Runway Zero-Eight (12 page)

“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!”

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 arrival 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?”

“A George Spencer of Toronto. That’s all we know.”

“Well, the office will get our Toronto people on to that end. Now grab a pay booth in Reception here and don’t budge out of it, whatever happens. Keep the line open to the office.”

“Yes, Mr. Jessup, but—”

“I know, I know,” said Jessup sadly, “but that’s the way it is. If there’s a foul-up on the phones in the press room, we’ll need that extra line.”

His coat flapping behind him, he strode across the concourse, head down like an angry bull, out of Reception and along to the press room. There several newsmen were already foregathered, three of them talking together, another rattling at one of the six or eight typewriters on the large center table, and a further couple using two of the telephone booths that lined two sides of the paneled room. On the floor were dumped leather cases of camera equipment.

“Well,” said Jessup sardonically, “what kept you boys?”

“Hi, Jess,” greeted one of the men. “Where’s Howard? Have you seen him?”

“On his way, I’m told.” Jessup shook himself out a cigarette. “Well, who knows what?”

“We just got here,” said Stephens of the
Monitor.
“I put a call in to the controller’s office and got blasted.”

“You fellows have it easy on this one,” Jessup remarked, lighting his cigarette and spitting out a shred of tobacco. “It’s too late for the mornings and in plenty of time for the evenings, unless you put out special midmorning runs. It’s easy to see who’s doing the work.” He indicated the two men in the telephone cubicles, one from CP and the other UPA.

“Wrap it up, Jess,” said Stephens. “To listen to you wire service fellers, you’d think—”

“Quit horsing around,” cut in Abrahams of the
Post-Telegram.
“We’d better start shouting up for some action. Pretty soon all the others’ll be here and we won’t be able to move.”

They turned as a youngish man entered, holding in his hand some slips of paper. This was Cliff Howard, high-spirited and energetic, whose crew-cut hair, rimless spectacles and quietly-patterned English neckties were a familiar and popular sight at the airport. He did not smile at the newsmen, although most of them were personal friends of his.

“Thanks for staying put,” he told them.

“We very nearly didn’t,” returned Stephens. The two agency men had hurriedly terminated their calls and joined the others.

“Let’s have it, Cliff,” said one of them.

Howard looked at Jessup. “I see you’ve come straight from bed like me, Jess,” he remarked, nodding at the pajamas under Jessup’s jacket.

“Yes,” said Jessup shortly. “Come on, Cliff. Snap it up.”

Howard glanced down at the papers in his hand, then back at the men gathered round him. There was a film of perspiration on his forehead. “All right,” he said. “Here it is. A Maple Leaf Empress was chartered in Toronto to bring supporters to the ball game today. On the Winnipeg leg to here both the pilot and the copilot have been taken ill. A passenger is at the controls. He hasn’t had experience of this type of airplane before. We’re talking him down — Captain Paul Treleaven, Cross-Canada’s chief pilot, is on the job — but the authorities thought it advisable to take precautionary measures in clearing the area and bringing in extra help in case of accident.”

There was a pause. “Well?” growled one of the newsmen.

“I guess there’s not much more I can tell you,” said Howard apologetically. “We’re doing all we can and I’d sure appreciate it if—”

“For God’s sake, Cliff, what are you giving us?” protested Stephens. “How does it happen
both
the pilots are ill?”

Howard shrugged uncomfortably. “We don’t yet know for sure. It may be some kind of stomach attack. We have doctors standing by—”

“Now listen,” Jessup interrupted tersely. “This is no time to play the innocent, Cliff. There have been enough leaks on this story already to sink a ship. Everything you’ve just said, our offices knew before we got here. Let’s start again. What’s the truth about the rumor of food poisoning?”

“Who is the guy who’s piloting the ship?” added Abrahams.

Howard breathed deeply. He smiled and made a dramatic gesture of flipping notes to the floor. “Look, boys,” he said expansively, “I’ll lay it on the line for you — you know I never hold back from you if I can help it. But if I stick my neck out I know you’ll play along with me. That’s fair, isn’t it? We don’t want to get the thing out of perspective. What’s happening tonight is a big emergency — why should I pretend it isn’t? — but everything that’s humanly possible is being done to minimize the risk. The whole operation reflects the greatest credit on the airport organization. Frankly, I’ve never seen anything—”

“The story, Howard!”

“Sure, sure. But I want you to understand that nothing I say can be taken as an official statement, either on behalf of the airport or the Maple Leaf Airline. The airline is very properly giving all their attention to getting the plane down safely, and I’m just filling in to help you boys along.” A telephone shrilled, but no one made a move towards it. “All right, then,” said Howard. “So far as my information goes, there has been an outbreak of sickness on the plane which may very possibly be food poisoning. Of course we are taking—”

“Do you mean,” someone interposed, “that the food on board the plane was contaminated?”

“No one can answer that question yet. All I can tell you is this, and I want you to get it straight. Fog delayed the departure of the Empress from Toronto and it was late on arrival at Winnipeg — so late that the normal caterers were not available. Food was obtained from another firm instead. Some of that food was fish, and some of that fish, gentlemen, may, I repeat may, have been contaminated. The usual procedure is being carried out by the public health authorities in Winnipeg.”

“What about the guy who’s taken over?” repeated Abrahams.

“Please understand,” continued Howard, “that the Maple Leaf Airline has the very strictest standards of hygiene. An accident like this is a million-to-one freak that could happen despite the most stringent—”

“The guy at the wheel! Who is he?”

“One at a time,” said Howard shrewdly, as if warding off a barrage of questions. “The plane’s crew is one of Maple Leaf’s most experienced teams — as you know, that’s saying a lot. Captain Lee Dunning, First Officer Peter Levinson and Stewardess Janet Benson — I’ve got full details right here—”

“Save that,” said Jessup. “We’ll pick it up later.” Two more newsmen hurried into the room and pushed into the group. “What’s the story on the passenger who’s flying the crate?”