Airport by Arthur Hailey Page B

a detailed map of the airport, and must know precisely where he was, even on the darkest night, as now.
    Behind the convoy leader, its driver, like an orchestra’s first violinist, was the number one plow–tonight a mammoth Oshkosh with a big main blade ahead, and a wing blade to the side. To the rear of number one plow, and on its right, was number two. The first plow heaved the snow aside; the second accepted the load from the first and, adding more, heaved both lots farther.
    Then came a Snowbiast, in echelon with the plows, six hundred roaring horsepower strong. A Snowblast cost sixty thousand dollars and was the Cadillac of snow clearance. With mighty blowers it engulfed the snow which both plows piled, and hurled it in a herculean arc beyond the runway’s edge.
    In a second echelon, farther to the right, were two more plows, a second Snowblast.
    After the plows and Snowblasts came the graders–five in line abreast, with plow blades down to clear any mounds the front plows missed. The graders towed revolving brushes, each sixteen feet wide and independently diesel powered. The brushes scoured the runway surface like monstrous yard brooms.
    Next were sanders. Where the eleven vehicles ahead had cleared, three hulking FWD trucks, with hoppers holding fourteen cubic yards apiece, spread sand out evenly.
    The sand was special. Elsewhere around the airport, on roadways and areas which the public used, salt was added to the sand as a means of melting ice. But never for aeronautical areas. Salt corroded metal, shortening its life, and airplanes were treated with more respect than cars.
    Last in the Conga Line itself–“tail-end Charlie”–was an assistant foreman in a second car. His job was to insure that the line stayed intact and to chivvy stragglers. He was in radio touch with the convoy leader, often out of sight ahead in snow and darkness.
    Finally came the entourage–a standby plow, in case one faltered in the Line; a service truck with a detail of mechanics; refueling tankers–diesel and gasoline; and–when summoned by radio at appointed times–a coffee and doughnut wagon.
    Mel accelerated around the entourage and positioned his car alongside the assistant foreman’s. His arrival was noticed. He heard the convoy leader notified by radio, “Mr. Bakersfeld just joined us.”
    The Line was moving fast–close to forty miles an hour instead of its usual twenty-five. The leader had probably speeded up because of the expected wind shift and the need to have the runway open soon.
    Switching his radio to ATC ground frequency, Mel heard the convoy leader call the tower, “…on one seven, left, approaching intersection with runway two five. Request clearance over intersection.”
    Runway two five was an active runway, now in use.
    “Convoy leader from ground control, hold short of the intersection. We have two flights on final approach. You may not, repeat, not, cross runway intersection. Acknowledge.”
    The voice from the tower was apologetic. Up there, they understood the difficulty of stopping a rolling Conga Line, and getting it started again. But the approaching flights had undoubtedly made a tricky instrument descent and now were close to landing, one behind the other, Only a desperate emergency would justify sending them round again on such a night.
    Ahead of Mel, red lights were going on, flashing commandingly as the Conga Line slowed and stopped.
    The assistant foreman, a cheerful young Negro, jumped from his car and came across to Mel’s. As he opened the door, the wind swept in, but could only be felt, not heard, above the encompassing roar of idling diesels. The assistant put his mouth against Mel’s ear. “Say, Mr. B., how’s about joining the Line? One of the boys’ll take care of your car.”
    Mel grinned. The pleasure he got, whenever he could spare time, from riding and occasionally handling heavy motorized equipment was well known around the airport. Why not? he reasoned. He had come out to