|
|
|
|
“Braniff one-thirty-one, cleared for take-off, runway three-one left, wind two-niner-zero at
one-two.”
“Braniff One-Thirty-One, roger, cleared
for take-off.”
Larry Deyer made the appropriate check mark next to Braniff’s name on
the flight progress strip in front of him indicating Braniff’s flight plan.
Looking out of the tinted window of the control tower far above
“Eastern Twenty-Nine, taxi into position and hold,” he instructed.
“Eastern Twenty-Nine, roger,”
came the reply from the Lockheed L-1011 jetliner.
Larry observed the wide body jet begin the turn onto the runway to take
the spot from which Braniff One-Thirty-One had just departed, beginning a
chain reaction of ten jets, each in turn moving to the vacated space ahead of
them.
It was the beginning of a routine shift on the local control position
and Larry was “getting the picture,” the term controllers used to indicate
they had things under control. His experience allowed him to scan the skies
around the airport, acknowledge pilots calling for instructions, listen for
controllers at other positions in the tower trying to coordinate aircraft
movements with him, and still have time to observe who else was working in the
tower that morning.
Tom was working ground control, the busiest position in the tower.
Ground control talked to all the aircraft that were on the taxiways and at the
gate. Next to Tom was Michele, working clearance delivery. She was the latest
trainee to come out of the academy in
Larry glanced up at the BRITE radar scope hanging in the corner of the
control tower. Although it was a clear day and he could visually see all the
aircraft he was talking to, the BRITE scope was invaluable in bad weather and
the only way to tell how far aircraft were from each other and the runways.
The four radar blips that were landing aircraft for runway three-one right
matched the flight progress strips in front of him. Approach control had done
a nice job sequencing the planes and everyone was the required three miles in
trail of each other.
“Kennedy Tower, this is Clipper Seventy-Two with you.” Clipper, the
call sign used by Pan Am pilots, was the aircraft Larry observed on the radar
turning on final approach about fifteen miles from the airport, number five in
sequence.
“Clipper Seventy-Two, roger, you’re number five,” he told the
aircraft as he reached to grab the flight progress strip out of the rack of
future arrivals.
He watched an Allegheny Airlines flight touch down on runway three-one
right. He instructed the just arrived aircraft to turn left at the next
intersection, hold short of the taxiway, and contact ground control on another
frequency for instructions on which route to take to get to the gate.
It was time to turn his attention to the just departed Braniff jet from
runway three-one left. Braniff One-Thirty-One was airborne as Larry keyed his
microphone. “Braniff One-Thirty-One, contact departure control on
one-thirty-five-point-niner. So long.” Larry
again turned his attention to runway three-one right. The next aircraft to
land was about one mile from the runway.
“Capitol Seven, cleared to land runway three-one right, wind
three-zero- zero at one-one.”
“Capitol Seven is cleared to land. Thank you,” answered the pilot.
Inside the radar control room twelve miles east of the airport the
radar departure controller and his assistant controller, or hand-off man, had
watched Braniff’s radar blip as it lifted off of the runway. The radar
computer identified the transponder signal from the aircraft and automatically
generated a tag with coded alphanumeric data that attached itself to Braniff.
It told the controller Braniff’s flight number, altitude, and air speed. They
both watched with initial surprise as Braniff’s tag continued on a straight
runway heading, although it was not completely unusual for the crew to delay
contacting them. The radar controller had turned his attention back to guiding
aircraft that had departed ahead of Braniff One-Thirty-One to their routes of
flight when the hand-off man alerted him that Braniff would soon invade
LaGuardia’s airspace.
“Hey tower, turn Braniff One-Thirty-One over to me,” Larry heard
the radar departure controller through the ear piece of his headset.
Larry turned to his right expecting to see Braniff One-Thirty-One in a
left hand turn, as the departure radar controller would have instructed him.
But the aircraft was continuing straight ahead.
“I turned him over to you,” Larry answered before suddenly
realizing he had never heard Braniff One-Thirty-One acknowledge his
instruction to contact the departure radar controller.
Larry was about to key his microphone to talk to Braniff One-Thirty-One
when the pilot’s voice came into his ear. “Kennedy
Tower, this is Braniff One-Thirty-One!”
Larry knew from the pilot’s voice something was up. He picked up
binoculars to get a closer look at the jet as he acknowledged the pilot’s
call. “Braniff One-Thirty-One,
“Kennedy, we’ve got a problem here!” An inexperienced
controller might overreact, but Larry knew “having a problem” could mean
anything. He walked to the southwest corner of the tower, the black cord of
his headset stretching to the maximum limit, and, trying to remain calm,
stopped next to Kline’s desk, never taking his eyes off of the jet. “Kennedy, we’ve got some fire warning lights and some smoke in the
cockpit!”
Larry tensed. Remember your training, he thought. The crew needs to
hear a calm, professional voice. “Braniff One-Thirty-One, understand you
have a fire in the cockpit? Are you declaring an emergency?” he asked,
raising his voice slightly in the hopes of getting Kline’s attention.
“Uh,
yeah, Kennedy, we’re declaring an emergency. We need immediate landing
instructions!”
“Roger, Braniff One-Thirty-One. Stand by.”
Larry walked back to his position and pushed the button alerting the
fire and rescue units of the emergency. Kline was close behind, having reacted
immediately to Larry’s voice and actions.
“I’ve got an emergency here, Kline!” Larry said, more excitedly
now that he wasn’t talking to the crew, surprised to see the supervisor
already by his side.
“What’s the problem?” Kline asked calmly, as he scanned the
runways with one eye, the sky with the other, the BRITE scope in between.
Larry pointed to the brown and beige 727 heading straight toward
“We’re stopping all departures!” Kline told the radar controller.
“Emergency on Braniff One-Thirty-One!”
“Understand stopping departures,” the radar hand-off man responded.
“What are you going to do with Braniff?”
“Stand by!” Kline told him. He was already on a separate “hot
line” to the supervisor in charge of the radar room. They agreed to stop
arrivals to the airport and, if possible, Larry would keep the Braniff 727 in
sight of the control tower and clear him for an emergency landing on runway
three-one left, the departure runway from which he had just departed. It
only took a few seconds for everything to be coordinated
Larry keyed his microphone. “Braniff One-Thirty-One,
There was no reply. He knew the crew was busy, but he had to make
contact.
“Braniff One-Thirty-One, “ The
pilot’s voice was not panicked, but stressed, Larry thought. What could be
going on? Fire warning lights and smoke in the cockpit. The crew would
certainly have their oxygen masks on now. Maybe they can’t see their
instruments. Maybe they are going down. The thought panicked and frightened
him. Crashing? No. That can’t be. Something…... “Kennedy
Tower, this is Braniff One-Thirty-One. Go ahead.”
The voice was calmer now, and Larry relaxed. The reason for the delay
in answering him apparently was a non factor now. Time to get this jet safely
on the ground. “Braniff One-Thirty-One, can you make a tight left hand turn
and keep the runway in sight?”
“Uh, yeah, we can do that
Kennedy. Hey, you’ve got to get us down in a hurry. We have smoke and alarms
everywhere!”
“Okay Braniff One-Thirty-One, keep it as tight as possible and you
are cleared to land on runway three-one left. You’re number one for the
airport. Fire and rescue are on the way.”
Kline turned to Tom on ground
control. “Let’s keep everyone at the gate and stop everyone that’s
moving on the tarmac.”
“I’m doing that!” Tom yelled,
obviously feeling the tension in the room, too busy to notice Kline’s glare
as the first of the fire and rescue units called his frequency, asking the
nature of the emergency so they could deploy themselves.
It was the first time Larry noticed how quiet the tower had become as
everyone’s attention was riveted to him and the disabled jet. “
“Braniff One-Thirty-One, Kennedy. Go Ahead.”
“Do you still have us in
sight?”
“Affirmative!”
“Do you see any fire anywhere?”
Larry scanned the jet again with his binoculars. “Negative! No fire
anywhere that I can see.” “Thank
you.” The
pilot’s voice was calmer now and Larry sensed the crew had things under
control.
Larry could overhear Tom on ground control telling the fire and rescue
units where the plane should land and Kline briefing the radar room. All that
nice tight sequencing for landing aircraft on three-one right Larry had been
admiring just a few minutes ago had gone to hell as each plane was now given
amended instructions to fly over the airport and proceed to holding patterns.
Even if Braniff landed safely it would be hours before things returned to
normal.
The control tower grew silent again as everyone watched the crippled
727 even make a tight left turn and begin a southeasterly heading, parallel to
the runway. He would fly only as many miles past the airport as he needed to
allow himself a left turn back to runway three-one left and align for landing.
Larry could only imagine what was going on inside the cockpit. He envisioned
the crew with oxygen masks on trying desperately to look through the smoke and
find the runway. He watched with admiration as the crew made perfect turns,
finally turning on final approach.
“Wind three-two-zero at one-two,” Larry said, expecting no
acknowledgment from the busy crew.
Larry finally took his eyes off the airliner and glanced down the
runway. “Oh, no!” he screamed. Everyone turned toward Larry and followed
his eyes to the approach end of runway three-one left. The Eastern jet on the
runway that Larry had taxied into position to hold! How could he forget that
plane? How could everyone have overlooked that plane? “Eastern Twenty-Nine,
Larry knew it was too late. Eastern could not turn right and exit the
runway as all the other jets waiting for departure had crept up and there was
no room. The only option was to clear the jet for an immediate departure or
have him taxi up to the first available exit and turn off the runway - but
that was almost three thousand feet. Larry made the quick decision -
“Eastern Twenty-Nine, you’re cleared for an immediate take-off!” “Kennedy, this is Eastern Twenty-Nine. Understand, cleared for an
immediate departure?” “Kennedy
Tower, this is Braniff One-Thirty-One. What the hell - there’s a jet on the
runway!”
O Jesus! Eastern,
yes! Immediate! Go! Larry thought. Larry knew it was too late and had to
switch tactics. “Eastern Twenty-Nine, cancel take-off clearance!” Larry
shouted just as the jet started its take-off roll. “Braniff One-Thirty-One,
go around! Go around .......” There was no avoiding it. The Braniff jet
smashed into the Eastern jet about one thousand feet down the runway. “Oh,
my God!” he screamed. “Oh nooooooooooooooooooo!” Larry didn’t realize he was screaming until his wife grabbed his shoulder,
shaking him gently. For a few seconds Larry was caught between the world of
dreams and reality, then slowly focused on Alison’s face as she searched his
eyes for clues to his dream.
“O God,” Larry said. “What a nightmare!”
“Yeah, I know,” Alison said. “I was living through some of it.
I’ll probably have bruises on my leg from your kicking. You want to tell me
about it?”
Larry told her as much as he could remember, trying to concentrate and
bring back every detail. “There’s no way anyone could overlook that jet on
the runway. It was just a dream, right honey? Honey?” Her rhythmic breathing
told him she had fallen asleep and he lightly pushed away the hair from her
face, admiring her ability to fall asleep so easily.
Feeling uneasy and restless, he looked at the digital clock. Four
fifty-five a.m. The six a.m. alarm was useless now so he turned it off. Jesus,
what the hell day is it? Thursday? Yes, Thursday.
He rolled his nude body out of bed and carefully uncoiled his back into
a standing position, interlacing his fingers over his tall and lean body,
raising his arms, palms outward, toward the ceiling, feeling his spine unwind,
grateful for no pain. Some mornings he could still feel his back contacting
the tree and picture again the binding on his left ski breaking loose and his
end over end tumble. The x-rays were negative, but every few years he would
have a back spasm that would almost paralyze him, and he would go through
another round of x-rays and negative results. Three or four days of bed rest
and it would be like nothing had happened - until the next time.
Only twenty-eight years old and he had to get out of bed like an old
man, he mused. He patted what used to be a firm stomach, pinched the
beginnings of a roll of fat, and silently cursed the too many late night union
meetings and six packs of beer that were starting to leave their mark. Now
that the threat of a strike was over, maybe he could get back to working out.
Forty-five minutes later he had showered, shaved, finished the first of
too many cups of coffee, and made his daily “no more than two cups”
promise that he knew he would not keep.
He listened to the traffic report on the radio. Good. No major
problems. It could change quickly though, and he always had several alternate
routes prepared. Some days, he often thought, it was more complicated driving
to work than flying across the country. He took the trash out to the curb,
walking softly so he wouldn’t wake up the neighbor’s dogs; those damned
barking dogs he was going to throw into the canal one day. He put the dogs out
of his mind and took pleasure in the early morning fresh air and the smell of
the ocean. He was going to have to get out and enjoy the boat before the
summer was gone.
The traffic was light on the Southern State Parkway as he headed west,
the sun rising in his rear view mirror. He passed the Wantagh and the
Meadowbrook Parkways, two of his alternate escape routes that would take him
south to Sunrise Highway, then west to Kennedy. Traffic began to build as he
turned onto the Belt Parkway and got closer to the airport. Most shift changes
at the airport were between seven and eight, but Larry would already be in the
control tower by six- thirty when the traffic started to get bumper to bumper.
He parked, the sound of a jet taking off gaining his attention as he
got out of the car. Instinctively he turned toward the southwest to see a
Boeing 747 jet lifting off over the top of the terminal building. Three-one
was still the active runway. There were four runway possibilities at Kennedy
and the active runway was dictated by the direction of the wind or, if the
wind was calm, noise abatement. He scanned the flags on the top of the
terminal building to see which direction the wind was blowing, but they were
limp. That wouldn’t last long, though. The summer wind was generally out of
the southwest. When the wind switched, they would change to runway two-two.
The southwest wind would bring the smell of the ocean over the airport to
begin its daily struggle to overcome jet exhaust, vehicle emissions, and the
unnatural bi-products of urban living that had crept up to the borders of the
airport over the years. The ocean rarely won, except for early mornings in the
summer. “Good morning, Kline,” Larry greeted his supervisor as he stepped into the
tower cab.
“Relieve Mitch on local,” Kline Lewis said without looking up from
the crew schedule he was studying.
“Sure. Let me get a cup of coffee.”
There was no mistaking the smell of the tower - a vintage blend of
stale air, cigarette smoke and coffee. It was the coffee that Larry’s nose
followed. Second cup, he told himself. Last one today. Sure!
Larry poured the black brew and placed the plastic spoon in the middle
of his cup, trying to make it stand straight up. The spoon plopped against the
side of the cup. “Well, the spoon isn’t standing straight up, so you guys
must have made fresh,” he said, blending some milk into the drink.
“In your honor,” said a smiling Mitch “G.B.” Gates, one of the
night shift controllers Larry was told to replace.
“Let me check the R&I and I’ll be right over.”
The R&I, or “read and initial,” was a notebook on the
supervisors desk that contained information the controllers needed to know
before they went on duty. It was like a daily newspaper and it was their
responsibility to know everything in the book and initial the bottom of the
page to confirm they had read it.
“Anything new?” he asked Kline as he opened the notebook and saw
his initials on some information from yesterday.
“Nope!”
Larry liked Kline and thought he was a good supervisor - just the right
mix of authority and friendliness. He was thirty-five years old and had been a
supervisor for six years. He had worked his entire career at JFK tower and had
been there twelve years, more than any of the controllers except Valerie
“Okay, G.B., what’s the story?” Larry asked Mitch while plugging
his headset into the local control position.
“You’ve got two on final approach for three-one right and Pan Am
taxiing for three-one left. That’s your only departure.”
“Got it,” he told Mitch, who unplugged his headset, his work day
ended.
Mitch was a slightly built man and the last person one would associate
being an ex-Special Forces Army Green Beret, the reason for his initials.
Larry knew he served two tours of duty in Vietnam, but Mitch didn’t talk
much, especially about his Army experiences.
“Have a nice two days off,” Larry told him.
“No such luck. I’ve got overtime the day after tomorrow. See ya.”
Larry scanned the airport, then grabbed a pair of binoculars and made
another scan close up. The sun was up in the east, the sky was clear, and
everything around the tarmac appeared normal. He laughed at the thought.
He heard the door below open and waited to hear the footsteps coming up
to the cab. He’d know from the sound who it would be. Tom Drake was heavy
footed, sometimes coming up the steps two at a time, usually happy to be at
work, and the heavy footsteps were unmistakably his.
Larry turned to see Tom’s rail thin body head straight for the coffee
pot, a half eaten doughnut waiting to be washed down, hearing Kline instruct
him to take over ground control as soon as his coffee was poured.
“Roger,” Tom replied.
How can that man eat so much and stay so thin? Larry thought, his
question answered when Tom lit up a cigarette. The Air Traffic Controller’s
Breakfast Special - coffee, doughnut, and a cigarette. He watched Tom move
over to ground control and the same routine process of passing on information
from one controller to the next began as it would many times throughout the
day – twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three-hundred and
sixty-five days a year. The briefing over, Tom settled in.
“You a father yet?” he asked, rearranging the flight progress
strips in front of him.
The door opened below and Larry could hear no footsteps. It had to be
Michele Boland, the new trainee on the crew. She was a small woman with long
black hair that was usually braided and ended at the middle of her back. She
looked even younger than her twenty-two years and, like most rookies, was very
tentative. “Good morning, Michele,” Larry said without turning around.
“Good morning,” she said timidly.
“Two more weeks,” Larry finally answered Tom.
The door again, and Michele’s trainer, Jane Dennison, slowly walked
up the steps. Larry recognized her pace more than the sound of her steps.
“Morning Jane,” he said, and could see her wave at him through the
reflection of the glass in front of him.
“Clearance delivery,” ordered Kline.
“Okay,” Jane answered for her and Michele, motioning for her
trainee to plug in next to her. Jane was tall and, although not carrying an
ounce of fat that anyone could notice, was constantly dieting and chain
smoking the non existent pounds away. A part time model, she occasionally
would land a small photo job for a local catalog company.
Larry turned and noticed Tom listening to an aircraft in his headset
and making a notation on a flight progress strip. Watching him, Larry felt a
sense of deja-vu. Unsure why, he glanced up at the BRITE scope and the spacing
between the two radar blips. Everything was fine there.
“
Larry keyed his microphone, turning his attention to the heavy jet at
the end of the runway asking for take-off clearance. “Clipper One-Six,
cleared for take-off, runway three-one left, wind calm,” Larry replied. Larry
watched the Pan Am 747 taxi onto the runway and power up its engines for
departure. Something didn’t seem right, Larry thought, staring at the Pan Am
jet as it began to accelerate down the runway. The jet lifted off, retracted
its landing gear, and began a normal climb toward its assigned altitude.
“Clipper One-Six, contact departure on one-three-five-point-niner.
Good day.”
“Clipper One-Six to departure on one-three-five- point- nine.
Thanks.”
Larry stared at the blue and white 747, waiting for him to begin his
left turn. He’ll go straight, Larry thought, suddenly remembering his dream,
his body tensing. He reached for the hot line button to the radar departure
controller, attracting the attention of Kline.
“Are you talking to Clipper One-Six?” he asked in a shout.
“Yeah, I’m talking to him,” the controller calmly answered
through Larry’s ear piece. “Just gave him his noise abatement turn.
What’s up? Something wrong?”
“No, nothing,” answered Larry, shuddering slightly as he saw Kline
get up and walk toward him.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Problem with Clipper?”
“No, just need some stronger coffee, I guess.”
“Well, if you’re not awake yet, I’ll get someone else on the
position!” Larry
turned to Kline. It was not like him to be that abrupt. “Relax, Kline. It
was a joke. I’m okay, okay?” Kline
turned and walked back to his desk. Larry noticed Mitch had stopped at the
edge of the steps and had been watching Kline and himself. Larry shrugged his
shoulders and questioned Mitch with his eyes, but Mitch just shrugged back and
disappeared down the stairway.
“Hey Kline, we voted negative. Everything is normal,” Larry joked.
Kline looked up. It would be against regulations for anyone to talk
about the strike or the strike vote, but they had found a million ways to talk
around it.
“Sure, Larry. Everything is just hunky-dory.” Kline smiled for the
first time. “Maybe I need the stronger coffee.”
Whatever brief tension was lingering in the cab disappeared, and Larry
turned his attention back to the airport. His eyes drifted down the runway to
the exact spot where the accident happened in his dream. There is no way that
could possibly happen, he reassured himself, staring at the now empty runway,
yet he was not comforted, and once again the thought went through his mind
that something bad was going to happen if the FAA tried to run traffic without
the controllers. Something terrible. Alison Deyer slept until nine-thirty. The kicking woke her and for a few
seconds she thought it was Larry dreaming before realizing the kick was coming
from the inside. The baby must have been up for some time now.
“Okay, honey,” she said softly. “I’m getting up.”
Only a few more weeks, she thought, and once again reflected on how
quickly and how slowly the eight and one half months had gone by. She had the
routine down now. Lying on her back, she would roll over onto her side and in
one lingering motion raise up on her elbow while rotating her feet to the
floor, finally advancing to a sitting position. She would wait for a few
seconds to see if there was any dizziness - she had a tendency to get light
headed and more than once had gotten up too quickly.
The nine-thirty on the clock’s bright red letters faded as she opened
the curtains hiding the sliding glass door to the back yard deck. She was
driven by her controller instincts to be aware of the weather conditions,
happy that the clear skies should make for an easier day at Kennedy, if there
were such a thing. Larry had been at work for half a day already and she would
usually be relieving him at two-thirty when her
Alison looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, then glanced over at a
picture of herself on the dresser. She was playing volleyball with her
friends, and she yearned to have that lean, tanned athletic body she saw in
the picture. She cradled her stomach and looked in the mirror. “Yes,
that’s your mommy,” she told her unborn child. “Yeah, in the picture.
The cute one with the short blond hair. Look honey, I’m the one closest to
the net. We’ll spend a lot of time on the beach this summer, and I’m going
to teach you to play.....” The ringing phone interrupted her thoughts and
the baby kicked again as if disappointed the conversation had ended.
“Hello.”
“Hello, dear,” her mother began. “How are we
this morning?”
“Hi, mom. We’re fine,”
she teased.
“Your father and I were hoping that you and Larry would join us for
dinner tonight. You know, to celebrate the beginning of your leave. Now you
can really concentrate on having your child.”
“Oh, don’t start so early in the morning, mother,” Alison said.
Her mother had disapproved of her working for so long and refused to
understand that Alison had no choice. The maternity leave was only three
months, all without pay, and Alison had decided to work as long as she could
before the baby was born, leaving as much time as possible after.
“I know dear. But it’s a mother’s, I mean, grandmother’s,
obligation to be concerned. Let me fulfill my obligation. Now about
dinner...”
“Mom, not tonight. Please. It will be the first time Larry and I have
had a chance to spend a quiet evening together in a long time.”
“Your father will be disappointed, of course, but I guess I
understand.”
“You should know better than to try and make me feel guilty,
especially trying to use dad. As long as there’s an Islander hockey game on
TV, dad won’t be worried about anything except another Stanley Cup.”
“That sounded pretty harsh, dear.”
“I know. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just, well, he doesn’t
agree with the strike and it seems that every time we get together it’s just
one big argument. Look, I just got up and I’m going to have some coffee. Why
don’t you come over?”
“Oh, what a lovely idea. I’ll be right over.” Alison
was sipping her first cup of decaf waiting for her mother when she crossed her
legs and felt a pain on her thigh. She looked down and found a bruise the size
of a softball. Where the hell did this come from? Larry? Larry kicked me last
night, she remembered. His nightmares were starting again. But why would he be
dreaming? The strike vote was last Sunday and the strike was voted down. A new
contract was signed.
The ringing of the doorbell interrupted her reverie. She got up to let
her mom in, thinking that now, with the strike vote behind them, maybe they
could start enjoying a normal life again. She had no way of knowing that in a
few short months their lives would never be the same. Sunday,
The President of the Air Traffic Controllers Organization, B.T. Tyler,
had not been bothered by bad dreams since the strike vote was taken on
He stood just beyond the arched metal detectors that marked the
entrance to the north concourse of Washington National, reminding himself
again just how much he disliked the airport. It wasn’t safe, but Congressmen
and Senators and Washington Bureaucrats loved its convenience and overlooked
all of ATCO’s objections and suggestions on how to make it safe.
He was passing the time watching passengers approach security. It was
easy to pick out the frequent travelers, mostly business types. They had the
routine down, carrying the correct sized carry-on luggage and briefcases,
deftly loading them onto the moving belt that entered the x-ray machine. Their
pace was methodical and practiced. Briefcase and carry-on bag on the belt,
keys and change in the plastic tub, quickly through the arch knowing no alarm
would sound, grabbing their belongings and off to their gate.
It was the infrequent or first time flyers that caught his attention
and interest. He would observe them nervously approach the scene, not quite
sure what they should do. It was these people who invariably triggered the
alarm walking through the metal detectors and would have to begin the process
of undressing. Item by item, they would remove all metal from their pockets,
belt buckles, jewelry from their fingers and arms, clips from their hair,
finally relieving themselves of all contaminants before passing through the
archway without signaling the alarm. Some couldn’t make it no matter how
much they took off, finally having to endure the prodding of a hand scanner,
raising their arms and spreading their legs, looking the part of a prisoner
about to go into lockup for the night. All
this thanks to a few skyjackers. How many had there been? Twenty? Thirty? Not
many, yet it’s what got him started in air traffic control, at least
indirectly. Fresh out of college with his degree in criminology, he applied
for a job at the FBI, but was told about a new program that he might be able
to get into immediately. In response to recent hi-jacking of aircraft, the D.B.
Cooper heist being the most famous, the government was forming a program of
sky marshals; armed guards that would sit on airplanes and react to stop a
hi-jacking. Soon he found himself armed with a .38 revolver and flying all
over the world. It only took a couple of years to read every novel he ever
wanted, and soon bored with the job, finding himself hoping that something
would happen, praying that nothing would. When he was hoping more than he was
praying, he decided it was time to move on. His
first choice was still the FBI, but he had developed a new love - aviation. He
knew from talking with the cockpit crews he was too old to become a pilot.
Most airline pilots came out of the military; young, educated, and already
trained. B.T. was too old to start at twenty-nine, but the pilots told him to
consider a career as an air traffic controller and, as a government employee,
he could simply transfer into the profession, as long as he did it before his
thirty-first birthday. He put in for a transfer to both the FBI and air
traffic and decided to take whichever position came first.
William Taylor Tyler, the sky marshal, became B.T., the air traffic
controller, his first day on the job at
Although B.T. received his initial orientation and training from
management, on the job training was done by his fellow controllers and they
were the ones who would give the final approval. The system worked reasonably
well for a couple of reasons. The controllers wanted to do the training
because they didn’t want anyone working side by side with them they didn’t
trust or couldn’t depend on and, of course, they did not want management
making that decision for them. Moreover, they considered theirs an exclusive
club and only wanted to admit those who, in their vernacular, could cut it.
Like any exclusive club, however, it was equally important to get along
with the fellow members, and most rookies did their best to blend in. B.T. was
not like most rookies. He already had eight years of government service and,
at thirty years old, was older than some of those training him, and, they
thought, was a little too self assured and cocky for them. Also, as a trained
sky marshal, he was not easily intimidated and handled the pressure with an
ease that disturbed some of those who were training him.
His training, however, was uneventful and he was on the verge of final
certification, or “checking out,” when an event took place that changed
B.T.’s life. The new union was trying to organize the tower and had limited
success, signing up sixteen of thirty-four controllers. Against the advice of
some of those training him, B.T. joined the union, evening up the union and
non-union membership at seventeen apiece.
B.T. suddenly found himself in the middle of the two camps with the
line drawn along union lines. The battle between the two groups and his
checking out became not so much a battle over whether or not he was qualified,
but an unofficial vote on whether or not there was to be a union in the tower.
The battle raged for six months, and was finally put to an end, ironically, by
management. Although not anxious to see the union in their tower, management
was nonetheless under considerable pressure to cut down on their overtime and
bring staffing levels up. Besides, supervisors who watched B.T. work knew he
was more than qualified to handle the job.
The day after B.T. was certified, he took the job of union shop
steward. Within six months his local was the first in the nation with one
hundred percent union membership. Lisa Bailey, ATCO’s District Vice President for the upper
“I should be furious with you,” she said, startling him, giving her
the impression he had been completely lost in thought. He looked completely
exhausted.
“Lisa,” he said in a tired but happy voice, a smile suddenly
brightening his face. “How are you? You’re right on time.”
“You mean you’re here to greet me?” she said, genuinely
surprised.
“Did you check any bags?” he asked as he grabbed her by the arm and
began leading her toward the exit, taking her flight bag in the opposite hand.
“No, just what I have with me. What gives? How did you know I was
coming?”
“I did call for a meeting of the district vice presidents tomorrow,”
he answered.
“I know that. I mean, how did you know I would be landing now?”
“I called your office.” “Oh.”
She stopped suddenly, jerking her arm free from his grasp and glaring at him.
“On second thought, I am pissed at you. Where the hell have you been the
past week?”
He raised his finger to his lips and made a silencing gesture.
“Let’s fight later,” he said softly. “Dinner first. You hungry?”
“More thirsty than hungry. Take me to a place with a good bar where I
can scream at you without being tossed out! Then food!”
“I know just the place.”
They passed the time driving into the Capital with small talk. They
were fine. Their families were fine. How was B.T.’s ex-wife? She was happy
now that she was with child. Any new boyfriends in Lisa’s life? No. They
debated again whether single life was better than married life. B.T. made the
turn on the
CLIPPINGS was a beer hall close to Georgetown University that catered
to the young bureaucrats and college kids, mostly graduate students, or those
with the best of fake I.D.s. Its interior was split level, the upper level in
the rear with a mezzanine that housed pool tables and video games and was
reached by wide, spiral staircases on each side of the room. There was a
polished wood slide in the middle of the room from the mezzanine to the lower
level that emptied into a large area of multi-colored Styrofoam balls.
The lower section, which ran the length of the building, had a wooden
bar along one wall, its top inlaid with newspaper clippings of famous or
infamous events, and covered with thick sections of plastic.
Lisa and B.T. sat in one of the wooden booths opposite the bar and Lisa
watched the waitress set a pitcher of beer on top of a newspaper headline
announcing Nixon’s resignation.
“You think ATCO will have a headline in here some day?” Lisa asked
as a young waitress finished filling two mugs. “How about, ‘ATCO brings
the government to their knees?’”
“Oh, my God,” the waitress said as she looked at B.T. “I saw you
on TV last week. You’re the leader of that union, right?”
“That’s right, honey,” Lisa answered, raising her mug in toast.
“You’re in the presence of a real celebrity.”
“Wow. Far out,” she said leaving the table.
“See, you’re famous.”
“Whatever,” he answered, his indifference worrying her.
“So, what about it? What’s our headline going to say?”
“I wish I could tell you. After last week, I’m not sure of anything
any more.”
There was a loud shout from one of the pool tables in the back and Lisa
saw a young woman raise her hand to “high five” her male companion.
Another couple walked toward the slide and slithered to the bottom level,
disappearing into the balls and reemerging to the applause of everyone.
“What was that all about?” she asked.
“It’s a tradition here. The losers have to slide down and buy the
winners drinks.”
“I like this place,” she said.
“I knew you would.”
“Well, what do you recommend to eat?”
“They make a shredded beef burger here to kill for. Somehow they cook
it in a slow cooker or something and it’s just wonderful. Tastes like
authentic southern BBQ.” “Great.
Let’s order,” she said, motioning the young waitress over to the booth.
They ordered the burgers and a second pitcher of beer. B.T. watched in admiration as she wolfed down the sandwich and finished two
more mugs of beer. Hired the same year as B.T., she moved up the ladder in
ATCO almost as quickly - faster if you consider she began her career in one of
the busiest control towers in the world,
“So,” she said after finishing the last of the french fries and
topping off both mugs. “Are you ready to start coming clean with me?”
B.T. knew that eventually Lisa would want to know about last week. He
was prepared to fill her in, up to a point. “Lisa, I was emotionally and
physically spent after the vote and the briefing. That press conference was
one of the hardest things I ever had to do. I needed to get away.”
Lisa started laughing.
“What?” B.T. asked.
“B.T. It’s me. Lisa. You can’t expect me to buy that crap. There
had to be something more for you to drop out. Do you know the rumors you
started?”
“Tell me.”
“One has you in bed with the FAA - maybe even spending some time with
the Administrator.”
“Mo Grainger? Come on!”
“An all expense vacation on the FAA or the government,” Lisa
continued, B.T unsure if she were teasing or not. “You weren’t at “Not
hardly. That’s it?” he asked, deciding she couldn’t be serious. She
looked hard at him. “You could have let me know. I thought we were closer
than that.” “I’m
sorry, Lisa. Really I am.” He paused and took a long swallow of beer. “I
don’t know, Lisa. I replaced Domenic because I didn’t think he was the man
to lead us into the strike. I really thought I could make a difference.” “You
were right to replace Domenic. Look, he was a great leader for our
organization, but he became a political animal. He was too “Maybe
he was right. Maybe that’s the right way to go.” “And
what did it get us after thirteen years? Don’t go soft on me now. You’re
the man to lead us into this strike so we can finally get a decent contract.
Besides, when it’s all said and done, I bet it’s going to be the districts
that Domenic still has under his influence that brought us down.” B.T.
took a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Speaking of which, have you seen
this?” He handed the paper to Lisa, who glanced at the page. “Well,
well. What a surprise. Four districts with over eighty percent, and three way
under.” She pushed the paper across the table to B.T. “The meeting
tomorrow could get real ugly.” “Oh,
yeah,” he answered. “Now,
about that constact – contract you signed.” She stopped and looked at him.
“Am I slurring my words or are you?” |
