Runway Zero-Eight (13 page)

“My information is that the first officer, then the captain were taken sick. Luckily there was a passenger on board who had piloted before and he took over the controls with the most remarkable smoothness. Name of George Spencer, from Winnipeg, I assume — he joined the plane there.”

“When you say he has flown before,” persisted Abrahams, “do you mean he’s an ex-airline pilot?”

“Well, no,” admitted Howard. “I believe he flew extensively in the war in smaller aircraft—”

“In the war? That was years ago.”

“What kind of smaller aircraft?” Jessup demanded.

“Spitfires, Mustangs, quite a wide range of—”

“Hold it. Those were fighters. Is this man a fighter pilot from the war?”

“Flying is flying, after all,” Howard insisted anxiously. “He’s under radio tuition from Captain Paul Treleaven, Cross-Canada’s chief pilot, who will talk him down.”

“But hell,” said Jessup almost disbelievingly, “the Empress is a four-engine job. What’s its horsepower?”

“Oh, around 8,000, I’d say.”

“And you mean that an ex-wartime pilot who was used to single-engine fighters can handle after all these years a multi-engine airliner?” There was a scramble as two or three of the newsmen broke away to the telephone booths.

“Naturally there is some risk,” Howard conceded, “which is why the precaution has been taken, of clearing the immediate vicinity. The situation is pretty tight, I freely admit, but there’s no reason to—”

“Some risk!” echoed Jessup. “I’ve done a little flying myself — I can imagine what that guy is going through. Let’s have more about him.”

Howard spread his hands. “I know nothing more about him than that.”

“What!” exclaimed Stephens. “That’s all you know about someone who’s trying to bring in a shipload of — how many people
are
on board?”

“Fifty-nine, I believe, including the crew. I’ve got a copy of the passenger list for you, if you’ll just—”

“Cliff,” said Jessup grimly, “if you hole up on this one…”

“I’ve told you, Jess, that’s all I have on him. We all wish we knew more, but we don’t. He seems to be doing well, on the last report.”

“How long have we got before the crash?” Abrahams pressed.

Howard jerked round to him. “Don’t assume that,” he retorted. “She’s due in round about an hour, maybe less.”

“Are you beaming her in?”

“I’m not sure, but I think Captain Treleaven intends to talk her down. Everything is fully under control. The airlanes and the field have been cleared. The city fire department is moving in extra help, just in case.”

“Suppose she overshoots into the water?”

“That’s not likely, but the police have alerted every available launch to stand by. I’ve never known such complete precautions.”

“Wow, what a story!” Abrahams shouted and dived into the nearest booth, keeping the door open while he dialed so that he could continue to listen.

“Cliff,” said Jessup, with some sympathy for the public relations man, “how long will the gas last in this ship?”

“I can’t say, but there’s bound to be a safety margin,” answered Howard, loosening his tie. He sounded far from convinced.

Jessup looked at him for a second or two with narrowed eyes. Then it struck him. “Wait a minute,” he shot out. “If there’s food poisoning on board, it can’t be only the pilots who’ve gone down with it?”

“I’ll need all the help you can send,” Abrahams was saying into the telephone. “I’ll give it to you as I get it. When you’ve got enough to close for the first run, you’d better pull it up both ways — for the crash, and for miracle landing — and hold it. Okay? Switch me to Bert. Bert, you ready? Starts. ‘At dawn this morning Vancouver Airport witnessed the worst —’”

“Look, Jess,” said Howard urgently, “this is dynamite. You can have it all the way, but for pity’s sake play it fair to the people upstairs. They’re working like crazy. There’s nothing that could help the people in that aircraft that isn’t being done.”

“You know us all here, Cliff. We won’t cross you up. What
is
the condition of those passengers?”

“A number of them are ill, but there’s a doctor on board who is giving what treatment he can. We have further medical advice available on the radio if required. The stewardess is okay and she’s helping Spencer, relaying the messages. You’ve got the lot now.”

“Food poisoning is a mighty serious thing,” Jessup pursued relentlessly. “I mean, the time factor is everything.”

“That’s so.”

“If those people don’t get down pretty damn soon, they could even — die?”

“That’s about it,” Howard agreed, tight-lipped.

“But — but this is a world story! What’s the position up there now?”

“Well, about ten, fifteen minutes ago—”

“That’s no good!” Jessup roared. “A few minutes can change the whole situation in a thing like this. Get the position now, Cliff. Who’s duty controller tonight? Ring him — or I will, if you like.”

“No, not for a while, Jess, please. I tell you they’re—”

Jessup gripped the public relations man by the shoulder. “You’ve been a newspaperman, Cliff. Either way this will be the biggest air story for years and you know it. In an hour’s time you’ll have a tiger on your back — this place will be stiff with reporters, newsreels, TV, the lot. You’ve got to help us now, unless you want us busting out all over the airport. Get us the exact present position and you can take a breather for a few minutes while we get our stories through.”

“Okay, okay. Ease off, will you?” Howard picked up an internal telephone from the table. “This is Howard. Control Room, please.” He pulled down his lower lip at Jessup. “You’ll get me crucified. Hullo, Control? Is Burdick there? Put me on, it’s urgent Hullo, Harry? Cliff. The press are crowding up, Harry. I can’t hold them much longer. They want the full situation as of now. They’ve got deadlines to meet.”

“Of course!” snorted Burdick sarcastically in the control room. “Certainly! We’ll arrange for the flight to crash before their deadlines. Anything for the newspapers!”

“Take it easy, Harry,” urged Howard. “These guys are doing their job.”

Burdick lowered the telephone and said to the controller, who was standing with Treleaven before the radio panel, “Mr. Grimsell. Things are boiling up a bit for Cliff Howard. I don’t want to leave here. Do you think Stan could take a few minutes out to talk to the press?”

“I think so,” answered the controller. He looked over to his assistant. “What about it? We’d better keep those boys under control. You could make it fast.”

“Sure, sir. I’ll do that.”

“No point in holding back,” Burdick advised. “Tell ’em the whole thing — up to and excluding this,” and he nodded to the radio panel.

“I get it. Leave it to me.” The assistant left the room.

“The assistant controller is coming down, Cliff,” said Burdick and rang off. He heaved his bulk over to the two men at the radio panel, mopping his face with a crumpled handkerchief. “Are you getting anything?” he asked in a flat voice.

Treleaven shook his head. He did not turn. His face was gray with fatigue. “No,” he said dully. “They’ve gone.”

The controller rapped to the switchboard operator, “Teletype Calgary and Seattle, priority. Find out if they’re still receiving 714.”

“714, 714. Vancouver Control to 714. Come in, 714,” called the radio operator steadily into the microphone.

Treleaven leaned against the radio desk. The pipe in his hand was dead. “Well,” he said wearily, “this could be the end of the line.”

“714, 714. Do you hear me? Come in, please.”

“I can’t take much more,” said Burdick. “Here, Johnnie,” to one of the clerks, “get some more coffee, for the love of Mike. Black and strong.”

“Hold it!” exclaimed the radio operator.

“Did you get something?” asked the controller eagerly.

“I don’t know… I thought for a minute—”

Bending close to the panel, his headset on, the operator made minute adjustments to his fine tuning controls. “Hullo, 714, 714, this is Vancouver.” He called over his shoulder, “I can hear
something
… it may be them. I can’t be sure. If it is, they’re off frequency.”

“We’ll have to take a chance,” said Treleaven. “Tell them to change frequency.”

“Flight 714,” called the operator. “This is Vancouver. This is Vancouver. Change your frequency to 128.3 Do you hear that? Frequency 128.3.”

Treleaven turned to the controller. “Better ask the Air Force for another radar check,” he suggested. “They should be on our own scope soon.”

“714. Change to frequency 128.3 and come in,” the operator was repeating.

Burdick plumped back on to a corner of the center table. His hand left a moist mark on the woodwork. “This can’t happen — it can’t,” he protested in a gravel voice to the whole room, staring at the radio panel. “If we’ve lost them now, they’ll fry — every last manjack of them.”

LIKE A MAN in a nightmare, possessed with the fury of desperation, his teeth clenched and face streaked with sweat, Spencer fought to regain control of the aircraft, one hand on the throttle lever and the other gripped tightly on the wheel. Within him, oddly at variance with the strong sense of unreality, he felt scorching anger and self-disgust. Somewhere along the line, and quickly, he had not only lost altitude but practically all his air speed too. His brain refused to go back over the events of the last two minutes. Something had happened to distract him, that was all he could remember. Or was that an excuse too? He couldn’t have lost so much height in just a few seconds; they must have been steadily descending before that. Yet it was surely not long since he had checked the dimb-and-descent indicator — or wasn’t that its function? Could it be the gas—?

He felt a violent, almost uncontrollable desire to scream. Scream like a child. To scramble out and away from the controls, the ironically flickering needles and the mocking battery of gauges, and abandon everything. Run back into the warm, friendly-lit body of the aircraft crying out,
I couldn’t do it. I told you I couldn’t do it and you wouldn’t listen to me. No man should be asked to do it
—

“We’re gaining height,” came Janet’s voice, incredibly level now it seemed. He remembered her with a shock and in that moment the screaming in his mind became the screams of a woman in the passenger compartment behind him — wild, maniacal screams.

He heard a man shouting, “He’s not the pilot, I tell you! They’re stretched out there, both of them. We’re done for!”

“Shut up and sit down!” rasped Baird clearly.

“You can’t order me about—”

“I said get back! Sit down!”

“All right, Doctor,” came the adenoidal tones of ’Otpot, the man from Lancashire, “just leave him to me. Now, you—”

Spencer shut his eyes for an instant in an effort to clear the dancing of the illuminated dials. He was, he realized bitterly, hopelessly out of condition. A man could spend his life rushing from this place to that, forever on the go and telling himself he could never keep it up if he wasn’t absolutely fit. Yet the first time a real crisis came along, the first time that real demands were made of his body, he fell flat on his face. That was the most savage thing of all: to know that your body could go no further, like an old car about to run backwards down a hill.

“I’m sorry,” said Janet.

Still maintaining his pressure on the column, he shot a glance of complete surprise at her.

“What?” he said stupidly.

The girl half twisted in her seat towards him. In the greenish light from the instrument panel, her pale face looked almost translucent.

“I’m sorry for giving way like that,” she said simply. “It’s bad enough for you. I — I couldn’t help it.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he told her roughly. He didn’t know what to say. He could hear the woman passenger, sobbing loudly now. He felt very ashamed.

“Trying to get the bus up as fast as I can,” he said. “Daren’t do more than a gentle climb or we’ll lose way again.”

Baird’s voice called from the doorway, above the rising thunder of the engines, “What
is
going on, anyway, in there? Are you all right?”

Spencer answered, “Sorry, Doc. I just couldn’t hold her. I think it’s okay now.”

“Try to keep level, at least,” Baird complained. “There are people very, very ill back here.”

“It was my fault,” said Janet. She saw Baird sway with exhaustion and hold on to the door jamb to steady himself.

“No, no,” protested Spencer. “If it hadn’t been for her we’d have crashed. I just can’t handle this thing — that’s all there is to it.”

“Rubbish,” said Baird curtly. They heard a man shout, “Get on the radio!” and the doctor’s voice raised loudly to address the passengers, “Now listen to me, all of you. Panic is the most infectious disease of the lot, and the most lethal too.” Then the door slammed shut, cutting him off.

“That’s a good idea,” said Janet calmly. “I ought to be reporting to Captain Treleaven.”

“Yes,” agreed Spencer. “Tell him what’s happened and that I’m regaining height.”

Janet pressed her microphone button to transmit and called Vancouver. For the first time there was no immediate acknowledgment in reply. She called again. There was nothing.

Spencer felt the familiar stab of fear. He forced himself to control it. “What’s wrong?” he asked her. “Are you sure you’re on the air?”

“Yes — I think so.”

“Blow into your mike. If it’s alive you’ll hear yourself.”

She did so. “Yes, I heard all right. Hullo, Vancouver. Hullo, Vancouver. This is 714. Can you hear me? Over.”

Silence.

“Hullo, Vancouver. This is 714. Please answer. Over.”

Still silence.

“Let me,” said Spencer. He took his right hand from the throttle and depressed his microphone button. “Hullo, Vancouver. Hullo, Vancouver. This is Spencer, 714. Emergency, emergency. Come in, please.”