Cassada by James Salter Page B

“Fortify White, turn to three six zero . . .”
    â€œHarlan!” Dunning said on the phone. “Hello!”
    â€œClimb to twenty-five hundred feet,” the controller was directing.
    â€œHarlan! Mobile control!”
    There was the sound of the phone being picked up.
    â€œYeah, what is it, Billy? They screwed up another one.”
    â€œThis is Major Dunning.”
    â€œOh, sorry, Major. They just missed another approach. Maybe you better come out here.”
    â€œI’m coming right out,” Dunning said. “What about the weather? How does it look out there?”
    â€œYou better come out, Major.”
    â€œI’ll be right there.”
    Godchaux was pointing to the other receiver from which the forecaster’s voice still came tinnily. “What about him?”
    â€œOh, hang up. Let’s go.”
    The operations vehicle, a khaki-colored van, was parked outside. The engine started immediately. Dunning, in the driver’s seat, seemed huge. He struggled with the gearshift, shoving it one way then the other.
    â€œPush down on it, Major. You have to push down on it.”
    They lurched backwards. Dunning stamped on the brake and the van heaved to a stop. They started forward again, down the taxiway, picking up speed.
    â€œWhich way are you going?” Godchaux called.
    â€œRight across.”
    â€œIt’s pretty rough out there.”
    â€œHold on!”
    Dunning was looking towards each end of the runway as they drove, half expecting the planes to appear from anywhere. Towards the far end the clouds seemed a little higher. That might be it, to bring them in downwind, but as he looked he saw that it was shifting all the time, spaces were revealed and then covered over again.
    At the intersection Dunning didn’t turn but went straight ahead, off the taxiway, jolting across the uneven ground, still watching for the planes. There was a sudden slam as he drove into a hollow, the van shot up and hit again on the front wheels. Godchaux was holding on to the seat. Dunning had the accelerator to the floor. Ahead was the mobile control with the shadow of Harlan showing through the flat glass. He opened the door as they came running towards him. Dunning pushed past and into the narrow space between the two counters on which were binoculars, frayed magazines, and a flare pistol. The radio hummed beneath.
    â€œWhere are they?” he asked.
    â€œThey’re on the downwind.”
    â€œHave they said how much fuel they have?”
    â€œI’m not sure. About a thousand pounds, I think.”
    Dunning felt a moment of relief, not at the number but at having made it out in time, like someone who finds a piece of wreckage to cling to in a stormy sea. He looked to the north as he waited for the voices. All was calm. The sky was the cold grey of lead. It touched the hills. Three birds were standing in the middle of the empty runway, almost on the white center line. There were about twentymore minutes of daylight. The beacon had become brighter. It was skimming the base of the clouds, increasing in contrast each time around. No, he was imagining that. All was quiet, closed until morning, when the voice of the controller who was in a yellow and white checkered van at the far end of the field came up clear,
    â€œFortify White, turn left to one five zero and descend to two thousand feet for base leg.”
    Godchaux, crowding in beside them, pulled the door closed behind him.
    â€œLeave it open,” Dunning ordered. “I want to hear them if I can.”
    â€œPerform final cockpit check,” the controller said. “Gear should be down and locked. Final flap setting at pilot’s discretion.”
    After a moment or two came the reply,
    â€œWhite has gear down and locked.”
    It was a hurried voice, a little nervous and high. Dunning tried to think; they were his planes, Fortify, but the voice . . .
    â€œThat’s not Isbell,” he said. He