Arthur Hailey - Runway Zero-Eight

“Great Scott, I don’t know. It’s a tall order.” Treleaven looked at his wrist watch. “What’s the ETA?”

“05.05.”

“But that’s under two hours. We’ve got to move! Look, I’m on the south side of town—”

“What’s your address?” Treleaven gave it. “We’ll have a police car pick you up in a few minutes. When you get here, go straight on up to the control room.”

“Right. I’m on my way.”

“And good luck, Paul.”

“You’re not kidding.”

He dropped the phone and strode back to the parlor, pulling on his shoes without stopping to tie the laces. His mother held out his jacket for him.

“What is it, son?” she asked apprehensively.

“Trouble over at the airport, Mother. Bad trouble, I’m afraid. There’s a police car coming to take me there.”

“Police!”

“Now, now.” He put an arm around her for a second. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. But they need my help. I’ll have to leave you for the rest of the night.” He looked round for his pipe and tobacco and put them in his pocket. “Just a minute,” he said, stopping in his tracks. “How did they know I was here?”

“I couldn’t say. Perhaps they rang Dulcie first.”

“Yes, that must be it. Would you give her a ring, Mother, and let her know everything is all right?”

“Of course I will. But what is the trouble about, Paul?”

“A pilot is sick on an aircraft due here soon. They want me to talk it down, if I can.”

His mother looked puzzled. “What do you mean — talk it down?” she repeated. “If the pilot’s sick, who’s going to fly it?”

“I am, Mother — from the ground. Or I’m going to try to, anyway.”

“I don’t understand.”

Maybe I don’t either, Treleaven thought to himself five minutes later, seated in the back of a police car as it pulled away from the sidewalk and slammed viciously into top gear. Street lights flashed past them in ever quickening succession; the speedometer crept steadily round to seventy, five as the siren sliced into the night.

“Looks like a big night over at the field,” remarked the police sergeant beside the driver, talking over his shoulder.

“So I gather,” said Treleaven. “Can you fill me in on exactly what’s happening?”

“Search me.” The sergeant spat out of the window. “All I know is that every available car has been sent over to the airport to work from there in case the bridge estate has to be cleared. We were on our way there too until they stopped us and sent us back for you. I’d say they’re expecting a hell of a bang.”

“You know what?” interjected the young driver. “It’s my guess there’s a busted-up Stratojet coming in with a nuclear bombload.”

“Do me a favor,” said the sergeant with heavy scorn. “Your trouble is you read too many comics.”

Never, Treleaven reflected grimly to himself, had he reached the airport so quickly. In no time, or so it seemed, they had reached Marpole and crossed Oak Bridge to Lulu Island. Then, bearing right, they crossed the river estuary again to Sea Island and past occasional police cruisers whose crews were already talking to bewildered house owners in doorways, until they were speeding along the last stretch of Airport Road, the lights of the long, low airport buildings beckoning them on. They braked suddenly, with a protesting screech of tires, to avoid a fire truck which was making a leisurely U-turn ahead of them. The sergeant swore, briefly but with feeling.

At the main reception building, Treleaven was out of the car, through the doors and had crossed the concourse before the wail of the siren died. Waving aside the commissionaire who hurried across to meet him, he made his way directly to the control room in the administration block. He could move remarkably fast for a man of his size. It was probably that loose-limbed agility which combined with a solidly built physique, lank fair hair and hard lean features, to make him an object of interest to many women. His features, angular and crooked, looked as if they had been inexpertly carved from a chunk of wood. Treleaven had a considerable reputation as a disciplinarian and more than one erring crew member had had cause to fear the cold light in those pale, almost watery-blue eyes.

He entered Control as Burdick was speaking anxiously and deferentially on the telephone.

“… No, sir, he isn’t qualified. He flew single-engine fighters in the war; nothing since… I’ve asked them that. This doctor on board says…”

The controller stepped quickly over to greet Treleaven. “I’m certainly glad to see you, Captain,” he said.

Treleaven nodded towards Burdick. “Is that the fellow in the Empress he’s talking about?” he asked.

“Yes. He’s just got his president out of bed in Montreal. The old man sounds far from happy about it — and so am I. The call shouldn’t have come in here. Hurry it up, Harry, will you?”

“What else can we do?” pleaded Burdick into the telephone, sweating profusely. “We’ve got to talk him down. I’ve located Cross-Canada’s chief pilot, Captain Treleaven — he just walked in the door now. We’ll get on the radio with a check list and try to bring him in… We’ll do the best we can, sir… Of course it’s a terrible risk, but can you think of something better?”

Treleaven took from the dispatcher the clipboard of messages from 714 and read them carefully. With a quiet request, “Weather,” he then consulted the latest meteorological reports. This done, he laid the papers down, raised his eyebrows somberly at the controller, and produced his pipe which he proceeded to fill. Burdick was still speaking.

“… I’ve thought of that, sir. Howard will handle the press at this end — they aren’t on to it yet… Yes, yes, we’ve suspended food service on all flights ex Winnipeg. That’s all we know. I called you right away…”

“What do you think?” the controller asked Treleaven.

The pilot shrugged without answering and picked up the clipboard again. His face was set in deep lines as he read the messages again, drawing steadily on his pipe. A young man backed into the room, holding the door open with his leg as he maneuvered a tray bearing cardboard cartons of coffee. He handed a carton to the controller and set another down in front of Treleaven. The pilot ignored it.

“…ETA is 05.05 Pacific Time,” Burdick was saying with increasing exasperation. “I’ve a lot to do, sir… I’ll have to get on with it… I’ll call you… I’ll call you as soon as I know anything more… Yes, yes… G’bye.” Putting down the telephone, he blew out his cheeks with relief. Turning to Treleaven, he said, “Thank you very much for coming, Captain. Have you got it all?”

Treleaven held up the clipboard. “This is the whole story?”

“That’s everything we know. Now I want you to get on the horn and talk this guy down. You’ll have to let him get the feel of the airplane on the way, you’ll have to give him the landing check, you’ll have to talk him on to the approach, and — so help me! — you’ll have to talk him right down on to the ground. Can you do it?”

“I can’t perform a miracle,” said Treleaven evenly. “You know that the chances of a man who has only flown fighter airplanes landing a four-engine passenger ship are pretty slim, to say the least?”

“Of course I know it!” Burdick exploded. “You heard what I told Barnard. But do you have any other ideas?”

“No,” Treleaven said slowly, “I guess not. I just wanted to be sure you knew what we were getting into.”

“Listen,” shouted Burdick angrily. “There’s a ship full of people up there, some of them dying, including the pilots. The biggest air disaster in years, that’s what we’re getting into!”