Airport. Part 31

"I'll deal with the insubordination later," Demerest said. "Right now"he mimicked Gwen's English accentwe've got a spot o' bother."

Superficially, little had changed on the flight deck since a few moments ago when the message from D.T.M. Lincoln had come in. Yet, subtly, the relaxed mood prevailing earlier had vanished. Despite their studied composure, the three-man crew was allprofessional and sharp, their minds at peak acuity, each sensing the adjustment in the other two. It was to achieve such moments, responsively and quickly, that years of training and experience marked the long route to airline captaincy. Flying itself controlling an airplanewas not a difficult achievement; what commercial pilots were paid high salaries for was their reserve of resourcefulness, airmanship, and general aviation wisdom. Demerest, Harris, andto a lesser extentCy Jordan, were summoning their reserves now. The situation aboard Flight Two was not yet critical; with luck, it might not be critical at all. But if a crisis arose, mentally the crew was ready.

"I want you to locate a pa.s.senger," Demerest told Gwen. "He isn't to know that you're looking for him. We have a description here. You'd better read the whole thing." He handed her the pad with the Selcal message. She moved nearer, holding it under the hooded light beside him.

As the aircraft rolled slightly, Gwen's hand brushed Vernon Demerest's shoulder. He was conscious of her closeness and a faint familiar perfume. Glancing sideways, he could see Gwen's profile in the semidarkness. Her expression as she read was serious, but not dismayed; it reminded him of what he had admired so much earlier this eveningher strength in no way lessening her femininity. In a swift, fleeting second he remembered that twice tonight Gwen had declared she loved him. He had wondered then: had he ever truly been in love himself? When you kept tight rein on personal emotions, you were never absolutely sure. But at this moment, instinct told him, his feeling about Gwen was the closest to loving he would ever know.

Gwen was reading the message again, more slowly.

Momentarily he felt a savage anger at this new circ.u.mstance which was contriving to delay their planshis own and Gwen'sfor Naples. Then he checked himself. This was a moment for professionalism only. Besides, what was happening now would merely mean delay, perhaps for a full twenty-four hours after their return to Lincoln; but eventually the flight would go. It did not occur to him that the bomb threat might not be disposed of quickly, or that it would fail to end as tamely as most others.

Alongside Demerest, Anson Harris was still holding the aircraft in its gentle turn, using only the slightest amount of hank. It was a perfect turn, exactly executed, as demonstrated by each pilot's needle and ball indicatorthe granddaddy of aviation flight instruments, still used on modern jets, as it was used in Lindbergh's Spirit of St. Louis, and airplanes long before. The needle was tilted, the ball dead center. But only compa.s.s and gyro betrayed the extent of the turnthat Flight Two was coming around a hundred and eighty degrees in course. Harris had declared that pa.s.sengers would be unaware of the course reversal, and he would be rightunless someone, peering through a cabin window, happened to be familiar with positions of stars and moon in relation to westerly and easterly courses. Then they would observe the change, but that was a chance which had to be taken; fortunately, the ground being obscured by cloud meant that no one could see and identify cities. Now Harris was beginning to lose height also, the aircraft's nose lowered slightly, with throttles pulled back the barest amount, so that the note of engines would change no more than was usual during any flight. Harris was concentrating, flying with textbook precision, ignoring Gwen and Demerest.

Gwen handed the message pad back.

"What I want you to do," Demerest instructed her, "is go back and locate this man. See if there's any sign of the bag, and whether there's a good chance of getting it away from him. You realize that one of us from here can't go backat least for now in case we scare him."

"Yes," Gwen said. "I understand that. But I don't need to go either."

"Why?"

She said quietly, "I know where he is already. In seat fourteen-A."

Vernon Demerest regarded her searchingly. "I don't have to tell you that this is important. If you've any doubt, go back and make sure."

"I haven't any doubt."

Half an hour or so ago, Gwen explained, after serving dinners in first cla.s.s, she had gone aft into the tourist section to help out there. One of the pa.s.sengersin a window seat on the lefthad been dozing. When Gwen spoke to him he awakened instantly. He was nursing a small attache case on his knees and Gwen suggested that she take it, or that he put it down, while having dinner. The pa.s.senger refused. He continued to hold the case where it was, and she noticed that he clasped it as if it were important. Later, instead of letting down the folding table from the back of the seat ahead, he used the case, still held on his lap, to support his dinner tray. Accustomed to pa.s.sengers' peculiarities, Gwen thought no more of it, though she remembered the man well. The description in the message fitted him exactly.

"Another reason I remember is that he's sitting right alongside the old lady stowaway."

"He's in a window seat, you say?"

"Yes."

"That makes it harderto reach across and grab." Demerest was remembering the portion of the D.T.M.'s message:IF SUPPOSITION TRUE, LIKELY THAT TRIGGER FOR EXPLOSIVES WILL BE ON OUTSIDE OF CASE AND EASILY REACHABLE. THEREFORE USE EXTREME CAUTION IN ATTEMPTING TO SEIZE CASE FORCIBLY. He guessed that Gwen, too, was thinking of that warning.

For the first time a feeling, not of fear but doubt, intruded on his reasoning. Fear might come later, but not yet. Was there a possibility that this bomb scare might prove to be more than a scare? Vernon Demerest had thought and talked of this kind of situation often enough, yet could never really believe it would happen to himself.

Anson Harris was easing out of the turn as gently as he had gone into it. They were now headed around completely.

The Selcal chime sounded again. Demerest motioned to Cy Jordan, who switched radios and answered, then began copying down a message.

Anson Harris was talking once more with Toronto Air Route Center.

"I wonder," Vernon Demerest said to Gwen, "if there's any chance of getting those other two pa.s.sengers alongside Guerrero out of their seats. That way he'd be left there, in the three-seat section, on his own. Then maybe one of us could come from behind, lean over and grab."

"He'd suspect," Gwen said emphatically. "I'm sure he would. He's edgy now. The moment we got those other people out, whatever excuse we used, he'd know something was wrong and he'd be watching and waiting."

The second officer pa.s.sed over the Selcal message he had been copying. It was from D.T.M. Lincoln. Using the hooded light, Gwen and Demerest read it together.

NEW INFORMATION INDICATES EARLIER POSSIBILITY OF EXPLOSIVE DEVICE IN POSSESSION OF Pa.s.sENGER GUERRERO IS NOW STRONG PROBABILITY REPEAT STRONG PROBABILITY. Pa.s.sENGER BELIEVED MENTALLY DISTURBED, DESPERATE. REPEAT PREVIOUS WARNING TO APPROACH WITH EXTREME CAUTION. GOOD LUCK.

"I like that last bit," Cy Jordan said. "That's real nice, wishing us that." Demerest said brusquely, "Shut up!" For several secondsapart from routine flight deck soundsthere was silence.

"If there were some way," Demerest said slowly, "...some way we could trick him into letting go of that case. All we'd need would be a few seconds to have our hands on it, then get it clear away... if we were quick, two seconds would be enough."

Gwen pointed out, "He wouldn't even put it down..."

"I know! I know! I'm thinking, that's all." He stopped. "Let's go over it again. There are two pa.s.sengers between Guerrero and the aisle. One of them..."

"One of them is a man; he has the aisle seat. In the middle is the old lady, Mrs. Quonsett. Then Guerrero."

"So grandma's right beside Guerrero; right alongside the case."

"Yes, but how does it help? Even if we could let her know, she couldn't possibly..."

Demerest said sharply, "You haven't said anything to her yet? She doesn't know we're on to her?"

"No. You told me not to."

"Just wanted to be sure."

Again they were silent. Vernon Demerest concentrated, thinking, weighing possibilities. At length he said carefully, "I have an idea. It may not work, but at the moment it's the best we have. Now listen, while I tell you exactly what to do."

IN THE TOURIST section of Flight Two most pa.s.sengers had finished dinner, and stewardesses were briskly removing trays. The meal service had gone faster than usual tonight. One reason was that due to the delayed takeoff, some pa.s.sengers had eaten in the terminal and now, because of the lateness of the hour, they had either declined dinner or merely nibbled at it.

At the three-seat unit where Mrs. Ada Quonsett was still chatting with her new friend, the oboe player, one of the tourist cabin stewardessesa pert young blonde asked, "Have you finished with your trays?"

"Yes, I have, miss," the oboist said.

Mrs. Quonsett smiled warmly. "Thank you, my dear; you may take mine. It was very nice."

The dour man on Mrs. Quonsett's left surrendered his tray without comment.

It was only then that the little old lady from San Diego became aware of the other stewardess standing in the aisle.

She was one whom Mrs. Quonsett had observed several times previously, and appeared to be in charge of the other girls. She had deep black hair, an attractive, high-cheekboned face, and strong dark eyes which at the moment were focused, directly and coolly, on Ada Quonsett.

"Pardon me, madam. May I see your ticket?"

"My ticket? Why, of course." Mrs. Quonsett affected surprise, though she guessed immediately what lay behind the request. Obviously her stowaway status was either suspected or known. But she had never given up easily, and even now her wits were working. A question was: how much did this girl know?

Mrs. Quonsett opened her purse and pretended to search among its papers. "I know I had it, my dear. It must be here somewhere." She glanced up, her expression innocent. "That is, unless the ticket man took it when I came aboard. Perhaps he kept it and I didn't notice."

"No," Gwen Meighen said, "he wouldn't have. If it was a round-trip ticket, you'd be holding a return flight coupon. And if it was one-way, you'd still have the ticket stub and boarding folder."

"Well, it certainly seems strange..." Mrs. Quonsett continued fumbling in her purse.

Gwen inquired coldly, "Shall I look?" From the beginning of their exchange, she had shown none of her customary friendliness. She added, "If there's a ticket in your purse, I'll find it. If there isn't, it will save us both wasting time."

"Certainly not," Mrs. Ouonsett said severely. Then, relenting: "I realize you mean no harm, my dear, but I have private papers here. You, being English, should respect privacy. You are English, aren't you?"

"Whether I am or not doesn't matter. At this moment we're talking about your ticket. That is, if you have one." Gwen's voice, pitched louder than usual, was audible several seats away. Heads of other pa.s.sengers were turning.

"Oh, I have a ticket. It's just a question of where it is." Mrs. Quonsett smiled engagingly. "About your being English, though, I could tell you were from the very first moment you spoke. So many English peoplepeople like you, my dearmake our language sound delightful. It's such a pity so few of us Americans can do the same. My late husband always used to say..." "Never mind what he said. What about your ticket?"

It was hard for Gwen to be as rude and unpleasant as she was being. In the ordinary way she would have dealt with this old woman firmly, yet remained friendly and good-natured; Gwen also had a reluctance to bully someone more than twice her own age. But before she left the flight deck, Vernon had been explicit in his instructions.

Mrs. Ouonsett looked a little shocked. "I'm being patient with you, young lady. But when I do discover my ticket I shall certainly have something to say about your att.i.tude..."

"Will you really, Mrs. Quonsett?" Gwen saw the old woman start at the use of her name, and for the first time there was a weakening behind the prim facade. Gwen persisted, "You are Ada Quonsett, aren't you?"

The little old lady patted her lips with a lace handkerchief, then sighed. "Since you know I am, there's no point in denying it, is there?"

"No, because we know all about you. You've got quite a record, Mrs. Quonsett."

More pa.s.sengers were watching and listening now; one or two had left their seats to move closer. Their expressions were sympathetic for the old lady, critical of Gwen. The man in the aisle seat, who had been talking with Mrs. Quonsett when Gwen arrived, shifted uncomfortably. "If there's some misunderstanding, perhaps I can help..."

"There's no misunderstanding," Gwen said. "Are you traveling with this lady?" "No." "Then there's nothing you need concern yourself about, sir."

So far, Gwen had not let herself look directly at the man seated farthest away, by the window, whom she knew to be Guerrero. Nor had he looked at her, though she could tell by the inclination of his head that he was listening intently to everything that was being said. Also without being obvious, she observed that he was still clasping the small attache case on his knees. At the thought of what the case might contain she experienced a sudden, icy fear. She felt herself tremble, with a premonition of something terrible to come. She wanted to run, return to the flight deck and tell Vernon to handle this himself. But she didn't, and the moment of weakness pa.s.sed.

"I said we know all about you, and we do," Gwen a.s.sured Mrs. Quonsett. "You were caught earlier today as a stowaway on one of our flights from Los Angeles. You were placed in custody, but you managed to slip away. Then, by lying, you got aboard this flight."

The little old lady from San Diego said brightly, "If you know so much, or think you do, it won't do any good arguing about it." Well, she decided, it was no good worrying now. After all, she had expected to get caught; at least she hadn't been until she'd had an adventure and a good dinner. Besides, what did it matter? As the redheaded woman back at Lincoln admitted, airlines never prosecuted stowaways.

She was curious, though, about what came next. "Are we going to turn back?"

"You're not that important. When we land in Italy you'll be handed over to the authorities." Vernon Demerest had warned Gwen to let it be thought that Flight Two was proceeding on to Rome, certainly not to admit that they were already turned around and heading back. He also impressed on her that she must be rough with the old lady, which Gwen had not enjoyed. But it was necessary to make an impression on the pa.s.senger Guerrero, to carry out Demerest's next step.

Though Guerrero didn't know itand if all went well, he would not know until too late to make any differencethis entire performance was solely for his benefit.

"You're to come with me," Gwen instructed Mrs. Quonsett. "The captain has had a signal about you, and he has to make a report. Before he does, he wants to see you." She asked the man in the aisle seat, "Will you let this woman out, please?"

For the first time the old lady looked nervous. "The captain wants me?"

"Yes, and he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Hesitantly, Mrs. Quonsett released her seat belt. As the oboe player moved out, unhappily, to let her pa.s.s, she stepped uncertainly into the aisle. Taking her arm, Gwen propelled her forward, conscious of hostile glances all arounddirected at herselfas they went.

Gwen resisted an impulse to turn, to see if the man with the case was watching too.

"I'M CAPTAIN Demerest," Vernon Demerest said. "Please come inas far forward as you can. Gwen, shut the door and let's see if we can squeeze everybody in." He smiled at Mrs. Quonsett. "I'm afraid they don't design flight decks for entertaining visitors."

The old lady from San Diego peered toward him. After the bright lights of the pa.s.senger cabin from which she had just come, her eyes were not yet adjusted to the c.o.c.kpit's semidarkness. All she could make out were shadowy figures, seated, surrounded by dozens of redly glowing dials. But there had been no mistaking the friendliness of the voice. Its effect and tone were far different from what she had braced herself to expect.

Cy Jordan pushed an armrest upward on an empty crew seat behind Anson Harris. Gwengently, in contrast to her behavior of a few minutes agoguided the old lady into the seat.

There was still no turbulence outside, which made it easy to move around. Though losing height, they were still far above the storm, and despite the airplane's speed of more than five hundred miles an hour, it was riding easily as if on a calm, untroubled sea.

"Mrs. Quonsett," Vernon Demerest said, "whatever happened outside just now, you can forget it. It's not the reason you were brought here." He asked Gwen, "Were you pretty rough with her?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Miss Meighen was acting on my orders. I told her to do exactly what she did. We knew one particular person would be watching and listening. We wanted it to look good, to have a plausible reason for bringing you here."

The big shadowy figure speaking from the right-hand seat was becoming clearer to Ada Quonsett now. From what she could see of his face, he seemed a kind man, she thought. At the moment, of course, she had no idea what he was talking about. She looked about her. It was all very interesting. She had never been on a flight deck before. It was much more crowded and a smaller s.p.a.ce than she expected. It was also warm, and the three men whom she could now see were all in shirtsleeves. This would certainly be something else to tell her daughter in New Yorkif she ever got there.

"Grandma," the man who had introduced himself as the captain said, "do you get frightened easily?"

It seemed an odd question, and she thought about it before answering. "Not easily, I think. I get nervous sometimes, though not as much as I used to. When you get older there isn't a lot left to be frightened of."

The captain's eyes were fixed searchingly on her fare. "I've decided to tell you something, then ask for your help. We don't have too much time, so I'll make it fast. I suppose you've noticed the man sitting next to you, back in the cabinon the window side."

"The skinny one, with the little mustache?"

"Yes," Gwen said. "That's him."

Mrs. Quonsett nodded. "He's a strange one. He won't talk to anybody, and he has a little case with him that he won't let go of. I think he's worried about something."

"We're worried, too," Vernon Demerest said quietly. "We've reason to believe that in that case he has a bomb. We want to get it away from him. That's why I need your help."

One of the surprising things about being up here with the pilots, Ada Quonsett thought, was how quiet it was. In the silence which followed what had just been said, she could hear a message coming in on an overhead speaker near where she was seated. "Trans America Two, this is Toronto Center. Your position is fifteen miles east of Kleinburg beacon. Advise your flight level and intentions."

The man in the other front seat, on the left, whose face she hadn't yet seen, was answering. "Toronto Center from Trans America Two. Leaving flight level two niner zero. Request continued slow descent until we advise. No change in our intentions to return for landing at Lincoln."

"Roger, Trans America. We are clearing traffic ahead of you. You may continue slow descent."

A third man, at a little table to her right, facing still more dials, leaned across to the one who had been speaking. "I make it an hour and seventeen minutes in. That's using forecast winds, but if the front's moved faster than expected, it could be less."

"We are going back, aren't we?" Mrs. Quonsett found it hard to restrain the excitement in her voice.

Demerest nodded. "But you're the only one who knows, besides ourselves. For the time being you must keep it a secret, and above all, Guerrerothat's the man with the casemustn't find out."

Ada Ouonsett thought breathlessly: was this really happening to her? It was all quite thrilling, like something on TV. It was a little frightening perhaps, but she decided not to think too much about that. The main thing wa.s.she was here, a part of it all, hobn.o.bbing with the captain, sharing secrets, and what would her daughter say about that?

"Well, will you help us?" "Oh, of course. I expect you want me to see if I can get that case away..."

"No!" Vernon Demerest swung farther around, leaning over the back of his seat for emphasis. He said sternly, "You must not so much as put your hands on that case, or even near it."

"If you say so," Mrs. Quonsett acknowledged meekly, "I won't."

"I do say so. And remember, it's important that Guerrero have no idea we know about his case or what's inside. Now, as I did with Miss Meighen a little while ago, I'm going to tell you exactly what to do when you go back to the cabin. Please listen carefully."

When he had finished, the little old lady from San Diego permitted herself a small, brief smile. "Oh, yes; yes, I think I can do that."

She was getting out of her seat, with Gwen about to open the flight deck door for them to go, when Demerest asked, "That flight from Los Angeles you stowed away on they said you were trying to reach New York. Why?"