“But, Larry…”
“Damn it, don’t argue. If we roll in there with a tank half full of gas, they’ll jerk our
licenses away so fast you won’t know what hit you.”
Metaxas nodded glumly and reached for the fuel-ejection handle. He began to pump,
keeping a close eye on the gauge. Five minutes later they were in the fog, wrapped in a
soft white cotton that wiped out everything but the dimly lit cockpit they sat in. It was an
eerie sensation, cut off from time and space and the rest of the world. The last time Larry
had been through this was in the Link Trainer. But that was a game where there were no
risks. Here the stakes were life and death. He wondered what it was doing to his
passenger. He hoped it gave her a heart attack. The Amsterdam control tower came on
again.
“Amsterdam control tower to Special Flight one-oh-nine. I am going to bring you in
on A.L.S. You will please follow my instructions exactly. We have you on our radar. Turn
three degrees west and maintain present altitude until further instructions. At your present
airspeed, you should be landing in eighteen minutes.”
The voice coming over the radio sounded tense. With good reason, thought Larry
grimly. One slight mistake and the plane would plough into the sea. Larry made the
correction and shut out everything from his mind but the disembodied voice that was his
sole link to survival. He flew the plane as though it were a part of himself, flying it with
his heart, his soul and his mind. He was dimly aware of Paul Metaxas sweating beside
him, calling out a constant instrument check in a low, strained voice, but if they came out
of this alive, it would be Larry Douglas who did it. Larry had never seen fog like this. It
was a ghostly enemy, charging at him from every side, blinding him, seducing him, trying
to lure him into making one fatal mistake. He was hurtling through the sky at two hundred
and fifty miles an hour, unable to see beyond the windshield of the cockpit. Pilots hated
fog, and the first rule was: Climb over it or dive under it, but get out of it! Now there was
no way, because he was locked into an impossible destination by the whim of a spoiled
tart. He was helpless, at the mercy of instruments that could go wrong and men on the
ground who could make mistakes. The disembodied voice came over the speaker again,
and it seemed to Larry that it had a new, nervous quality.
“Amsterdam Tower to Special Flight one-oh-nine. You are coming into the first leg
of your landing pattern: Lower your flaps and begin your descent. Descend to two
thousand feet…fifteen hundred feet…one thousand feet…”
Still no sign of the airport below. They could have been in the middle of nowhere. He
could feel the ground rushing up to meet the plane.
“Decrease your airspeed to one hundred twenty…lower your wheels…you’re at six
hundred feet…airspeed one hundred…you’re at four hundred feet…” And still no sign of
the goddamn airport! The blanket of smothering cotton seemed thicker now.
Metaxas’ forehead gleamed with perspiration. “Where in the hell is it?” he whispered.
Larry stole a swift glance at the altimeter. The needle was edging down toward three