![]() ![]() There was a time I had loathed the State-manufactured mix I dragged hard at the Split, pulling it way down deep, slowly exhausting the smoke through my nose, and the fatigue and stiffness seemed a little more bearable. The line surrounded Delta Tango, a second 797 with Lufthansa markings, two Varig Brazil Airbuses and five U.S. Every fourth man carried a machine pistol with sniperscope, and each gun bore sidesaddle a laser sight. They faced outward, straddle-legged, Armalites cradled in the left elbow joint. where shadows pressed hard on perimeter lights, the 83rd Airborne stood at four-yard intervals, shiny black helmets over wet, gleaming camouflage slickers. The Security cordon was stretched thin tonight. The rain was finished-temporarily, because up there in the blackness above the thinly strung floods, the overcast stretched north to the Canadian border, west to the Lakes and south, for all I knew, all the way to the Gulf. Down back somewhere, the cleanup squad were wrapping it up Kate and her girls would be clustered at Gate 3 Port, waiting for transport. I lit a Split, dimmed down the lights a shade. I blew it on all three counts: nowhere to go, no one to go with-and money was a sick joke in New York, this late October of 1985. Which accounted for my sitting here alone in a silent Delta Tango, staring out at a wet, dimly lit expanse of Kennedy Airport. ![]() Assuming, of course, they have somewhere to go, someone to be with, money to spend. Most big jet crews get the hell out almost before the main wheels stop rolling-you could get trampled in the rush, I guess. Indescribable things which compensate, ephemerally, for the cruel hours of tense concentration. Somewhere in there, traces of pleasure, satisfaction: nostalgic echoes of vast starry nights like inverted Broadways, snowy peaks jutting through cloud floors in brilliant sunlight, tropical sunsets from a Gauguin canvas. Memory storages impregnated with sweat, fear, boredom and stress. In writing this book, I thought only of demonstrating that Man is alone in his individual Hell, that he would inevitably sow the seeds of his own destruction, rising and falling in a few hundred millenniums which represent the tiniest fraction of eternity.įlight decks are traumatic places. Through all my life, I have been the epitome of the rabid, outspoken atheist. One fascinating and odd fact deserves mention. References within the text to existing aircraft and airlines are incidental, and any resemblance to actual persons is unintentional. Air Force, stationed in the Azores, who provided most valuable help with that section of this book. Dalby, Chief Information Officer, HQ, 1605th Air Base Wing (MAC), U.S. I should also like to thank Captain Jan F. Short of allowing me to fly a Boeing 747-a dream which, alas, after fifteen wingless years will never be realized-their efforts to provide authenticity were unremitting and, I venture to remark, more successful than I could have hoped. ![]() The Snow Child was born from lacre, the teeth and hair of a dead child, and a few drops of your own blood.Without the generous and unstinting help of British Airways, and additionally of Captain John Race, Pan American World Airways, this book could not have been attempted. The Snow Child can be obtained as one of the conclusions of Sacks and Snow: In the Service of Mr Sacks winter 2015 storyline if you choose to "Give your blood" during the service at Avid Horizon (instead of faking with the Vial of Highly Questionable Blood). "Every day, it melts a little more." Obtaining ![]()
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