Runway Zero-Eight by Arthur Hailey, John Castle Page B

break.”
    “Right.”
    “Hullo, George,” called Treleaven. “You must avoid any violent movements of the controls, such as you used to make in your fighter airplanes. If you
do
move the controls violently, you will over-correct and be in trouble. Is that understood? Over.”
    “Yes, Vancouver, we understand. Over.”
    “Now, George, I want you to try the effect of fore-and-aft control on your air speed. To start with, adjust your throttle setting so as to reduce speed to 160 and cruise straight and level. But watch the air speed closely. Keep it over 120. The elevator trim is just to your right on the control pedestal and the aileron trim is below the throttles, near the floor. Got it? Over.”
    Spencer checked with his hand, holding the plane steady with the other and with braced legs. “Right. Tell him I’m reducing speed.”
    “Okay, Vancouver, we’re doing as you say.” Time ticked away as the speed slowly dropped. At 160 George adjusted the trim tabs and held up his thumb to Janet.
    “714 here, Vancouver. 160 knots on the indicator.”
    Treleaven waited until he had struggled out of his jacket before speaking. “Right, George. Try a little up and down movement. Use the control column as carefully as if it were full of eggs and watch the speed. Keep it at 160. Get the feel of the thing as you go along. Over.” He put the microphone down. “Where’s the radar chief?”
    “Here.”
    “At what range will this aircraft show on your scope?” queried Treleaven.
    “Sixty miles, thereabouts, Captain.”
    “That’s no good for a while, then. Well,” said Treleaven, partly to himself, partly to Burdick, “you can’t have everything at once. I’ve had to assume that he’s still heading in a general westerly direction. Next call, though, we’ll check his heading.”
    “Yeah,” said Burdick. He offered a cigarette, which the pilot refused.
    “If he’s stayed on the same heading,” continued Treleaven, looking at the wall map, “he can’t be that much off course, and we can straighten him up when he gets in our radar range. That Air Force check is a help.”
    “Can’t he come in on the beam?” asked Burdick.
    “Right now he’s got enough to worry about. If I try to get him on the beam, he’ll have to mess around with the radio, changing frequencies and a lot of other stuff. I’d sooner take a chance, Harry, and let him go a few miles off course.”
    “That makes sense,” Burdick conceded.
    “Here’s how we’ll handle it,” said the pilot. He turned to the radar chief. “I’ll do the talking. He’s getting used to me now.”
    “Right, sir.”
    “As soon as he shows up on your scope, you can feed me the information and I’ll relay it. Can you fix up a closed circuit between me and the radar room?”
    “We can take care of that,” said the dispatcher.
    “How about the final approach?” asked the radar chief.
    “We’ll handle that the same way,” said Treleaven. “Directly we’ve got him on the scope and he’s steady on course, we’ll move to the tower. You report up there and we’ll decide on the runway and plan the approach.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Treleaven picked up the microphone but waited, his eye catching that of the controller, who was replacing a telephone in its cradle.
    “Dr. Davidson is downstairs,” the controller told him.
    “What does he have to say?”
    “From the information we’ve got he agrees with the diagnosis of the doctor in the plane. Seemed to wonder at first if it could be an outbreak of botulism.”
    “What’s that, for Pete’s sake?”
    “Some very serious kind of food poisoning, apparently. Shall we get the doctor up here and put him on the air?”
    “No, Mr. Grimsell. It’s more important right now to fly this airplane. We’ll leave it to them to call for medical advice if they want it. I don’t want Spencer’s mind distracted from the job if I can possibly help it. I should have Davidson stand by in case he’s needed.” Treleaven