Runway Zero-Eight

by Arthur Hailey

  “I’m sorry,” said Janet.

  Still maintaining his pressure on the column, he shot a glance of complete surprise at her.

  “What?” he said stupidly.

  The girl half twisted in her seat towards him. In the greenish light from the instrument panel, her pale face looked almost translucent.

  “I’m sorry for giving way like that,” she said simply. “It’s bad enough for you. I — I couldn’t help it.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he told her roughly. He didn’t know what to say. He could hear the woman passenger, sobbing loudly now. He felt very ashamed.

  “Trying to get the bus up as fast as I can,” he said. “Daren’t do more than a gentle climb or we’ll lose way again.”

  Baird’s voice called from the doorway, above the rising thunder of the engines, “What is going on, anyway, in there? Are you all right?”

  Spencer answered, “Sorry, Doc. I just couldn’t hold her. I think it’s okay now.”

  “Try to keep level, at least,” Baird complained. “There are people very, very ill back here.”

  “It was my fault,” said Janet. She saw Baird sway with exhaustion and hold on to the door jamb to steady himself.

  “No, no,” protested Spencer. “If it hadn’t been for her we’d have crashed. I just can’t handle this thing — that’s all there is to it.”

  “Rubbish,” said Baird curtly. They heard a man shout, “Get on the radio!” and the doctor’s voice raised loudly to address the passengers, “Now listen to me, all of you. Panic is the most infectious disease of the lot, and the most lethal too.” Then the door slammed shut, cutting him off.

  “That’s a good idea,” said Janet calmly. “I ought to be reporting to Captain Treleaven.”

  “Yes,” agreed Spencer. “Tell him what’s happened and that I’m regaining height.”

  Janet pressed her microphone button to transmit and called Vancouver. For the first time there was no immediate acknowledgment in reply. She called again. There was nothing.

  Spencer felt the familiar stab of fear. He forced himself to control it. “What’s wrong?” he asked her. “Are you sure you’re on the air?”

  “Yes — I think so.”

  “Blow into your mike. If it’s alive you’ll hear yourself.”

  She did so. “Yes, I heard all right. Hullo, Vancouver. Hullo, Vancouver. This is 714. Can you hear me? Over.”

  Silence.

  “Hullo, Vancouver. This is 714. Please answer. Over.”

  Still silence.

  “Let me,” said Spencer. He took his right hand from the throttle and depressed his microphone button. “Hullo, Vancouver. Hullo, Vancouver. This is Spencer, 714. Emergency, emergency. Come in, please.”

  The silence seemed as solid and as tangible as a wall. It was as if they were the only people in the world.

  “I’m getting a reading on the transmitting dial,” said Spencer. “I’m sure we’re sending okay.” He tried again, with no result. “Calling all stations. Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is Flight 714, in serious trouble. Come in anybody. Over.” The ether seemed completely dead. “That settles it. We must be off frequency.”

  “How could that have happened?”

  “Don’t ask me. Anything can happen, the way we were just now. You’ll have to go round the dial, Janet.”

  “Isn’t that risky — to change our frequency?”

  “It’s my guess it’s already changed. All I know is that without the radio I might as well put her nose down right now and get it over. I don’t know where we are, and even if I did I certainly couldn’t land in one piece.”

  Janet slid out of her seat, trailing the cord from her headset behind her, and reached up to the radio panel. She clicked the channel selector round slowly. There was a succession of crackles and splutters.

  “I’ve been right the way round,” she said.

  “Keep at it,” Spencer told her. “You’ve got to get something. If we have to, we’ll call on each channel in turn.” There was a sudden, faraway voice. “Wait, what’s that!” Janet clicked back hurriedly. “Give it more volume!”

  “…to 128.3,” said the voice with startling nearness. “Vancouver Control to Flight 714. Change to frequency 128.3. Reply please. Over.”

  “Keep it there,” said Spencer to the girl. “Is that the setting? Thank our lucky stars for that. Better acknowledge it, quick.”

  Janet climbed back into her seat and called rapidly, “Hullo, Vancouver, 714 answering. Receiving you loud and clear. Over.”

  With no perceptible pause Vancouver came back, the voice of the dispatcher charged with eagerness and relief.

  “714. This is Vancouver. We lost you. What happened? Over.”

  “Vancouver, are we glad to hear you!” said Janet, holding her forehead. “We had some trouble. The airplane stalled and the radio went off. But it’s all right now — except for the passengers, they’re not taking it any too well. We’re climbing again. Over.”

  This time it was Treleaven speaking again, in the same confident and measured manner as before but clearly with immense thankfulness. “Hullo, Janet. I’m glad you had the good sense to realize you were off frequency. George, I warned you about the danger of a stall. You must watch your air speed all the time. There’s one thing: if you’ve stalled and recovered, you obviously haven’t lost your touch as a pilot.”

  “Did you get that?” Spencer asked Janet unbelievingly. They exchanged nervously strained smiles.

  Treleaven was continuing: “You’ve probably had a bit of a scare, so we’ll take it easy for a minute or two. While you’re getting some height under you I want you to give me some readings from the instrument panel. We’ll start with the fuel-tank gauges…”

  While the captain recited the information he wanted, the door to the passenger deck opened and Baird looked in again, about to call to the two figures forward. He took in their concentration on the instrument panel and checked himself. Then he entered, closing the door behind him, and dropped on one knee beside the forms of the pilot and first officer, using his ophthalmoscope as a flashlight to examine their faces. Dun had rolled partly out of his blankets and was lying with his knees drawn up, moaning softly. Pete appeared to be unconscious.

  The doctor readjusted the covers, wrapping them in tightly. He mopped the men’s faces with a damp hand towel stuffed in his pocket and remained crouched in thought for a few seconds. Then he rose, bracing himself against the tilt of the deck Janet was relaying figures into her microphone. Without a word the doctor let himself out, carefully sliding the door closed.

  The scene outside resembled a vast casualty ambulance rather than the passenger deck of an airliner. At intervals along the crowded cabin, their reclining seats fully extended, sick passengers lay swaddled in rugs. One or two were quite motionless, scarcely breathing. Others were twisting in pain while friends or relatives watched them fearfully or replaced damp cloths on their foreheads.

  Bending forward, the more effectively to render his homily to the man he had recently thrust back into his seat, ’Otpot was saying, “I don’t blame you, see. ’Appen it’s better sometimes to let off steam. But it don’t do to start shouting in front of the others who’re poorly, especially the ladies. Old Doc here is real champion and so are the two up front flying. Any road, we’ve got to trust them, see, if we want to get down at all.”

  Temporarily subdued, the passenger, who was twice the size of ’Otpot, stared stonily at his own reflection in the cabin window by his seat. The perky little Englishman came along to the doctor, who patted his arm in thanks.

  “You’re quite a wizard, aren’t you?” said Baird.

  “I’m more scared than he is,” ’Otpot assured him fervently, “and that’s a fact. Heck, if you hadn’t been with us, Doctor…” He shrugged expressively. “What d’you make of things now?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Baird replied. His face was gaunt. “They had a little trouble up front. It’s hardly su
rprising. I think Spencer is under a terrible strain. He’s carrying more responsibility than any of us.”

  “How much longer is there to go?”

  “I’ve no idea. I’ve lost all sense of time. But if we’re on course it can’t be long now. Feels like days to me.”

  ’Otpot put to him as quietly as he could, “What d’you really think, Doc? ’Ave we got a chance?”

  Baird shook the question off in tired irritation. “Why ask me? There’s always a chance, I suppose. But keeping an airplane in the air and getting it down without smashing it to a million pieces, with all the factors that involves, are two mighty different propositions. I guess that much is obvious even to me. Either way, it isn’t going to make much odds to some of the folk here before long.”

  He squatted down to look at Mrs. Childer, feeling inside her blanket for her wrist and noting her pinched, immobile face, dry skin, and quick, shallow breathing. Her husband demanded hoarsely, “Doctor, is there nothing we can do for her?”

  Baird looked at the closed, sunken eyes of the woman. He said slowly, “Mr. Childer, you’ve a right to know the truth. You’re a sensible man — I’ll give it to you straight. We’re making all the speed we possibly can, but at best it will be touch and go for your wife.” Childer’s mouth moved wordlessly. “You’d better understand this,” Baird went on deliberately. “I’ve done what I could for her, and I’ll continue to do it, but it’s pathetically little. Earlier on, using morphia, I might have been able to ease the pain for your wife. Now, if it’s any consolation to you, nature has taken care of it for us.”

  Childer found his voice. “I won’t have you say that,” he protested. “Whatever happens, I’m grateful to you, Doctor.”

  “Of course he is,” interposed ’Otpot heartily. “We all are. No one could’ve done more than you, Doc. An absolute marvel, that’s what.”

  Baird smiled faintly, his hand on the woman’s forehead. “Kind words don’t alter the case,” he said harshly. “You’re a man of courage, Mr. Childer, and you have my respect. But don’t delude yourself.” The moment of truth, he thought bitterly; so this is it. I’d known it was coming tonight, and I knew too, deep down, what the answer would be. This is the salty taste of the real truth. No romantic heroics now. No colored-up and chlorophylled projection of what you think you are, or what you like others to think you are. This is the truth. Inside another hour we shall all very probably be dead. At least I shall go exposed for what I am. A rotten, stinking failure. When the time came, he was unequal. The perfect obituary.

  “I’m telling you,” Childer was saying with emotion, “if we get out of this, I’ll have everyone know what we owe to you.”

  Baird collected his thoughts. “What’s that?” he grunted. “I’d give plenty to have two or three saline drips aboard.” He rose. “Carry on as before, Mr. Childer. Make sure she’s really warm. Keep her lips moistened. If you can get her to take a little water now and then, so much the better. Remember she’s lost a very critical amount of body fluids.”

  At that moment, in the control room at Vancouver, Harry Burdick was in the process of replacing some of his own body fluid with another carton of coffee. In addition to the microphone held in his hand, Treleaven now had on a headset and into the latter he was asking, “Radar. Are you getting anything at all?”

  From another part of the building the chief radar operator, seated with an assistant before a long-range azimuth scanner, answered in a calmly conversational tone, “Not a thing yet.”

  “I can’t understand it,” Treleaven said to the controller. “They ought to be in range by now.”

  Burdick volunteered, “Don’t forget he lost speed in that last practice.”

  “Yes, that’s so,” Treleaven agreed. Into his headset he said, “Radar, let me know the instant you get something.” To the controller, “I daren’t bring him down through cloud without knowing where he is. Ask the Air Force for another check, will you, Mr. Grimsell?” He nodded to the radio operator. “Put me on the air. Hullo, 714. Now, listen carefully, George. We are going through that drill again but before we start I want to explain a few things you may have forgotten or that only apply to big airplanes. Are you with me? Over.”

  Janet replied, “Go ahead, Vancouver. We are listening carefully. Over.”

  “Right, 714. Now before you can land certain checks and adjustments must be carried out. They are in addition to the landing drill you’ve just practiced. I’ll tell you when and how to do them later. Now I just want to run over them to prepare you. First, the hydraulic booster pump must be switched on. Then the brake pressure must be showing about 900 to 1,000 pounds a square inch. You’ll maybe remember something along these lines from your fighter planes, but a refresher course won’t hurt. Next, after the wheels are down you’ll turn on the fuel booster pumps and check that the gas feed is sufficient. Lastly, the mixture has to be made good and rich and the propellers set. Got all that? We’ll take it step by step as you come in so that Janet can set the switches. Now I’m going to tell you where each of them are. Here we go….”

  Janet and Spencer identified each control as they were directed.

  “Tell him we have them pinpointed, Janet.”

  “Hullo, Vancouver. We’re okay on that.”

  “Right, 714. You’re in no doubt about the position of each of those controls, Janet? You’re quite sure? Over.”

  “Yes, Vancouver. I’ve got them. Over.”

  “714. Check again that you are in level flight. Over.”

  “Hullo, Vancouver. Yes, flying level now and above cloud.”

  “Right, 714. Now, George. Let’s have 15 degrees of flap again, speed 140, and we’ll go through the wheel-lowering routine. Watch that air speed like a hawk this time. If you’re ready, let’s go….”

  Grimly Spencer began the procedure, following each instruction with complete concentration while Janet anxiously counted off the air speed and operated the flap and undercarriage levers. Once again they felt the sharp jolt as their speed was arrested. The first tentative streaks of dawn were glimmering to eastward.

  In the control room, Treleaven took the opportunity to gulp some cold coffee. He accepted a cigarette from Burdick and exhaled the smoke noisily. He looked haggard, with a blue stubble around his chin.

  “How do you read the situation now?” queried the airline manager.

  “It’s as well as can be expected,” said the captain, “but time’s running dangerously short. He should have at least a dozen runs through this flap and wheels drill alone. With luck we’ll get about three in before he’s overhead — that is, if he’s on course.”

  “You’re going to give him practice approaches?” put in the controller.

  “I must. Without at least two or three I wouldn’t give a red cent for his chances, not with the experience he’s got. I’ll see how he shapes up. Otherwise….” Treleaven hesitated.

  Burdick dropped his cigarette to the floor and stepped on it. “Otherwise what?” he prompted.

  Treleaven rounded on them. “Well, we’d better face facts,” he said. “That man up there is frightened out of his wits, and with good reason. If his nerve doesn’t hold, they may stand more chance by ditching offshore in the ocean.”

  “But — the impact!” Burdick exclaimed. “And the sick people — and the aircraft. It’d be a total loss.”

  “It would be a calculated risk,” said Treleaven icily, looking the rotund manager straight in the eyes. “If our friend looks like piling up all over the field, your airplane will be a write-off anyway.”

  “Harry didn’t mean it like that,” broke in the controller hurriedly.

  “Hell, no, I guess not,” said Burdick uncomfortably.

  “With the added danger,” continued Treleaven, “that if he crashes here, fire is almost certain and we’ll be lucky to save anyone. He may even take some ground installation with him. Whereas if he puts down on the ocean he’ll break up the airplane, sure, but we stand a chance of saving some of the
passengers if not the very sick ones. With this light mist and practically no wind the water will be pretty calm, reducing the impact. We’d belly-land him by radar as near as we could to rescue craft.”

  “Get the Navy,” the controller ordered his assistant. “Air Force too. Air-sea rescue are already standing by. Have them put out offshore and await radio instructions.”

  “I don’t want to do it,” said Treleaven, turning back to the wall map. “It would amount to abandoning the sick passengers. We’d be lucky to get them out before the plane went under. But it may be necessary.” He spoke into his headset. “Radar, are you getting anything?”

  “Still nothing,” Came the even, impersonal reply. “Hold it, though. Wait a minute. This may be something coming up…. Yes, Captain. I have him now. He’s ten miles south of track. Have him turn right on to a heading of 265.”

  “Nice work,” said Treleaven. He nodded to be put on the air as the switchboard operator called across, “Air Force report visual contact, sir. ETA 38 minutes.”

  “Right.” He raised the microphone in front of him. “Hullo, 714. Have you carried out the reverse procedure for flaps and undercart? Over.”

  “Yes, Vancouver. Over,” came the girl’s voice.

  “Any trouble this time? Flying straight and level?”

  “Everything all right, Vancouver. The pilot says — so far.” They heard her give a nervous little laugh.

  “That’s fine, 714. We have you on radar now. You’re off course ten miles to the south. I want you to bank carefully to the right, using your throttles to maintain your present speed, and place the aircraft on a heading of 265. I’ll repeat that. 265. Is that clear? Over.”