As Treleaven went on, his voice filling the hushed control tower, Burdick moved to the plate glass window, searching the sky low on the horizon. The dawn light was murky, retarded by thick cloud banks. He heard Treleaven instruct a gentle 180-degree turn to the left, to bring the aircraft back for its last approach, impressing on Spencer to take it slowly and easily while the last checks were carried out. The captain’s precise monotone formed a somber background to the thoughts of the frantically worried airline manager.
“This,” he said to an operator sitting nearby, “is a real tight one.” The operator grimaced. “One thing’s for sure,” said Burdick. “Whatever happens in the next two or three minutes, there’ll be hell let loose around here.” He patted his trousers for cigarettes, thought better of it, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Now advance your propeller settings,” Treleaven was saying, “so that the tachometers give a reading of twenty-two fifty r.p.m. on each engine. Don’t acknowledge.”
“Twenty-two fifty,” Spencer repeated to himself, watching the dials closely as he made the adjustment. “Janet,” he said, “Let me hear the air speed.”
“It’s 130…” she began tonelessly, “125… 120…125… 130….”
In the control tower Treleaven listened on his headphones to the steady voice from the radar room. “Height is still unsteady. Nine hundred feet.”
“George,” said Treleaven, “let your air speed come back to 120 knots and adjust your trim. I’ll repeat that. Air speed 120.” He looked down at his watch. “Take it nice and easy, now.”
“Still losing height,” reported the radar operator. “800 feet… 750… 700….”
“You’re losing height!” rapped out Treleaven. “You’re losing height. Open up — open up! You must keep at around one thousand.”
Janet continued her reading of the air speed:
“110… 110… 105… 110… 110… 120… 120… 120… steady at 120…”
“Come up… come up!” gritted Spencer between his teeth, hauling on the control column. “What a lumbering, great wagon this is! It doesn’t respond! It doesn’t respond at all.”
“125… 130… 130… steady on 130….”
“Height coming up to 900 feet,” intoned the radar operator. “950… on 1,000 now. Maintain 1,000.”
Treleaven called to the tower controller, “He’s turning on to final. Put out your runway lights, except zero-eight.” He spoke into the microphone. “Straighten out on a heading between 074 and 080. Watch your air speed and your height. Keep at a thousand feet until I tell you.”
In one series after another, the strings of lights half-sunken into the grass beside the runways flicked off, leaving just one line on either side of the main landing strip.
“Come out of your turn, George, when you’re ready,” said Treleaven, “and line up with the runway you’ll see directly ahead of you. It’s raining, so you’ll want your windshield wipers. The switch is down at the right on the copilot’s side and is clearly marked.”
“Find it, Janet,” said Spencer.
“Hold your height at a thousand feet, George. We’ve taken you a long way out, so you have lots of time. Have Janet look for the landing light switch. It’s in the panel overhead, a little left of center. Hold your height steady.”
“Can you find the switch?” asked Spencer.
“Just a minute… yes, I’ve got it.”
Spencer stole a quick look ahead. “My God,” he breathed. The lights of the runway, brilliant pinpoints in the blue-gray overcast of dawn, seemed at this distance to be incredibly narrow, like a short section of railway track. He freed one hand for an instant to dash it across his eyes, watering from their concentration.
“Correct your course,” said Treleaven. “Line yourself up straight and true. Hold that height, George. Now listen carefully. Aim to touch down about a third of the way along the runway. There’s a slight cross wind from the left, so be ready with gentle right rudder.” Spencer brought the nose slowly round. “If you land too fast, use the emergency brakes. You can work them by pulling the red handle immediately in front of you. And if that doesn’t stop you, cut the four ignition switches which are over your head.”
“See those switches, Janet?”
“Yes.”
“If I want them off it’ll be in a hurry,” said Spencer. “So if I shout, don’t lose any time about it.” His throat was parched; it felt full of grit.
“All right,” Janet replied in a whisper. She clasped her hands together to stop them shaking.
“It won’t be long now, anyway. What about the emergency bell?”
“I hadn’t forgotten. I’ll ring it just before touchdown.”
“Watch that air speed. Call it off.”
“120… 115… 120….”
“Begin descent,” said the radar operator. “400 feet a minute. Check landing gear and flaps. Hold present heading.”
“All right, George,” said Treleaven, “put down full flap. Bring your air speed back to 115, adjust your trim, and start losing height at 400 feet a minute. I’ll repeat that. Full flap, air speed 115, let down at 400 feet a minute. Hold your present heading.” He turned to Grimsell. “Is everything ready on the field?”
The controller nodded. “As ready as we’ll ever be.”
“Then this is it. In sixty seconds we’ll know.”
They listened to the approaching whine of engines. Treleaven reached out and took a pair of binoculars the controller handed him.
“Janet, give me full flap!” ordered Spencer. She thrust the lever down all the way. “Height and air speed — call them off!”
“1,000 feet… speed 130… 800 feet, speed 120… 700 feet, speed 105. We’re going down too quickly!”
“Get back that height!” Treleaven shouted. “Get back! You’re losing height too fast.”
“I know, I know!” Spencer shouted back. He pushed the throttles forward. “Keep watching it!” he told the girl.
“650 feet, speed 100… 400 feet, speed 100….”
Eyes smarting with sweat in his almost feverish concentration, he juggled to correlate speed with an even path of descent, conscious with a deep, sickening terror of the relentless approach of the runway, nearer with every second. The aircraft swayed from side to side, engines alternately revving and falling.
Burdick yelled from the tower balcony, “Look at him! He’s got no control!”
Keeping his glasses leveled at the oncoming aircraft, Treleaven snapped into the microphone, “Open up! Open up! You’re losing height too fast! Watch the air speed, for God’s sake. Your nose is too high — open up quickly or she’ll stall! Open up, I tell you, open up!“
“He’s heard you,” said Grimsell. “He’s recovering.”
“Me too, I wish,” said Burdick.
The radar operator announced, “Still 100 feet below glide path. 50 feet below glide path.”
“Get up — up,” urged Treleaven. “If you haven’t rung the alarm bell yet, do it now. Seats upright, passengers’ heads down.”
As the shrill warning rang out in the aircraft, Baird roared at the top of his voice, “Everybody down! Hold as tight as you can!”
Crouched double in their seats, Joe and Hazel Greer, the sports fans, wrapped their arms round each other, quietly and composedly. Moving clumsily in his haste, Childer tried to gather his motionless wife to him, then hurriedly leaned himself across her as far as he could. From somewhere midship came the sob-racked sound of a prayer and, further back, an exclamation from one of the rye-drinking quartet of, “God help us — this is it!”
“Shut up!” rapped ’Otpot. “Save your breath!”
In the tower, Grimsell spoke into a telephone-type microphone. “All fire-fighting and salvage equipment stand fast until the aircraft has passed them. She may swing.” His voice echoed back metallically from the buildings.
“He’s back up to 200 feet,” reported radar. “Still below glide path. 150 feet. Still below glide path. H
e’s too low, Captain. 100 feet.”
Treleaven dragged off the headset. He jumped to his feet, holding the microphone in one hand and the binoculars in the other.
“Maintain that height,” he instructed, “until you get closer in to the runway. Be ready to ease off gently… Let down again… That looks about right…”
“Damn the rain,” cursed Spencer. “I can hardly see.” He could make out that they were over grass. Ahead he had a blurred impression of the beginning of the runway.
“Watch the air speed,” cautioned Treleaven. “Your nose is creeping up.” There was a momentary sound of other voices in the background. “Straighten up just before you touch down and be ready to meet the drift with right rudder…. All right.. Get ready to round out…”
The end of the gray runway, two hundred feet across, slid under them.
“Now!” Treleaven exclaimed. “You’re coming in too fast. Lift the nose up! Get it up! Back up the throttles — right back! Hold her off. Not too much — not too much! Be ready for that cross wind. Ease her down, now. Ease her down!”
Undercarriage within a few feet of the runway surface, Spencer moved the control column gently back and forth, trying to feel his way down on to the ground, his throat constricted with panic because he now realized how much higher was this cockpit than that of any other plane he had flown, making judgment almost impossible for him.
For what seemed an age, the wheels skimmed the runway, making no contact. Then with a jolt they touched down. There was a shriek of rubber and a puff of smoke. The shock bounced the aircraft right into the air again. Then the big tires were once more fighting to find a purchase on the concrete.
A third bump followed, then another and yet another. Cursing through his clenched teeth, Spencer hauled the control column back into his stomach, all the nightmare fears of the past few hours now a paralyzing reality. The gray stream below him jumped up, receded jumped up again. Then, miraculously, it remained still. They were down. He eased on the toe brakes, then held them hard, using all the strength in his legs. There was a high-pitched squeal but no sudden drop in speed. From the corner of his eye he could see that they were already more than two thirds down the length of the runway. He could never hold the aircraft in time.
“You’re landing too fast,” roared Treleaven. “Use the emergency brakes! Pull the red handle!”
Spencer tugged desperately on the handle. He hauled the control column back into his stomach, jammed his feet on the brakes. He felt the tearing strain in his arms as the aircraft tried to slew. The wheels locked, skidded, then ran free again.
“Cut the switches!” he shouted. With a sweep of her hand Janet snapped them off. The din of the engines died away, leaving in the cabin the hum of gyros and radio equipment, and outside the screaming of tires.
Spencer stared ahead in fascinated horror. With no sound of engines, the aircraft was still traveling fast, the ground leaping past them in a blur. He could see now a big checkerboard marking the turn at the far end of the runway. In the fraction of a second his eyes registered the picture of a fire truck, its driver falling to the ground in his scramble to get away.
Treleaven’s voice burst into his ears with the force of a blow.
“Ground-loop it to the left! Ground-loop it to the left! Hard left rudder!”
Making an instantaneous decision, Spencer put his left foot on the rudder pedal and threw all his weight behind it, pressing it forward savagely.
Veering suddenly from the runway, the aircraft began to swing in an arc. Flung over to the right side of his seat, Spencer struggled to keep the wings clear of the ground. There was a rending volume of noise, a dazzling flash, as the undercarriage ripped away and the aircraft smashed to the ground on its belly. The impact lifted Spencer clean from his seat. He felt a sharp pain as his safety belt bit deeply into his flesh.
“Get your head down!” he yelled. “We’re piling up!”
Gripping their seats against the maniacal violence of the bouncing and rocking, they tried to curl themselves up. Still under momentum, the aircraft continued to slither crabwise, ploughing the grass in vicious furrows. With a screech of metal it crossed another runway, uprooting the runway lights, showering fountains of earth up into the air.
Spencer prayed for the end.
Like a prisoner in some crazy, helpless juggernaut, blood appearing in the corner of his mouth from a chance blow as yet unfelt, he waited for the inevitable tip-over, the upending, splintering crash that would, for him, disintegrate into a thousand fiery pinpoints of light before they were swallowed into darkness.
Then, quite suddenly, they were moving no longer. Spencer seemed to feel the same crazy motions as if they were still careering across the field; but, his eyes told him they had stopped. For the space of seconds there was no sound at all. He braced himself against the awkward sideways tilt of the deck and looked over at Janet. Her head was buried in her hands. She was crying silently.
In the passenger compartment behind him there were murmurs and rustlings as of people who unbelievably awake to find themselves still alive. Someone laughed, shortly and hysterically, and this seemed to let loose half a dozen voices speaking at once.
He heard Baird call out, “Is anyone hurt?”
The noises melted into confusion. Spencer closed his eyes. He felt himself shaking.
“Better open up the emergency doors,” came the adenoidal tones of ’Otpot, “and then everyone stay where he is.”
From the door to the flight deck, jammed open in the crash, he heard the doctor exclaim, “Wonderful job! Spencer! Are you both all right?”
“I ground-looped!” he muttered to himself in disgust. “We turned right around the way we came. What a performance — to ground-loop!”
“Rubbish — you did magnificently,” Baird retorted. “As far as I can tell, there are only bruises and a bit of shock back here. Let’s have a look at the captain and first officer — they must have been thrown about some.”
Spencer turned to him. It was painful to move his neck.
“Doctor” — his throat was hoarse — “are we in time?”
“Yes, just about, I’d say. It’s up to the hospital now, anyway. You’ve done your part.”
He tried to raise himself in his seat. At that moment he became aware of the sound of crackling. He felt an upsurge of alarm. Then he realized that the noise was issuing from his head set which had slipped to the deck. He reached down and picked it up, holding one phone to his ear.
“George Spencer!” Treleaven was calling. “George Spencer! Are you there?”
Outside there was now a rising crescendo of sirens from crash tenders and fire trucks and ambulances. Spencer heard voices in the passenger compartment behind him.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m here.”
Treleaven was jubilant, caught in the general reaction. Behind his voice there were sounds of excited conversation and laughter.
“George. That was probably the lousiest landing in the history of this airport. So don’t ever ask us for a job as a pilot. But there are some of us here who’d like to shake your hand, and later we’ll buy you a drink. Now hold everything, George. We’re coming over.”
Janet had raised her head and was smiling tremulously.
“You should see your face,” she said. “It’s black.”
He couldn’t think of a thing to say. No witticism; no adequate word of thanks. He knew only that he was intolerably tired and sick to the stomach. He reached over for her hand and grinned back.
Runway Zero-Eight Page 14
