HARRY BURDICK lowered his binoculars and handed them back to the tower controller.
From the observation balcony which girdled the tower, the two men took a last look over the field, at the gasoline tankers pulled well back from the apron and, clearly visible now in the half-light, the group of figures watching from the boarding bays. The steady throb of truck engines from the far end of the field seemed to add to the oppressive, almost unbearable air of expectancy which enveloped the whole airport.
Searching in his mind for any possible fault, Burdick reviewed Treleaven’s plan. The aircraft would arrive overhead at something below two thousand feet and carry on out over the Strait of Georgia, descending gradually on this long, downwind leg while the last cockpit check was executed. Then would follow a wide about-turn on to the final approach, giving the pilot maximum time in which to regulate his descent and settle down carefully for the run-in.
A good plan, one which would take advantage too of the slowly increasing light of dawn. It occurred to Burdick what that would mean to those of the passengers who were well enough to care. They would watch Sea Island and the airport pass beneath them, followed by the wide sweep of the bay, then the island getting shakily nearer again as their emergency pilot made his last adjustments to the controls. Burdick sensed, as if he were up there with them, the suffocating tension, the dreadful choking knowledge that they might well be staring death in the face. He shivered suddenly. In his sweat-soaked shirt, without a jacket, he felt the chill of the early-morning air like a knife.
There was the sensation, quickly passing, of being suspended in time, as if the world were holding its breath.
“We are on a heading of 253.” The girl’s voice carried to them distinctly from the radio amplifier. “We are now losing height rapidly.”
His eyes shadowed with anxiety, Burdick glanced meaningly into the face of the young man at his side. Without a word they turned and re-entered the great glass surround of the control tower. Treleaven and Grimsell were crouched before the desk microphone, their features bathed in the glow from the runway light indicators set into the control console in front of them.
“Wind still okay?” asked the captain.
Grimsell nodded. “Slightly across runway zero-eight, but that’s still our best bet.” Zero-eight was the longest of the airport’s three runways, as Treleaven well knew.
“Radar,” said Treleaven into his headset, “keep me fed the whole time, whether or not you can hear that I’m on the air. This won’t be a normal talk-down. Scrap procedure the instant 714 runs into trouble. Cut in and yell.”
Burdick tapped him on the shoulder. “Captain,” he urged, “what about one more shot at getting him to hold off — at least until the light’s better and he’s had—”
“The decision’s been made,” said Treleaven curtly. “The guy’s nervy enough. If we argue with him now, he’s finished.” Burdick shrugged and turned away. Treleaven continued in a quieter tone, “I understand your feelings, Harry. But understand his too, surrounded by a mass of hardware he’s never seen before. He’s on a razor edge.”
“What if he comes in badly?” put in Grimsell. “What’s your plan?”
“He probably will, let’s face it,” Treleaven retorted grimly. “If it’s hopeless, I’ll try to bring him round again. We’ll save any further arguments on the air unless it’s obvious he doesn’t stand a chance. Then I’ll try to insist he puts down in the ocean.” He listened for a moment to the calm recital of radar readings in his earphones, then pressed the switch of the microphone. “George. Let your air speed come back to 160 knots and hold it steady there.”
The amplifier came alive as 714 took the air. There was an agonizing pause before Janet’s voice intoned, “We are still losing height. Over.”
Like a huge and ponderous bird, the Empress moved slowly past the western end of the Landsdowne Race Track, hidden now in the early-morning mist, and over the arm of the Fraser River. To the right the bridge from the mainland to Sea Island was just discernible.
“Good,” said Treleaven. “Now set your mixture controls to take-off — that is, up to the top position.” He fixed his eyes on his wrist watch, counting the sweep of the second hand. “Take your time, George. When you’re ready, turn your carburetor heat controls to cold. They’re just forward of the throttles.”
“How about the gas tanks?” Burdick demanded hoarsely.
“We checked earlier,” replied Grimsell. “He’s on main wing tanks now.”
In the aircraft Spencer peered apprehensively from one control to the next. His face was a rigid mask. He heard Treleaven’s voice resume its inexorable monologue. “The next thing, George, is to set the air filter to ram and the supercharges to low. Take your time, now.” Spencer looked about him wildly. “The air filter control is the single lever below the mixture controls. Move it into the up position.”
“Can you see it, Janet?” asked Spencer anxiously.
“Yes. Yes, I have it.” She added quickly, “Look — the airport’s right below us! You can see the long main runway.”
“Plenty long, I hope,” Spencer gritted, not lifting his head.
“The supercharger controls,” continued Treleaven, “are four levers to the right of the mixture controls. Move them to the up position also.”
“Got them?” said Spencer.
“Yes.”
“Good girl.” He was conscious of the horizon line dipping and rising in front of him, but dared not release his eyes from the panel. The roar of the engines took on a fluctuating tone.
“Now let’s have that 15 degrees of flap.” Treleaven instructed, “15 degrees — down to the second notch. The indicator dial is in the center of the main panel. When you have 15 degrees on, bring your air speed back slowly to 140 knots and adjust your trim for level flight. As soon as you’ve done that, switch the hydraulic booster pump on — extreme left, by the gyro control.”
Through Treleaven’s headset, the radar operator interposed, “Turn on to 225. I’m getting a height reading, Captain. He’s all over the place.. Nine hundred, up to thirteen hundred feet.”
“Change course to 225,” said Treleaven. “And watch your height — it’s too irregular. Try to keep steady at 1,000 feet.”
“He’s dropping off fast,” said the operator. “1,000… 1,000… 900… 800… 700…”
“Watch your height!” Treleaven warned. “Use more throttle! Keep the nose up!”
“650… 600… 550….”
“Get back that height!” barked Treleaven. “Get it back! You need a thousand feet.”
“550… 450…” called off the operator, calm but sweating. “This isn’t good, Captain. 400… 400… 450 — he’s going up. 500….”
For a moment, Treleaven cracked. He tore off his headset and swung round to Burdick. “He can’t fly it!” he shouted. “Of course he can’t fly it!”
“Keep talking to him!” Burdick spat out, lunging forward at the captain and seizing his arm. “Keep talking, for Christ’s sake. Tell him what to do.”
Treleaven grabbed at the microphone, bringing it to his mouth. “Spencer,” he said urgently, “you can’t come straight in! Listen to me. You’ve got to do some circuits and practice that approach. There’s enough fuel left for two hours’ flying. Stay up, man! Stay up!”
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!“
“He’s heard you,” said Grimsell. “He’s recovering.”
“Me too, I wish,” said Burdick.
The radar operator announced, “Still 100 feet below glide path. 50 feet below glide path.”
“Get up — up,” urged Treleaven. “If you haven’t rung the alarm bell yet, do it now. Seats upright, passengers’ heads down.”
As the shrill warning rang out in the aircraft, Baird roared at the top of his voice, “Everybody down! Hold as tight as you can!”
Crouched double in their seats, Joe and Hazel Greer, the sports fans, wrapped their arms round each other, quietly and composedly. Moving clumsily in his haste, Childer tried to gather his motionless wife to him, then hurriedly leaned himself across her as far as he could. From somewhere midship came the sob-racked sound of a prayer and, further back, an exclamation from one of the rye-drinking quartet of, “God help us — this is it!”
“Shut up!” rapped ’Otpot. “Save your breath!”
In the tower, Grimsell spoke into a telephone-type microphone. “All fire-fighting and salvage equipment stand fast until the aircraft has passed them. She may swing.” His voice echoed back metallically from the buildings.
“He’s back up to 200 feet,” reported radar. “Still below glide path. 150 feet. Still below glide path. He’s too low, Captain. 100 feet.”
Treleaven dragged off the headset. He jumped to his feet, holding the microphone in one hand and the binoculars in the other.
“Maintain that height,” he instructed, “until you get closer in to the runway. Be ready to ease off gently… Let down again… That looks about right…”
“Damn the rain,” cursed Spencer. “I can hardly see.” He could make out that they were over grass. Ahead he had a blurred impression of the beginning of the runway.
“Watch the air speed,” cautioned Treleaven. “Your nose is creeping up.” There was a momentary sound of other voices in the background. “Straighten up just before you touch down and be ready to meet the drift with right rudder…. All right.. Get ready to round out…”
The end of the gray runway, two hundred feet across, slid under them.
“Now!” Treleaven exclaimed. “You’re coming in too fast. Lift the nose up! Get it up! Back up the throttles — right back! Hold her off. Not too much — not too much! Be ready for that cross wind. Ease her down, now. Ease her down!”
Undercarriage within a few feet of the runway surface, Spencer moved the control column gently back and forth, trying to feel his way down on to the ground, his throat constricted with panic because he now realized how much higher was this cockpit than that of any other plane he had flown, making judgment almost impossible for him.
For what seemed an age, the wheels skimmed the runway, making no contact. Then with a jolt they touched down. There was a shriek of rubber and a puff of smoke. The shock bounced the aircraft right into the air again. Then the big tires were once more fighting to find a purchase on the concrete.
A third bump followed, then another and yet another. Cursing through his clenched teeth, Spencer hauled the control column back into his stomach, all the nightmare fears of the past few hours now a paralyzing reality. The gray stream below him jumped up, receded jumped up again. Then, miraculously, it remained still. They were down. He eased on the toe brakes, then held them hard, using all the strength in his legs. There was a high-pitched squeal but no sudden drop in speed. From the corner of his eye he could see that they were already more than two thirds down the length of the runway. He could never hold the aircraft in time.
“You’re landing too fast,” roared Treleaven. “Use the emergency brakes! Pull the red handle!”
Spencer tugged desperately on the handle. He hauled the control column back into his stomach, jammed his feet on the brakes. He felt the tearing strain in his arms as the aircraft tried to slew. The wheels locked, skidded, then ran free again.
“Cut the switches!” he shouted. With a sweep of her hand Janet snapped them off. The din of the engines died away, leaving in the cabin the hum of gyros and radio equipment, and outside the screaming of tires.
Spencer stared ahead in fascinated horror. With no sound of engines, the aircraft was still traveling fast, the ground leaping past them in a blur. He could see now a big checkerboard marking the turn at the far end of the runway. In the fraction of a second his eyes registered the picture of a fire truck, its driver falling to the ground in his scramble to get away.
Treleaven’s voice burst into his ears with the force of a blow.
“Ground-loop it to the left! Ground-loop it to the left! Hard left rudder!”
Making an instantaneous decision, Spencer put his left foot on the rudder pedal and threw all his weight behind it, pressing it forward savagely.
Veering suddenly from the runway, the aircraft began to swing in an arc. Flung over to the right side of his seat, Spencer struggled to keep the wings clear of the ground. There was a rending volume of noise, a dazzling flash, as the undercarriage ripped away and the aircraft smashed to the ground on its belly. The impact lifted Spencer clean from his seat. He felt a sharp pain as his safety belt bit deeply into his flesh.
“Get your head down!” he yelled. “We’re piling up!”
Gripping their seats against the maniacal violence of the bouncing and rocking, they tried to curl themselves up. Still under momentum, the aircraft continued to slither crabwise, ploughing the grass in vicious furrows. With a screech of metal it crossed another runway, uprooting the runway lights, showering fountains of earth up into the air.
Spencer prayed for the end.
Like a prisoner in some crazy, helpless juggernaut, blood appearing in the corner of his mouth from a chance blow as yet unfelt, he waited for the inevitable tip-over, the upending, splintering crash that would, for him, disintegrate into a thousand fiery pinpoints of light before they were swallowed into darkness.
Then, quite suddenly, they were moving no longer. Spencer seemed to feel the same crazy motions as if they were still careering across the field; but, his eyes told him they had stopped. For the space of seconds there was no sound at all. He braced himself against the awkward sideways tilt of the deck and looked over at Janet. Her head was buried in her hands. She was crying silently.
In the passenger compartment behind him there were murmurs and rustlings as of people who unbelievably awake to find themselves still alive. Someone laughed, shortly and hysterically, and this seemed to let loose half a dozen voices speaking at once.
He heard Baird call out, “Is anyone hurt?”
The noises melted into confusion. Spencer closed his eyes. He felt himself shaking.
“Better open up the emergency doors,” came the adenoidal tones of ’Otpot, “and then everyone stay where he is.”
From the door to the flight deck, jammed open in the crash, he heard the doctor exclaim, “Wonderful job! Spencer! Are you both all right?”
“I ground-looped!” he muttered to himself in disgust. “We turned right around the way we came. What a performance — to ground-loop!”
“Rubbish — you did magnificently,” Baird retorted. “As far as I can tell, there are only bruises and a bit of shock back here. Let’s have a look at the captain and first officer — they must have been thrown about some.”
Spencer turned to him. It was painful to move his neck.
“Doctor” — his throat was hoarse — “are we in time?”
“Yes, just about, I’d say. It’s up to the hospital now, anyway. You’ve done your part.”
He tried to raise himself in his seat. At that moment he became aware of the sound of crackling. He felt an upsurge of alarm. Then he realized that the noise was issuing from his head set which had slipped to the deck. He reached down and picked it up, holding one phone to his ear.
“George Spencer!” Treleaven was calling. “George Spencer! Are you there?”
Outside there was now a rising crescendo of sirens from crash tenders and fire trucks and ambulances. Spencer heard voices in the passenger compartment behind him.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m here.”
Treleaven was jubilant, caught in the general reaction. Behind his voice there were sounds of excited conversation and laughter.
“George. That was probably the lousiest landing in the history of this airport. So don’t ever ask us for a job as a pilot. But there are some of us here who’d like to shake your hand, and later we’ll buy you a drink. Now hold everything, George. We’re coming over.”
Janet had raised her head and was smiling tremulously.
“You should see your face,” she said. “It’s black.”
He couldn’t think of a thing to say. No witticism; no adequate word of thanks. He knew only that he was intolerably tired and sick to the stomach. He reached over for her hand and grinned back.