Arthur Hailey: Runway Zero-Eight

“Glad you’re aboard.”

Baird left without another word. Dun took a deep breath, thinking over what had been said and searching in his mind for a possible course of action. Not for the first time in his flying career, he felt himself in the grip of an acute sense of apprehension, only this time his awareness of his responsibility for the safety of a huge, complex aircraft and nearly sixty lives was tinged with a sudden icy premonition of disaster. Was this, then, what it felt like? Older pilots, those who had been in combat in the war, always maintained that if you kept at the game long enough you’d buy it in the end. How was it that in the space of half an hour a normal, everyday, routine flight, carrying a crowd of happy football fans, could change into a nightmare nearly four miles above the earth, something that would shriek across the front pages of a hundred newspapers?

He pushed the thoughts from him in violent self-disgust. There were things to do, things requiring his complete concentration. Putting out his right hand he flicked the switches on the automatic pilot panel, waiting until each control became fully orientated and the appropriate indicator light gleamed to show that the next stage of the switching over could be started. Ailerons first, needing a slight adjustment of the compensating dial to bring them fully under electrical control; then rudder and elevators were nursed until all the four lights set into the top of the panel had ceased winking and settled down to a steady glow. Satisfied, Dun glanced at his p.d.i. dial and took his hands off the wheel. Sitting back in his seat, he let the aircraft fly itself while he carried out a thorough cockpit check. To an inexperienced eye, the flight deck presented a weird sight. Just as though two invisible men sat in the pilots’ seats, the twin control columns moved slightly forward, backwards, then forward again. Compensating the air currents as they gently buffeted the aircraft, the rudder bar moved also, as if of its own volition. Across the great spread of the dual instument panel the dozens of needles each registered its own particular story.

His check completed, he reached for the microphone that hung on its hook beside his head. He quickly clipped it to his neck and adjusted the padded earphones. The boom mike swung round at his touch so that the thin steel curve almost caressed his cheek. Aggressively, he blew at his mustache, puffing it up so that it practically touched his nose. Well, he thought to himself, here goes.

The switch was at send and his voice sounded calm and unhurried.

“Hullo, Vancouver Control. This is Maple Leaf Charter Flight 714. I have an emergency message. I have an emergency message.”

His earphones crackled instantly: “Maple Leaf Charter Flight 714. Come in please.”

“Vancouver Control. This is Flight 714. Listen. We have three serious cases of suspected food poisoning on board, including the first officer, and possibly others. When we land we shall want ambulances and medical help standing by. Please warn hospitals near the airfield. We’re not sure but we think the poisoning may have been caused by the fish served on board at dinner. You’d better put a ban on all food coming from the same source until the trouble has been definitely located. We understand that owing to our late arrival at Winnipeg the food was not supplied by the regular airline contractor. Please check. Is this understood?”

He listened to the acknowledgment, his eyes gazing bleakly at the frozen sea of cloud below and ahead. Vancouver Control sounded as crisp and impersonal as ever but he could guess at the verbal bomb he had exploded down there on the far western seaboard and the burst of activity his words would have triggered off. Almost wearily, he ended the transmission and leaned back in his seat. He felt strangely heavy and tired, as if lead had begun to flow into his limbs. The instrument dials, as his eyes ran automatically over them, seemed to recede until they were far, far away. He was conscious of a cold film of sweat on his forehead and he shivered in a sudden uncontrollable spasm. Then, in a renewal of anger at the perfidy of his body at such a time of crisis, he flung himself with all his strength and concentration into rechecking their flight path, their estimated time of arrival, the expected cross winds over the mountains, the runway plan of Vancouver. He had little idea whether it was a few minutes or several before his preparations were complete. He reached for his log book, opened it and looked at his wrist watch. With a dull and painful slowness his mind began to grapple with the seemingly Herculean task of trying to fix times to the events of the night.

Back in the body of the aircraft, Dr. Baird tucked fresh dry blankets round the limp form of Mrs. Childer and tossed the others out into the aisle. The woman lay back helplessly, her eyes closed, dry lips apart and trembling, moaning quietly. The top of her dress was stained and damp. As Baird watched her she was seized with a fresh paroxysm. Her eyes did not open.

Baird spoke to her husband. “Keep her mopped up and as dry as you can. And warm. She must be warm.”

Childer reached up and grabbed the doctor by the wrist. “For God’s sake, Doctor, what’s happening?” His voice was shrill. “She’s pretty bad, isn’t she?”

Baird looked again at the woman. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. “Yes,” he said, “she is.”

“Well, can’t we do something for her — give her something.”

Baird shook his head. “She needs drugs we haven’t got — antibiotics. There’s nothing we can do right now but keep her warm.”

“But surely even some water—”

“No. She’d gag on it. Your wife is nearly unconscious, Childer. Hold it, now,” Baird added hastily as the other man half rose in alarm. “That’s nature’s own anesthetic. Don’t worry. She’ll be all right. Your job is to watch her and keep her warm. Even when she’s unconscious she’ll probably still try to throw up. I’ll be back.”

Baird moved to the next row of seats. A middle-aged man, collar undone and hands clasping his stomach, sat slumped partly out of his seat, head thrown back and turning from side to side, his face glistening with sweat. He looked up at the doctor, drawing back his lips in a rictus of pain.

“It’s murder,” the man mumbled. “I never felt like this before.”

Baird took a pencil from his jacket pocket and held it in front of the man.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I want you to take this pencil.”

The man raised his arm with an effort. His fingers tried fumblingly to grasp the pencil but it slipped through them. Baird’s eyes narrowed. He lifted the man into a more comfortable position and tucked a blanket in tightly around him.

“I can’t hold myself,” the man said, “and my head feels like it’s in a vise.”

“Doctor,” someone shouted, “can you come here, please!”

“Wait a minute,” Baird called back. “I’ll see everyone in turn who wants me.”

The stewardess hurried towards him holding a leather bag.

“Good girl,” said Baird. “That’s the one. Not that I can do much…” His voice trailed away as he thought hard. “Where’s your p.a. system?” he asked.

“I’ll show you,” said Janet. She led the way aft to the galley and pointed to a small microphone. “How is Mrs. Childer, Doctor?” she asked.

Baird pursed his lips. “Don’t let’s pretend otherwise — she’s seriously ill,” he said. “And if I’m not very much mistaken there are others who’ll be as bad before long.”

“Do you still think it’s food poisoning?” Janet’s cheeks were very pale.

“Tolerably certain. Staphylococcal, I’d say, though some of the symptoms out there could indicate even worse. There again, the poisoning could have been caused by salmonella bacilli — who can say, without a proper diagnosis.”