“Main tanks.”
“On.”
“Booster pumps.”
“High.”
“Cowl flaps.”
“Trail.”
“Generators.”
“On.”
Nick pushed against the windows to make certain they were locked. They were, but they were leaking.
By the time Scott was nearing the end of the runway he could see that rain had slowed the interval of takeoff.
Stan called the tower.
“This is Big Easy Fifteen calling Rhein/Main Tower for taxi and takeoff instructions.”
“Big Easy Fifteen, this is Rhein/Main Tower. Bloc time is changed to zero seven three seven. Take off on runway two six. New altimeter setting is three zero, zero, zero. The time is zero seven three six, zulu.”
“Roger.”
“Big Easy Fifteen, clear to line up and hold.”
Scott coaxed the bird into position at the end of the runway.
“Big Easy Fifteen, this is Rhein/Main Tower. You are cleared for takeoff.”
As he pushed the throttle forward the multithousand-horsepower in the Pratt Whitney engines leaped to life. He felt the strain of the great engines plowing through the water and he knew he would need most of the runway.
Stan Kitchek called out the speed. At eighty Scott eased the yoke back, tilting the nose wheel off the ground.
“Ninety, ninety-five.”
Scott pulled the yoke and the bird lifted cleanly into the sky and was in an instant submerged in the weather and flying on instruments. He flew to nine hundred feet, banked south toward the Darmstadt Beacon, which his copilot had tuned in, crossed it, began his climb.
The ship bucked violently. Clint Loveless broke into a sweat. Stan asked for and received clearance to go up to six thousand feet. Scott fought the yoke as the turbulence threw the bird around, trying to gain altitude for the forty-five-mile run to the Fulda Range.
Over the Fulda Range on the edge of the Southern corridor the planes in the bloc checked their time with each other and adjusted their speed to set up the precision chain into Berlin.
He turned to a heading of 057 degrees and subtracted 10 degrees to crab into the wind, which was hitting from the northwest at forty knots and pushing him to the right of course.
Clinton Loveless wanted to die. He tried to think of other things to take his mind off his misery ... about getting back to Wiesbaden and making love to Judy. Even that didn’t help.
Nick Papas sipped coffee from a thermos, offered some to the general. He thought that two flights to Berlin today would be rougher than hell. There was a big card game on tonight in Frankfurt ... with luck he would make it.
Scott and Stan were too busy keeping the bird on course to think about anything.
Hiram Stonebraker felt it was a perfect day to try out the new ground-controlled approach system up at Tempelhof. After they landed, he planned to watch the GCA system land the next bloc from Wiesbaden, and then spend the day in Berlin with Clint on a number of problems.
Hiram Stonebraker had few flyers’ superstitions. One of them was that on each of his twenty flights to Berlin, he flew with Scott Davidson.
They reached the midway point in the 211-mile run in the corridor. While radio contact would be at a minimum, the general tapped Stan on the shoulder, took the copilot seat, and switched on the intercom.
“Good day to try out the GCA.”
“Yes, sir ... a lulu.” Scott nodded over his own shoulder. “Looks like Colonel Loveless’d rather be somewhere else.”
Clint’s chalky lips seemed to mumble prayer between the pitches and rolls.
“He’s a good engineer. He should know how safe these birds are.” Stonebraker produced a long cigar. “Mind if I smoke, Captain?”
Scott hated cigar smoke in the cabin. Nick, who always chewed an unlit cigar, shoved a light to the general’s, then lit his own cigar with a sigh of comfort. Scott grimaced.
The general saw the sweat glisten from Scott’s forehead from battling the yoke. He could almost feel the ache in the flyer’s hands and shoulders. The boy was doing a beautiful job of flying.
“How about that GCA landing, Scott. Can you handle it?” the general prodded.
“You can bet on it, General.”
Scott crabbed into the wind again. “In weather like this, General, I’d like to see us carry a heavier load of gas.”
Stonebraker pondered. The C-54’s held large wing tanks. Clint and the production people had worked it so that in the short hauls of the Lift they would carry only 20 per cent capacity. This would make weight for greater cargo loads. At six pounds a gallon, this meant many hundreds more pounds of cargo.
“What’s your reckoning, Scott?”
“In this kind of turbulence, the fuel splashes around violently. It’s causing the tanks to split.”
Gas leaks were a nemesis and they were having trouble sealing the tanks. He made a note to look into Scott’s suggestion.
Scott flicked on Tempelhof. “This is Big Easy Fifteen calling Tempelhof. I want a center-line check, over.”
“This is Tempelhof calling Big Easy Fifteen. You are one half mile right of center line.”
Pretty slick, Stonebraker thought, pretty slick flying.
In Berlin the radarscopes, which could look through clouds and obstructions, were being blanked out by the rain pattern and were losing airplanes.
Inside the radar shack, the NCO made a frantic call for the officer in charge.
“Sir, we’ve picked up two planes from Gatow.”
“What altitude?”
“Six thousand feet. They’re drifting into the Rhein/Main stream.”
The officer took the microphone. “Tempelhof to all Big Easy craft. Raise your altitude one thousand feet.” Hiram Stonebraker detected the anxiety in the transmission.
In Tempelhof a call to Gatow confirmed that a bloc of British Yorks had stacked for landings and two of the craft had been blown out of their holding pattern toward Tempelhof.
The ground-controlled approach system was given an auspicious inauguration as the first three craft were “talked down” through the blinding storm.
Ground-controlled approach talked to Big Easy Four and started to lower him over Berlin in a large square pattern. Scott knew a relatively inexperienced pilot was at the yoke of Four.
When he missed his approach and was started around again it caused a chain reaction. As the Rhein/Main bloc bit the Planter Beacon they had to hastily climb into holding patterns.
Scott took his ship up to twelve thousand feet over the beacon and the crew broke out oxygen masks. The planes in back of him were forced to climb up to twenty thousand. It was like taking a long train of railroad cars and suddenly stacking them skyward, end to end. Scott looked out of the corner of his eye as the general’s anger grew.
As the planes stacked higher the chatter over the radio became greater, breaking down the rigid discipline needed. In the radar shack, a new emergency arose as Big Easy Twenty-nine drifted clear out of the corridor.
The bloc was now like a tall column of cyclone-blown planes moving in a vicious circle. Across town the British were having the same trouble over Gatow.
Ground-controlled approach tried to nurse Big Easy Four down a second time but the inexperienced pilot missed his second approach by coming down the runway too fast.
The planes pushed up higher. A bloc would be following from Wiesbaden soon and breathing down their necks to make the situation impossible. Another plane from Gatow drifted toward Tempelhof. Communications collapsed.
Hiram Stonebraker knew that they would not be able to prevent a mid-air collision or a crash much longer.
“That’s enough of this crap for one day,” he mumbled. He picked up the microphone. “Clear the air! This is General Stonebraker in Big Easy Fifteen! This is a direct order! All craft will be diverted to their home bases immediately! Suggest the same procedure to Gatow.”