Arthur Hailey: Runway Zero-Eight

They listened intently as Spencer’s voice came through.

“You’d better get this, down there. I’m coming in. Do you hear me? I’m coming in. There are people up here who’ll die in less than an hour, never mind two. I may bend the airplane a bit — that’s a chance we have to take. Now get on with the landing check. I’m putting the gear down now.” They heard him say, “Wheels down, Janet.”

“All right, George, all right,” said Treleaven heavily. He slipped the headset on again. He had recovered his composure, but a muscle in his jaw worked convulsively. He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them, speaking with his former crispness. “If your undercarriage is down, check for the three green lights, remember? Keep your heading steady on 225. Increase your throttle setting slightly to hold your air speed now the wheels are down. Adjust your trim and keep all the height you can. Right. Check that the brake pressure is showing around 1,000 pounds — the gauge is to the right of the hydraulic booster on the panel. If the pressure’s okay, don’t answer. You with me? Then open the gills to one third. D’you remember, Janet? The switch is by your left knee and it’s marked in thirds. Answer me only if I’m going too fast. Next, the intercoolers…”

As Treleaven went on, his voice filling the hushed control tower, Burdick moved to the plate glass window, searching the sky low on the horizon. The dawn light was murky, retarded by thick cloud banks. He heard Treleaven instruct a gentle 180-degree turn to the left, to bring the aircraft back for its last approach, impressing on Spencer to take it slowly and easily while the last checks were carried out. The captain’s precise monotone formed a somber background to the thoughts of the frantically worried airline manager.

“This,” he said to an operator sitting nearby, “is a real tight one.” The operator grimaced. “One thing’s for sure,” said Burdick. “Whatever happens in the next two or three minutes, there’ll be hell let loose around here.” He patted his trousers for cigarettes, thought better of it, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Now advance your propeller settings,” Treleaven was saying, “so that the tachometers give a reading of twenty-two fifty r.p.m. on each engine. Don’t acknowledge.”

“Twenty-two fifty,” Spencer repeated to himself, watching the dials closely as he made the adjustment. “Janet,” he said, “Let me hear the air speed.”

“It’s 130…” she began tonelessly, “125… 120…125… 130….”

In the control tower Treleaven listened on his headphones to the steady voice from the radar room. “Height is still unsteady. Nine hundred feet.”

“George,” said Treleaven, “let your air speed come back to 120 knots and adjust your trim. I’ll repeat that. Air speed 120.” He looked down at his watch. “Take it nice and easy, now.”

“Still losing height,” reported the radar operator. “800 feet… 750… 700….”

“You’re losing height!” rapped out Treleaven. “You’re losing height. Open up — open up! You must keep at around one thousand.”

Janet continued her reading of the air speed:

“110… 110… 105… 110… 110… 120… 120… 120… steady at 120…”

“Come up… come up!” gritted Spencer between his teeth, hauling on the control column. “What a lumbering, great wagon this is! It doesn’t respond! It doesn’t respond at all.”

“125… 130… 130… steady on 130….”

“Height coming up to 900 feet,” intoned the radar operator. “950… on 1,000 now. Maintain 1,000.”

Treleaven called to the tower controller, “He’s turning on to final. Put out your runway lights, except zero-eight.” He spoke into the microphone. “Straighten out on a heading between 074 and 080. Watch your air speed and your height. Keep at a thousand feet until I tell you.”

In one series after another, the strings of lights half-sunken into the grass beside the runways flicked off, leaving just one line on either side of the main landing strip.

“Come out of your turn, George, when you’re ready,” said Treleaven, “and line up with the runway you’ll see directly ahead of you. It’s raining, so you’ll want your windshield wipers. The switch is down at the right on the copilot’s side and is clearly marked.”

“Find it, Janet,” said Spencer.

“Hold your height at a thousand feet, George. We’ve taken you a long way out, so you have lots of time. Have Janet look for the landing light switch. It’s in the panel overhead, a little left of center. Hold your height steady.”

“Can you find the switch?” asked Spencer.

“Just a minute… yes, I’ve got it.”

Spencer stole a quick look ahead. “My God,” he breathed. The lights of the runway, brilliant pinpoints in the blue-gray overcast of dawn, seemed at this distance to be incredibly narrow, like a short section of railway track. He freed one hand for an instant to dash it across his eyes, watering from their concentration.

“Correct your course,” said Treleaven. “Line yourself up straight and true. Hold that height, George. Now listen carefully. Aim to touch down about a third of the way along the runway. There’s a slight cross wind from the left, so be ready with gentle right rudder.” Spencer brought the nose slowly round. “If you land too fast, use the emergency brakes. You can work them by pulling the red handle immediately in front of you. And if that doesn’t stop you, cut the four ignition switches which are over your head.”

“See those switches, Janet?”

“Yes.”

“If I want them off it’ll be in a hurry,” said Spencer. “So if I shout, don’t lose any time about it.” His throat was parched; it felt full of grit.

“All right,” Janet replied in a whisper. She clasped her hands together to stop them shaking.

“It won’t be long now, anyway. What about the emergency bell?”

“I hadn’t forgotten. I’ll ring it just before touchdown.”

“Watch that air speed. Call it off.”

“120… 115… 120….”

“Begin descent,” said the radar operator. “400 feet a minute. Check landing gear and flaps. Hold present heading.”

“All right, George,” said Treleaven, “put down full flap. Bring your air speed back to 115, adjust your trim, and start losing height at 400 feet a minute. I’ll repeat that. Full flap, air speed 115, let down at 400 feet a minute. Hold your present heading.” He turned to Grimsell. “Is everything ready on the field?”

The controller nodded. “As ready as we’ll ever be.”

“Then this is it. In sixty seconds we’ll know.”

They listened to the approaching whine of engines. Treleaven reached out and took a pair of binoculars the controller handed him.

“Janet, give me full flap!” ordered Spencer. She thrust the lever down all the way. “Height and air speed — call them off!”

“1,000 feet… speed 130… 800 feet, speed 120… 700 feet, speed 105. We’re going down too quickly!”

“Get back that height!” Treleaven shouted. “Get back! You’re losing height too fast.”

“I know, I know!” Spencer shouted back. He pushed the throttles forward. “Keep watching it!” he told the girl.

“650 feet, speed 100… 400 feet, speed 100….”

Eyes smarting with sweat in his almost feverish concentration, he juggled to correlate speed with an even path of descent, conscious with a deep, sickening terror of the relentless approach of the runway, nearer with every second. The aircraft swayed from side to side, engines alternately revving and falling.

Burdick yelled from the tower balcony, “Look at him! He’s got no control!”

Keeping his glasses leveled at the oncoming aircraft, Treleaven snapped into the microphone, “Open up! Open up! You’re losing height too fast! Watch the air speed, for God’s sake. Your nose is too high — open up quickly or she’ll stall! Open up, I tell you, open up !“