frequency now closed to all other traffic. Go ahead, 714.”
“Thank you, Vancouver. 714. We are in distress. Both pilots and several passengers… how many passengers, Janet?”
“It was five a few minutes ago. May be more now, though.”
“Correction. At least five passengers are suffering from food poisoning. Both pilots are unconscious and in serious condition. We have a doctor with us who says that neither pilot can be revived to fly the aircraft. If they and the passengers are not gotten to hospital quickly it may be fatal for them. Did you get that, Vancouver?”
The voice crackled back instantly, “Go ahead, 714. I’m reading you.”
Spencer took a deep breath. “Now we come to the interestmg bit. My name is Spencer, George Spencer. I am a passenger on this airplane. Correction: I
“Vancouver to 714. Stand by.”
Spencer wiped the gathering sweat from his forehead and grinned across to Janet. “Want to bet that’s caused a bit of stir in the dovecotes down there?” She shook her head, listening intently to her earphones. In a few seconds the air was alive again, the voice as measured and impersonal as before.
“Vancouver to Flight 714. Please check with doctor on board for any possibility of either pilot recovering. This is important. Repeat, this is important. Ask him to do everything possible to revive one of them even if he has to leave the sick passengers. Over.”
Spencer pressed his transmit button. “Vancouver, this is flight 714. Your message is understood, but no go, I’m afraid. The doctor says there is no possibility whatever of pilots recovering to make the landing. He says they are critically ill and may die unless they get hospital treatment soon. Over.”
There was a slight pause. Then: “Vancouver Control to 714. Your message understood. Will you stand by, please.”
“Roger, Vancouver,” acknowledged Spencer and switched off again. He said to Janet, “We can only wait now while they think up what to do.”
His hands played nervously with the control column in front of him, following its movements, trying to gauge its responsiveness as he attempted to call up the old cunning in him, the flying skill that had once earned for him quite a reputation in the squadron: three times home on a wing and a prayer. He smiled to himself as he recalled the war-time phrase. But in the next moment, as he looked blankly at the monstrous assembly of wavering needles and the unfamiliar banks of levers and switches, he felt himself in the grip of an icy despair. What had his flying in common with this? This was like sitting in a submarine, surrounded by the meaningless dials and instruments of science fiction. One wrong or clumsy move might shatter in a second the even tenor of their flight; if it did, who was to say that he could bring the aircraft under control again? All the chances were that he couldn’t. This time there would be no comforting presence of Hurricanes to shepherd him home. He began to curse the head office which had whipped him away from Winnipeg to go trouble-shooting across to Vancouver at a moment’s notice. The prospect of a sales manager’s appointment and the lure of a house on Parkway Heights now seemed absurdly trivial and unimportant. It would be damnable to end like this, not to see Mary again, not to say to her all the things that were still unspoken. As for Bobsie and Kit, the life insurance would not take them very far. He should have done more for those poor kids, the world’s best.
A movement beside him arrested his thoughts. Janet was kneeling on her seat, looking back to where the still figures of the captain and the first officer lay on the floor.
“One of those a boy friend of yours?” he asked.
“No,” said Janet hesitantly, “not really.”
“Skip it,” said Spencer, a jagged edge to his voice. “I understand. I’m sorry, Janet.” He put a cigarette in his mouth and fumbled for matches. “I don’t suppose this is allowed, is it, but maybe the airline can stretch a point.”
In the sudden flare of the match she could see, very clearly, the fierce burning anger in his eyes.
SIX
WITH AN ACCELERATING thunder of engines the last eastbound aircraft to take off from Vancouver that night had gathered speed along the wetly gleaming runway and climbed into the darkness. Its navigation lights, as it made the required circuit of the airport, had been shrouded in a damp clinging mist. Several other aircraft, in process of being towed back from their dispersal points to bays alongside the departure buildings, were beaded with moisture. It was a cold night. Ground staff, moving about their tasks in the yellow arc lights, slapped their gloved hands around themselves to keep warm. None of them spoke more than was necessary. One slowly taxiing aircraft came to a stop and cut its engines at a wave from the indicator torches of a ground man facing it in front. In the sudden silence the swish of its propellers seemed an intrusion. Normally busy Vancouver prepared itself with quiet competence for emergency.
Within the brightly lit control room the atmosphere was tense with concentration. Replacing his telephone, the controller lit a cigarette, wreathing himself in clouds of blue smoke as he studied a wall map. He turned to Burdick. Perched on the edge of a table, the plump manager of Maple Leaf Airline had just finished consulting again the clipboard of information he held in his hand.
“Right, Harry,” said the controller. His tone was that of a man running over his actions more to satisfy himself that everything had been done rather than to impart information to another. “As of now, I’m holding all departures for the east. We’ve got nearly an hour in which to clear the present outgoing traffic in other directions, leaving plenty of time in hand. After that everything scheduled outwards must wait until… until afterwards, anyway.” The telephone buzzed. He snatched it up. “Yes? I see. Warn all stations and aircraft that we can accept incoming flights for the next forty-five minutes only. Divert everything with an ETA later than that. All traffic must be kept well away from the east-west lane between Calgary and here. Got that? Good.” He dropped the instrument back into its cradle and addressed an assistant who sat also holding a telephone. “Have you raised the fire chief yet?”
“Ringing his home now.”
“Tell him he’d better get here — it looks like a big show. And ask the duty fire officer to notify the city fire department. They may want to move equipment into the area.”
“I’ve done that. Vancouver Control here,” said the assistant into his telephone. “Hold the line, please.” He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “Shall I alert the Air Force?”
“Yes. Have them keep the zone clear of their aircraft.”
Burdick hitched himself off the table. “That’s a thought,” he said. Great damp patches stretched from the armpits of his shirt.
“Have you any pilots here at the airport?” asked the controller.
Burdick shook his head. “Not one,” he said. “We’ll have to get help.”
The controller thought rapidly. “Try Cross-Canada. They have most of their men based here. Explain the position. We’ll need a man fully experienced with this type of aircraft who is capable of giving instruction over the air.”
“Do you think there’s a chance?”
“I don’t know, but we’ve got to try. Can you suggest anything else?”
“No,” said Burdick, “I can’t. But I sure don’t envy him that job.”
The switchboard operator called, “The city police again. Will you take them?”
“Put them on,” said the controller.
“I’ll see the Cross-Canada people,” said Burdick. “And I must ring Montreal and tell my chief what’s happening.”
“Do it through the main board, will you?” asked the controller. “The one in here is getting snarled up.” He lifted the telephone as Burdick hurried out of the room. “Controller speaking. Ah, Inspector, I’m glad it’s you. Yes…
