Because my lips insist on making these silly formations, I cannot say anything about the air speed. One hundred and twenty. We must not lose any more. With a load of ice this ship will cease to fly at one hundred, possibly even sooner.
What the hell is wrong with those fancy de-icer boots? They are not performing the task for which they are intended. Come! Function!
I glance furtively out the window at my side. The blinking red light indicator shows the de-icers are in operation, but outside there is visible proof that they are lying down on the job. The leading edge is now one long, unbroken bar of ice. And it is clear ice, rumpled as if there were rocks beneath.
Yes, the boots are working. But they are expanding and contracting beneath the sheath of ice and consequently useless! The ice has accumulated too fast for them.
"Get Knoxville....."
Some DC-2's had boots.
