Runway Zero-Eight

by Arthur Hailey

  “We can take care of that,” said the dispatcher.

  “How about the final approach?” asked the radar chief.

  “We’ll handle that the same way,” said Treleaven. “Directly we’ve got him on the scope and he’s steady on course, we’ll move to the tower. You report up there and we’ll decide on the runway and plan the approach.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Treleaven picked up the microphone but waited, his eye catching that of the controller, who was replacing a telephone in its cradle.

  “Dr. Davidson is downstairs,” the controller told him.

  “What does he have to say?”

  “From the information we’ve got he agrees with the diagnosis of the doctor in the plane. Seemed to wonder at first if it could be an outbreak of botulism.”

  “What’s that, for Pete’s sake?”

  “Some very serious kind of food poisoning, apparently. Shall we get the doctor up here and put him on the air?”

  “No, Mr. Grimsell. It’s more important right now to fly this airplane. We’ll leave it to them to call for medical advice if they want it. I don’t want Spencer’s mind distracted from the job if I can possibly help it. I should have Davidson stand by in case he’s needed.” Treleaven spoke into the microphone. “Hullo, George Spencer. Don’t forget that lag in the controls. Just take it steadily. Do you understand that?”

  There was a pause. Then, “He understands, Vancouver. Over.”

  To Spencer it seemed as if the airline captain must have read his thoughts. He had moved the column slowly forward, and then back again, but there had been no response from the aircraft. Now he tried again, easing the stick away from him. Imperceptibly at first, the nose of the aircraft began to dip. Then, so suddenly that he was momentarily paralyzed with shock, it plunged downwards. Janet bit hard on her lip to avoid screaming. The ASI needle began to swing round… 180… 190… 200… 220. Putting all his weight on the column, Spencer fought to bring the aircraft back. In front of him the instrument panel seemed alive. The climb-and-descent indicator quivered against the bottom of the glass. The little facsimile of a plane on the artificial horizon had depressed its port wing and remained in that position, frighteningly. On the face of the altimeter the 100-foot hand whirred backwards; the 1,000-foot hand less quickly but still terrifyingly fast; while the 10,000-foot needle had already stopped, jammed at its nadir.

  “Come on, you slug, come on!” he shouted as the nose at last responded. He watched the three altimeter needles begin with agonizing slowness to wind up again, registering gradually increasing height. “Made it!” he said in relief to Janet, forgetting that he was overcorrecting.

  “Watch it — watch the speed,” she exclaimed.

  His eyes flicked back to the dial, now rapidly falling again. 160… 150… 140. Then he had it. With a sigh the aircraft settled down on to an even keel once more and he brought it into straight and level flight.

  “Jeeze, that was nasty,” he muttered.

  Janet was still checking the ASI. “160. That’s all right now.”

  The door to the flight deck opened behind them and Dr. Baird’s voice called, “What’s wrong?”

  Spencer answered loudly, not removing his eyes from the panel, “Sorry, Doc. I’m trying to get the feel of her.”

  “Well, take it as easy as you can, will you? Things are bad enough back here. How are you doing?”

  “Fine, just fine, Doc,” said Spencer, licking his lips. The door closed again and Treleaven’s voice came on the air. “Hullo, George Spencer. Everything okay? Over.”

  “All under control, Vancouver,” replied Janet.

  “Good. What’s your present heading, George?”

  Spencer peered down. “Tell him the magnetic compass is still showing about 290 and I’ve been keeping fairly steady on that.” She did so.

  “Very well, George. Try to stay on that heading. You may be a little out, but I’ll tell you when to correct. Right now I want you to feel how the ship handles at lower speeds when the flaps and wheels are down. But don’t do anything until I give you the instructions. Is that clear? Over.”

  Janet got Spencer’s nod and asked Treleaven to proceed.

  “Hullo, 714. First of all, throttle back slightly, not much, and get your air speed steady at 160 knots. Adjust your trim to maintain level flight. Then tell me when you’re ready. Over.”

  Spencer straightened himself and called over, “Watch that air speed, Janet. You’ll have to call it off to me when we land, so you may as well start practicing now.”

  “It’s on 190,” Janet recited. “200… 190… He said 160, Mr. Spencer.”

  “I know, I know. I’m going to throttle back a bit.”

  He reached out for the throttles and eased them back. “What is it, Janet? What’s the speed?”

  “190, 180, 175, 170, 165, 155, 150… That’s too low!”

  “I know. Watch it! Watch it!”

  His hand nursed the throttle levers, almost caressing them into the exact positioning to achieve the speed he wanted. Janet’s eyes were riveted on the flickering needle of the dial.

  “150, 150, 155, 160… it’s steady on 160.”

  Spencer puffed out his cheeks. “Phew! That’s got it. Tell him, Jan.”

  “Hullo, Vancouver. Our speed is steady on 160. Over.”

  Treleavan sounded impatient, as if he had expected them to be ready before this. “Okay, 714. Now, George. I want you to put on 15 degrees of flap, but be careful not to make it any more. The flap lever is at the base of the control pedestal and marked plainly: 15 degrees will mean moving the lever down to the second notch. The flap-indicator dial is in the center of the panel — the main panel. Have you got both of those? Can you see them? Over.”

  Spencer located the lever. “Confirm that,” he told Janet, “but you’d better do it. Right?”

  She acknowledged to Vancouver and sat waiting, her hand on the lever.

  “Hullo, 714. When I tell you, push it all the way down and watch that dial. When the needle reaches 15 degrees, pull the lever up and leave it at the second notch. You’ll have to watch and be ready for it. Those flaps come down in a hurry. All clear?”

  “We’re ready, Vancouver,” said Janet.

  “Right. Go ahead, then.”

  She prepared to depress the lever, then jerked her head up in alarm.

  “The air speed! It’s down to 125.”

  Spencer’s eyes flicked over to the air-speed indicator. Then desperately he pushed the control column forward. “Call it off!” he roared. “Call it off!”

  The lurch of the aircraft brought their stomachs to their mouths. Janet almost crouched in front of the panel, intoning the figures.

  “135, 140, 150, 160, 170, 175… Can’t you get it back to 160?”

  “I’m trying, I’m trying.” Again he levelled off and jockeyed the controls until the ASI had been coaxed back to the reading required. He passed his sleeve hurriedly over his forehead, afraid to remove his hand from the column for long enough to get out a handkerchief. “There it is. 160, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s better.”

  “That was close.” He sat back in his seat. “Look, let’s relax for a minute, after that.” He managed to muster up a smile. “You can see the kind of pilot I am. I should have known that would happen.”

  “No, it was my job to watch the air speed.” She took a deep breath to steady her pounding heart “I think you’re doing wonderfully,” she said. Her voice shook slightly.

  It was not lost on Spencer. He said quickly and with exaggerated heartiness, “You can’t say I didn’t warn you. Come on, then, Janet. Let’s get going.”

  “Hullo, George,” Treleaven’s voice crackled in the earphones. “Are your flaps down yet?”

  “We’re just about to put them down, Captain,” said Janet.

  “Hold it. I omitted to tell you that when the flaps are down you will lose speed. Bring it back to 140. Over.”

  “Well, I’ll be —!” S
pencer ejaculated. “That’s mighty nice of him. He cut it pretty fine.”

  “It’s probably hectic down there,” said Janet, who had a very good idea of the scene taking place at the airport. “Thank you, Captain,” she said, transmitting. “We’re starting now. Over.” At a nod from Spencer she pushed the lever down as far as it would go, while Spencer watched the indicator carefully.

  “Right. Now back to second notch.”

  With infinite caution he cajoled the ASI needle until it rested steadily at 140.

  “Tell him, Janet”

  “Hullo, Vancouver. Our flaps are down 15 degrees and the air speed is 140.”

  “714. Are you still maintaining level flight?”

  Spencer nodded to her. “Tell him, yes — well, more or less, anyway.”

  “Hullo, Vancouver. More or less.”

  “Okay, 714. Now the next thing is to put the wheels down. Then you’ll get the feel of the airplane as it will be when you’re landing. Try to keep your altitude steady and your speed at 140. When you are ready — and make sure you are ready — put down the landing gear and let the speed come back to 120. You will probably have to advance your throttle setting to maintain that air speed, and also adjust the trim. Is that understood? Tell me if you are doubtful about anything. Over.”

  “Ask him,” said Spencer, “what about propeller controls and mixture?”

  At Janet’s question, Treleaven said in an aside to Burdick, “Well, this guy’s thinking, anyway. For the time being,” he said into the microphone, “leave them alone. Just concentrate on holding that air speed steady with the wheels and flaps down. Later on I’ll give you a full cockpit check for landing. Over.”

  “Tell him, understood,” said Spencer. “We’re putting down the wheels now.” He looked apprehensively at the selector lever by his leg. It seemed a much better idea to keep both hands on the column. “Look, Janet, I think you’d better work the undercart lever and call off the air speed as the wheels come down.”

  Janet complied. The arrest in their forward flight was so pronounced that it was like applying a brake, jerking them in their seats.

  “130, 125, 120, 115… It’s too low.”

  “Keep calling!”

  “115, 120, 120… Steady on 120.”

  “I’ll get this thing yet,” Spencer panted. “She’s like the Queen Mary.”

  Treleaven’s voice came up, with a hint of anxiety. “All okay, George? Your wheels should be down by now.”

  “Wheels down, Vancouver.”

  “Look for three green lights to show you that they’re locked. Also there’s a pressure gauge on the extreme left of the center panel, and the needle should be in the green range. Check.”

  “Are they on?” asked Spencer. Janet looked and nodded. “Better tell him, then.”

  “Yes, Vancouver. All correct.”

  “And say she still handles like a wet sponge, only more so.”

  “Hullo, Vancouver. The pilot says she still handles like a sponge, only more so.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Now we’ll put on full flaps, shall we, and then you’ll have the proper feel of the aircraft on landing. You’ll soon get the hang of it. Now follow me closely. Put full flap on, bring your air speed back to 110 knots and trim to hold you steady. Adjust the throttle to maintain the altitude. Then I’ll give you instructions for holding your height and air speed while you raise the landing gear and flaps. Over.”

  “Did you say 110, Captain?” Janet queried nervously.

  “110 is correct, Janet. Follow me exactly and you’ll have nothing to worry about. Are you quite clear, George?”

  “Tell him, yes. We are putting on full flap now.”

  Once more her hand pushed hard on the flap lever and the air speed started to fall.

  “120, 115, 115, 110, 110…”

  Spencer’s voice was tight with the effort of will he was imposing on himself. “All right, Janet. Let him know. By God, she’s a ton weight.”

  “Hullo, Vancouver. Flaps are full on and the air speed is 110. Mr. Spencer says she is heavier than ever.”

  “Nice going, George. We’ll make an airline pilot of you yet. Now we’ll get you back to where you were and then run through the procedure again, with certain variations regarding props, mixture, boosters, and so on. Okay? Over.”

  “Again!” Spencer groaned. “I don’t know if I can take it. All right, Janet.”

  “Okay, Vancouver. We’re ready.”

  “Right, 714. Using the reverse procedure, adjust your flaps to read 15 degrees and speed 120 knots. You will have to throttle back slightly to keep that speed. Go ahead.”

  Reaching down, Janet grasped the flap lever and gave it a tug. It failed to move. She bent closer and tried again.

  “What is it?” asked Spencer.

  “Sort of stiff. I can’t seem to move it this time.”

  “Shouldn’t be. Give it a good steady pull.”

  “It must be me. I just can’t make it budge.”

  “Here. Let me.” He took bis hand off the column and pulled the lever back effortlessly. “There, you see. You’ve got to have the touch. Now if you’ll just rest it in the second—”

  “Look out!” she screamed. “The air speed!”

  It was 90, moving to 75.

  Bracing himself against the sudden acute angle of the flight deck, Spencer knew they were in a bad stall, an incipient spin. Keep your head, he ordered himself savagely — think. If she spins, we’re finished. Which way is the stall? It’s to the left. Try to remember what they taught you at flying school. Stick forward and hard opposite rudder. Stick forward. Keep it forward. We’re gaining speed. Opposite rudder. Now! Watch the instruments. They can’t be right — I can feel us turning! No — trust them. You must trust them. Be ready to straighten. That’s it. Come on. Come on, lady, come on.

  “The mountains!” exclaimed Janet. “I can see the ground!”

  Ease back. Ease back. Not too fast. Hold the air speed steady. We’re coming out… we’re coming out! It worked! It worked! We’re coming out!

  “105, 110, 115…” Janet read off in a strangled tone. “It’s completely black now. We must be in fog or something.”

  “Get the wheels up!”

  “The mountains! We must—”

  “Get the wheels up, I said!” The door to the flight deck crashed open. There were sounds of crying and angry voices.

  “What are they doing?” came a yell from a woman.

  “There’s something wrong! I’m going to find out what it is!”

  “Get back to your seat.” This was Baird’s voice.

  “Let me through!”

  The silhouette of a man filled the doorway, peering into the darkness of the flight deck. He lurched forward, grabbing hold of anything to keep himself upright, and stared in petrified disbelief at the back of Spencer’s head and then down at the prostrate figures of the two men on the floor. For a moment his mouth worked soundlessly. Then he impelled himself back to the open doorway and gripped the jamb on both sides as he leaned through it.

  His voice was a shriek.

  “He’s not the pilot! We shall all be killed! We’re going to crash!”

  EIGHT

  0420—0435

  WREATHED IN woolly haloes, the neon lights at the entrance to the reception building at Vancouver Airport glistened back from the wet driveway. Usually quiet at this pre-dawn hour of the night, except for the periodic arrival or departure of an airport coach, the wide sweep of asphalt now presented a very different scene. At the turnoff from the main highway into the airport approach on the mainland side of the river, a police cruiser stood angled partly across the road, its roof light blinking a constant warning. Those cars which had been allowed through along Airport Road were promptly waved by a patrolman to parking spaces well clear of the entrance to Reception. Some of their occupants remained out in the damp night air for a while, talking in low voices and stamping the ground occasionally to keep warm, in order to watch the a
rrival from time to time of fire rigs and ambulances as they halted for a few seconds to receive directions to their assembly points. A gleaming red salvage truck engaged gear and roared away, and in the small pool of silence immediately following its noise the sound of a car radio carried clearly across for several yards.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, here is a late bulletin from Vancouver Airport. The authorities here stress that although the Maple Leaf Airline flight is being brought in by an inexperienced pilot, there is no cause for alarm or panic in the city. All precautions are being taken to warn residents in the airport area and at this moment emergency help is streaming out to Sea Island. Stay with this station for further announcements.”

  A mud-streaked Chevrolet braked harshly at the reception building, swung over to the parking lot, its tires squealing viciously on the asphalt, and stopped abruptly. On the lefthand side of its windscreen was pasted a red sticker, PRESS. A big man, thickset with graying hair, and wearing an open trench coat, got out and slammed the door. He walked rapidly over to Reception, nodded to the patrolman and hurried inside. Dodging two interns in white medical coats, he looked round for the Maple Leaf Airline desk and made his way over to it quickly. Two men stood there in discussion with a uniformed staff member of the airline, and at the touch of the big man one of them turned, smiling briefly in greeting.

  “What’s the score, Terry?” asked the big man.

  “I’ve given the office what I’ve got, Mr. Jessup,” said the other man, who was very much younger. “This is Ralph Jessup — Canadian International News,” he added to the passenger agent.

  “Who’s handling it here?” asked Jessup.

  “I think Mr. Howard is about to make a statement in the press room,” said the passenger agent.

  “Let’s go,” said Jessup. He took the younger man by the arm and drew him away. “Is the office sending up a camera team?” he asked.

  “Yes, but there’ll be a pretty full coverage by everyone. Even the newsreels may make it in time.”

  “H’m. Remind the office to cover the possible evacuation of houses over near the bridge. The same man can stay on the boundary of the field. If he climbs the fence he may get one or two lucky shots of the crash — and get away quicker than the others. What about this guy who is flying the plane?”