Runway Zero-Eight by Arthur Hailey, John Castle Page A
Authors: Arthur Hailey, John Castle
Tags: thriller
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George, you watch the artificial horizon and keep the air speed steady. Climb and descent indicator should stay at zero. All right. Start now.”
Spencer put his right forefinger over the autopilot release button on the control column. His face was rigid. Feet on the rudder bar and both arms ready, braced, he steeled himself for what might come.
“Tell him I’m switching over now,” he told Janet. She repeated the message. His hand wavered for a moment on the button. Then, decisively, he pressed it hard. The aircraft swung a little to port but he corrected the tendency gently and she responded well enough to his feet on the rudder bar. The vibration from the controls seemed to flow through his body like an electric current.
“Tell him okay,” he gasped, his nerves taut as cables.
“714 here. We’re flying straight and level.” Janet’s voice sounded miraculously sweet and calm to him.
“Well done, George. As soon as you’ve got the feel of her, try some very gentle turns, not more than two or three degrees. Can you see the turn indicator? It’s almost directly in front of your eyes and slightly to the right, just by the panel-light shield. Over.” Treleaven’s eyes were closed with the effort of visualizing the cockpit layout. He opened them and spoke to the dispatcher. “Listen. I’ve got a lot of work to do with this man in the air, but we ought to start planning the approach and landing while there’s plenty of time. Get the chief radar operator up here, will you, and let me talk to him.”
Very gingerly Spencer extended his left leg and eased the control column over. This time it seemed an age before the aircraft responded to his touch and he saw the horizon indicator tilt. Gratified, he tried the other way; but now the movement was alarming. He looked down at the ASI and was shocked to see that it had dropped to 180 knots. Quickly he eased the control column forward. Then he breathed again as the speed rose slowly to 210. He would have to treat the controls with the utmost respect until he really understood the time lag; that was evident. Again he tried a shallow turn and pushed at the resisting weight of the rudder to hold it steady. Gradually he felt the ship answer. Then he straightened up, so as to keep approximately on the course they had been steering before.
Janet had lifted her eyes momentarily from the instrument panel to ask in a small voice, “How is it?”
Spencer tried to grin, without much success. The thought passed through his mind that this was rather like his days on the Link trainer all over again, only then nearly sixty lives did not hang in the balance and the instructor was not more than a few feet away in the same room. “Tell him I’m on manual and doing gentle turns, coming back on course each time,” he said.
Janet gave the message.
“I should have asked you this before,” came Treleaven’s voice. “What kind of weather are you in up there?”
“It’s clear where we are right now,” answered Janet. “Except below us, of course.”
“Uh-huh. You’d better keep me informed. Now, George, we have to press on. You may hit some cloud layer at any time, with a little turbulence. If you do, I want you to be ready for it. How does she handle?”
Spencer looked across to Janet. “Tell him — sluggish as hell, like a wet sponge,” he said between clenched teeth.
“Hullo, Vancouver. As sluggish as a wet sponge,” repeated Janet.
For a few brief seconds the tension at Vancouver Control eased and the group standing round the radio panel exchanged smiles.
“That’s a natural feeling, George,” said Treleaven, serious again, “because you were used to smaller airplanes. You’ll have to expect it to feel even worse when you really throw her around up there, but you’ll soon get used to it.”
The dispatcher cut in, “I’ve the radar chief here.”
“He’ll have to wait,” said Treleaven. “I’ll talk to him as soon as I get a
Spencer put his right forefinger over the autopilot release button on the control column. His face was rigid. Feet on the rudder bar and both arms ready, braced, he steeled himself for what might come.
“Tell him I’m switching over now,” he told Janet. She repeated the message. His hand wavered for a moment on the button. Then, decisively, he pressed it hard. The aircraft swung a little to port but he corrected the tendency gently and she responded well enough to his feet on the rudder bar. The vibration from the controls seemed to flow through his body like an electric current.
“Tell him okay,” he gasped, his nerves taut as cables.
“714 here. We’re flying straight and level.” Janet’s voice sounded miraculously sweet and calm to him.
“Well done, George. As soon as you’ve got the feel of her, try some very gentle turns, not more than two or three degrees. Can you see the turn indicator? It’s almost directly in front of your eyes and slightly to the right, just by the panel-light shield. Over.” Treleaven’s eyes were closed with the effort of visualizing the cockpit layout. He opened them and spoke to the dispatcher. “Listen. I’ve got a lot of work to do with this man in the air, but we ought to start planning the approach and landing while there’s plenty of time. Get the chief radar operator up here, will you, and let me talk to him.”
Very gingerly Spencer extended his left leg and eased the control column over. This time it seemed an age before the aircraft responded to his touch and he saw the horizon indicator tilt. Gratified, he tried the other way; but now the movement was alarming. He looked down at the ASI and was shocked to see that it had dropped to 180 knots. Quickly he eased the control column forward. Then he breathed again as the speed rose slowly to 210. He would have to treat the controls with the utmost respect until he really understood the time lag; that was evident. Again he tried a shallow turn and pushed at the resisting weight of the rudder to hold it steady. Gradually he felt the ship answer. Then he straightened up, so as to keep approximately on the course they had been steering before.
Janet had lifted her eyes momentarily from the instrument panel to ask in a small voice, “How is it?”
Spencer tried to grin, without much success. The thought passed through his mind that this was rather like his days on the Link trainer all over again, only then nearly sixty lives did not hang in the balance and the instructor was not more than a few feet away in the same room. “Tell him I’m on manual and doing gentle turns, coming back on course each time,” he said.
Janet gave the message.
“I should have asked you this before,” came Treleaven’s voice. “What kind of weather are you in up there?”
“It’s clear where we are right now,” answered Janet. “Except below us, of course.”
“Uh-huh. You’d better keep me informed. Now, George, we have to press on. You may hit some cloud layer at any time, with a little turbulence. If you do, I want you to be ready for it. How does she handle?”
Spencer looked across to Janet. “Tell him — sluggish as hell, like a wet sponge,” he said between clenched teeth.
“Hullo, Vancouver. As sluggish as a wet sponge,” repeated Janet.
For a few brief seconds the tension at Vancouver Control eased and the group standing round the radio panel exchanged smiles.
“That’s a natural feeling, George,” said Treleaven, serious again, “because you were used to smaller airplanes. You’ll have to expect it to feel even worse when you really throw her around up there, but you’ll soon get used to it.”
The dispatcher cut in, “I’ve the radar chief here.”
“He’ll have to wait,” said Treleaven. “I’ll talk to him as soon as I get a
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