Runway Zero-Eight

by Arthur Hailey

  The captain was rigid in his seat, sweat masking his face and streaking the collar of his uniform. One hand clutched at his stomach. The other was pressed on the intercom button on the wall beside him.

  In two bounds the doctor reached him and leaned over the back of the seat, supporting him under the armpits. Dun was swearing between his clenched teeth, quietly and viciously.

  “Take it easy, now,” said Baird. “We’d better get you away from there.”

  “I did… what you said…” Dun gasped, closing his eyes and squeezing the words out in painful jerks. “It was too late… Give me something, Doc… Give me something, quickly… Got to hold out… get us down… She’s on autopilot but… got to get down… Must tell Control… must tell…” His mouth moved silently. With a desperate effort he tried to speak. Then his eyes rolled up and he collapsed.

  “Quick, Miss Benson,” called Baird. “Help me get him out.”

  Panting and struggling, they pulled Dun’s heavy body out of the pilot’s seat and eased him on to the floor alongside the first officer. Swiftly, Baird took out his stethoscope and made an examination. In a matter of seconds Janet had produced coats and a blanket; as soon as the doctor had finished she made a pillow for the captain and wrapped him round. She was trembling as she stood up again.

  “Can you do what he asked, Doctor? Can you bring him round long enough to land the plane?”

  Baird thrust his instruments back into his pockets. He looked at the banks of dials and switches, at the control columns still moving of their own accord. In the dim light from the battery of dials his features seemed suddenly much older, and unbearably weary.

  “You are part of this crew, Miss Benson, so I’ll be blunt.” His voice was so hard that she flinched. “Can you face some unpleasant facts?”

  “I — I think so.” In spite of herself, she faltered.

  “Very well. Unless I can get all these people to a hospital quickly — very quickly — I can’t even be sure of saving their lives.”

  “But…”

  “They need stimulants, intravenous injections for shock. The captain too. He’s held out too long.”

  “Is he very bad?”

  “It will soon become critical — and that goes for the others as well.”

  Barley audible, Janet whispered, “Doctor — what are we going to do?”

  “Let me ask you a question. How many passengers are on board?”

  “Fifty-six.”

  “How many fish dinners did you serve?”

  Janet struggled to remember. “About fifteen, I think. More people had meat than fish, and some didn’t eat at all as it was so late.”

  “I see.”

  Baird regarded her steadily. When he spoke again his voice was harsh, almost belligerent.

  “Miss Benson, did you ever hear of long odds?”

  Janet tried to focus on what he was saying.

  “Long odds? Yes, I suppose so. I don’t know what it means.”

  “I’ll tell you,” said Baird. “It means this. Out of a total field of fifty-six our one chance of survival depends on there being a person aboard this airplane who is not only qualified to land it but who also didn’t have fish for dinner tonight.”

  His words hung between them as they stood there, staring at each other.

  FIVE

  0245—0300

  CALMNESS, like an anodyne cushioning the shock, descended on Janet as the words of the doctor penetrated her mind. She met his eyes steadily, well aware of his unspoken injunction to prepare herself for death.

  Until now part of her had refused to accept what was happening. While she busied herself tending the passengers and trying to comfort the sick, something had insisted that this was an evil nightmare, the sort of dream in which an everyday sequence of events is suddenly deflected into one of mounting horror by some totally unexpected but quite logical incident. At any moment, her inner voice had told her, she would wake up to find half the bedclothes on the floor and the traveling clock on her locker buzzing to herald another early-morning scramble to get ready before take-off.

  Now that sense of unreality was swept away. She knew it was happening, really happening, to her, Janet Benson, the pretty twenty-one-year-old blonde who had learned to expect the turning glances of airport staff as she walked briskly along the pine-smelling corridors. Fear had gone from her, at least for the moment. She wondered, in the passing thought of an instant, what her family at home were doing, how it was possible for her life to be extinguished in a few seconds’ madness of shrieking metal without those who had borne her feeling even a tremor as they slept peacefully a thousand miles away.

  “I understand, Doctor,” she said levelly. “Do you know of anyone on board with any experience of flying?”

  She cast her mind over the passenger list, recalling the names. “There’s no one from the airline,” she said. “I don’t know… about anyone else. I suppose I’d better start asking.”

  “Yes, you’d better,” said Baird slowly. “Whatever you do, try not to alarm them. Otherwise we may start a panic. Some of them know the first officer is sick. Just say the captain wondered if there’s someone with flying experience who could help with the radio.”

  “Very well, Doctor,” said Janet quietly. “I’ll do that.”

  She hesitated, as Baird obviously had something more to say. “Miss Benson — what’s your first name?” he asked.

  “Janet.”

  He nodded. “Janet — I think I made some remark earlier on about your training. It was unjustified and unforgivable — the comment of a stupid old man who could have done with more training himself. I’d like to take it back.”

  Some of the color returned to her cheeks as she smiled — “I’d forgotten it,” she said. She moved towards the door, anxious to begin her questioning and to know the worst as quickly as she could. But Baird’s face was puckered in an effort of concentration, as if something at the back of his mind was eluding him. He frowned at the painted emergency-escape instructions on the side of the cabin, not seeing them,

  “Wait,” he told her.

  “Yes?” She paused, her hand on the catch of the door.

  He snapped his fingers and turned to her. “I’ve got it. I knew someone had spoken to me about airplanes. That young fellow in the seat next to mine — the one who joined us at the last minute at Winnipeg—”

  “Mr. Spencer?”

  “That’s him. George Spencer. I forget exactly but he seemed to know something about flying. Get him up here, will you? Don’t tell him more than I’ve just said — we don’t want the other passengers to know the truth. But carry on asking them too, in case there’s someone else.”

  “He just offered to help me,” said Janet, “so he must be unaffected by the food.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” exclaimed Baird. “We both had meat. Get him, Janet.”

  He paced the narrow cabin nervously while she was gone, then knelt to feel the pulse of the captain lying prone and unconscious beside the first officer. At the first sound of the door behind him he jumped to his feet, blocking the entrance. Spencer stood there, looking at him in bewilderment.

  “Hullo, Doc,” the young man greeted him. “What’s this about the radio?”

  “Are you a pilot?” Baird shot out, not moving.

  “A long time ago. In the war. I wouldn’t know about radio procedures now, but if the captain thinks I can—”

  “Come in,” said Baird.

  He stepped aside, closing the door quickly behind the young man. Spencer’s head snapped up at the sight of the pilots’ empty seats and the controls moving by themselves. Then he wheeled round to the two men stretched on the floor under their blankets.

  “No!” he gasped. “Not both of them?”

  “Yes,” said Baird shortly, “both of them.”

  Spencer seemed hardly able to believe his eyes. “But — man alive” — he stuttered — “when did it happen?”

  “The captain went down a few minu
tes ago. They both had fish.”

  Spencer put out a hand to steady himself, leaning against a junction box of cables on the wall.

  “Listen,” said Baird urgently. “Can you fly this aircraft — and land it?”

  “No!” Shock stabbed at Spencer’s voice. “Definitely no! Not a chance!”

  “But you just said you flew in the war,” Baird insisted.

  “That was thirteen years ago. I haven’t touched a plane since. And I was on fighters — tiny Spitfires about an eighth of the size of this ship and with only one engine. This has four. The flying characteristics are completely different.”

  Spencer’s fingers, shaking slightly, probed his jacket for cigarettes, found a packet, and shook one out. Baird watched him as he lit up.

  “You could have a go at it,” he pressed.

  Spencer shook his head angrily. “I tell you, the idea’s crazy,” he snapped. “You don’t know what’s involved. I wouldn’t be able to take in a Spitfire now, let alone this.” He jabbed bis cigarette towards the banks of instruments.

  “It seems to me flying isn’t a thing you’d forget,” said Baird, watching him closely.

  “It’s a different kind of flying altogether. It’s — it’s like driving an articulated sixteen-wheeler truck in heavy traffic when all you’ve driven before is a fast sports job on open roads.”

  “But it’s still driving,” persisted Baird. Spencer did not answer, taking a long draw on his cigarette. Baird shrugged and half turned away. “Well,” he said, “let’s hope then there’s someone else who can fly this thing — neither of these men can.” He looked down at the pilots.

  The door opened and Janet came into the flight deck. She glanced inquiringly at Spencer, then back at the doctor. Her voice was flat.

  “There’s no one else,” she said.

  “That’s it, then,” said the doctor. He waited for Spencer to speak, but the younger man was staring forward at the row upon row of luminous dials and switches. “Mr. Spencer,” said Baird, measuring his words with deliberation, “I know nothing of flying. All I know is this. There are several people on this plane who will die within a few hours if they don’t get to hospital soon. Among those left who are physically able to fly the plane, you are the only one with any kind of qualification to do so.” He paused. “What do you suggest?”

  Spencer looked from the girl to the doctor. He asked tensely, “You’re quite sure there’s no chance of either of the pilots recovering in time?”

  “None at all, I’m afraid. Unless I can get them to hospital quickly I can’t even be sure of saving their lives.”

  The young salesman exhaled a lungful of smoke and ground the rest of his cigarette under his heel. “It looks as if I don’t have much choice, doesn’t it?” he said.

  “That’s right. Unless you’d rather we carried on until we were out of gas — probably halfway across the Pacific.”

  “Don’t kid yourself this is a better way.” Spencer stepped forward to the controls and looked ahead at the white sea of cloud below them, glistening in the moonlight. “Well,” he said, “I guess I’m drafted. You’ve got yourself a new driver, Doc.” He slipped into the lefthand pilot’s seat and glanced over his shoulder at the two behind him. “If you know any good prayers you’d better start brushing up on them.”

  Baird moved up to him and slapped his arm lightly. “Good man,” he said with feeling.

  “What are you going to tell the people back there?” asked Spencer, running his eye over the scores of gauges in front of him and racking his memory to recall some of the lessons he had learned in a past that now seemed very far away.

  “For the moment — nothing,” answered the doctor.

  “Very wise,” said Spencer dryly. He studied the bewildering array of instrument dials. “Let’s have a look at this mess. The flying instruments must be in front of each pilot. That means that the center panel will probably be engines only. Ah — here we are: altitude 20,000. Level flight. Course 290. We’re on automatic pilot — we can be thankful for that. Air speed 210 knots. Throttles, pitch, trim, mixture, landing-gear controls. Flaps? There should be an indicator somewhere. Yes, here it is. Well, they’re the essentials anyway — I hope. We’ll need a check list for landing, but we can get that on the radio.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “1 wouldn’t know, Doc — I just wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen a setup like this before in my life. Where are we now, and where are we going?”

  “From what the captain said, we’re over the Rockies,” replied Baird. “He couldn’t turn off course earlier because of fog, so we’re going through to Vancouver.”

  “We’ll have to find out” Spencer looked about him in the soft glow. “Where is the radio control, anyway?”

  Janet pointed to a switchbox above his head. “I know they use that to talk to the ground,” she told him, “but I don’t know which switches you have to set.”

  “Ah yes, let’s see.” He peered at the box. “Those are the frequency selectors — we’d better leave them where they are. What’s this? — transmit.” He clicked over a switch, lighting up a small red bulb. “That’s it. First blood to George. Now we’re ready for business.”

  Janet handed him a headset with the boom microphone attached. “I know you press the button on the mike when you speak,” she said.

  Adjusting the earphones. Spencer spoke to the doctor. “You know, whatever happens I’m going to need a second pair of hands up here in front. You’ve got your patients to look after, so I think the best choice is Miss Canada here. What do you say?”

  Baird nodded. “I agree. Is that all right, Janet?”

  “I suppose so — but I know nothing of all this.” Janet waved helplessly at the control panels.

  “Good,” said Spencer breezily, “that makes two of us. Sit down and make yourself comfortable — better strap yourself in. You must have watched the pilots quite a lot. They’ve added a lot of gimmicks since my flying days.”

  Janet struggled into the first officer’s seat, taking care not to touch the control column as it swayed back and forth. There was an anxious knocking on the communication door.

  “That’s for me,” said Baird. “I must get back. Good luck.”

  He left quickly. Alone with the stewardess, Spencer summoned up a grin. “Okay?” he asked.

  She nodded dumbly, preparing to put on a headset.

  “The name’s Janet, is it? Mine’s George.” Spencer’s tone became serious. “I won’t fool you, Janet. This will be tough.”

  “I know it.”

  “Well, let’s see if I can send out a distress call. What’s our flight number?”

  “714.”

  “Right. Here goes, then.” He pressed the button on his microphone. “Mayday, mayday, mayday,” he began in an even voice. It was one signal he could never forget. He had called it one murky October afternoon above the French coast, with the tail of his Spitfire all but shot off, and two Hurricanes had mercifully appeared to usher him across the channel like a pair of solicitous old aunts.

  “Mayday, mayday, mayday,” he continued. “This is Flight 714, Maple Leaf Air Charter, in distress. Come in, anyone. Over.”

  He caught his breath as a voice responded immediately over the air.

  “Hullo, 714. This is Vancouver. We have been waiting to hear from you. Vancouver to all aircraft: this frequency now closed to all other traffic. Go ahead, 714.”

  “Thank you, Vancouver. 714. We are in distress. Both pilots and several passengers… how many passengers, Janet?”

  “It was five a few minutes ago. May be more now, though.”

  “Correction. At least five passengers are suffering from food poisoning. Both pilots are unconscious and in serious condition. We have a doctor with us who says that neither pilot can be revived to fly the aircraft. If they and the passengers are not gotten to hospital quickly it may be fatal for them. Did you get that, Vancouver?”

  The voice crackled back instantly, “Go
ahead, 714. I’m reading you.”

  Spencer took a deep breath. “Now we come to the interestmg bit. My name is Spencer, George Spencer. I am a passenger on this airplane. Correction: I was a passenger. I am now the pilot. For your information I have about a thousand hours total flying time, all of it on single-engined fighters. Also I haven’t flown an airplane for nearly thirteen years. So you’d better get someone on this radio who can give me some instructions about flying this thing. Our altitude is 20,000, course 290 magnetic, air speed 210. That’s the story. It’s your move, Vancouver. Over.”

  “Vancouver to 714. Stand by.”

  Spencer wiped the gathering sweat from his forehead and grinned across to Janet. “Want to bet that’s caused a bit of stir in the dovecotes down there?” She shook her head, listening intently to her earphones. In a few seconds the air was alive again, the voice as measured and impersonal as before.

  “Vancouver to Flight 714. Please check with doctor on board for any possibility of either pilot recovering. This is important. Repeat, this is important. Ask him to do everything possible to revive one of them even if he has to leave the sick passengers. Over.”

  Spencer pressed his transmit button. “Vancouver, this is flight 714. Your message is understood, but no go, I’m afraid. The doctor says there is no possibility whatever of pilots recovering to make the landing. He says they are critically ill and may die unless they get hospital treatment soon. Over.”

  There was a slight pause. Then: “Vancouver Control to 714. Your message understood. Will you stand by, please.”

  “Roger, Vancouver,” acknowledged Spencer and switched off again. He said to Janet, “We can only wait now while they think up what to do.”

  His hands played nervously with the control column in front of him, following its movements, trying to gauge its responsiveness as he attempted to call up the old cunning in him, the flying skill that had once earned for him quite a reputation in the squadron: three times home on a wing and a prayer. He smiled to himself as he recalled the war-time phrase. But in the next moment, as he looked blankly at the monstrous assembly of wavering needles and the unfamiliar banks of levers and switches, he felt himself in the grip of an icy despair. What had his flying in common with this? This was like sitting in a submarine, surrounded by the meaningless dials and instruments of science fiction. One wrong or clumsy move might shatter in a second the even tenor of their flight; if it did, who was to say that he could bring the aircraft under control again? All the chances were that he couldn’t. This time there would be no comforting presence of Hurricanes to shepherd him home. He began to curse the head office which had whipped him away from Winnipeg to go trouble-shooting across to Vancouver at a moment’s notice. The prospect of a sales manager’s appointment and the lure of a house on Parkway Heights now seemed absurdly trivial and unimportant. It would be damnable to end like this, not to see Mary again, not to say to her all the things that were still unspoken. As for Bobsie and Kit, the life insurance would not take them very far. He should have done more for those poor kids, the world’s best.