ATC RULES AND PROCEDURES 24 страница

 

"Well, I

am

aware."

 

"Aren't you losing your temper, Mr. Bakersfeld?"

"No," Mel smiled. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not." He was conscious of having seized an advantage, catching the lawyer by surprise. Now he went on, "You've had a good deal to say, Mr. Freemantle, and not much of it politely. But there are a few things I'd like to get on the record, too. Also, I'm sure the press will be interested in both sides even if no one else is."

"Oh, we're interested all right. It's just that we've heard all the wishy-washy excuses already." As usual, Elliott Freemantle was recovering fast. But he admitted to himself that he had been lulled by Bakersfeld's earlier mild manner, so that the sharp counterattack caught him unawares. He realized that the airport general manager was more astute than he appeared.

"I didn't say anything about excuses," Mel pointed out. "I suggested a review of airport noise situations generally."

Freemantle shrugged. The last thing he wanted was to open up some new approach which might be newsworthy and, therefore, divert attention from himself. At the moment, though, he didn't see how he could prevent it.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Mel began, "when you first came here tonight something was said about plain, blunt speaking on both sides. Mr. Freemantle has had his turn at that; now I will be equally candid."

Mel sensed he had the full attention of the two women and four men in the delegation; also of the press. Even Cindy was watching him covertly. He continued to speak quietly.

"All of you know, or should, the measures which we have taken at Lincoln International Airport to make life easier, more bearable, from the point of view of aircraft noise, for those who live in the airport vicinity. Some of these measures have been mentioned already, and there are others, such as using remote airport areas for the testing of engines, and even then during proscribed hours only."

Elliott Freemantle, already fidgeting, cut in. "But you've admitted that these so-called systems fail to work."

 

Mel snapped back, "I admitted nothing of the kind. Most of the time they

do

work---as well as any compromise can. Tonight I've admitted that they are not working because of exceptional circumstances, and frankly if I were a pilot, taking off in weather like this, I'd be reluctant to reduce power right after takeoff, and make a climbing turn too. Furthermore, this kind of condition is bound to recur from time to time."

 

"Most of the time!"

"No, sir! And please allow me to finish!" Without pausing, Mel went on, "The fact is: airports---here and elsewhere---have come close to doing as much as they can in the way of noise reduction. You may not like hearing this, and not everyone in this business admits it, but the truth is: there isn't a lot more that anyone can do. You simply cannot tiptoe a three hundred thousand pound piece of high-powered machinery into any place. So when you do bring a big jet airplane in---or take it out---inevitably it shakes hell out of a few people who are nearby." There were several quick smiles, though not from Elliott Freemantle, who was scowling. Mel added, "So if we need airports---and obviously we do---somebody, somewhere has to put up with some noise, or move away."

It was Mel's turn to see the reporters' pencils racing with his words.

"It's true," Mel continued, "that aircraft manufacturers are working on noise reduction devices, but---again to be honest with you---few people in the aviation industry take them seriously, and certainly they do not represent a major effort like, for example, development of a new aircraft. At best, they'll be palliatives. If you don't believe me, let me remind you that even though trucks have been in use for many years more than airplanes, no one has yet invented a really effective truck muffler.

"Another thing to bear in mind is that by the time one type of jet engine gets quieted a little---if it ever does---there'll be new, more powerful engines in use which, even with suppressors fitted, will be noisier than the first engine was to begin with. As I said," Mel added, "I am being absolutely frank."

One of the women in the delegation murmured gloomily, "You sure are."

 

"Which brings me," Mel said, "to the question of the future. There are new breeds of aircraft coming---another family of jets after the Boeing 747s, including behemoths like the Lockheed 500, which will come into use soon; then shortly afterward, the supersonic transports---the Concordé, and those to follow. The Lockheed 500 and its kind will be subsonic---that is, they'll operate at less than the speed of sound, and will give us the kind of noise we have now, only more of it. The supersonics will have a mighty engine noise too,

plus

a sonic boom as they breach the sound barrier, which is going to be more of a problem than any other noise we've had so far.

 

"You may have heard or read---as I have---optimistic reports that the sonic booms will occur high, far from cities and airports, and that the effect on the ground will be minor. Don't believe it! We're in for trouble, all of us---people in homes, like you; people like me, who run airports; airlines, who'll have a billion dollars invested in equipment which they must use continuously, or go bankrupt. Believe me, the time is coming when we'll wish we had the simplicity of the kind of noise we're talking about tonight."

"So what are you telling my clients?" Elliott Freemantle inquired sarcastically. "To go jump in the lunatic asylum now rather than wait until you and your behemoths drive them there?"

"No," Mel said firmly, "I'm not telling them that. I'm merely saying candidly---the way you asked me to---that I haven't any simple answers; nor will I make you promises that the airport cannot keep. Also I'm saving that in my opinion, airport noise is going to become greater, not less. However, I'd like to remind all of you that this problem isn't new. It's existed since trains started running, and since trucks, buses, and automobiles joined them; there was the same problem when freeways were built through residential areas; and when airports were established, and grew. All these things are for the public good---or so we believe---yet all of them create noise and, despite all kinds of efforts, they've continued to. The thing is: trucks, trains, freeways, airplanes, and the rest are here. They're part of the way we live, and unless we change our way of life, then their noise is something we have to live with too."

"In other words, my clients should abandon any idea of serenity, uninterrupted sleep, privacy and quietness for the remainder of their natural lives?"

"No," Mel said. "I think, in the end, they'll have to move. I'm not speaking officially, of course, but I'm convinced that eventually this airport and others will be obliged to make multibillion-dollar purchases of residential areas surrounding them. A good many of the areas can become industrial zones where noise won't matter. And of course, there would be reasonable compensation to those who owned homes and were forced to leave them."

Elliott Freemantle rose and motioned others in the delegation to do the same.

"That last remark," he informed Mel, "is the one sensible thing I've heard this evening. However, the compensation may start sooner than you think, and also be larger." Freemantle nodded curtly. "You will be hearing from us. We shall see you in court."

He went out, the others following.

Through the door to the anteroom Mel heard one of the two women delegates exclaim, "You were magnificent, Mr. Freemantle. I'm going to tell everyone so."

"Well, thank you. Thank you very..." The voices faded.

Mel went to the door, intending to close it.

"I'm sorry about that," he said to Cindy. Now that the two of them were alone again, he was not sure what else they had to say to each other, if anything.

Cindy said icily, "It's par for the course. You should have married an airport."

 

At the doorway, Mel noticed that one of the men reporters had returned to the anteroom. It was Tomlinson of the

Tribune

.

 

"Mr. Bakersfeld, could I see you for a moment?"

Mel said wearily, "What is it?"

"I got the impression you weren't too smitten with Mr. Freemantle."

"Is this for quotation?"

"No, sir."

"Then your impression was right."

"I thought you'd be interested in this," the reporter said.

"This was one of the legal retainer forms which Elliott Freemantle had distributed at the Meadowood community meeting."

As Mel read the form, he asked, "Where did you get it?"

The reporter explained.

"How many people were at the meeting?"

"I counted. Roughly six hundred."

"And how many of these forms were signed?"

"I can't be sure of that, Mr. Bakersfeld. My guess would be a hundred and fifty were signed and turned in. Then there were other people who said they'd send theirs by mail."

Mel thought grimly: now be could understand Elliott Freemantle's histrionics; also why and whom the lawyer was trying to impress.

"I guess you're doing the same arithmetic I did," the reporter, Tomlinson, said.

Mel nodded. "It adds up to a tidy little sum."

"Sure does. I wouldn't mind a piece of it myself."

"Maybe we're both in the wrong business. Did you cover the Meadowood meeting too?"

"Yes."

"Didn't anyone over there point out that the total legal fee was likely to be at least fifteen thousand dollars?"

Tomlinson shook his head. "Either no one thought of it, or they didn't care. Besides, Freemantle has quite a personality; hypnotic, I guess you'd call it. He had 'em spellbound, like he was Billy Graham."

Mel handed back the printed retainer form. "Will you put this in your story?"

"I'll put it in, but don't be surprised if the city desk kills it. They're always wary about professional legal stuff. Besides, I guess if you come right down to it, there's nothing really wrong."

"No," Mel said, "it may be unethical, and I imagine the bar association wouldn't like it. But it isn't illegal. What the Meadowood folk should have done, of course, was get together and retain a lawyer as a group. But if people are gullible, and want to make lawyers rich, I guess it's their own affair."

Tomlinson grinned. "May I quote some of that?"

"You just got through telling me your paper wouldn't print it. Besides, this is off the record. Remember?"

"Okay."

If it would have done any good, Mel thought, he would have sounded off, and taken a chance on being quoted or not. But he knew it wouldn't do any good. He also knew that all over the country, ambulance chasing lawyers like Elliott Freemantle were busily signing up groups of people, then harassing airports, airlines, and -in some cases-pilots.

It was not the harassing which Mel objected to; that, and legal recourse, were everyone's privilege. It was simply that in many instances the homeowner clients were being misled, buoyed up with false hopes, and quoted an impressive-sounding, but one-sided selection of legal precedents such as Elliott Freemantle had used tonight. As a result, a spate of legal actions---costly and time-consuming---was being launched, most of which were foredoomed to fail, and from which only the lawyers involved would emerge as beneficiaries.

Mel wished that he had known earlier what Tomlinson had just told him. In that case he would have loaded his remarks to the delegation, so as to convey a warning about Elliott Freemantle, and what the Meadowood residents were getting into. Now it was too late.

 

"Mr. Bakersfeld," the

Tribune

reporter said, "there are some other things I'd like to ask you---about the airport generally. If you could spare a few minutes..."

 

"Any other time I'll be glad to." Mel raised his hands in a helpless gesture. "Right now there are fifteen things happening at once."

The reporter nodded. "I understand. Anyway, I'll be around for a while. I hear Freemantle's bunch are cooking up something down below. So if there's a chance later..."

 

"I'll do my best," Mel said, though he had no intention of being available any more tonight. He respected Tomlinson's wish to dig below the surface of any story which he covered; just the same, Mel had seen enough of delegations

and

reporters for one evening.

 

As to whatever else it was that Freemantle and the Meadowood people were "cooking up down below," he would leave any worrying about that, Mel decided, to Lieutenant Ordway and his policemen.

 

WHEN MEL turned, after closing the door of his office as the Tribune reporter left, Cindy was standing, pulling on her gloves. She remarked acidly, "Fifteen things happening, I believe you said. Whatever the other fourteen are, I'm sure they'll all take priority over me."

 

"That was a figure of speech," Mel protested, "as you know perfectly well. I already said I'm sorry. I didn't know this was going to happen---at least, not all at once."

"But you love it, don't you? All of it. Much more than me, home, the children, a decent social life."

"Ah!" Mel said. "I wondered when you'd get to that." He stopped. "Oh, hell! Why are we fighting again? We settled everything, didn't we? There's no need to fight any more."

"No," Cindy said. She was suddenly subdued. "No, I suppose not."

There was an uncertain silence. Mel broke it first.

"Look, getting a divorce is a pretty big thing for both of us; for Roberta and Libby, too. If you've any doubts..."

"Haven't we been over that already?"

"Yes; but if you want to, we'll go over it fifty times again."

"I don't want to." Cindy shook her head decisively. "I haven't any doubts. Nor have you, not really. Have you?"

"No," Mel said. "I'm afraid I haven't."

 

Cindy started to say something, then stopped. She had been going to tell Mel about Lionel Urquhart, but decided against it. There was plenty of time for Mel to find that out for himself, later. As to Derek Eden, whom Cindy had been thinking about during most of the time that the Meadowood delegation had been in the office, she had no intention of disclosing his existence to Mel or Lionel.

 

There was a knock---light but definite---on the anteroom door.

 

"Oh, God!" Cindy muttered, "Isn't there any privacy?"

 

Mel called out irritably, "Who is it?"

The door opened. "Just me," Tanya Livingston said. "Mel, I need some advice..." As she saw Cindy, she stopped abruptly. "Excuse me. I thought you were alone."

"He will be," Cindy said. "In hardly any time at all."

"Please, no!" Tanya flushed. "I can come back, Mrs. Bakersfeld. I didn't know I was disturbing you."

Cindy's eyes flicked over Tanya, stiff in Trans America uniform.

"It's probably time we were disturbed," Cindy said. "After all, it's been a good three minutes since the last people left, and that's longer than we usually have together." She swung toward Mel. "Isn't it?"

He shook his head, without answering.

"By the way." Cindy turned back to Tanya. "I'm curious about one thing. How you were so sure who I am."

Momentarily, Tanya had lost her usual poise. Recovering it, she gave a small smile. "I suppose I guessed,"

Cindy's eyebrows went up. "Am I supposed to do the same?" She glanced at Mel.

"No," he said. He introduced them.

Mel was aware of Cindy appraising Tanya Livingston. He had not the slightest doubt that his wife was already forming some conclusion about Tanya and himself; Mel had long ago learned that Cindy's instincts about men-women relationships were uncannily accurate. Besides, he was sure that his own introduction of Tanya had betrayed something. Husbands and wives were too familiar with each other's nuances of speech for that not to happen. It would not even surprise him if Cindy guessed about his own and Tanya's rendezvous for later tonight, though perhaps, he reflected, that was carrying imagination too far.

Well, whatever Cindy knew or guessed, he supposed it didn't really matter. After all, she was the one who had asked for a divorce, so why should she object to someone else in Mel's life, however much or little Tanya meant, and he wasn't sure of that himself? But then, Mel reminded himself, that was a logical way of thinking. Women---including Cindy, and probably Tanya---were seldom logical.

The last thought proved right.

"How nice for you," Cindy told him with pseudo sweetness, "that it isn't just dull old delegations who come to you with problems." She eyed Tanya. "You did say you have a problem?"

Tanya returned the inspection levelly. "I said I wanted some advice."

"Oh, really! What kind of advice? Was it business, personal?... Or perhaps you've forgotten."

"Cindy," Mel said sharply, "that's enough! You've no reason..."

"No reason for what? And why is it enough?" His wife's voice was mocking; he had the impression that in a perverse way she was enjoying herself. "Aren't you always telling me I don't take enough interest in your problems? Now I'm all agog about your friend's problem... that is, if there is one."

Tanya said crisply, "It's about Flight Two." She added. "That's Trans America's flight to Rome, Mrs. Bakersfeld. It took off half an hour ago."

Mel asked, "What about Flight Two?"

"To tell the truth"---Tanya hesitated---"I'm not really sure."

"Go ahead," Cindy said. "Think of something."

Mel snapped, "Oh, shut up!" He addressed Tanya, "What is it?"

 

Tanya glanced at Cindy, then told him of her conversation with Customs Inspector Standish. She described the man with the suspiciously held attaché case, whom Standish suspected of smuggling.

"He went aboard Flight Two?"

"Yes."

 

"Then even if your man was smuggling," Mel pointed out, "it would be into Italy. The U.S. Customs people don't worry about that. They let other countries look out for themselves."

 

"I know. That's the way our D.T.M. saw it." Tanya described the exchange between herself and the District Transportation Manager, ending with the latter's irritable but firm instruction, "Forget it!"

Mel looked puzzled. "Then I don't see why..."

"I told you I'm not sure, and maybe this is all silly. But I kept thinking about it, so I started checking."

"Checking what?"

Both of them had forgotten Cindy.

"Inspector Standish," Tanya said, "told me that the man---the one with the attaché case---was almost the last to board the flight. He must have been because I was at the gate, and I missed seeing an old woman..." She corrected herself. "That part doesn't matter. Anyway, a few minutes ago I got hold of the gate agent for Flight Two and we went over the manifest and tickets together. He couldn't remember the man with the case, but we narrowed it down to five names."

"And then?"

"Just on a hunch I called our check-in counters to see if anyone remembered anything about any of those five people. At the airport counters, nobody did. But downtown, one of the agents did remember the man---the one with the case. So I know his name; the description fits... everything."

"I still don't see what's so extraordinary. He had to check in somewhere. So he checked in downtown."

"The reason the agent remembered him," Tanya said, "is that he didn't have any baggage, except the little case. Also, the agent said, he was extremely nervous."

"Lots of people are nervous..." Abruptly Mel stopped. He frowned. "No baggage! For a flight to Rome!"

"That's right. Except for the little bag the man was carrying, the one Inspector Standish noticed. The agent downtown called it a briefcase."

"But nobody goes on that kind of journey without baggage. It doesn't make sense."

"That's what I thought." Again Tanya hesitated. "It doesn't make sense unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Unless you happen to know already that the flight you're on will never get to where it's supposed to be going. If you knew that, you'd also know that you wouldn't need any baggage."

"Tanya," Mel said softly, "what are you trying to say?"

She answered uncomfortably, "I'm not sure; that's why I came to you. When I think about it, it seems silly and melodramatic, only..."

"Go on."

"Well, supposing that man we've been talking about isn't smuggling at all; at least, in the way we've all assumed. Supposing the reason for him not having any luggage, for being nervous, for holding the case the way Inspector Standish noticed... suppose instead of having some sort of contraband in there... he has a bomb."

Their eyes held each other's steadily. Mel's mind was speculating, assessing possibilities. To him, also, the idea which Tanya had just raised seemed ridiculous and remote. Yet... in the past, occasionally, such things had happened. The question was: How could you decide if this was another time? The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the entire episode of the man with the attaché case could so easily be innocent; in fact, probably was. If that proved true after a fuss had been created, whoever began the fuss would have made a fool of himself. It was human not to want to do that; yet, with the safety of an airplane and passengers involved, did making a fool of oneself matter? Obviously not. On the other hand, there ought to be a stronger reason for the drastic actions which a bomb scare would involve than merely a possibility, plus a hunch. Was there, Mel wondered, some way conceivably in which a stronger hint, even corroboration, might be found?

Offhand, be couldn't think of one.

But there was something he could check. It was a long shot, but all that was needed was a phone call. He supposed that seeing Vernon Demerest tonight, with the reminder of the clash before the Board of Airport Commissioners, had made him think of it.

For the second time this evening, Mel consulted his pocket panic-list of telephone numbers. Then, using an internal airport telephone on his desk, he dialed the insurance vending booth in the main concourse. The girl clerk who answered was a long-time employee whom Mel knew well.

"Marj," he said, when he had identified himself, "have you written many policies tonight on the Trans America Flight Two?"

"A few more than usual, Mr. Bakersfeld. But then we have on all flights; this kind of weather always does that. On Flight Two, I've had about a dozen, and I know Bunnie---that's the other girl on with me---has written some as well."

"What I'd like you to do," Mel told her, "is read me all the names and policy amounts." As he sensed the girl hesitate, "If I have to, I'll call your district manager and get authority. But you know he'll give it to me, and I'd like you to take my word that this is important. Doing it this way, you can save me time."

"All right, Mr. Bakersfeld; if you say it's okay. But it will take a few minutes to get the policies together."

"I'll wait."

Mel heard the telephone put down, the girl apologize to someone at the insurance counter for the interruption. There was a rustling of papers, then another girl's voice inquiring, "Is something wrong?"

Covering the telephone mouthpiece, Mel asked Tanya, "What's that name you have---the man with the case?"

She consulted a slip of paper. "Guerrero, or it may be Buerrero; we had it spelled both ways." She saw Mel start. "Initials D.O."

Mel's hand still cupped the telephone. His mind was concentrating. The woman who had been brought to his office half an hour ago was named Guerrero; he remembered Lieutenant Ordway saying so. She was the one whom the airport police had found wandering in the terminal. According to Ned Ordway, the woman was distressed and crying; the police couldn't get any sense from her. Mel was going to try talking to her himself, but hadn't gotten around to it. He had seen the woman on the point of leaving the outer office as the Meadowood delegation came in. Of course, there might be no connection...

Through the telephone, Mel could still hear voices at the insurance booth and, in the background, the noise of the main terminal concourse.

"Tanya," he said quietly, "about twenty minutes ago there was a woman in the outside office---middle-aged, shabbily dressed; she looked wet and draggle-tailed. I believe she left when some other people came in, but she might be stiff around. If she's anywhere outside, bring her in. In any case, if you find her, don't let her get away from you." Tanya looked puzzled. He added, "Her name is Mrs. Guerrero."

As Tanya left the office, the girl clerk at the insurance booth came back on the line. "I have all those policies, Mr. Bakersfeld. Are you ready if I read the names?"

"Yes, Marj. Go ahead."

He listened carefully. As a name near the end occurred, he had a sudden sense of tension. For the first time his voice was urgent. "Tell me about that policy. Did you write it?"

"No. That was one of Bunnie's. I'll let you speak to her."

He listened to what the other girl had to say and asked two or three questions. Their exchange was brief. He broke the connection and was dialing another number as Tanya returned.

Though her eyes asked questions which for the moment he ignored, she reported immediately, "There's no one on the mezzanine. There are still a million people down below, but you'd never pick anyone out. Should we page?"

"We can try, though I don't have a lot of hope." On the basis of what he had learned, Mel thought, not much was getting through to the Guerrero woman, so it was unlikely that a p.a. announcement would do so now. Also, by this time she could have left the airport and be halfway to the city. He reproached himself for not having tried to talk with her, as he had intended, but there had been the other things: the delegation from Meadowood; his anxiety about his brother, Keith---Mel remembered that he had considered going back to the control tower... well, that would have to wait now... then there had been Cindy. With a guilty start because he hadn't noticed before, he realized that Cindy was gone.

He reached for the p.a. microphone on his desk and pushed it toward Tanya.

There was an answer from the number he had dialed, which was airport police headquarters. Mel said crisply, "I want Lieutenant Ordway. Is he still in the terminal?"

"Yes, sir." The police desk sergeant was familiar with Mel's voice.

"Find him as quickly as you can; I'll hold. And by the way, what was the first name of a woman called Guerrero, whom one of your people picked up tonight? I think I know, but I want to make sure."

"Just a minute, sir. I'll look." A moment later he said, "It's Inez; Inez Guerrero. And we've already called the lieutenant on his beeper box."

Mel was aware that Lieutenant Ordway, like many others at the airport, carried a pocket radio receiver which gave a "beep" signal if he was required urgently. Somewhere, at this moment, Ordway was undoubtedly hastening to a phone.

Mel gave brief instructions to Tanya, then pressed the "on" switch of the p.a. microphone, which overrode all others in the terminal. Through the open doors to the anteroom and mezzanine he heard an American Airlines flight departure announcement halt abruptly in mid-sentence. Only twice before, during the eight years of Mel's tenure as airport general manager, had the mike and override switch been used. The first occasion---branded in Mel's memory---had been to announce the death of President Kennedy; the second, a year later, was when a lost and crying child wandered directly into Mel's office. Usually there were regular procedures for handling lost children, but that time Mel had used the mike himself to locate the frantic parents.