"Denver Approach," she asked, "what's the altimeter?"
"Uhm, we have three oh point nine six, Foxtrot Bravo."
It had gone up a hundredth of an inch of mercury in the last minute.
"It's rising?"
"That's affirmative, Foxtrot Bravo. Major high-pressure front moving in."
r /> No! That would increase the ambient pressure around the bomb, which would shrink the balloon, as if they were lower than they actually were.
"Shit on the street," she muttered.
Brad looked at her.
She said to him, "What was the mercury at Mamaroneck?"
He looked it up in the log. "Twenty-nine point six."
"Calculate five thousand feet altitude at that pressure reading compared with thirty-one point oh."
"Thirty-one? That's awful high."
"That's what we're moving into."
He stared at her. "But the bomb . . . "
Percey nodded. "Calculate it."
The young man punched numbers with a steady hand.
He sighed, his first visible display of emotion. "Five thousand feet at Mamaroneck translates to forty-eight five here."
She called Bell forward again. "Here's the situation. There's a pressure front coming in. By the time we get to the runway, the bomb may be reading the atmosphere as below five thousand feet. It may blow when we're fifty to a hundred feet above the ground."
"Okay." He nodded calmly. "Okay."
"We don't have flaps, so we're going to be landing fast, close to two hundred miles an hour. If it blows we'll lose control and crash. There won't be much fire 'cause the tanks are dry. And depending on what's in front of us, if we're low enough we may skid a ways before we start tumbling. There's nothing to do but keep the seat belts tight and keep your head down."
"All right," he said, nodding, looking out the window.
She glanced at his face. "Can I ask you something, Roland?"
"You bet."
"This isn't your first airplane flight, is it?"
He sighed. "You know, you live mosta your born days in North Carolina, you just don't have much of a chance to travel. And coming to New York, well, those Amtraks're nice and comfy." He paused. "Fact is, I've never been higher than an elevator'll take me."
"They're not all like this," she said.
He squeezed her on the shoulder, whispered, "Don't drop your candy." He returned to his seat.
"Okay," Percey said, looking over the Airman's Guide information on Denver International. "Brad, this'll be a nighttime visual approach to runway two eight left. I'll have command of the aircraft. You'll lower the gear manually and call out rate of descent, distance to runway, and altitude--give me true altitude above ground, not sea level--and airspeed." She tried to think of something else. No power, no flaps, no speed brakes. There was nothing else to say; it was the shortest pre-landing briefing in the history of her flying career. She added, "One last thing. When we stop, just get the fuck out as fast as you can."
"Ten miles to runway," he called. "Speed two hundred knots. Altitude nine thousand feet. We need to slow descent."
She pulled up on the yoke slightly and the speed dropped dramatically. The shaker stick vibrated again. Stall now and they died.