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

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.