James Salter - Cassada

“But then I used to win so much it wasn’t fun anymore, and I promised my mother I’d stop. She used to say, where’d you get all that money from? She never liked it very much. You know how they are. Aren’t you going to take off your shoes?”

Cassada rolled over and shook his head as if in bewilderment. “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he muttered.

“What’d you say?”

“I don’t know. Turn out the light.”

Dumfries had taken off his other boot. He was still talking about his mother. Something went past him. It was a shower clog. “Hey!” he said. A shoe flew by and out the tent entry. Then another clog. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Cassada was sitting up, throwing. The bulb exploded.

“What was that for?” said Dumfries in the darkness.

“Turning out the light,” Cassada said, settling back.

“You got glass all over the place,” Dumfries complained. “Someone’s going to cut their feet. Wait until Captain Wickenden comes in. He’s going to be mad.”

“He won’t know the difference,” Cassada said.

“Well, I’ve got to walk over it in the dark. I don’t want to walk on a lot of glass.”

Cassada did not reply. Stepping with care, Dumfries left the tent and went towards the showers to get a bulb from over one of the sinks. When he got back, Cassada was gone. Dumfries took the broom and swept the glass into a pile near the entrance. He was looking carefully to see if he’d gotten all of it.

“What are you doing?” Wickenden asked.

“Oh. Just sweeping up some glass. Cassada broke the bulb.”

“How’d that happen?”

“He threw a shoe at it.”

“Why didn’t he sweep it up?”

“Gee, Captain, I don’t know. He would have just left it lying there.”

“Bring that broom over here. You missed some.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wickenden went over to his cot. “If I cut my foot,” he said, “he’s going to sweep this tent with his toothbrush.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m not kidding.”

There was going to be trouble, Dumfries thought.

Godchaux had stepped outside and was facing the direction they would be coming from. The light had faded, the last, deceiving light. A thousand pounds, Dunning was saying to himself, a thousand pounds, fifteen minutes, with Isbell hanging there not able to do a thing. If it was Godchaux with him it would be different, but it was never someone like Godchaux.

“Turn left to zero six zero,” the controller said. “Maintain two thousand feet.”

“Zero six zero.”

“Roger, White. Now stand by on this channel for your final controller.”

Almost immediately another voice broke in.

“Fortify White, this is your final controller. How do you read?”

There was no answer.

“Fortify White, this is final controller. How do you read me?”

Silence. Dunning had the mike in his hand and was about to call himself when finally there came, replying as if just now part of it all,

“Fortify White.”

“How do you read me?”

“Five square.”

“Roger,” the controller said, adding with calmness, “the tower advises that the field has now gone below minimums.”

Of course it has, Dunning thought. Goddamn it, I knew it when I first called. Look out the window, I said, look out the goddamn window!

“You’re advised to proceed to your alternate. Call outbound over the beacon at thirty-five hundred feet.”

“Negative,” Dunning interrupted. “Bring them in here!”

“The field is closed, White.”

“This isn’t White. This is mobile control.”

“Roger. Stand by one,” the controller said.

“Stand by nothing! This is Major Dunning in mobile. Bring them in. Bring them in here!”

There was the end of another transmission that had been blocked out,

“… an emergency!”

“What’d you say, White?”

“You were blocked, White,” the controller said. “Say again.”

“I’m declaring an emergency! I’m declaring an emergency!”

“Roger,” the controller said. In the background the intercom from the tower could be heard. “Can you proceed to Landstuhl?” the controller asked.

“Negative. I’m down to nine hundred pounds. I can’t divert.”

Finally, after agonizing moments, the controller said, “Roger.” And as if it were ordinary routine, “Your position is six miles out on final. Correct two degrees left to zero five eight. Make that zero five five, drifting slightly to the right of on-course.”

“Zero five five.”

“Your gear should be down and locked. Uh, do you request crash equipment to stand by?”

“That’s affirmative.”

“Roger. We’re notifying the tower.” There was a pause. “Five and one half miles. At this time you need not reply to any further transmissions. Correct further left to zero five three. Zero five three is your new heading, bringing you slowly back to the on-course. Zero five three.”

The only sound was this almost self-involved voice. Five miles. Back right to zero five five. The waiting was interminable. Zero five five. Coming up to glide path.

The three of them stood waiting, their eyes on the area just beyond the end of the runway where the planes would emerge from the darkening scud. Zero five five.

At that moment the runway lights came on, dim and washed-out in the greyness, two long lines leading to where the fire trucks had pulled up on the middle taxiway, then going beyond.

Four miles out, the controller was saying. Zero five one.

“The lights aren’t up all the way,” Dunning said.

Harlan, looking, gave a slight shrug.

“Call the tower,” Dunning ordered.

Harlan picked up the phone. “What’s their number, Major? Do you know?”

“Look it up.”

“It’s restricted. It’s not in the book.”

“Ask the operator.”

Zero five one, still. Holding steady. Approaching the glide path. Zero five one.

“Come on, come on,” Dunning commanded. “Ask the operator!”

Drifting slightly to the right. Left two more degrees. Ten feet above the glide path.

Harlan was arguing with the operator, “I know it’s restricted. Just put me through. It’s urgent.”

Two and three-quarters miles from touchdown. Going slightly high again. Fifteen feet now. Zero four nine is your heading.

Dunning reached for the phone. “Listen, this is Major Dunning in mobile. We’re having an emergency on the field! Get me the tower right away.”

“Sir, it’s res—”

“Just get me the tower!”

“May I have your name again, sir?”

“Dunning, goddamn it! Major Dunning!”

“Yes, sir, Major.”

Tracking the right side. Twenty feet high on the glide path. Twenty-five. Still zero four nine. Now fifteen feet high. Coming back nicely. Ten. Back on glide path. Now going slightly low.

Hold it steady, Dunning said to himself.

Ten feet low. Now going to twenty. Bring it up. Thirty feet low.

Harlan at last had the tower. “They’re turned all the way up now,” he reported.

“Tell them to turn them down and then up again.”

A mile and three quarters out. Holding forty feet low. The runway lights faded like guttering candles, nearly went out, then came up again.

“Not any brighter,” Harlan said.

“All right. Tell them to leave them like that.”

A mile and a half. Approaching GCA minimums. Left to zero four seven. Make that further left to zero four five.

Big corrections at the last moment. Dunning was looking hard at the clouds as headlights came up alongside and a figure hurried towards them from the car. It was Colonel Cadin, the fighter group commander. He pushed into the mobile.