The left engine started immediately and quickly smoothed down. The right engine didn't seem to want to start at all, and didn't, until Clete noticed the main fuel switch and moved it from left to both, whereupon the right engine backfired, shot orange and blue flame a good six feet out the nacelle, and caught.
He picked up the microphone.
"Porto Alegre tower, Lockheed Zebra Fiver Eight Four Three." "Go ahead, Eight Four Three."
"Eight Four Three in front of Hangar Seven, permission to taxi to the active runway."
"Eight Four Three, cleared to the threshold of Runway One Four."
"Roger, understand One Four."
He gingerly advanced the throttles, then retarded them, took off the brakes, and gingerly advanced the throttles again. The Lockheed began to move.
Clete waved cheerfully at Colonel Wallace, who smiled unhappily back.
Clete switched to intercom and ordered, "Enrico, go back and get ready to open the door."
Then he reached over, showed Enrico where to put his earphones, and re-peated the order. Enrico started to unbuckle himself.
Ground visibility from the cockpit of the Lockheed was unbelievably bad. He had to swing the airplane from side to side to see where he was going.
He stopped at the threshold of Runway One Four.
The tower saw him.
"Zebra Eight Four Three, you are cleared for local area operation only. The winds are negligible. Ceiling and visibility unlimited. The altimeter is two niner niner, the time is five past the hour. You are cleared as number one for takeoff on Runway One Four."
"Tower, Eight Four Three. I'm going to run a mag check."
He put the brakes on, unstrapped himself, left the seat, and went quickly down the cabin aisle, colliding en route with one of the goddamn crates, and made it to the door. Its operation was beyond the mechanical comprehension of Suboficial Mayor Rodriguez.
As soon as he had the door open, Maxwell Ashton's team came running out of the darkness and jumped aboard, Captain Ashton last.
Clete went as quickly as he could back to the cockpit, strapped himself in, and put the earphones on.
"Zebra Eight Four Three, tower."
"Tower, Four Three. Mags check OK."
"Zebra Eight Four Three, do not take off. I say again, do not take off. Re-turn to Base Operations."
It wasn't hard to figure out what happened. Colonel Wallace went up into the control tower and watched Clete taxi, possibly through binoculars. And in the bright lights of the runway threshold, he saw Ashton and his team come run-ning out of the dark and climb aboard.
"Tower, Zebra Eight Four Three rolling," Clete said, advancing the throttles as he lined up with the runway.
"Zebra Eight Four Three, abort takeoff, 1 say again, abort takeoff, and re-turn to Base Operations."
"Tower, Four Three is rolling. Say again your last transmission. You are garbled."
"Zebra Eight Four Three, abort takeoff, I say again, abort takeoff."
The airspeed indicator jumped from zero to forty knots and began climb-ing. Clete felt life come into the controls.
"Zebra Eight Four Three, by order of Colonel Wallace, you will abort take-off and return to Base Operations."
He eased the wheel forward and felt the tail come
off the ground. The air-speed indicator climbed to ninety, then one hundred.