“Benson is hurrying. Unless I’m mistaken there are at least two people back there in a state of deep shock. One more thing,” Baird said, looking straight at the captain. “Are you absolutely certain that we’ve no other course but to go on?”
“Certain,” answered Dun instantly. “I’ve checked and double-checked. Thick cloud and ground fog until the other side of the mountains. Calgary, Edmonton, Lethbridge — all closed to traffic. That’s routine, when ground visibility is zero. In the normal way, it wouldn’t worry us.”
“Well, it worries us now.”
The doctor stepped back to leave, but Dun shot at him, “Just a minute.” As the doctor paused, he went on, “I’m in charge of this flight and I must know the facts. Lay it on the line. What are the chances that I’ll be all right?”
Baird shook his head angrily, his composure momentarily deserting him. “I wouldn’t know,” he said savagely. “You just can’t apply any rules to a thing like this.”
He was halted again before he could leave the flight deck.
“Oh, Doctor.”
“Yes?”
“Glad you’re aboard.”
Baird left without another word. Dun took a deep breath, thinking over what had been said and searching in his mind for a possible course of action. Not for the first time in his flying career, he felt himself in the grip of an acute sense of apprehension, only this time his awareness of his responsibility for the safety of a huge, complex aircraft and nearly sixty lives was tinged with a sudden icy premonition of disaster. Was this, then, what it felt like? Older pilots, those who had been in combat in the war, always maintained that if you kept at the game long enough you’d buy it in the end. How was it that in the space of half an hour a normal, everyday, routine flight, carrying a crowd of happy football fans, could change into a nightmare nearly four miles above the earth, something that would shriek across the front pages of a hundred newspapers?
He pushed the thoughts from him in violent self-disgust. There were things to do, things requiring his complete concentration. Putting out his right hand he flicked the switches on the automatic pilot panel, waiting until each control became fully orientated and the appropriate indicator light gleamed to show that the next stage of the switching over could be started. Ailerons first, needing a slight adjustment of the compensating dial to bring them fully under electrical control; then rudder and elevators were nursed until all the four lights set into the top of the panel had ceased winking and settled down to a steady glow. Satisfied, Dun glanced at his p.d.i. dial and took his hands off the wheel. Sitting back in his seat, he let the aircraft fly itself while he carried out a thorough cockpit check. To an inexperienced eye, the flight deck presented a weird sight. Just as though two invisible men sat in the pilots’ seats, the twin control columns moved slightly forward, backwards, then forward again. Compensating the air currents as they gently buffeted the aircraft, the rudder bar moved also, as if of its own volition. Across the great spread of the dual instument panel the dozens of needles each registered its own particular story.
His check completed, he reached for the microphone that hung on its hook beside his head. He quickly clipped it to his neck and adjusted the padded earphones. The boom mike swung round at his touch so that the thin steel curve almost caressed his cheek. Aggressively, he blew at his mustache, puffing it up so that it practically touched his nose. Well, he thought to himself, here goes.
The switch was at send and his voice sounded calm and unhurried.
“Hullo, Vancouver Control. This is Maple Leaf Charter Flight 714. I have an emergency message. I have an emergency message.”
His earphones crackled instantly: “Maple Leaf Charter Flight 714. Come in please.”
“Vancouver Control. This is Flight 714. Listen. We have three serious cases of suspected food poisoning on board, including the first officer, and possibly others. When we land we shall want ambulances and medical help standing by. Please warn hospitals near the airfield. We’re not sure but we think the poisoning may have been caused by the fish served on board at dinner. You’d better put a ban on all food coming from the same source until the trouble has been definitely located. We understand that owing to our late arrival at Winnipeg the food was not supplied by the regular airline contractor. Please check. Is this understood?”
He listened to the acknowledgment, his eyes gazing bleakly at the frozen sea of cloud below and ahead. Vancouver Control sounded as crisp and impersonal as ever but he could guess at the verbal bomb he had exploded down there on the far western seaboard and the burst of activity his words would have triggered off. Almost wearily, he ended the transmission and leaned back in his seat. He felt strangely heavy and tired, as if lead had begun to flow into his limbs. The instrument dials, as his eyes ran automatically over them, seemed to recede until they were far, far away. He was conscious of a cold film of sweat on his forehead and he shivered in a sudden uncontrollable spasm. Then, in a renewal of anger at the perfidy of his body at such a time of crisis, he flung himself with all his strength and concentration into rechecking their flight path, their estimated time of arrival, the expected cross winds over the mountains, the runway plan of Vancouver. He had little idea whether it was a few minutes or several before his preparations were complete. He reached for his log book, opened it and looked at his wrist watch. With a dull and painful slowness his mind began to grapple with the seemingly Herculean task of trying to fix times to the events of the night.
Back in the body of the aircraft, Dr. Baird tucked fresh dry blankets round the limp form of Mrs. Childer and tossed the others out into the aisle. The woman lay back helplessly, her eyes closed, dry lips apart and trembling, moaning quietly. The top of her dress was stained and damp. As Baird watched her she was seized with a fresh paroxysm. Her eyes did not open.
Baird spoke to her husband. “Keep her mopped up and as dry as you can. And warm. She must be warm.”
Childer reached up and grabbed the doctor by the wrist. “For God’s sake, Doctor, what’s happening?” His voice was shrill. “She’s pretty bad, isn’t she?”
Baird looked again at the woman. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. “Yes,” he said, “she is.”
“Well, can’t we do something for her — give her something.”
Baird shook his head. “She needs drugs we haven’t got — antibiotics. There’s nothing we can do right now but keep her warm.”
“But surely even some water—”
“No. She’d gag on it. Your wife is nearly unconscious, Childer. Hold it, now,” Baird added hastily as the other man half rose in alarm. “That’s nature’s own anesthetic. Don’t worry. She’ll be all right. Your job is to watch her and keep her warm. Even when she’s unconscious she’ll probably still try to throw up. I’ll be back.”
Baird moved to the next row of seats. A middle-aged man, collar undone and hands clasping his stomach, sat slumped partly out of his seat, head thrown back and turning from side to side, his face glistening with sweat. He looked up at the doctor, drawing back his lips in a rictus of pain.
“It’s murder,” the man mumbled. “I never felt like this before.”
Baird took a pencil from his jacket pocket and held it in front of the man.
“Listen to me,” he said. “I want you to take this pencil.”
The man raised his arm with an effort. His fingers tried fumblingly to grasp the pencil but it slipped through them. Baird’s eyes narrowed. He lifted the man into a more comfortable position and tucked a blanket in tightly around him.
“I can’t hold myself,” the man said, “and my head feels like it’s in a vise.”
“Doctor,” someone shouted, “can you come here, please!”
“Wait a minute,” Baird called back. “I’ll see everyone in turn who wants me.”
The stewardess hurried towards him holding a leather bag.
“Good girl,” said Baird. “That’s the one. Not that I can do much…” His voice trailed away as he thought hard.
“Where’s your p.a. system?” he asked.
“I’ll show you,” said Janet. She led the way aft to the galley and pointed to a small microphone. “How is Mrs. Childer, Doctor?” she asked.
Baird pursed his lips. “Don’t let’s pretend otherwise — she’s seriously ill,” he said. “And if I’m not very much mistaken there are others who’ll be as bad before long.”
“Do you still think it’s food poisoning?” Janet’s cheeks were very pale.
“Tolerably certain. Staphylococcal, I’d say, though some of the symptoms out there could indicate even worse. There again, the poisoning could have been caused by salmonella bacilli — who can say, without a proper diagnosis.”
“Are you going to give round an emetic?”
“Yes, except of course to those who are already sick. That’s all I can do. What we probably need are antibiotics like chloramphenicol, but it’s no use thinking about that.” Lifting the telephone, Baird paused. “As soon as you can,” he told her, “I suggest you organize some help to clean up a bit in there. Squirt plenty of disinfectant around if you’ve any. Oh, and as you speak to the sick passengers you’d better tell them to forget the conventions and not to lock the door of the toilet — we don’t want any passing out in there.” He thought for a moment, then pressed the button of the microphone, holding it close. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? Your attention, please.” He heard the murmur of voices die away, leaving only the steady drone of the engines. “First of all, I should introduce myself,” he went on. “My name is Baird and I’m a doctor. Some of you are wondering what this malady is that has stricken our fellow passengers and I think it’s time everyone knew what is happening and what I’m doing. Well, as far as I can tell with the limited facilities at my disposal we have several cases of food poisoning on board and by deduction — a deduction that has yet to be confirmed — I believe the cause of it to be the fish which was served to some of us at dinner.” An excited hubbub broke out at his words. “Now listen to me, please,” he said. “There is no cause for alarm. I repeat, there is no cause for alarm. The passengers who have suffered these attacks are being cared for by the stewardess and myself, and the captain has radioed ahead for more medical help to be standing by when we land. If you ate fish for dinner it doesn’t necessarily follow that you are going to be affected too. There’s seldom any hard and fast rule about this sort of thing and it’s perfectly possible that you’ll be entirely immune. However, we are going to take some precautions and the stewardess and I are coming round to you all. I want you to tell us if you ate fish. Remember, only if you ate fish. If you did, we’ll tell you how you can help yourselves. Now, if you’ll all settle down we’ll begin right away.” Baird took his finger off the button and turned to Janet. “All we can really do now is to give immediate first aid,” he said.
Janet nodded. “You mean the pills, Doctor?”
“There are two things we can do. We don’t know definitely what the source of the poisoning is but we can assume it’s been taken internally, so to begin with everyone who had fish must drink several glasses of water — I mean those who are not too ill, of course. That will help to dilute the poison and relieve the toxic effects. After that we’ll give an emetic. If there aren’t enough pills in my bag to go round we’ll have to use salt. Have you plenty of that?”
“I’ve only got a few small packets that go with the lunches but we can break them open.”
“Good. We’ll see how far the pills go first. I’ll start at the back here with the pills and you begin bringing drinking water to those people already affected, will you? Take some to the first officer too. You’ll need help.”
Stepping out of the galley, Baird practically cannoned into the lean, lugubrious Englishman called ’Otpot.
“Anything I can do, Doctor?” His voice was concerned.
Baird allowed himself a smile. “Thanks. First, what did you have for dinner?”
“Meat, thank heaven,” breathed ’Otpot fervently.
“Right. We’re not going to worry about you then for the moment. Will you help the stewardess to hand water round to the passengers who are sick? I want them to drink at least three glasses if they can — more, if possible.”
’Otpot entered the galley, returning Janet’s rather tired little smile. In normal circumstances that smile of hers could be guaranteed to quicken the pulse of any airline staff but on this occasion the man beside her could see the hint of fear that lay behind it. He winked at her.
“Don’t you worry, miss. Everything’s going to be all right.”
Janet looked at him gratefully. “I’m sure it is, thanks. Look, here’s the water tap and there are the cups, Mr.—”
“The boys call me ’Otpot.”
“’Otpot?” repeated Janet incredulously.
“Yes, Lancashire ’Otpot — you know.”
“Oh!” Janet burst out laughing.
“There, that’s better. Now, where are t’cups, you say? Come on, lass, let’s get started. A fine airline this is. Gives you your dinner, then asks for it back again.”
It takes a very great deal to upset the equilibrium of a modern airport. Panic is a thing unknown in such places and would be ruthlessly stamped out if it occurred, for it can be a highly lethal activity.
The control room at Vancouver, when Dun’s emergency call began to come through, presented a scene of suppressed excitement. In front of the radio panel an operator wearing headphones transcribed Dun’s incoming message straight on to a typewriter, pausing only to reach over and punch an alarm bell on his desk. He carried on imperturbably as a second man appeared behind him, craning over his shoulder to read the words as they were pounded on to the sheet of paper in the typewriter. The newcomer, summoned by the bell, was the airport controller, a tall, lean man who had spent a lifetime in the air and knew the conditions of travel over the northern hemisphere as well as he knew his own back garden. Better, in fact, for didn’t his onions always run to seed? He got halfway through the message, then stepped sharply back, cracking an order over his shoulder to the telephone operator on the far side of the room.
“Get me Air Traffic Control quickly. Then clear the teletype circuit to Winnipeg. Priority message.” The controller picked up a phone, waited a few seconds, then said, “Vancouver controller here.” His voice was deceptively unhurried. “Maple Leaf Charter Flight 714 from Winnipeg to Vancouver reports emergency. Serious food poisoning among the passengers, and I mean serious. The first officer is down with it too. Better clear all levels below them for priority approach and landing. Can do? Good. ETA is 05.05.” The controller glanced at the wall dock; it read 02.15. “Right. We’ll keep you posted.” He pushed down the telephone cradle with his thumb, keeping it there as he barked at the teletype operator, “Got Winnipeg yet? Good. Send this message. Starts: ‘Controller Winnipeg. Urgent. Maple Leaf Charter Flight 714 reports serious food poisoning among passengers and crew believed due to fish served dinner on flight. Imperative check source and suspend all other food service originating same place. Understand source was not, repeat not, regular airline caterer.’ That’s all.” He swung round to the telephone switchboard again. “Get me the local manager of Maple Leaf Charter. Burdick’s his name. After that I want the city police — senior officer on duty.” He leaned over the radio operator’s shoulder again and finished reading the now completed message. “Acknowledge that, Greg. Tell them that all altitudes below them are being cleared and that they’ll be advised of landing instructions later. We shall want further news later of the condition of those passengers, too.”
On the floor below, an operator of the Government of Canada Western Air Traffic Control swiveled in his chair to call across the room, “What’s in Green One between here and Calgary?”
“Westbound. There’s an air force North Star at 18,000. Just reported over Penticton. Maple Leaf 714—”
“714’s in trouble. They want all altitudes below them cleared.”
“The North
Star’s well ahead and there’s nothing close behind. There’s an eastbound Constellation ready for take-off.”
“Clear it, but hold any other eastbound traffic for the time being. Bring the North Star straight in when it arrives.”
Upstairs, the controller had scooped up the telephone again, holding it with one hand as the other pulled at his necktie, worrying the knot free. Irritably he threw the length of red silk on the table. “Hullo, Burdick? Controller here. Look, we’ve got an emergency on one of your flights — 714 ex Toronto and Winnipeg. Eh? No, the aircraft’s all right. The first officer and several passengers are down with food poisoning. I called Winnipeg right away. Told them to trace the source of the food. Apparently it isn’t the usual caterer. No, that’s right. See here, you’d better come over as soon as you can.” He jabbed the telephone cradle again with his thumb and nodded to the switchboard operator. “The police — got them yet? Good, put them on. Hullo, this is the controller, Vancouver Airport. Who am I speaking to, please? Look, Inspector, we have an emergency on an incoming flight. Several of the passengers and one of the crew have been taken ill with food poisoning and we need ambulances and doctors out here at the airport. Eh? Three serious, possibly others — be prepared for plenty. The flight is due in just after five o’clock local time — in about two and a half hours. Will you alert the hospitals, get the ambulances, set up a traffic control? Right. We’ll be on again as soon as we’ve got more information.”
Within five minutes Harry Burdick had arrived, puffing into the room. The local Maple Leaf manager was a portly little man with an abundant supply of body oils; inexhaustible, it seemed, for no one had ever seen him without his face streaked with runnels of perspiration. He stood in the center of the room, his jacket over his arm, gasping for breath after his hurry and swabbing the lunar-scope of his face with a great blue-spotted handkerchief.
“Where’s the message?” he grunted. He ran his eye quickly over the sheet of paper the radio operator handed to him. “How’s the weather at Calgary?” he asked the controller. “It would be quicker to go in there, wouldn’t it?”
Runway Zero-Eight Page 4
