Arthur Hailey - Runway Zero-Eight

“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?”