belly of the craft. Hess pulled another hydraulic lever, retracting the flaps and activating the droop-nose to its streamlined position. The flight deck became very still, with only the murmur of electronic noises in the background. Becker banked the craft 30 degrees and put it on a due west heading over Tel Aviv. The dual altimeter indicated 6,000 feet and 1,800 meters and air speed was 300 knots. He lit another cigarette. So far, so good.
Becker rolled the Concorde out of its turn and sat back in his seat. His eyes took in all the instruments. The Concorde was an electronically controlled aircraft, somewhat like a space capsule. When the wheel or rudder pedals were moved, for instance, an electrical signal was sent to the hydraulic control activators. It was this, rather than cables or rods, that moved the exterior control surfaces. The computer would feed artificial stability and resistance back into the controls for the pilot to sense. Without this pressure to fly against, there would be nothing for
the pilot to feel as he moved his controls. Pilots weren’t used to that, and so the men at Aérospatiale and British Aircraft Corporation told the computer to put artificial resistance into the control movement. It was all psychological, reflected Becker, and all very strange and becoming stranger with each new technological breakthrough. Long before he felt the fear, he had felt this alienation in the cockpit. Yes, it was time to let the next generation take the controls.
They were over the beach outside of Tel Aviv. Becker took a pair of field glasses out of his flight kit and scanned the ground. Normally, the beach would he covered with thousands of bikinis, but the air-raid drill had sent everyone indoors. Becker saw his home in Herzlya, as he always did. He saw the empty chaise longue in his yard and wondered if his wife knew that he was part of the reason that everyone had to interrupt their first spring sunbathing. Ahead of him stretched the dark blue Mediterranean and a cloudless azure sky. Becker eased back on the wheel a bit more and gave it more throttle. The aircraft picked up speed and altitude.
Ahead, he could see 01. The Concorde might be an ungainly looking bird on the ground, but in flight it was the technocrats’ contribution to pure aesthetics. It was a beautiful aircraft to fly, also, but Becker always had the uneasy feeling that the computers would fail him someday. Not really fail so much as betray. Those marvelous computers that could do a thousand things simultaneously; things that three human crewmen could not do, no matter how hard they worked. Those computers would lure him up to 60,000 feet—19,000 meters—and Mach 2.2 one day, and then quit. A message would flash on the cathode tube:
Fly It Yourself, Stupid.
Becker forced a smile. Two more takeoffs and three more landings.
He hit the transmit button on his console and spoke into his headset microphone. “Air Traffic Control, this is El Al Concorde 02. Over.”
“Go ahead, 02.”
“Roger. Company aircraft in sight. I’m at 380 knots, indicated. Accelerating to point-eight-zero, Mach.”
“Roger. Level off at 5,000 meters.”
“Roger.” He pushed the selector switch to the company frequency. “El Al 01, 02 here. I have you dead ahead, I’m about eight kilometers back. I’ll close to about five and get a little below you. Don’t stop short.”
Avidar acknowledged. They spoke for a while and coordinated speeds.
Becker got to 5,000 meters and closed in on Avidar. He spoke to Air Traffic Control. “El Al 01 and 02 in formation. Holding at 5,000 and now at point-eight-six, Mach. Waiting for unrestricted clearance to 19,000.”
“Roger. Stand by. There’s an Air Iran 747 at flight level six-zero-zero. Maintain 5,000 meters.
Avidar called Becker on the company frequency. “El Al 02, this is 01. See if you can raise our sheep dog. I don’t see him.”
Becker switched to 134.725. “Gabriel 32, this is Emmanuel.”
Teddy
Becker rolled the Concorde out of its turn and sat back in his seat. His eyes took in all the instruments. The Concorde was an electronically controlled aircraft, somewhat like a space capsule. When the wheel or rudder pedals were moved, for instance, an electrical signal was sent to the hydraulic control activators. It was this, rather than cables or rods, that moved the exterior control surfaces. The computer would feed artificial stability and resistance back into the controls for the pilot to sense. Without this pressure to fly against, there would be nothing for
the pilot to feel as he moved his controls. Pilots weren’t used to that, and so the men at Aérospatiale and British Aircraft Corporation told the computer to put artificial resistance into the control movement. It was all psychological, reflected Becker, and all very strange and becoming stranger with each new technological breakthrough. Long before he felt the fear, he had felt this alienation in the cockpit. Yes, it was time to let the next generation take the controls.
They were over the beach outside of Tel Aviv. Becker took a pair of field glasses out of his flight kit and scanned the ground. Normally, the beach would he covered with thousands of bikinis, but the air-raid drill had sent everyone indoors. Becker saw his home in Herzlya, as he always did. He saw the empty chaise longue in his yard and wondered if his wife knew that he was part of the reason that everyone had to interrupt their first spring sunbathing. Ahead of him stretched the dark blue Mediterranean and a cloudless azure sky. Becker eased back on the wheel a bit more and gave it more throttle. The aircraft picked up speed and altitude.
Ahead, he could see 01. The Concorde might be an ungainly looking bird on the ground, but in flight it was the technocrats’ contribution to pure aesthetics. It was a beautiful aircraft to fly, also, but Becker always had the uneasy feeling that the computers would fail him someday. Not really fail so much as betray. Those marvelous computers that could do a thousand things simultaneously; things that three human crewmen could not do, no matter how hard they worked. Those computers would lure him up to 60,000 feet—19,000 meters—and Mach 2.2 one day, and then quit. A message would flash on the cathode tube:
Fly It Yourself, Stupid.
Becker forced a smile. Two more takeoffs and three more landings.
He hit the transmit button on his console and spoke into his headset microphone. “Air Traffic Control, this is El Al Concorde 02. Over.”
“Go ahead, 02.”
“Roger. Company aircraft in sight. I’m at 380 knots, indicated. Accelerating to point-eight-zero, Mach.”
“Roger. Level off at 5,000 meters.”
“Roger.” He pushed the selector switch to the company frequency. “El Al 01, 02 here. I have you dead ahead, I’m about eight kilometers back. I’ll close to about five and get a little below you. Don’t stop short.”
Avidar acknowledged. They spoke for a while and coordinated speeds.
Becker got to 5,000 meters and closed in on Avidar. He spoke to Air Traffic Control. “El Al 01 and 02 in formation. Holding at 5,000 and now at point-eight-six, Mach. Waiting for unrestricted clearance to 19,000.”
“Roger. Stand by. There’s an Air Iran 747 at flight level six-zero-zero. Maintain 5,000 meters.
Avidar called Becker on the company frequency. “El Al 02, this is 01. See if you can raise our sheep dog. I don’t see him.”
Becker switched to 134.725. “Gabriel 32, this is Emmanuel.”
Teddy
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