“Well done,” Spencer complimented her. “Just like any old landing, eh?”
She tried to smile back, biting her lower lip. “Well, not quite that,” she said.
“You’ve got plenty of what it takes,” said Spencer soberly. “I’d like you to know I couldn’t have held on this far without…” He broke off, gently moving the rudder and the ailerons, waiting to feel the response from the aircraft. “Janet,” he said, his eyes on the instruments, “we haven’t much more time. This is what we knew must happen sooner or later. But I want to make sure you understand why I must try to get her down — somehow — on the first shot.”
“Yes,” she said quietly, “I understand.” She had clipped her safety belt around her waist and now her hands were clenched together tightly in her lap.
“Well, I want to say thanks,” he went on, stumblingly. “I made no promises, right from the start, and I make none now. You know, if anyone does, just how lousy I am at this. But taking turns around the field won’t help. And some of the folk in the back are getting worse every minute. Better for them to… to take their chance quickly.”
“I told you,” she said. “You don’t have to explain.”
He shot a look of alarm at her, afraid in the passing of a moment that he stood exposed to her. She was watching the air-speed indicator; he could not see her face. He glanced away, back along the broad stretch of wing behind them. It was describing with infinite slowness the tiny segment of an arc, balancing on its tip the misty blue-gray outline of a hillside twinkling with road lamps. Sliding under the body of the aircraft, on the other quarter, were the distantly blazing lights of the airport. They seemed pathetically small and far away, like a child’s carelessly discarded string of red and amber beads.
He could feel his heart thumping as his body made its own emergency preparations, as if aware that what remained of its life could now be measured in minutes, even seconds. He looked critically at himself, a man apart, performing the movements to bring the aircraft back to level flight.
He heard himself say, “Here we go, then. This is it, Janet. I’m starting to lose height — now.”
ELEVEN
0525—0535
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.”