that rose from the blacktop made the remaining length look even shorter than it was. Pools of mirage water formed and evaporated with increasing speed. Becker blinked his eyes.
Concentrate on the instruments. Forget the visual.
But he kept staring out of the windshield. The heat waves mesmerized him. They also distorted and foreshortened the end of the runway. It looked as though they had run out of blacktop. He felt beads of sweat form on his forehead and hoped Hess wouldn’t notice. He
pulled his eyes away from the sunlit windshield and stared down at the console. The air-spell needles were moving rapidly now. His left hand squeezed more tightly on the wheel as he nudged the column slightly rearward. Involuntarily, the muscles in his buttocks tightened and he rose imperceptibly from his seat.
Up,
up, damn you!
“V-one,” said Hess. His monotone masked the significance of his words as the air speed rose through 165 knots. They were now committed to fly, even if a blinking light or flickering gauge indicated otherwise. “V-R,” he said.
Becker began tugging more earnestly on the control column. The nose tire of the aircraft lifted off the hot blacktop. The Concorde’s wings canted themselves skyward, biting into the air flow at a greater angle. They were eating up runway at the rate of 75 meters a second, and for a brief moment Becker felt his nerve slip away. All the old demons of doubt that had haunted him since flight school began chattering in his brain.
Why should it
fly? There’s something wrong, Becker, and no one has the balls
to speak up. Why is the gauge over there flickering? Who built
this plane, anyway? Why do you think you can fly it? Becker!
Abort! Abort! You’re going to die, Becker! Abort!
He felt his neck muscles tighten and his hands and knees were shaking.
“V-two,” said Hess with what Becker thought was just a hint of anxiety in his voice.
Becker felt the wheel loosen in his hand as the main wheels rose from the runway. He looked down at the console. Two hundred twenty knots on the air-speed gauge. The rates of climb were moving rapidly and the altimeter was winding even faster. Becker held the airplane by the palm and fingers of one hand. He smiled and cleared his throat. “Gear up.” The sound of his own voice, steady and even, seemed to chase the perverse imps from the cockpit. But he heard their familiar parting promise.
We’ll
kill you next time, Becker.
He waited out a sequence of lights, then said, almost too loudly, “Climb power.” He lowered his voice. “After-takeoff check.” He banked the aircraft slightly to follow in the flight path of his sister ship. “And when you get a chance, Peter, ring the cabin for some coffee.” He settled back and his muscles loosened. There would be a landing and takeoff at Orly and then again in New York. He would be back at Lod within twenty-four hours. Then he would resign, effective immediately. He knew it had been coming for a long time. He felt it every time his sphincter tightened on takeoff and landing,
every time his loins went loose when he hit an insignificant air pocket, every time he had to wipe the sweat from his palms when he flew through a line of thunderstorms. But it was all right. It had happened to better pilots than himself. The trick was to look it in the eye and say, “I quit.”
“Quit what?” asked Hess.
Becker swung his head and stared at him. “What?”
“Quit what? What do you quit?” Hess was going over his checklist as he spoke.
“Quit . . . drinking coffee. Coffee. I forgot. I don’t want any.”
Hess looked up from his checklist and stared at him. His eyes met Becker’s and they both knew. “Right.” He called out to Kahn. “Only two coffees, Peter.”
Becker wiped his palms and face openly. It was all right now. Hess had a right to know. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
6
Concorde 02 began its steep, graceful climb. The long landing gear assemblies had already risen into the
Concentrate on the instruments. Forget the visual.
But he kept staring out of the windshield. The heat waves mesmerized him. They also distorted and foreshortened the end of the runway. It looked as though they had run out of blacktop. He felt beads of sweat form on his forehead and hoped Hess wouldn’t notice. He
pulled his eyes away from the sunlit windshield and stared down at the console. The air-spell needles were moving rapidly now. His left hand squeezed more tightly on the wheel as he nudged the column slightly rearward. Involuntarily, the muscles in his buttocks tightened and he rose imperceptibly from his seat.
Up,
up, damn you!
“V-one,” said Hess. His monotone masked the significance of his words as the air speed rose through 165 knots. They were now committed to fly, even if a blinking light or flickering gauge indicated otherwise. “V-R,” he said.
Becker began tugging more earnestly on the control column. The nose tire of the aircraft lifted off the hot blacktop. The Concorde’s wings canted themselves skyward, biting into the air flow at a greater angle. They were eating up runway at the rate of 75 meters a second, and for a brief moment Becker felt his nerve slip away. All the old demons of doubt that had haunted him since flight school began chattering in his brain.
Why should it
fly? There’s something wrong, Becker, and no one has the balls
to speak up. Why is the gauge over there flickering? Who built
this plane, anyway? Why do you think you can fly it? Becker!
Abort! Abort! You’re going to die, Becker! Abort!
He felt his neck muscles tighten and his hands and knees were shaking.
“V-two,” said Hess with what Becker thought was just a hint of anxiety in his voice.
Becker felt the wheel loosen in his hand as the main wheels rose from the runway. He looked down at the console. Two hundred twenty knots on the air-speed gauge. The rates of climb were moving rapidly and the altimeter was winding even faster. Becker held the airplane by the palm and fingers of one hand. He smiled and cleared his throat. “Gear up.” The sound of his own voice, steady and even, seemed to chase the perverse imps from the cockpit. But he heard their familiar parting promise.
We’ll
kill you next time, Becker.
He waited out a sequence of lights, then said, almost too loudly, “Climb power.” He lowered his voice. “After-takeoff check.” He banked the aircraft slightly to follow in the flight path of his sister ship. “And when you get a chance, Peter, ring the cabin for some coffee.” He settled back and his muscles loosened. There would be a landing and takeoff at Orly and then again in New York. He would be back at Lod within twenty-four hours. Then he would resign, effective immediately. He knew it had been coming for a long time. He felt it every time his sphincter tightened on takeoff and landing,
every time his loins went loose when he hit an insignificant air pocket, every time he had to wipe the sweat from his palms when he flew through a line of thunderstorms. But it was all right. It had happened to better pilots than himself. The trick was to look it in the eye and say, “I quit.”
“Quit what?” asked Hess.
Becker swung his head and stared at him. “What?”
“Quit what? What do you quit?” Hess was going over his checklist as he spoke.
“Quit . . . drinking coffee. Coffee. I forgot. I don’t want any.”
Hess looked up from his checklist and stared at him. His eyes met Becker’s and they both knew. “Right.” He called out to Kahn. “Only two coffees, Peter.”
Becker wiped his palms and face openly. It was all right now. Hess had a right to know. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
6
Concorde 02 began its steep, graceful climb. The long landing gear assemblies had already risen into the
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