Runway Zero-Eight Page 10

  “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?”

  “My information is that the first officer, then the captain were taken sick. Luckily there was a passenger on board who had piloted before and he took over the controls with the most remarkable smoothness. Name of George Spencer, from Winnipeg, I assume — he joined the plane there.”

  “When you say he has flown before,” persisted Abrahams, “do you mean he’s an ex-airline pilot?”

  “Well, no,” admitted Howard. “I believe he flew extensively in the war in smaller aircraft—”

  “In the war? That was years ago.”

  “What kind of smaller aircraft?” Jessup demanded.

  “Spitfires, Mustangs, quite a wide range of—”

  “Hold it. Those were fighters. Is this man a fighter pilot from the war?”

  “Flying is flying, after all,” Howard insisted anxiously. “He’s under radio tuition from Captain Paul Treleaven, Cross-Canada’s chief pilot, who will talk him down.”

  “But hell,” said Jessup almost disbelievingly, “the Empress is a four-engine job. What’s its horsepower?”

  “Oh, around 8,000, I’d say.”

  “And you mean that an ex-wartime pilot who was used to single-engine fighters can handle after all these years a multi-engine airliner?” There was a scramble as two or three of the news
men broke away to the telephone booths.

  “Naturally there is some risk,” Howard conceded, “which is why the precaution has been taken, of clearing the immediate vicinity. The situation is pretty tight, I freely admit, but there’s no reason to—”

  “Some risk!” echoed Jessup. “I’ve done a little flying myself — I can imagine what that guy is going through. Let’s have more about him.”

  Howard spread his hands. “I know nothing more about him than that.”

  “What!” exclaimed Stephens. “That’s all you know about someone who’s trying to bring in a shipload of — how many people are on board?”

  “Fifty-nine, I believe, including the crew. I’ve got a copy of the passenger list for you, if you’ll just—”

  “Cliff,” said Jessup grimly, “if you hole up on this one…”

  “I’ve told you, Jess, that’s all I have on him. We all wish we knew more, but we don’t. He seems to be doing well, on the last report.”

  “How long have we got before the crash?” Abrahams pressed.

  Howard jerked round to him. “Don’t assume that,” he retorted. “She’s due in round about an hour, maybe less.”

  “Are you beaming her in?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think Captain Treleaven intends to talk her down. Everything is fully under control. The airlanes and the field have been cleared. The city fire department is moving in extra help, just in case.”

  “Suppose she overshoots into the water?”

  “That’s not likely, but the police have alerted every available launch to stand by. I’ve never known such complete precautions.”

  “Wow, what a story!” Abrahams shouted and dived into the nearest booth, keeping the door open while he dialed so that he could continue to listen.

  “Cliff,” said Jessup, with some sympathy for the public relations man, “how long will the gas last in this ship?”

  “I can’t say, but there’s bound to be a safety margin,” answered Howard, loosening his tie. He sounded far from convinced.

  Jessup looked at him for a second or two with narrowed eyes. Then it struck him. “Wait a minute,” he shot out. “If there’s food poisoning on board, it can’t be only the pilots who’ve gone down with it?”

  “I’ll need all the help you can send,” Abrahams was saying into the telephone. “I’ll give it to you as I get it. When you’ve got enough to close for the first run, you’d better pull it up both ways — for the crash, and for miracle landing — and hold it. Okay? Switch me to Bert. Bert, you ready? Starts. ‘At dawn this morning Vancouver Airport witnessed the worst —’”

  “Look, Jess,” said Howard urgently, “this is dynamite. You can have it all the way, but for pity’s sake play it fair to the people upstairs. They’re working like crazy. There’s nothing that could help the people in that aircraft that isn’t being done.”

  “You know us all here, Cliff. We won’t cross you up. What is the condition of those passengers?”

  “A number of them are ill, but there’s a doctor on board who is giving what treatment he can. We have further medical advice available on the radio if required. The stewardess is okay and she’s helping Spencer, relaying the messages. You’ve got the lot now.”

  “Food poisoning is a mighty serious thing,” Jessup pursued relentlessly. “I mean, the time factor is everything.”

  “That’s so.”

  “If those people don’t get down pretty damn soon, they could even — die?”

  “That’s about it,” Howard agreed, tight-lipped.

  “But — but this is a world story! What’s the position up there now?”

  “Well, about ten, fifteen minutes ago—”

  “That’s no good!” Jessup roared. “A few minutes can change the whole situation in a thing like this. Get the position now, Cliff. Who’s duty controller tonight? Ring him — or I will, if you like.”

  “No, not for a while, Jess, please. I tell you they’re—”

  Jessup gripped the public relations man by the shoulder. “You’ve been a newspaperman, Cliff. Either way this will be the biggest air story for years and you know it. In an hour’s time you’ll have a tiger on your back — this place will be stiff with reporters, newsreels, TV, the lot. You’ve got to help us now, unless you want us busting out all over the airport. Get us the exact present position and you can take a breather for a few minutes while we get our stories through.”

  “Okay, okay. Ease off, will you?” Howard picked up an internal telephone from the table. “This is Howard. Control Room, please.” He pulled down his lower lip at Jessup. “You’ll get me crucified. Hullo, Control? Is Burdick there? Put me on, it’s urgent Hullo, Harry? Cliff. The press are crowding up, Harry. I can’t hold them much longer. They want the full situation as of now. They’ve got deadlines to meet.”

  “Of course!” snorted Burdick sarcastically in the control room. “Certainly! We’ll arrange for the flight to crash before their deadlines. Anything for the newspapers!”

  “Take it easy, Harry,” urged Howard. “These guys are doing their job.”

  Burdick lowered the telephone and said to the controller, who was standing with Treleaven before the radio panel, “Mr. Grimsell. Things are boiling up a bit for Cliff Howard. I don’t want to leave here. Do you think Stan could take a few minutes out to talk to the press?”

  “I think so,” answered the controller. He looked over to his assistant. “What about it? We’d better keep those boys under control. You could make it fast.”

  “Sure, sir. I’ll do that.”

  “No point in holding back,” Burdick advised. “Tell ’em the whole thing — up to and excluding this,” and he nodded to the radio panel.

  “I get it. Leave it to me.” The assistant left the room.

  “The assistant controller is coming down, Cliff,” said Burdick and rang off. He heaved his bulk over to the two men at the radio panel, mopping his face with a crumpled handkerchief. “Are you getting anything?” he asked in a flat voice.

  Treleaven shook his head. He did not turn. His face was gray with fatigue. “No,” he said dully. “They’ve gone.”

  The controller rapped to the switchboard operator, “Teletype Calgary and Seattle, priority. Find out if they’re still receiving 714.”

  “714, 714. Vancouver Control to 714. Come in, 714,” called the radio operator steadily into the microphone.

  Treleaven leaned against the radio desk. The pipe in his hand was dead. “Well,” he said wearily, “this could be the end of the line.”

  “714, 714. Do you hear me? Come in, please.”

  “I can’t take much more,” said Burdick. “Here, Johnnie,” to one of the clerks, “get some more coffee, for the love of Mike. Black and strong.”

  “Hold it!” exclaimed the radio operator.

  “Did you get something?” asked the controller eagerly.

  “I don’t know… I thought for a minute—”

  Bending close to the panel, his headset on, the operator made minute adjustments to his fine tuning controls. “Hullo, 714, 714, this is Vancouver.” He called over his shoulder, “I can hear something… it may be them. I can’t be sure. If it is, they’re off frequency.”

  “We’ll have to take a chance,” said Treleaven. “Tell them to change frequency.”

  “Flight 714,” called the operator. “This is Vancouver. This is Vancouver. Change your frequency to 128.3 Do you hear that? Frequency 128.3.”

  Treleaven turned to the controller. “Better ask the Air Force for another radar check,” he suggested. “They should be on our own scope soon.”

  “714. Change to frequency 128.3 and come in,” the operator was repeating.

  Burdick plumped back on to a corner of the center table. His hand left a moist mark on the woodwork. “This can’t happen — it can’t,” he protested in a gravel voice to the whole room, staring at the radio panel. “If we’ve lost them now, they’ll fry — every last manjack of them.”

  NINE
/>
  0435—0505

  LIKE A MAN in a nightmare, possessed with the fury of desperation, his teeth clenched and face streaked with sweat, Spencer fought to regain control of the aircraft, one hand on the throttle lever and the other gripped tightly on the wheel. Within him, oddly at variance with the strong sense of unreality, he felt scorching anger and self-disgust. Somewhere along the line, and quickly, he had not only lost altitude but practically all his air speed too. His brain refused to go back over the events of the last two minutes. Something had happened to distract him, that was all he could remember. Or was that an excuse too? He couldn’t have lost so much height in just a few seconds; they must have been steadily descending before that. Yet it was surely not long since he had checked the dimb-and-descent indicator — or wasn’t that its function? Could it be the gas—?

  He felt a violent, almost uncontrollable desire to scream. Scream like a child. To scramble out and away from the controls, the ironically flickering needles and the mocking battery of gauges, and abandon everything. Run back into the warm, friendly-lit body of the aircraft crying out, I couldn’t do it. I told you I couldn’t do it and you wouldn’t listen to me. No man should be asked to do it—

  “We’re gaining height,” came Janet’s voice, incredibly level now it seemed. He remembered her with a shock and in that moment the screaming in his mind became the screams of a woman in the passenger compartment behind him — wild, maniacal screams.

  He heard a man shouting, “He’s not the pilot, I tell you! They’re stretched out there, both of them. We’re done for!”

  “Shut up and sit down!” rasped Baird clearly.

  “You can’t order me about—”

  “I said get back! Sit down!”

  “All right, Doctor,” came the adenoidal tones of ’Otpot, the man from Lancashire, “just leave him to me. Now, you—”

  Spencer shut his eyes for an instant in an effort to clear the dancing of the illuminated dials. He was, he realized bitterly, hopelessly out of condition. A man could spend his life rushing from this place to that, forever on the go and telling himself he could never keep it up if he wasn’t absolutely fit. Yet the first time a real crisis came along, the first time that real demands were made of his body, he fell flat on his face. That was the most savage thing of all: to know that your body could go no further, like an old car about to run backwards down a hill.