Arthur Hailey - Runway Zero-Eight

The doctor readjusted the covers, wrapping them in tightly. He mopped the men’s faces with a damp hand towel stuffed in his pocket and remained crouched in thought for a few seconds. Then he rose, bracing himself against the tilt of the deck Janet was relaying figures into her microphone. Without a word the doctor let himself out, carefully sliding the door closed.

The scene outside resembled a vast casualty ambulance rather than the passenger deck of an airliner. At intervals along the crowded cabin, their reclining seats fully extended, sick passengers lay swaddled in rugs. One or two were quite motionless, scarcely breathing. Others were twisting in pain while friends or relatives watched them fearfully or replaced damp cloths on their foreheads.

Bending forward, the more effectively to render his homily to the man he had recently thrust back into his seat, ’Otpot was saying, “I don’t blame you, see. ’Appen it’s better sometimes to let off steam. But it don’t do to start shouting in front of the others who’re poorly, especially the ladies. Old Doc here is real champion and so are the two up front flying. Any road, we’ve got to trust them, see, if we want to get down at all.”

Temporarily subdued, the passenger, who was twice the size of ’Otpot, stared stonily at his own reflection in the cabin window by his seat. The perky little Englishman came along to the doctor, who patted his arm in thanks.

“You’re quite a wizard, aren’t you?” said Baird.

“I’m more scared than he is,” ’Otpot assured him fervently, “and that’s a fact. Heck, if you hadn’t been with us, Doctor…” He shrugged expressively. “What d’you make of things now?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Baird replied. His face was gaunt. “They had a little trouble up front. It’s hardly surprising. I think Spencer is under a terrible strain. He’s carrying more responsibility than any of us.”

“How much longer is there to go?”

“I’ve no idea. I’ve lost all sense of time. But if we’re on course it can’t be long now. Feels like days to me.”

’Otpot put to him as quietly as he could, “What d’you really think, Doc? ’Ave we got a chance?”

Baird shook the question off in tired irritation. “Why ask me? There’s always a chance, I suppose. But keeping an airplane in the air and getting it down without smashing it to a million pieces, with all the factors that involves, are two mighty different propositions. I guess that much is obvious even to me. Either way, it isn’t going to make much odds to some of the folk here before long.”

He squatted down to look at Mrs. Childer, feeling inside her blanket for her wrist and noting her pinched, immobile face, dry skin, and quick, shallow breathing. Her husband demanded hoarsely, “Doctor, is there nothing we can do for her?”

Baird looked at the closed, sunken eyes of the woman. He said slowly, “Mr. Childer, you’ve a right to know the truth. You’re a sensible man — I’ll give it to you straight. We’re making all the speed we possibly can, but at best it will be touch and go for your wife.” Childer’s mouth moved wordlessly. “You’d better understand this,” Baird went on deliberately. “I’ve done what I could for her, and I’ll continue to do it, but it’s pathetically little. Earlier on, using morphia, I might have been able to ease the pain for your wife. Now, if it’s any consolation to you, nature has taken care of it for us.”

Childer found his voice. “I won’t have you say that,” he protested. “Whatever happens, I’m grateful to you, Doctor.”

“Of course he is,” interposed ’Otpot heartily. “We all are. No one could’ve done more than you, Doc. An absolute marvel, that’s what.”

Baird smiled faintly, his hand on the woman’s forehead. “Kind words don’t alter the case,” he said harshly. “You’re a man of courage, Mr. Childer, and you have my respect. But don’t delude yourself.” The moment of truth, he thought bitterly; so this is it. I’d known it was coming tonight, and I knew too, deep down, what the answer would be. This is the salty taste of the real truth. No romantic heroics now. No colored-up and chlorophylled projection of what you think you are, or what you like others to think you are. This is the truth. Inside another hour we shall all very probably be dead. At least I shall go exposed for what I am. A rotten, stinking failure. When the time came, he was unequal. The perfect obituary.

“I’m telling you,” Childer was saying with emotion, “if we get out of this, I’ll have everyone know what we owe to you.”

Baird collected his thoughts. “What’s that?” he grunted. “I’d give plenty to have two or three saline drips aboard.” He rose. “Carry on as before, Mr. Childer. Make sure she’s really warm. Keep her lips moistened. If you can get her to take a little water now and then, so much the better. Remember she’s lost a very critical amount of body fluids.”

At that moment, in the control room at Vancouver, Harry Burdick was in the process of replacing some of his own body fluid with another carton of coffee. In addition to the microphone held in his hand, Treleaven now had on a headset and into the latter he was asking, “Radar. Are you getting anything at all?”

From another part of the building the chief radar operator, seated with an assistant before a long-range azimuth scanner, answered in a calmly conversational tone, “Not a thing yet.”

“I can’t understand it,” Treleaven said to the controller. “They ought to be in range by now.”

Burdick volunteered, “Don’t forget he lost speed in that last practice.”

“Yes, that’s so,” Treleaven agreed. Into his headset he said, “Radar, let me know the instant you get something.” To the controller, “I daren’t bring him down through cloud without knowing where he is. Ask the Air Force for another check, will you, Mr. Grimsell?” He nodded to the radio operator. “Put me on the air. Hullo, 714. Now, listen carefully, George. We are going through that drill again but before we start I want to explain a few things you may have forgotten or that only apply to big airplanes. Are you with me? Over.”

Janet replied, “Go ahead, Vancouver. We are listening carefully. Over.”

“Right, 714. Now before you can land certain checks and adjustments must be carried out. They are in addition to the landing drill you’ve just practiced. I’ll tell you when and how to do them later. Now I just want to run over them to prepare you. First, the hydraulic booster pump must be switched on. Then the brake pressure must be showing about 900 to 1,000 pounds a square inch. You’ll maybe remember something along these lines from your fighter planes, but a refresher course won’t hurt. Next, after the wheels are down you’ll turn on the fuel booster pumps and check that the gas feed is sufficient. Lastly, the mixture has to be made good and rich and the propellers set. Got all that? We’ll take it step by step as you come in so that Janet can set the switches. Now I’m going to tell you where each of them are. Here we go….”

Janet and Spencer identified each control as they were directed.

“Tell him we have them pinpointed, Janet.”

“Hullo, Vancouver. We’re okay on that.”

“Right, 714. You’re in no doubt about the position of each of those controls, Janet? You’re quite sure? Over.”

“Yes, Vancouver. I’ve got them. Over.”

“714. Check again that you are in level flight. Over.”

“Hullo, Vancouver. Yes, flying level now and above cloud.”

“Right, 714. Now, George. Let’s have 15 degrees of flap again, speed 140, and we’ll go through the wheel-lowering routine. Watch that air speed like a hawk this time. If you’re ready, let’s go….”