“Never mind. ’Ave a drink while you wait,” suggested the Lancashire man, who rejoiced in the nickname of ’Otpot, holding out the bottle of rye.
“Go easy, boy. We haven’t got too much.”
“Ah, there’s plenty more where this came from. Come on, now. It’ll help you sleep.”
The rest of the fifty-six passengers, who included three or four women, were reading or talking, all looking forward to the big game and excited to be on the last leg of their transcontinental journey. From the port window could be seen the twinkling blue and yellow lights of the last suburbs of Winnipeg, before they were swallowed in cloud as the aircraft climbed.
In the tiny but well-appointed galley Stewardess Janet Benson prepared for dinner, a belated meal that she should have served over two hours earlier. The mirror over the glassware cabinet reflected the exhilaration she always felt at the beginning of a flight, an exuberance which she was thankful to hide in the privacy of her own quarters. Taking from built-in cupboards the necessary napkins and cutlery, Janet hummed contentedly to herself. Waitressing was the least attractive part of a stewardess’ duties, and Janet knew that she was in for a very exhausting hour catering for the stomachs of a planeload of hungry people, but nevertheless she felt confident and happy. Many of her flying colleagues, if they could have watched the swing of her blond hair from beneath her airline cap and the movements of her trim body as she busied herself efficiently about the galley, would have given an appreciative sucking-in of breath and echoed her confidence. At twenty-one, Janet was just tasting life and finding it good.
Forward on the flight deck, the only sound was the steady drone and throb of the engines. Both pilots sat perfectly still except for an occasional leg or arm movement, their faces faintly illumined in the glow of light from the myriad dials on the instrument panels. From the earphones half covering their ears came the sudden crackle of conversation between another aircraft and the ground. Round their necks hung small boom microphones.
Captain Dunning stretched himself in his seat, flexing his muscles and blew out through the luxuriant growth of his mustache in an unconscious mannerism that his crew knew well. He looked older than his thirty-one years.
“How are the cylinder head temperatures on Number 3 engine, Pete?” he asked, his eyes flickering momentarily to the first officer.
Pete stirred and glanced at the panel. “Okay now, skip. I had it checked at Winnipeg but they couldn’t find anything wrong. Seems to have righted itself. It’s not heating up now.”
“Good.” Dun peered ahead at the night sky. A thin moon shone bleakly down on the banks of cloud. Shredded wisps of cotton wool lazily approached, to suddenly whisk by; or occasionally the ship would plunge into a tumble of gray-white cloud, to break free in a second or two like a spaniel leaving the water and shaking itself free of the clinging drops. “With a bit of luck it’ll be a clear run through,” he commented. “The met report was reasonable for a change. Not often you keep to the original flight plan on this joyride.”
“You said it,” agreed the first officer. “In a month or so’s time it’ll be a very different story.”
The aircraft began to bump and roll a little as she hit a succession of thermal currents and for a few minutes the captain concentrated on correcting her trim. Then he remarked, “Are you planning to take in this ball game in Vancouver, if there’s time to rest up first?”
The first officer hesitated before answering. “I don’t know yet,” he answered. “I’ll see how it works out.”
The captain looked sharply at him. “What d’you mean? See how what works out? If you’ve got your eyes on Janet, you can take them off again. She’s too young to come under the corrupting influence of a young Casanova like you.”
Few people looked less deserving of this description than the fresh-faced, thoughtful-eyed first officer, still in his twenties. “Go easy, skipper,” he protested, coloring. “I never corrupted anyone in my life.”
“Jeepers, that’s a likely story. Well, don’t aim to start with Janet.” The captain grinned. “Half the airlines personnel of Canada regard it as a permanent assignment to try to make her. Don’t make life hard for yourself, you chump.”
Twelve feet away from them, on the other side of a sliding door, the subject of their conversation was collecting orders for the evening meal.
“Would you like dinner now, sir?” she asked quietly, bending forward with a smile.
“Eh? What’s that? Oh, yes please.” Baird slipped back into the present and nudged Spencer who was practically asleep. “Wake up, there. Want some dinner?”
Spencer yawned and gathered himself together. “Dinner? I sure do. You’re late, miss, aren’t you? I thought I’d missed it long ago.”
“We were held up in Toronto, sir, and haven’t served dinner yet,” said Janet Benson. “What would you like? We’ve lamb chop or grilled salmon.”
“Er — yes, please.”
Janet’s smile tightened a little. “Which, sir?” she asked patiently.
Spencer came fully awake. “Oh, yes — I’m sorry, miss. I’ll have lamb.”
“Me too,” said Baird.
Back in the galley, Janet was fully occupied for the next half hour in preparing and serving meals. Eventually everyone who felt like eating had been served with a main course and she was free to pick up the telephone in the galley and press the intercom buzzer.
“Flight deck,” came the voice of Pete.
“I’m finally serving dinner,” said Janet. “Better late than never. What’ll it be — lamp chop or grilled salmon?”
“Hold it.” She could hear him putting the question to the captain. “Janet, skipper says he’ll have the lamb — no, just a sec, he’s changed his mind. Is the fish good?”
“Looks okay to me,” said Janet chirpily. “Had no complaints.”
“Skipper will take salmon, then. Better make it two. Big helpings, mind. We’re growing boys.”
“All right — double portions as usual. Two fish coming up.”
She quickly arranged two trays and took them forward, balancing them with practiced ease against the almost imperceptible movements of the aircraft. Pete had come back to open the sliding door for her and relieved her of one tray. The captain had completed his switchover to automatic pilot and was now halfway through his routine radio check with Control at Winnipeg.
“Height 16,000,” he continued, speaking into the tiny microphone held before his mouth on a slender plastic arm. “Course 285 true. Air speed 210 knots. Ground speed 174 knots. ETA Vancouver 05.05 Pacific Standard. Over.”
He switched from transmit to receive and there was a clearly audible crackle from his earpiece as the acknowledgment came on the air. “Flight 714. This is Winnipeg Control. Roger. Out.”
Dun reached for his log sheet, made an entry, then slid his seat back so that he was well clear of the controls but still within easy reach of them if it were necessary for him to take them over again quickly. Pete was starting to eat, a tray resting on a pillow laid across his knees.
“Shan’t be long, skip,” he said.
“There’s no hurry,” replied Dun, stretching his arms above his head as far as they could go in the confined cockpit. “I can wait. Enjoy it. How is the fish, anyway?”
“Not bad,” mumbled the first officer, his mouth full. “If there were about three or four times as much it might be a square meal.”
The captain chuckled. “You’d better watch that waistline, Pete.” He turned to the stewardess, who was waiting in the shadow behind the seat. “Everything okay at the back, Janet? How are the football fans?”
Janet shrugged. “Very quiet now. That long wait at Toronto must have tired them out. Four of them have been knocking back rye pretty steadily, but there’s been no need to speak to them about it. It’ll help to keep them quiet. It looks like being a peaceful, easy night — fingers crossed.”
Pete raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Uh-huh, young woman. That’s the kind of night t
o watch, when trouble starts to brew. I’ll bet someone’s getting ready to be sick right now.”
“Not yet,” said Janet lightly. “But you warn me when you’re going to fly the ship and I’ll get the bags ready.”
“Good for you,” said the captain. “I’m glad you found out about him.”
“How’s the weather?” asked Janet.
“Oh — now let’s see. General fog east of the mountains, extending nearly as far as Manitoba. There’s nothing to bother us up there, though. It should be a smooth ride all the way to the coast.”
“Good. Well, keep Junior here off the controls while I serve coffee, won’t you?”
She slipped away before Pete could retort, made her way through the passenger deck taking orders for coffee, and within a short while brought a tray up forward to the pilots. Dun had by that time eaten his dinner, and he now drained his coffee with satisfaction. Pete had taken the controls and was intent on the instrument dials as the captain got to his feet.
“Keep her steaming, Pete. I’ll just tuck the customers up for the night.”
Pete nodded without turning round. “Right, skipper.”
The captain followed Janet out into the brightly lit passenger section, blinking, and stopped first at the seats occupied by Spencer and Baird, who handed their trays to the stewardess.
“Good evening,” said Dun. “Everything all right?”
Baird looked up. “Why sure, thanks. Very nice meal. We were ready for it, too.”
“Yes, I’m sorry it was so late.”
The doctor waved aside his apology. “Nonsense. You can hardly be blamed if Toronto decides to have a bit of fog. Well,” he added, settling himself back in his seat, “I’m going to get my head down for a doze.”
“That goes for me as well,” said Spencer with a yawn.
“I hope you have a comfortable night,” said Dun, switching off their reading lights. “The stewardess will bring you some rugs.” He passed on down the aisle, having a few words with each of the passengers in a subdued tone, explaining to gome how the seats could be reclined, and describing to others the flight’s progress and expected weather conditions.
“Well, it’s me for dreamland,” said Spencer. “One thing, Doctor — at least you won’t be getting any calls tonight.”
“How long is it?” murmured Baird drowsily, bis eyes closed. “A good seven hours anyway. Better make the most of it. ’Night.”
“Goodnight, Doc,” grunted Spencer, wriggling the padded headrest into the small of his neck. “Boy, I can sure use some shut-eye.”
Blanketed off by thick cloud into a cold, remote world of her own, the aircraft droned steadily on her course. Sixteen thousand feet beneath her lay the prairies of Saskatchewan, silent and sleeping.
Dun had reached the whisky-drinking quartet and politely forbade any further consumption of liquor that night.
“You know,” he told them with a reproving grin, “this sort of thing isn’t permitted anyway. Just don’t let me see any more bottles or you’ll have to get out and walk.”
“Any objection to cards?” inquired one of the party, holding a flask to the nearest light and turning down the corners of his mouth at the small amount of nectar that remained.
“Not in the least,” said Dun, “so long as you don’t disturb the other passengers.”
“Pity the poor captain,” said the man from Lancashire. “What’s it like — taking a massive job like this through t’night?”
“Routine,” said Dun. “Just plain, dull routine.”
“Comes to that, every flight is just routine, I s’pose?”
“Well, yes. I guess that’s so.”
“Until summat happens — eh?” There was an outburst of chuckles in which Dunning joined before moving on. Only the Lancastrian, through the haze of his evening’s drinking, looked temporarily thoughtful at his own words.
TWO
0045—0145
THE CAPTAIN had almost completed his rounds and was enjoying a few moments’ relaxed chaffing with one of the passengers, a little man who appeared to have traveled with him before.
“I know it looks a bit like R.C.A.F,” Dun was saying, fingering his great bush of a mustache apologetically, “but I’ve had it so long I couldn’t part with it now — it’s an old friend, you know.”
“I’ll bet it’s a wow with the girls,” said the little man. “What do they call you — Beaver?”
“Well, no,” replied Dun, a suspicion of a grin under his foliage. “We’re a pretty highbrow lot on this airline. It’s either ‘Have yer Dun, then?’ or, most often, just Dunsinane.”
“Just what?” asked the little man.
“Dunsinane,” said the captain very deliberately. “Surely you know? Where’s your Macbeth?”
The little man stared up at him. “Where’s my Macbeth?” he repeated vacantly. “Hey, what are you giving me?”
The captain had moved on. While he had been speaking his eyes had been fixed on the stewardess, further along the aisle, who was bending over a woman, the palm of her hand on the passenger’s forehead. As he approached, the woman, who lay rather than sat in her seat, slumped back against the headrest, suddenly grimaced. Her eyes contracted as if with pain. The captain touched the stewardess lightly on the arm.
“Anything wrong. Miss Benson?” he asked.
Janet straightened. “The lady is feeling a little under the weather, Captain,” she said very quietly. “I’ll get her some aspirin. Be back in a moment.”
Dun took her place and leaned over the woman and the man beside her.
“Sorry to hear that,” he said sympathetically. “What seems to be the trouble?”
The woman stared up at him. “I — I don’t know,” she said in a small voice. “It seemed to hit me all of a sudden. Just a few minutes ago. I feel sick and dizzy and — and there’s an awful pain… down here.” She indicated her stomach. “I’m sorry to be a nuisance — I—”
“Now, now, honey,” murmured the man beside her. “Just lay quiet. You’ll be better directly.” He glanced at the captain. “A touch of airsickness, I guess?”
“I expect so, sir,” answered Dun. He looked down thoughtfully at the woman, taking in the perspiration beginning to bead on her pallid forehead, the hair already becoming disarranged, the whiteness of her knuckles as with one hand she gripped the armrest of the seat and with the other held on to her husband. “I’m sorry you don’t feel well,” he said gently, “but I’m sure the stewardess will be able to help you. Try to relax as much as you can. If it’s any comfort I can tell you that it looks like being a calm trip.” He moved aside for Janet.
“Now here we are,” said the stewardess, handing down the pills. “Try these.” She eased the woman’s head forward, to help her take a few sips of water from a glass. “That’s fine. Now let’s make you a little more comfortable.” She tucked in a rug round the woman. “How’s that?” The woman nodded gratefully. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to see how you’re feeling. Don’t worry about using the paper bag if you want to. And if you need me quickly just press the bell push by the window.”
“Thank you, miss,” said the husband. “I’m sure we’ll be okay in just a little while.” He looked at his wife with a smile, as if to reassure himself. “Try to rest, dear. It’ll pass over.”
“I hope so,” said Dun. “I know how unpleasant these things can be. I hope you very soon feel better, madam, and that you both have a good night.”
He passed back down the aisle and waited for Janet in the galley. “Who are they?” he asked when the stewardess returned.
“Mr. and Mrs. Childer — John Childer. She was all right fifteen minutes ago.”
“H’m. Well, you’d better let me know if she gets any worse and I’ll radio ahead.”
Janet looked at him quickly. “Why? What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I don’t like the look of her. Could be air-sickness or just a bilious attack, I suppose — but it seems to have hit her
pretty hard.” The captain looked faintly worried, his fingers drumming absently on the metal draining board. Have we a doctor on the passenger list?”
“No one who’s entered as a doctor,” replied Janet, “but I could ask around.”
Dun shook his head. “Don’t disturb them now. Most of them are getting down to sleep. Let me know how she is in half an hour or so. The trouble is,” he added quietly as he turned to go, “we’ve got over four hours’ flying before we reach the coast.”
Making his way to the flight deck, he stopped for a moment to smile down at the sick woman. She attempted to smile back, but a sudden stab of pain closed her eyes and made her arch back against the seat. For a few seconds Dun stood studying her intently. Then he continued forward, closed the door of the flight deck behind him, and slid into his seat. He took off his peaked hat and put on the large earphones and then the boom microphone. Pete was flying manually. Scattered banks of cloud seemed to rush at the forward windows, envelop them momentarily, and then disappear.
“Cumulo-nimbus building up,” commented the first officer.
“Getting to the rough stuff, eh?” said Dun.
“Looks like it.”
“I’ll take it. We’d better try to climb on top. Ask for twenty thousand, will you?”
“Right.” Pete depressed a stud on his microphone attachment to transmit. “714 to Regina radio,” he called.
“Go ahead, 714,” crackled a voice in the earphones.
“We’re running into some weather. We’d like clearance for twenty thousand.”
“714. Stand by. I’ll ask ATC.”
“Thanks,” said Pete.
The captain peered into the cloudy turbulence ahead. “Better switch on the seat-belt sign, Pete,” he suggested, correcting with automatic concentration the tendency of the aircraft to bump and yaw.
“Okay.” Pete reached for the switch on the overhead panel. There was a brief shudder as the plane freed herself from a wall of cloud, only to plunge almost instantly into another.
“Flight 714,” came the voice on the radio. “ATC gives clearance for twenty thousand. Over.”
Runway Zero-Eight Page 2
