Free Runway Zero-Eight by Arthur Hailey, John Castle Page A

Vancouver.”
    “We’ll have to find out” Spencer looked about him in the soft glow. “Where
is
the radio control, anyway?”
    Janet pointed to a switchbox above his head. “I know they use that to talk to the ground,” she told him, “but I don’t know which switches you have to set.”
    “Ah yes, let’s see.” He peered at the box. “Those are the frequency selectors — we’d better leave them where they are. What’s this? — transmit.” He clicked over a switch, lighting up a small red bulb. “That’s it. First blood to George. Now we’re ready for business.”
    Janet handed him a headset with the boom microphone attached. “I know you press the button on the mike when you speak,” she said.
    Adjusting the earphones. Spencer spoke to the doctor. “You know, whatever happens I’m going to need a second pair of hands up here in front. You’ve got your patients to look after, so I think the best choice is Miss Canada here. What do you say?”
    Baird nodded. “I agree. Is that all right, Janet?”
    “I suppose so — but I know nothing of all this.” Janet waved helplessly at the control panels.
    “Good,” said Spencer breezily, “that makes two of us. Sit down and make yourself comfortable — better strap yourself in. You must have watched the pilots quite a lot. They’ve added a lot of gimmicks since my flying days.”
    Janet struggled into the first officer’s seat, taking care not to touch the control column as it swayed back and forth. There was an anxious knocking on the communication door.
    “That’s for me,” said Baird. “I must get back. Good luck.”
    He left quickly. Alone with the stewardess, Spencer summoned up a grin. “Okay?” he asked.
    She nodded dumbly, preparing to put on a headset.
    “The name’s Janet, is it? Mine’s George.” Spencer’s tone became serious. “I won’t fool you, Janet. This will be tough.”
    “I know it.”
    “Well, let’s see if I can send out a distress call. What’s our flight number?”
    “714.”
    “Right. Here goes, then.” He pressed the button on his microphone. “Mayday, mayday, mayday,” he began in an even voice. It was one signal he could never forget. He had called it one murky October afternoon above the French coast, with the tail of his Spitfire all but shot off, and two Hurricanes had mercifully appeared to usher him across the channel like a pair of solicitous old aunts.
    “Mayday, mayday, mayday,” he continued. “This is Flight 714, Maple Leaf Air Charter, in distress. Come in, anyone. Over.”
    He caught his breath as a voice responded immediately over the air.
    “Hullo, 714. This is Vancouver. We have been waiting to hear from you. Vancouver to all aircraft: this 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
was
a passenger. I am now the pilot. For your information I have about a thousand hours total flying time, all of it on single-engined fighters. Also I haven’t flown an airplane for nearly thirteen years. So you’d better get someone on this radio who can give me some instructions about flying this thing. Our altitude is 20,000, course 290 magnetic, air speed 210. That’s the story. It’s your move, Vancouver. Over.”
    “Vancouver to 714.