Arthur Hailey - Runway Zero-Eight

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.

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.”