Arthur Hailey: Runway Zero-Eight

“Are you going to give round an emetic?”

“Yes, except of course to those who are already sick. That’s all I can do. What we probably need are antibiotics like chloramphenicol, but it’s no use thinking about that.” Lifting the telephone, Baird paused. “As soon as you can,” he told her, “I suggest you organize some help to clean up a bit in there. Squirt plenty of disinfectant around if you’ve any. Oh, and as you speak to the sick passengers you’d better tell them to forget the conventions and not to lock the door of the toilet — we don’t want any passing out in there.” He thought for a moment, then pressed the button of the microphone, holding it close. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? Your attention, please.” He heard the murmur of voices die away, leaving only the steady drone of the engines. “First of all, I should introduce myself,” he went on. “My name is Baird and I’m a doctor. Some of you are wondering what this malady is that has stricken our fellow passengers and I think it’s time everyone knew what is happening and what I’m doing. Well, as far as I can tell with the limited facilities at my disposal we have several cases of food poisoning on board and by deduction — a deduction that has yet to be confirmed — I believe the cause of it to be the fish which was served to some of us at dinner.” An excited hubbub broke out at his words. “Now listen to me, please,” he said. “There is no cause for alarm. I repeat, there is no cause for alarm. The passengers who have suffered these attacks are being cared for by the stewardess and myself, and the captain has radioed ahead for more medical help to be standing by when we land. If you ate fish for dinner it doesn’t necessarily follow that you are going to be affected too. There’s seldom any hard and fast rule about this sort of thing and it’s perfectly possible that you’ll be entirely immune. However, we are going to take some precautions and the stewardess and I are coming round to you all. I want you to tell us if you ate fish. Remember, only if you ate fish. If you did, we’ll tell you how you can help yourselves. Now, if you’ll all settle down we’ll begin right away.” Baird took his finger off the button and turned to Janet. “All we can really do now is to give immediate first aid,” he said.

Janet nodded. “You mean the pills, Doctor?”

“There are two things we can do. We don’t know definitely what the source of the poisoning is but we can assume it’s been taken internally, so to begin with everyone who had fish must drink several glasses of water — I mean those who are not too ill, of course. That will help to dilute the poison and relieve the toxic effects. After that we’ll give an emetic. If there aren’t enough pills in my bag to go round we’ll have to use salt. Have you plenty of that?”

“I’ve only got a few small packets that go with the lunches but we can break them open.”

“Good. We’ll see how far the pills go first. I’ll start at the back here with the pills and you begin bringing drinking water to those people already affected, will you? Take some to the first officer too. You’ll need help.”

Stepping out of the galley, Baird practically cannoned into the lean, lugubrious Englishman called ’Otpot.

“Anything I can do, Doctor?” His voice was concerned.

Baird allowed himself a smile. “Thanks. First, what did you have for dinner?”

“Meat, thank heaven,” breathed ’Otpot fervently.

“Right. We’re not going to worry about you then for the moment. Will you help the stewardess to hand water round to the passengers who are sick? I want them to drink at least three glasses if they can — more, if possible.”

’Otpot entered the galley, returning Janet’s rather tired little smile. In normal circumstances that smile of hers could be guaranteed to quicken the pulse of any airline staff but on this occasion the man beside her could see the hint of fear that lay behind it. He winked at her.

“Don’t you worry, miss. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Janet looked at him gratefully. “I’m sure it is, thanks. Look, here’s the water tap and there are the cups, Mr.—”

“The boys call me ’Otpot.”

“’Otpot?” repeated Janet incredulously.

“Yes, Lancashire ’Otpot — you know.”

“Oh!” Janet burst out laughing.

“There, that’s better. Now, where are t’cups, you say? Come on, lass, let’s get started. A fine airline this is. Gives you your dinner, then asks for it back again.”

It takes a very great deal to upset the equilibrium of a modern airport. Panic is a thing unknown in such places and would be ruthlessly stamped out if it occurred, for it can be a highly lethal activity.

The control room at Vancouver, when Dun’s emergency call began to come through, presented a scene of suppressed excitement. In front of the radio panel an operator wearing headphones transcribed Dun’s incoming message straight on to a typewriter, pausing only to reach over and punch an alarm bell on his desk. He carried on imperturbably as a second man appeared behind him, craning over his shoulder to read the words as they were pounded on to the sheet of paper in the typewriter. The newcomer, summoned by the bell, was the airport controller, a tall, lean man who had spent a lifetime in the air and knew the conditions of travel over the northern hemisphere as well as he knew his own back garden. Better, in fact, for didn’t his onions always run to seed? He got halfway through the message, then stepped sharply back, cracking an order over his shoulder to the telephone operator on the far side of the room.

“Get me Air Traffic Control quickly. Then clear the teletype circuit to Winnipeg. Priority message.” The controller picked up a phone, waited a few seconds, then said, “Vancouver controller here.” His voice was deceptively unhurried. “Maple Leaf Charter Flight 714 from Winnipeg to Vancouver reports emergency. Serious food poisoning among the passengers, and I mean serious. The first officer is down with it too. Better clear all levels below them for priority approach and landing. Can do? Good. ETA is 05.05.” The controller glanced at the wall dock; it read 02.15. “Right. We’ll keep you posted.” He pushed down the telephone cradle with his thumb, keeping it there as he barked at the teletype operator, “Got Winnipeg yet? Good. Send this message. Starts: ‘Controller Winnipeg. Urgent. Maple Leaf Charter Flight 714 reports serious food poisoning among passengers and crew believed due to fish served dinner on flight. Imperative check source and suspend all other food service originating same place. Understand source was not, repeat not, regular airline caterer.’ That’s all.” He swung round to the telephone switchboard again. “Get me the local manager of Maple Leaf Charter. Burdick’s his name. After that I want the city police — senior officer on duty.” He leaned over the radio operator’s shoulder again and finished reading the now completed message. “Acknowledge that, Greg. Tell them that all altitudes below them are being cleared and that they’ll be advised of landing instructions later. We shall want further news later of the condition of those passengers, too.”

On the floor below, an operator of the Government of Canada Western Air Traffic Control swiveled in his chair to call across the room, “What’s in Green One between here and Calgary?”

“Westbound. There’s an air force North Star at 18,000. Just reported over Penticton. Maple Leaf 714—”

“714’s in trouble. They want all altitudes below them cleared.”

“The North Star’s well ahead and there’s nothing close behind. There’s an eastbound Constellation ready for take-off.”