other troubles. After reporting to the flight deck for the second time, Cy Jordan returned to Dr. Compagno.

"Doctor, Captain Demerest asked me to say he's grateful for everything you and the other doctors are doing. When you can spare a moment, he'd appreciate it if you'd come to the flight deck to tell him what to radio ahead about casualties."

"Hold this dressing," Dr. Compagno ordered. "Press down hard, right there. Now I want you to help me with a splint. We'll use one of those leather magazine covers, with a towel under it. Get the biggest cover you can find, and leave the magazine in."

A moment later: "I'll come when I can. You can say to your captain that I think, as soon as possible, he should make an announcement to the pa.s.sengers. People are getting over their shock. They could use some rea.s.surance."

"Yes, sir." Cy Jordan looked down at the still unconscious figure of Gwen, his normally mournful, hollow-cheeked face accentuated by concern. "Is there a chance for her, Doc?" "There's a chance, son, though I wouldn't say it was the best. A lot depends on her own strength."

"I always figured she had a lot of that."

"A pretty girl, wasn't she?" Amid the torn flesh, blood, and dirty, tousled hair, it was difficult to be sure.

"Very."

Compagno remained silent. Whatever happened, the girl on the floor would not be pretty any morenot without plastic surgery.

"I'll give the captain your message, sir." Looking a little sicker than before, Cy Jordan went forward to the flight deck.

Vernon Demerest's voice came calmly on the cabin p.a. system a few moments later.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Demerest..." To overcome the roar of wind and engines, Cy Jordan had turned the volume control to "full." Each word rang clearly.

"You know we've had troublebad trouble. I won't attempt to minimize it. I won't make any jokes either, because up here on the flight deck we don't see anything that's funny, and I imagine you feel the same way. We've all come through an experience which none of us in the crew has ever had before, and I hope will never have again. But we have come through. Now, we have the airplane under control, we're turned around, and expect to land at Lincoln International in about three quarters of an hour."

In the two pa.s.senger cabins, where first and tourist cla.s.s now mingled without distinction, movement and conversation stopped. Eyes instinctively went to the overhead speakers as everyone within hearing strained to miss nothing of what was said.

"You know, of course, that the airplane is damaged. But it's also true that the damage could have been a whole lot worse."

On the flight deck, with the p.a. mike in hand, Vernon Demerest wondered how specificand how honesthe should be. On his own regular flights he always kept captain-to-pa.s.sengers announcements to the barest terse minimum. He disapproved of "long-playing captains" who bombarded their captive audience with a.s.sorted commentaries from a flight's beginning to its end. He sensed, though, that this time he should say more, and that pa.s.sengers were ent.i.tled to be told the true situation.

"I won't conceal from you," Demerest said into the microphone, "that we have a few problems still ahead of us. Our landing will be heavy, and we're not sure how the damage we've suffered will affect it. I'm telling you this because right after this announcement the crew will start giving instructions on how to sit, and how to brace yourselves, just before we land. Another thing you'll be told is how to get out of the airplane in a hurry, if we need to, right after landing. If that should happen, please act calmly but quickly, and obey instructions given you by any member of the crew.

"Let me a.s.sure you that on the ground everything necessary is being done to help us." Remembering their need for runway three zero, Demerest hoped it was true. He also decided there was no point in going into detail about the problem of the jammed stabilizer; most pa.s.sengers wouldn't understand it anyway. With a touch of lightness in his voice, he added, "In one way you're lucky tonight because instead of one experienced captain on the flight deck, it just so happens you have twoCaptain Harris and myself. We're a couple of ancient pelicans with more years of flying than we sometimes like to think aboutexcept right now when all that combined experience comes in mighty useful. We'll be helping each other, along with Second Officer Jordan. who'll also be spending part of his time back with you. Please help us too. If you do, I promise you we'll come through this togethersafely."

Demerest replaced the p.a. mike.

Without taking his eyes from the flight instruments, Anson Harris remarked, "That was pretty good. You should be in politics."

Demerest said sourly, "n.o.body'd vote for me. Most times, people don't like plain talking and the truth." He was remembering bitterly the Board of Airport Commissioners meeting at Lincoln International where he urged curtailment of airport insurance vending. Plain speech there had proved disastrous. He wondered how the members of the Board, including his smooth, smug brother-in-law, would feet after learning about D. 0. Guerrero's purchase of insurance and his maniacal intention to destroy Flight Two. Probably, Demerest thought, they would be complacent as ever, except that now instead of saying It will never happen, they would say, Well, a.s.suming Flight Two made it back safely, and whatever was said or wasn't, sure as h.e.l.l he was going to create another big fight about airport insurance vending. The difference was: this time more people would listen. Tonight's near disaster, however it turned out, was certain to attract a lot of press attention; he would make the most of it. He would talk bluntly to reporters about flight insurance, about the Lincoln airport commissioners, and not least about his precious brother-in-law, Mel Bakersfeld. Trans America's public relations flacks would do their d.a.m.nedest, of course, to keep him incommunicado "in the interests of company policy." Just let them try! The radio crackled alive. "Trans America Two, this is Cleveland Center. Lincoln advises runway three zero still temporarily out of use. They are attempting to clear obstruction before you arrive. Failing that, will land you on two five."

Harris's face went grim as Demerest acknowledged. Runway two five was two thousand feet shorter, as well as narrower, and at the moment with a bad crosswind. Using it would compound the hazards they already faced.

Demerest's expression clearly reflected his reaction to the message.

They were still being thrown about severely by the storm. Most of Harris's time was occupied by holding the aircraft reasonably steady.

Demerest swung around to the second officer. "Cy, go back with the pa.s.sengers again, and take charge. See that the girls demonstrate the landing drill, and that everybody understands it. Then pick some key people who look reliable. Make sure they know where emergency exits are and how to use them. If we run out of runway, which'll be for sure if we use two five, everything may come apart in a hurry. If that happens we'll all try to make it back there and help, but there may not be time."

"Yes, sir." Once more, Jordan eased out of his flight engineer's seat.

Demerest, still anxious for news of Gwen, would have preferred to go himself, but at this stage neither he nor Harris could leave the flight deck.

As Cy Jordan left, Dr. Compagno arrived. It was now easier to move into and from the flight deck, since Jordan had moved the smashed entrance door to one side.

Milton Compagno introduced himself briskly to Vernon Demerest. "Captain, I have the report of injuries you asked for."

"We're grateful to you, Doctor. If you hadn't been here..."

Compagno waved a hand in dismissal. "Let's do all that later." He opened a leather-covered notebook where a slim gold pencil marked a page. It was characteristic that he had already obtained names, and recorded injuries and treatment. "Your stewardess, Miss Meighen, is the most badly hurt. She has multiple lacerations of the face and chest, with considerable bleeding. There is a compound fracture of the left arm and, of course, shock. Also, please notify whoever is making arrangements on the ground that an ophthalmic surgeon should be available immediately."

Vernon Demerest, his face paler than usual, had been steeling himself to copy the doctor's information onto the flight log clipboard. Now, with sudden shock, he stopped.

"An ophthalmic surgeon! You mean... her eyes?"

"I'm afraid so," Dr. Compagno said gravely. He corrected himself. "At least, her left eye has splinters, whether wood or metal I've no means of knowing. It will require a specialist to decide if the retina is affected. The right eye, as far as I can tell, is unharmed."

"Oh, G.o.d!" Feeling physically sick, Demerest put a hand to his face.

Dr. Compagno shook his head. "It's too early to draw conclusions. Modem ophthalmic surgery can do extraordinary things. But time will be important."

"We'll send all you've told us on company radio," Anson Harris a.s.sured him. "They'll have time to be ready."

"Then I'd better give you the rest."

Mechanically, Demerest wrote down the remainder of the doctor's report. Compared with Gwen's injuries, those of other pa.s.sengers were slight.

"I'd better get back," Dr. Compagno said. "To see if there's any change."

Demerest said abruptly, "Don't go."

The doctor stopped, his expression curious.

"Gwen... that is, Miss Meighen..." Demerest's voice sounded strained and awkward, even to himself. "She was... is... pregnant. Does it make any difference?"

He saw Anson Harris glance sideways in startled surprise.

The doctor answered, a shade defensively, "I had no means of knowing. The pregnancy can't be very far advanced."

"No," Demerest avoided the other man's eyes. "It isn't." A few minutes earlier he had resolved not to ask the question. Then he decided that he had to know.