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added, “I’m not declaring an emergency. I’m just—”
    “Yeah, I understand. But we’ll go by the book here, and I’ll call it in as a three-two condition. You know? That’s
potential
trouble. Okay?”
    “Yeah ... I mean, it could be ...”
    “What?”
    “Well, I’m not going to speculate, Mr. Stavros.”
    “I’m not asking you to speculate, Mr. Esching. Should I make it a three-three?”
    “That’s your call. Not mine.” He added, “We have a NO-RAD for over two hours and no other indication of a problem. You should have this guy on your screen in a minute or two. Watch him closely.”
    “Okay. Anything else?”
    “That’s it,” said Bob Esching.
    “Thanks,” said Ed Stavros and hung up.
    Stavros picked up his black direct-line phone to Port Authority Communications Center, and after three rings, a voice said, “Guns and Hoses at your service.”
    Stavros did not appreciate the humor of the Port Authority police officers who doubled as firemen and Emergency Service personnel. Stavros said, “I have an incoming NO-RAD. Trans-Continental Flight One-Seven-Five, Boeing 747, 700 series.”
    “Roger, Tower. Which runway?”
    “We’re still using Four-Right, but how do I know what he’ll use if we can’t talk to him?”
    “Good point. What’s his ETA?”
    “Scheduled arrival time is sixteen-twenty-three.”
    “Roger. Do you want a three-two or a three-three?”
    “Well ... let’s start with a standard three-two, and we can upgrade or downgrade as the situation develops.”
    “Or we can stay the same.”
    Stavros definitely did not like the cocky attitude of these guys—and they were mostly all guys, even the women. Whoever had the bright idea of taking three macho occupations—Emergency Service, firemen, and cops—and rolling them all into one, must have been crazy. Stavros said, “Who is this? Bruce Willis?”
    “Sergeant Tintle, at your service. To whom am I speaking?”
    “Mr. Stavros.”
    “Well, Mr. Stavros, come on down to the firehouse, and we’ll put you in a nice fireproof suit and give you a crash ax, and if the plane blows, you can be among the first to get on board.”
    Stavros replied, “The subject aircraft is a NO-RAD, not a mechanical, Sergeant. Don’t get overly excited.”
    “I love it when you get angry.”
    Stavros said to Tintle, “Okay, let’s get this on the record. I’m going to the Red Phone.” Stavros hung up and picked up the Red Phone and hit a button, which again connected him to Sergeant Tintle, who this time answered, “Port Authority—Emergency Service.” This call was official and every word was recorded, so Stavros stuck to procedure and said, “This is Tower Control. I’m calling in a three-two on a Trans-Continental 747-700, landing Runway Four-Right, ETA approximately twenty minutes. Winds are zero-three-zero at ten knots. Three hundred ten souls on board.” Stavros always wondered why the passengers and crew were called souls. It sounded as though they were dead.
    Sergeant Tintle repeated the call and added, “I’ll dispatch the units.”
    “Thank you, Sergeant.”
    “Thank you for calling, sir. We appreciate the business.”
    Stavros hung up and rubbed his temples. “Idiots.”
    He stood and looked around the huge Tower Control room. A few intense men and women sat staring at their screens, or talking into their headsets, or now and then glancing out the windows. Tower Control was not as stressful a job as that of the actual air traffic controllers sitting in a windowless radar room below him, but this was a close second. He remembered the time two of his men had caused the collision of two airliners on the runway. It had been his day off, which was why he was still employed.
    Stavros walked toward the big window. From his height of over three hundred feet—the equivalent of a thirty-story building—the panoramic view of the entire airport, bay, and Atlantic Ocean was spectacular, especially with clear skies and the late