“I don’t understand.”
Maybe I don’t either, Treleaven thought to himself five minutes later, seated in the back of a police car as it pulled away from the sidewalk and slammed viciously into top gear. Street lights flashed past them in ever quickening succession; the speedometer crept steadily round to seventy, five as the siren sliced into the night.
“Looks like a big night over at the field,” remarked the police sergeant beside the driver, talking over his shoulder.
“So I gather,” said Treleaven. “Can you fill me in on exactly what’s happening?”
“Search me.” The sergeant spat out of the window. “All I know is that every available car has been sent over to the airport to work from there in case the bridge estate has to be cleared. We were on our way there too until they stopped us and sent us back for you. I’d say they’re expecting a hell of a bang.”
“You know what?” interjected the young driver. “It’s my guess there’s a busted-up Stratojet coming in with a nuclear bombload.”
“Do me a favor,” said the sergeant with heavy scorn. “Your trouble is you read too many comics.”
Never, Treleaven reflected grimly to himself, had he reached the airport so quickly. In no time, or so it seemed, they had reached Marpole and crossed Oak Bridge to Lulu Island. Then, bearing right, they crossed the river estuary again to Sea Island and past occasional police cruisers whose crews were already talking to bewildered house owners in doorways, until they were speeding along the last stretch of Airport Road, the lights of the long, low airport buildings beckoning them on. They braked suddenly, with a protesting screech of tires, to avoid a fire truck which was making a leisurely U-turn ahead of them. The sergeant swore, briefly but with feeling.
At the main reception building, Treleaven was out of the car, through the doors and had crossed the concourse before the wail of the siren died. Waving aside the commissionaire who hurried across to meet him, he made his way directly to the control room in the administration block. He could move remarkably fast for a man of his size. It was probably that loose-limbed agility which combined with a solidly built physique, lank fair hair and hard lean features, to make him an object of interest to many women. His features, angular and crooked, looked as if they had been inexpertly carved from a chunk of wood. Treleaven had a considerable reputation as a disciplinarian and more than one erring crew member had had cause to fear the cold light in those pale, almost watery-blue eyes.
He entered Control as Burdick was speaking anxiously and deferentially on the telephone.
“… No, sir, he isn’t qualified. He flew single-engine fighters in the war; nothing since… I’ve asked them that. This doctor on board says…”
The controller stepped quickly over to greet Treleaven. “I’m certainly glad to see you, Captain,” he said.
Treleaven nodded towards Burdick. “Is that the fellow in the Empress he’s talking about?” he asked.
“Yes. He’s just got his president out of bed in Montreal. The old man sounds far from happy about it — and so am I. The call shouldn’t have come in here. Hurry it up, Harry, will you?”
“What else can we do?” pleaded Burdick into the telephone, sweating profusely. “We’ve got to talk him down. I’ve located Cross-Canada’s chief pilot, Captain Treleaven — he just walked in the door now. We’ll get on the radio with a check list and try to bring him in… We’ll do the best we can, sir… Of course it’s a terrible risk, but can you think of something better?”
Treleaven took from the dispatcher the clipboard of messages from 714 and read them carefully. With a quiet request, “Weather,” he then consulted the latest meteorological reports. This done, he laid the papers down, raised his eyebrows somberly at the controller, and produced his pipe which he proceeded to fill. Burdick was still speaking.
“… I’ve thought of that, sir. Howard will handle the press at this end — they aren’t on to it yet… Yes, yes, we’ve suspended food service on all flights ex Winnipeg. That’s all we know. I called you right away…”
“What do you think?” the controller asked Treleaven.
The pilot shrugged without answering and picked up the clipboard again. His face was set in deep lines as he read the messages again, drawing steadily on his pipe. A young man backed into the room, holding the door open with his leg as he maneuvered a tray bearing cardboard cartons of coffee. He handed a carton to the controller and set another down in front of Treleaven. The pilot ignored it.
“…ETA is 05.05 Pacific Time,” Burdick was saying with increasing exasperation. “I’ve a lot to do, sir… I’ll have to get on with it… I’ll call you… I’ll call you as soon as I know anything more… Yes, yes… G’bye.” Putting down the telephone, he blew out his cheeks with relief. Turning to Treleaven, he said, “Thank you very much for coming, Captain. Have you got it all?”
Treleaven held up the clipboard. “This is the whole story?”
“That’s everything we know. Now I want you to get on the horn and talk this guy down. You’ll have to let him get the feel of the airplane on the way, you’ll have to give him the landing check, you’ll have to talk him on to the approach, and — so help me! — you’ll have to talk him right down on to the ground. Can you do it?”
“I can’t perform a miracle,” said Treleaven evenly. “You know that the chances of a man who has only flown fighter airplanes landing a four-engine passenger ship are pretty slim, to say the least?”
“Of course I know it!” Burdick exploded. “You heard what I told Barnard. But do you have any other ideas?”
“No,” Treleaven said slowly, “I guess not. I just wanted to be sure you knew what we were getting into.”
“Listen,” shouted Burdick angrily. “There’s a ship full of people up there, some of them dying, including the pilots. The biggest air disaster in years, that’s what we’re getting into!”
“Keep your temper,” said Treleaven coldly. “We’ll get nowhere fast by shouting.” He glanced down at the clipboard and then at the wall map. “This is going to be very tough and a very long shot,” he said. “I want that fully understood.”
“All right, gentlemen,” said the controller. “You are perfectly right to emphasize the risk, Captain. We fully accept that.”
“What choice is there?” Burdick demanded.
“Very well, then,” said Treleaven. “Let’s get started.” He walked over to the radio operator. “Can you work 714 direct?”
“Yes, Captain. Reception’s good. We can call them any time.”
“Do it then.”
The operator switched to transmit. “Flight 714. This is Vancouver. Do you read? Over.”
“Yes, Vancouver,” came Spencer’s voice through the amplifier. “We hear you clearly. Go ahead, please.”
The operator handed the stand microphone to Treleaven. “Okay, Captain. It’s all yours.”
“Am I on the air?”
“Go ahead now.”
Holding the stand microphone in his hand, its cable trailing to the floor, Treleaven turned his back on the other men in the room. Legs braced apart, he stared unseeingly at a point on the wall map, his cold eyes distant in concentration. His voice, when he spoke, was steady and unhurried, easy with a confidence he did not feel. As he began, the other men visibly relaxed, as if his natural authority had temporarily relieved them of a crushing responsibility.
“Hullo, Flight 714,” he said. “This is Vancouver. My name is Paul Treleaven and I’m a Cross-Canada Airlines captain. My job is to help you fly this airplane in. We shouldn’t have too much trouble. I see that I’m talking to George Spencer. I’d like to hear a little more about your flying experience, George.”
Behind him, the flabby folds of Burdick’s honest face had begun to shake in an uncontrollable spasm of nervous reaction.
SEVEN
0325—0420
SPENCER TENSED, shooting an involuntary glance at the girl in the seat beside him. Her eyes, in the greenish glow of the instru
ment panel, were fixed on his face. He looked away again, listening intently.
Treleaven was saying, “For instance, how many flying hours have you had? The message here says you’ve flown single-engine fighters. Have you had any experience at all of multi-engine planes? Let’s hear from you, George.”
Spencer’s mouth was so dry when he replied that at first he could hardly speak. He cleared his throat.
“Hullo, Vancouver. 714 here. Glad to have you along, Captain. But let’s not kid each other, please. I think we both know the situation. My flying up to now has been entirely on single-engine aircraft, Spitfires and Mustangs — I’d say about a thousand hours in all. But that was thirteen years ago. I’ve touched nothing since. Do you understand that? Over.”
“Don’t worry about that, George. It’s like riding a bicycle — you never forget it. Stand by, will you?”
In the Vancouver Control, Treleaven pressed the cutout button on the arm of the microphone in his hand and looked at a slip of paper the controller held out for him to read.
“Try to get him on this course,” said the controller. “The Air Force have just sent in a radar check.” He paused. “Sounds pretty screwed up, doesn’t he?”
“Yes — who wouldn’t be, in his shoes?” Treleaven grimaced reflectively. “We’ve got to give him confidence,” he said. “Without that there isn’t a chance. Whatever happens, he mustn’t lose his nerve. Keep it down, will you?” to the controller’s assistant who was talking on the telephone. “If this guy doesn’t hear me clearly he’ll be in trouble fast and there will be nothing we can do about it.” Then, to the dispatcher, “Okay. Make damn sure you don’t lose them on the air.” He released the cutout. “714. This is Treleaven. You are still on autopilot, right?”
“Yes, that’s so, Captain,” came the reply.
“All right, George. In a minute you can disengage the autopilot and get the feel of the controls. When you’ve had a bit of practice with them you are going to change your course a little. Listen very carefully, though, before you touch them. When you start handling the airplane the controls will seem very heavy and sluggish compared with a fighter. Don’t let that worry you. It’s quite normal. You’ve got a lot of airplane up there, so take it nice and steady. Watch your air speed all the time you are flying and don’t let it fall below 120 knots while your wheels and flaps are up, otherwise you’ll stall. I’ll repeat that. Make absolutely sure at all times that your air speed doesn’t fall below 120 knots. Now, one other thing. Do you have someone up there who can work the radio and leave you free for flying?”
“Yes, Vancouver. I have the stewardess here with me and she’ll take over the radio now. It’s all yours, Janet.”
“Hullo, Vancouver. This is the stewardess, Janet Benson. Over.”
“Why, it’s you, Janet,” said Treleaven. “I’d know that voice anywhere. You’re going to talk to George for me, are you? Good. Now Janet, I want you to keep your eyes on that air-speed indicator. Remember that an airplane stays in the air because of its forward speed. If you let the speed drop too low, it stalls — and falls out of the air. Any time the ASI shows a reading near 120, you tell George instantly. Is that clear, Janet?”
“Yes, Captain. I understand.”
“Back to you, George. Take this slowly and smoothly. I want you to unlock the autopilot — it’s clearly marked on the control column — and take the airplane yourself, holding her straight and level. George, you watch the artificial horizon and keep the air speed steady. Climb and descent indicator should stay at zero. All right. Start now.”
Spencer put his right forefinger over the autopilot release button on the control column. His face was rigid. Feet on the rudder bar and both arms ready, braced, he steeled himself for what might come.
“Tell him I’m switching over now,” he told Janet. She repeated the message. His hand wavered for a moment on the button. Then, decisively, he pressed it hard. The aircraft swung a little to port but he corrected the tendency gently and she responded well enough to his feet on the rudder bar. The vibration from the controls seemed to flow through his body like an electric current.
“Tell him okay,” he gasped, his nerves taut as cables.
“714 here. We’re flying straight and level.” Janet’s voice sounded miraculously sweet and calm to him.
“Well done, George. As soon as you’ve got the feel of her, try some very gentle turns, not more than two or three degrees. Can you see the turn indicator? It’s almost directly in front of your eyes and slightly to the right, just by the panel-light shield. Over.” Treleaven’s eyes were closed with the effort of visualizing the cockpit layout. He opened them and spoke to the dispatcher. “Listen. I’ve got a lot of work to do with this man in the air, but we ought to start planning the approach and landing while there’s plenty of time. Get the chief radar operator up here, will you, and let me talk to him.”
Very gingerly Spencer extended his left leg and eased the control column over. This time it seemed an age before the aircraft responded to his touch and he saw the horizon indicator tilt. Gratified, he tried the other way; but now the movement was alarming. He looked down at the ASI and was shocked to see that it had dropped to 180 knots. Quickly he eased the control column forward. Then he breathed again as the speed rose slowly to 210. He would have to treat the controls with the utmost respect until he really understood the time lag; that was evident. Again he tried a shallow turn and pushed at the resisting weight of the rudder to hold it steady. Gradually he felt the ship answer. Then he straightened up, so as to keep approximately on the course they had been steering before.
Janet had lifted her eyes momentarily from the instrument panel to ask in a small voice, “How is it?”
Spencer tried to grin, without much success. The thought passed through his mind that this was rather like his days on the Link trainer all over again, only then nearly sixty lives did not hang in the balance and the instructor was not more than a few feet away in the same room. “Tell him I’m on manual and doing gentle turns, coming back on course each time,” he said.
Janet gave the message.
“I should have asked you this before,” came Treleaven’s voice. “What kind of weather are you in up there?”
“It’s clear where we are right now,” answered Janet. “Except below us, of course.”
“Uh-huh. You’d better keep me informed. Now, George, we have to press on. You may hit some cloud layer at any time, with a little turbulence. If you do, I want you to be ready for it. How does she handle?”
Spencer looked across to Janet. “Tell him — sluggish as hell, like a wet sponge,” he said between clenched teeth.
“Hullo, Vancouver. As sluggish as a wet sponge,” repeated Janet.
For a few brief seconds the tension at Vancouver Control eased and the group standing round the radio panel exchanged smiles.
“That’s a natural feeling, George,” said Treleaven, serious again, “because you were used to smaller airplanes. You’ll have to expect it to feel even worse when you really throw her around up there, but you’ll soon get used to it.”
The dispatcher cut in, “I’ve the radar chief here.”
“He’ll have to wait,” said Treleaven. “I’ll talk to him as soon as I get a break.”
“Right.”
“Hullo, George,” called Treleaven. “You must avoid any violent movements of the controls, such as you used to make in your fighter airplanes. If you do move the controls violently, you will over-correct and be in trouble. Is that understood? Over.”
“Yes, Vancouver, we understand. Over.”
“Now, George, I want you to try the effect of fore-and-aft control on your air speed. To start with, adjust your throttle setting so as to reduce speed to 160 and cruise straight and level. But watch the air speed closely. Keep it over 120. The elevator trim is just to your right on the control pedestal and the aileron trim is below the throttles, near the floor. Got it? Over.”
Spencer checked with his
hand, holding the plane steady with the other and with braced legs. “Right. Tell him I’m reducing speed.”
“Okay, Vancouver, we’re doing as you say.” Time ticked away as the speed slowly dropped. At 160 George adjusted the trim tabs and held up his thumb to Janet.
“714 here, Vancouver. 160 knots on the indicator.”
Treleaven waited until he had struggled out of his jacket before speaking. “Right, George. Try a little up and down movement. Use the control column as carefully as if it were full of eggs and watch the speed. Keep it at 160. Get the feel of the thing as you go along. Over.” He put the microphone down. “Where’s the radar chief?”
“Here.”
“At what range will this aircraft show on your scope?” queried Treleaven.
“Sixty miles, thereabouts, Captain.”
“That’s no good for a while, then. Well,” said Treleaven, partly to himself, partly to Burdick, “you can’t have everything at once. I’ve had to assume that he’s still heading in a general westerly direction. Next call, though, we’ll check his heading.”
“Yeah,” said Burdick. He offered a cigarette, which the pilot refused.
“If he’s stayed on the same heading,” continued Treleaven, looking at the wall map, “he can’t be that much off course, and we can straighten him up when he gets in our radar range. That Air Force check is a help.”
“Can’t he come in on the beam?” asked Burdick.
“Right now he’s got enough to worry about. If I try to get him on the beam, he’ll have to mess around with the radio, changing frequencies and a lot of other stuff. I’d sooner take a chance, Harry, and let him go a few miles off course.”
“That makes sense,” Burdick conceded.
“Here’s how we’ll handle it,” said the pilot. He turned to the radar chief. “I’ll do the talking. He’s getting used to me now.”
“Right, sir.”
“As soon as he shows up on your scope, you can feed me the information and I’ll relay it. Can you fix up a closed circuit between me and the radar room?”
Runway Zero-Eight Page 8
