“Long odds? Yes, I suppose so. I don’t know what it means.”
“I’ll tell you,” said Baird. “It means this. Out of a total field of fifty-six our one chance of survival depends on there being a person aboard this airplane who is not only qualified to land it but who also didn’t have fish for dinner tonight.”
His words hung between them as they stood there, staring at each other.
FIVE
0245—0300
CALMNESS, like an anodyne cushioning the shock, descended on Janet as the words of the doctor penetrated her mind. She met his eyes steadily, well aware of his unspoken injunction to prepare herself for death.
Until now part of her had refused to accept what was happening. While she busied herself tending the passengers and trying to comfort the sick, something had insisted that this was an evil nightmare, the sort of dream in which an everyday sequence of events is suddenly deflected into one of mounting horror by some totally unexpected but quite logical incident. At any moment, her inner voice had told her, she would wake up to find half the bedclothes on the floor and the traveling clock on her locker buzzing to herald another early-morning scramble to get ready before take-off.
Now that sense of unreality was swept away. She knew it was happening, really happening, to her, Janet Benson, the pretty twenty-one-year-old blonde who had learned to expect the turning glances of airport staff as she walked briskly along the pine-smelling corridors. Fear had gone from her, at least for the moment. She wondered, in the passing thought of an instant, what her family at home were doing, how it was possible for her life to be extinguished in a few seconds’ madness of shrieking metal without those who had borne her feeling even a tremor as they slept peacefully a thousand miles away.
“I understand, Doctor,” she said levelly. “Do you know of anyone on board with any experience of flying?”
She cast her mind over the passenger list, recalling the names. “There’s no one from the airline,” she said. “I don’t know… about anyone else. I suppose I’d better start asking.”
“Yes, you’d better,” said Baird slowly. “Whatever you do, try not to alarm them. Otherwise we may start a panic. Some of them know the first officer is sick. Just say the captain wondered if there’s someone with flying experience who could help with the radio.”
“Very well, Doctor,” said Janet quietly. “I’ll do that.”
She hesitated, as Baird obviously had something more to say. “Miss Benson — what’s your first name?” he asked.
“Janet.”
He nodded. “Janet — I think I made some remark earlier on about your training. It was unjustified and unforgivable — the comment of a stupid old man who could have done with more training himself. I’d like to take it back.”
Some of the color returned to her cheeks as she smiled — “I’d forgotten it,” she said. She moved towards the door, anxious to begin her questioning and to know the worst as quickly as she could. But Baird’s face was puckered in an effort of concentration, as if something at the back of his mind was eluding him. He frowned at the painted emergency-escape instructions on the side of the cabin, not seeing them,
“Wait,” he told her.
“Yes?” She paused, her hand on the catch of the door.
He snapped his fingers and turned to her. “I’ve got it. I knew someone had spoken to me about airplanes. That young fellow in the seat next to mine — the one who joined us at the last minute at Winnipeg—”
“Mr. Spencer?”
“That’s him. George Spencer. I forget exactly but he seemed to know something about flying. Get him up here, will you? Don’t tell him more than I’ve just said — we don’t want the other passengers to know the truth. But carry on asking them too, in case there’s someone else.”
“He just offered to help me,” said Janet, “so he must be unaffected by the food.”
“Yes, you’re right,” exclaimed Baird. “We both had meat. Get him, Janet.”
He paced the narrow cabin nervously while she was gone, then knelt to feel the pulse of the captain lying prone and unconscious beside the first officer. At the first sound of the door behind him he jumped to his feet, blocking the entrance. Spencer stood there, looking at him in bewilderment.
“Hullo, Doc,” the young man greeted him. “What’s this about the radio?”
“Are you a pilot?” Baird shot out, not moving.
“A long time ago. In the war. I wouldn’t know about radio procedures now, but if the captain thinks I can—”
“Come in,” said Baird.
He stepped aside, closing the door quickly behind the young man. Spencer’s head snapped up at the sight of the pilots’ empty seats and the controls moving by themselves. Then he wheeled round to the two men stretched on the floor under their blankets.
“No!” he gasped. “Not both of them?”
“Yes,” said Baird shortly, “both of them.”
Spencer seemed hardly able to believe his eyes. “But — man alive” — he stuttered — “when did it happen?”
“The captain went down a few minutes ago. They both had fish.”
Spencer put out a hand to steady himself, leaning against a junction box of cables on the wall.
“Listen,” said Baird urgently. “Can you fly this aircraft — and land it?”
“No!” Shock stabbed at Spencer’s voice. “Definitely no! Not a chance!”
“But you just said you flew in the war,” Baird insisted.
“That was thirteen years ago. I haven’t touched a plane since. And I was on fighters — tiny Spitfires about an eighth of the size of this ship and with only one engine. This has four. The flying characteristics are completely different.”
Spencer’s fingers, shaking slightly, probed his jacket for cigarettes, found a packet, and shook one out. Baird watched him as he lit up.
“You could have a go at it,” he pressed.
Spencer shook his head angrily. “I tell you, the idea’s crazy,” he snapped. “You don’t know what’s involved. I wouldn’t be able to take in a Spitfire now, let alone this.” He jabbed bis cigarette towards the banks of instruments.
“It seems to me flying isn’t a thing you’d forget,” said Baird, watching him closely.
“It’s a different kind of flying altogether. It’s — it’s like driving an articulated sixteen-wheeler truck in heavy traffic when all you’ve driven before is a fast sports job on open roads.”
“But it’s still driving,” persisted Baird. Spencer did not answer, taking a long draw on his cigarette. Baird shrugged and half turned away. “Well,” he said, “let’s hope then there’s someone else who can fly this thing — neither of these men can.” He looked down at the pilots.
The door opened and Janet came into the flight deck. She glanced inquiringly at Spencer, then back at the doctor. Her voice was flat.
“There’s no one else,” she said.
“That’s it, then,” said the doctor. He waited for Spencer to speak, but the younger man was staring forward at the row upon row of luminous dials and switches. “Mr. Spencer,” said Baird, measuring his words with deliberation, “I know nothing of flying. All I know is this. There are several people on this plane who will die within a few hours if they don’t get to hospital soon. Among those left who are physically able to fly the plane, you are the only one with any kind of qualification to do so.” He paused. “What do you suggest?”
Spencer looked from the girl to the doctor. He asked tensely, “You’re quite sure there’s no chance of either of the pilots recovering in time?”
“None at all, I’m afraid. Unless I can get them to hospital quickly I can’t even be sure of saving their lives.”