Runway Zero-Eight

by Arthur Hailey

  A movement beside him arrested his thoughts. Janet was kneeling on her seat, looking back to where the still figures of the captain and the first officer lay on the floor.

  “One of those a boy friend of yours?” he asked.

  “No,” said Janet hesitantly, “not really.”

  “Skip it,” said Spencer, a jagged edge to his voice. “I understand. I’m sorry, Janet.” He put a cigarette in his mouth and fumbled for matches. “I don’t suppose this is allowed, is it, but maybe the airline can stretch a point.”

  In the sudden flare of the match she could see, very clearly, the fierce burning anger in his eyes.

  SIX

  0300—0325

  WITH AN ACCELERATING thunder of engines the last eastbound aircraft to take off from Vancouver that night had gathered speed along the wetly gleaming runway and climbed into the darkness. Its navigation lights, as it made the required circuit of the airport, had been shrouded in a damp clinging mist. Several other aircraft, in process of being towed back from their dispersal points to bays alongside the departure buildings, were beaded with moisture. It was a cold night. Ground staff, moving about their tasks in the yellow arc lights, slapped their gloved hands around themselves to keep warm. None of them spoke more than was necessary. One slowly taxiing aircraft came to a stop and cut its engines at a wave from the indicator torches of a ground man facing it in front. In the sudden silence the swish of its propellers seemed an intrusion. Normally busy Vancouver prepared itself with quiet competence for emergency.

  Within the brightly lit control room the atmosphere was tense with concentration. Replacing his telephone, the controller lit a cigarette, wreathing himself in clouds of blue smoke as he studied a wall map. He turned to Burdick. Perched on the edge of a table, the plump manager of Maple Leaf Airline had just finished consulting again the clipboard of information he held in his hand.

  “Right, Harry,” said the controller. His tone was that of a man running over his actions more to satisfy himself that everything had been done rather than to impart information to another. “As of now, I’m holding all departures for the east. We’ve got nearly an hour in which to clear the present outgoing traffic in other directions, leaving plenty of time in hand. After that everything scheduled outwards must wait until… until afterwards, anyway.” The telephone buzzed. He snatched it up. “Yes? I see. Warn all stations and aircraft that we can accept incoming flights for the next forty-five minutes only. Divert everything with an ETA later than that. All traffic must be kept well away from the east-west lane between Calgary and here. Got that? Good.” He dropped the instrument back into its cradle and addressed an assistant who sat also holding a telephone. “Have you raised the fire chief yet?”

  “Ringing his home now.”

  “Tell him he’d better get here — it looks like a big show. And ask the duty fire officer to notify the city fire department. They may want to move equipment into the area.”

  “I’ve done that. Vancouver Control here,” said the assistant into his telephone. “Hold the line, please.” He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “Shall I alert the Air Force?”

  “Yes. Have them keep the zone clear of their aircraft.”

  Burdick hitched himself off the table. “That’s a thought,” he said. Great damp patches stretched from the armpits of his shirt.

  “Have you any pilots here at the airport?” asked the controller.

  Burdick shook his head. “Not one,” he said. “We’ll have to get help.”

  The controller thought rapidly. “Try Cross-Canada. They have most of their men based here. Explain the position. We’ll need a man fully experienced with this type of aircraft who is capable of giving instruction over the air.”

  “Do you think there’s a chance?”

  “I don’t know, but we’ve got to try. Can you suggest anything else?”

  “No,” said Burdick, “I can’t. But I sure don’t envy him that job.”

  The switchboard operator called, “The city police again. Will you take them?”

  “Put them on,” said the controller.

  “I’ll see the Cross-Canada people,” said Burdick. “And I must ring Montreal and tell my chief what’s happening.”

  “Do it through the main board, will you?” asked the controller. “The one in here is getting snarled up.” He lifted the telephone as Burdick hurried out of the room. “Controller speaking. Ah, Inspector, I’m glad it’s you. Yes… yes… that’s fine. Now listen, Inspector. We’re in bad trouble, much worse than we thought. First, we may have to ask you if one of your cars can collect a pilot in town and bring him here just as fast as possible. Yes, I’ll let you know. Second, in addition to the urgency of getting the passengers to hospital, there’s now a very serious possibility that the plane will crash-land. I can’t explain now but when the ship comes in she won’t be under proper control.” He listened for a moment to the man at the other end. “Yes, we’ve issued a general alarm. The fire department will have everything they’ve got standing by. The point is, I think the houses near the airport may be in some danger.” He listened again. “Well, I’m glad you’ve suggested it. I know it’s a hell of a thing to wake people in the middle of the night, but we’re taking enough chances as it is. I can’t guarantee at all that this plane will get down on the field. She’s just as likely to pan down short or overshoot — that is, assuming she even gets this far. We’re lucky that there are only those houses out towards Sea Island Bridge to worry about — they can be asked to stand by, can’t they? We’ll route her well clear of the city… Eh?… No, can’t say yet. We’ll probably try to bring her in from the east end of the main runway.” Another pause, longer this time. “Thank you, Inspector. I realize that of course and I wouldn’t make the request if I didn’t regard this as a major emergency. I’ll keep in touch.” The controller clicked the telephone back, his face etched with worry. He asked the man at the radio panel, “Is 714 still standing by for us?” The dispatcher nodded. “This,” remarked the controller to the room at large, “is going to be quite a night.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

  “The fire chief is on his way,” reported his assistant. “I’m on to the Air Force now. They ask if they can give any assistance.”

  “We’ll let them know, but I don’t think so. Thank them.” He returned to his study of the wall map, stuffing the handkerchief away in his pocket. Absently, his fingers probed an empty cigarette pack, then tossed it on the floor in disgust. “Anyone got any smokes?”

  “Here, sir.”

  He accepted a cigarette and lighted it. “You’d better send down for some — and coffee for everyone, too. We’re going to need it.”

  Burdick came back into the room, breathing noisily. “Cross-Canada say their best man is Captain Treleaven — they’re ringing him now. He’s at home and in bed, I suppose.”

  “I’ve arranged for a police escort if necessary.”

  “They’ll take care of that. I’ve told them we need him in the worst way. Do you know Treleaven?”

  “I’ve met him,” said the controller. “He’s a good type. We’re lucky he’s available.”

  “Let’s hope he is,” grunted Burdick. “We can certainly use him.”

  “What about the big brass?”

  “I’ve put a call in to my president.” He grimaced.

  The switchboard operator broke in. “I’ve got Seattle and Calgary waiting, sir. They want to know if we got the message from 714 clearly.”

  “Tell them yes,” answered the controller. “Say we shall work the aircraft direct but we’d appreciate them keeping a listening watch in case we meet with any reception trouble.”

  “Right, sir.”

  The controller crossed to the radio panel and picked up the stand microphone. He nodded to the dispatcher who threw a switch to transmit.

  “Vancouver Control to Flight 714,” he called.

  Spencer’s voice, when he replied, spluttered from an amplifier extension high up
in a corner of the room. Since his “mayday” distress call all his conversation had been channelled through the loudspeaker. “714 to Vancouver. I thought you were lost.”

  “Vancouver to 714. This is the controller speaking. We are organizing help. We shall call you again very soon. Meanwhile do nothing to interfere with the present set of the controls. Do you understand? Over.”

  Despite the distortion, the asperity in Spencer’s voice came through like a knife. “714 to Vancouver. I thought I told you. I’ve never touched a job like this before. I certainly don’t aim to start playing damn-fool tricks with the automatic pilot. Over.”

  The controller opened his mouth as if to say something, then changed his mind. He signed off and said to his assistant, “Tell Reception to get Treleaven up here as fast as hell when he arrives.”

  “Right, sir. The duty fire officer just checked back,” reported the assistant. “He’s clearing all runway vehicles and gas wagons well under cover before 714’s ETA. The city’s fire department is bringing all the equipment they’ve got into the precincts.”

  “Good. When the fire chief gets here, I want a word with him. If 714 reaches us, I don’t want our own trucks moving out to her along the field. If we get her down at all, she’s not likely to stay in one piece.”

  Burdick said suddenly, “Hey, with the city departments on to this, we’ll have the press at any time.” He tapped his teeth with a fat forefinger, appalled at the possibilities. “This will be the worst thing that ever happened to Maple Leaf,” he went on quickly. “Imagine it — it’ll be front page everywhere. Plane-load of people, many of them sick. No pilot. Maybe civilian evacuation from those houses out towards the bridge. Not to mention—”

  The controller cut in, “You’d better let PR handle it from the start. Get Howard here, at the double. The board will know his home number.” Burdick nodded to the switchboard operator, who ran his finger down an emergency list and then began to dial. “We can’t duck the press on a thing like this, Harry. It’s much too big. Cliff will know how to play it. Tell him to keep the papers off our backs. We’ve got work to do.”

  “What a night,” Burdick groaned, picking up a telephone impatiently. “What happened to Dr. Davidson?” he demanded of the operator.

  “Out on a night call and can’t be reached. He’s due back pretty soon. I’ve left a message.”

  “Wouldn’t you know it? Everything has to happen tonight. If he doesn’t check in in ten minutes, get the hospital. That doctor in 714 is maybe in need of advice. Come on, come on,” Burdick breathed irritably into his telephone. “Wake up, Cliff, for Pete’s sake. There’s no reason why any one should sleep through this.”

  On the outskirts of the town another telephone was ringing incessantly, splitting the peacefulness of a small, neat house with its shrill clamor. A smooth white arm emerged from bedclothes, rested motionless across a pillow, then stirred again and groped slowly in the darkness for the switch of a bedside lamp. The lamp clicked on. With her eyes screwed up against the bright light, an attractive red-head in a white embroidered nightdress reached painfully for the telephone, then brought it to her ear and turned on her side. Peering at the hands of the little bedside clock, she mumbled, “Yes?”

  “Is this Mrs. Treleaven?” demanded a crisp voice.

  “Yes,” she said, practically in a whisper. “Who is it?”

  “Mrs. Treleaven, may I speak to your husband?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Not there? Where can I find him, please? This is urgent.”

  She propped herself up on her pillow, trying to blink herself awake. The thought occurred to her that she was dreaming.

  “Are you there?” asked the voice at the other end. “Mrs. Treleaven, we’ve been trying to reach you for several minutes.”

  “I took a sleeping pill,” she said. “Look, who’s calling at this time of night?”

  “I’m sorry to wake you, but it’s imperative that we contact Captain Treleaven without delay. This is Cross-Canada, at the airport.”

  “Oh.” She gathered herself together. “He’s at his mother’s place. His father is ill and my husband is helping to sit with him.”

  “Is it in town?”

  “Yes, not far from here.” She gave the telephone number.

  “Thank you. We’ll ring him there.”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry — there isn’t time to explain. Thank you again.”

  The line was dead. She replaced the receiver and swung her legs out of bed. As the wife of a senior pilot of an airline she was accustomed to unexpected duty calls on her husband, but although she had grown to accept them as an unavoidable part of his life, part of her still resented them. Was Paul the only pilot they ever thought of when they were in a fix? Well, if he was having to take over a plane in a hurry, he would need to call home first for his uniform and gear. There would be time to make up a flask of coffee and some sandwiches. She drew on a robe and stumbled sleepily out of the bedroom and down the stairs towards the kitchen.

  Two miles away, Paul Treleaven slept deeply, his large frame stretched along the chesterfield in his mother’s parlor. That determined and vigorous old lady had insisted on taking a spell by the side of her sick husband, ordering her son firmly to rest for a couple of hours while he could. The news from the family doctor the previous evening had been encouraging: the old man had passed the dangerous corner of his pneumonic fever and now it was a matter of careful nursing and attention. Treleaven had been thankful for the chance to sleep. Only thirty-six hours previously he had completed a flight from Tokyo, bringing back a parliamentary mission en route for Ottawa, and since then, with the crisis of his father’s illness, there had been scant opportunity for more than an uneasy doze.

  He was aroused by his arm being shaken. Immediately awake, he looked up to find his mother bending over him.

  “All right, Mother,” he said heavily, “I’ll take over now.”

  “No, son, it isn’t that. Dad’s sleeping like a baby. It’s the airport on the telephone. I told them you were trying to snatch some rest, but they insisted. I think it’s disgraceful — just as if they can’t wait until a respectable hour in the morning.”

  “Okay. I’ll come.”

  Getting to his feet, he wondered if he were ever going to sleep properly again. He was already half-dressed, having removed only his jacket and tie so as to lie comfortably on the chesterfield. He padded in stockinged feet to the door and out to the telephone in the hall, his mother following anxiously behind him.

  “Treleaven,” he said.

  “Paul, this is Jim Bryant.” The words were clipped, urgent. “I was getting really worried. We need you, Paul, but bad. Can you come over right away?”

  “Why, what’s up?”

  “We’re in real trouble here. There’s a Maple Leaf Charter — it’s an Empress C6, one of the refitted jobs — on its way from Winnipeg with a number of passengers and both pilots seriously ill with food poisoning.”

  “What! Both pilots?”

  “That’s right. It’s a top emergency. Some fellow is at the controls who hasn’t flown for years. Fortunately the ship is on autopilot. Maple Leaf hasn’t got a man here and we want you to come in and talk her down. Think you can do it?”

  “Great Scott, I don’t know. It’s a tall order.” Treleaven looked at his wrist watch. “What’s the ETA?”

  “05.05.”

  “But that’s under two hours. We’ve got to move! Look, I’m on the south side of town—”

  “What’s your address?” Treleaven gave it. “We’ll have a police car pick you up in a few minutes. When you get here, go straight on up to the control room.”

  “Right. I’m on my way.”

  “And good luck, Paul.”

  “You’re not kidding.”

  He dropped the phone and strode back to the parlor, pulling on his shoes without stopping to tie the laces. His mother held out his jacket for him.

&
nbsp; “What is it, son?” she asked apprehensively.

  “Trouble over at the airport, Mother. Bad trouble, I’m afraid. There’s a police car coming to take me there.”

  “Police!”

  “Now, now.” He put an arm around her for a second. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. But they need my help. I’ll have to leave you for the rest of the night.” He looked round for his pipe and tobacco and put them in his pocket. “Just a minute,” he said, stopping in his tracks. “How did they know I was here?”

  “I couldn’t say. Perhaps they rang Dulcie first.”

  “Yes, that must be it. Would you give her a ring, Mother, and let her know everything is all right?”

  “Of course I will. But what is the trouble about, Paul?”

  “A pilot is sick on an aircraft due here soon. They want me to talk it down, if I can.”

  His mother looked puzzled. “What do you mean — talk it down?” she repeated. “If the pilot’s sick, who’s going to fly it?”

  “I am, Mother — from the ground. Or I’m going to try to, anyway.”