As the Crow Flies

Charlie left the plane, but only to stretch his legs. He was strapped back into his seat and ready for takeoff an hour later. The second stage from Singapore to Bangkok landed at Don Muang Airport only thirty minutes behind schedule, but the plane then sat parked in a queue on the runway for a further hour. It was later explained that they were short-staffed at air traffic control. Despite the delay, Charlie was not unduly worried; but that didn’t stop him from checking his half hunter every few minutes. They took off an hour behind schedule.

When the aircraft landed at Palam Airport in New Delhi, he began another hour of strolling around the duty-free shop while the plane was being refueled. He became bored by seeing the same watches, perfume and jewelry being sold to innocent transit passengers at prices he knew still had a fifty percent markup on them. When the hour had passed and there had been no further announcements about reboarding, Charlie walked over to the inquiry desk to discover what was causing the holdup.

“There seems to be some problem with the relief crew on this section of the flight,” he was told by the young woman behind the General Inquiries sign. “They haven’t completed their twenty-four hours’ rest period, as stipulated by IATA regulations.”

“So how long have they had?”

“Twenty hours,” replied the girl, looking embarrassed.

“So that means we’re stuck here for another four hours?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Where is the nearest phone?” Charlie asked, making no attempt to hide his irritation.

“In the far corner, sir,” said the girl, pointing to her right.

Charlie joined yet another queue and when he reached the front managed to get through to the operator twice, to be connected to London once but to speak with Becky never. By the time he eventually climbed back onto the aircraft, having achieved nothing, he was exhausted.

“This is Captain Parkhouse. We are sorry for the delay in this flight’s taking off,” said the pilot in a soothing voice. “I can only hope that the holdup has not caused you too much inconvenience. Please fasten your seat belts and prepare for takeoff. Flight attendants, place cabin doors to automatic.”

The four jets rumbled into action and the plane inched forward before building up momentum as it sped along the tarmac. Then, quite suddenly, Charlie was thrown forward as the brakes were locked in place and the plane came to a screeching halt a few hundred yards from the end of the runway.

“This is your captain speaking. I am sorry to have to tell you that the hydraulic pumps that lift the undercarriage up and down at takeoff and landing are indicating red on the control panel and I am not willing to risk a takeoff at this time. We shall therefore have to taxi back to our stand and ask the local engineers to fix the problem as quickly as possible. Thank you for being so understanding.”

It was the word “local” that worried Charlie.

Once they had disembarked from the plane, Charlie ran from airline counter to airline counter trying to find out if there were any flights bound for anywhere in Europe due out of New Delhi that night. He quickly discovered that the only flight due out that night was destined for Sydney. He began to pray for the speed and efficiency of Indian engineers.

Charlie sat in a smoke-filled waiting lounge, leafing through magazine after magazine, sipping soft drink after soft drink, as he waited for any information he could garner on the fate of Flight 102. The first news he picked up was that the chief engineer had been sent for.

“Sent for?” said Charlie. “What does that mean?”

“We have sent a car for him,” explained a smiling airport official in a clipped staccato accent.

“Sent a car?” said Charlie. “But why isn’t he at the airport where he’s needed?”

“It’s his day off.”

“And haven’t you got any other engineers?”

“Not for a job this big,” admitted the harassed official.

Charlie slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “And where does the chief engineer live?”

“Somewhere in New Delhi,” came back the reply. “But don’t y

ou worry yourself, sir, we should have him back within the hour.”

The trouble with this country, thought Charlie, is they tell you exactly what they think you want to hear.

For some reason the same official was unable to explain later why it had taken two hours to locate the chief engineer, a further hour to bring him back to the airport and yet another fifty minutes before he discovered the job would require a full team of three qualified engineers, who had themselves recently signed off for the evening.

A rickety old bus delivered all the passengers from Flight 102 to the Taj Mahal Hotel in the center of the city where Charlie sat on his bed and spent most of the night once more attemping to make contact with Becky. When he eventually succeeded in reaching her he was cut off even before he had time to explain where he was. He didn’t bother to try and sleep.

When the bus dropped them back at the airport the following morning the Indian airport official was there to greet them, his large smile still in place.

“The plane will take off on time,” he promised.