The Lonely Sea and Sky

Police Superintendent George Hannan, the only passenger on this chartered flight, settles himself comfortably in the right-hand seat of the aircraft next to pilot Ian Earnshaw, happy to be returning home after a turbulent few weeks on duty in the troubled island republic, one of Australia’s Pacific neighbours. He closes his eyes, and the rhythmic throb of the engines on this tranquil afternoon soon lulls him into rest.

He must have been dozing. Glancing at his watch, he turns to Earnshaw to ask what time they expect to arrive in Brisbane. Earnshaw, preoccupied with flight instruments, fails to hear him above the noise of the engines. He raises his voice. Still no answer. Puzzled, he places a hand on the pilot’s shoulder, repeating his question. It is only then he notices that the eyes are closed! Earnshaw has gone to sleep. Frowning, he tries to attract his attention. There is no response. He tugs vigorously at the right arm. The body remains inert. In a flash, the dire significance of what he observes hits him like a sledgehammer. The pilot is dead!

For a moment he remains stupefied. An inner voice tells him that this can’t be real. Everything looks and sounds so normal, the gentle rocking of the wings, the tranquil ocean below, the cloudless sunlit sky. But swiftly his serenity is shattered as the implications begin to sink in. A chill horror overwhelms him. This is no daydream. He is locked in a flying coffin, with no means of escape! Suddenly aware that he may have only hours to live, it occurs to him that he could vanish from the face of the earth without his wife or children ever knowing what had happened to him. He has faced danger many times over his long career, but never has he been so powerless as at this moment.

He must do something! He knows little of aeronautics, but he does understand radio communication. Reaching out to the tuning control, he changes the frequency, little by little, turning on the cockpit loudspeaker and calling out loudly the international code of distress.

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!” He repeats it over and again many times as his fingers traverse the radio spectrum.

Nobody is listening. Only the droning of the engines breaks the deadly silence. Again and again he repeats the exercise on each new frequency. Again his cry is unanswered. He leans back in his seat in despair.

Now he is overcome by a feeling of regret for neglecting his family in the course of police duties. While other fathers were at home on winter nights reading bedtime stories to their kids, he had been out on the job, his whole attention concentrated on police business that took him away from his family, sometimes for weeks at a time. Now it is too late. They will never know how much he cared for them, how much he cherished the intimacy of family life.

A crackling sound galvanises his limbs as the radio comes to life.

“Foxtrot Juliet Whisky calling Mayday. Report identification and position.”

For a moment Hannan remains mute, unsure how to respond. He knows neither the identity nor the position of the aircraft. His view of the lettering on the wing is obscured by the right-hand engine. The caller directs his attention to the alphabetic code displayed on the instrument panel. Ah, yes! Right there in front of him the letters E.L.H. Echo Lima Hotel. The unknown voice requests his altitude, speed, Heading Indicator reading. Is the aircraft maintaining altitude? Affirmative! The automatic pilot must be on. What was the point of origin of the flight? Wheeler Field, Honiara. The caller warns his listener not to tamper with any of the flight controls, and on no account to change the radio frequency. They will check identity with Air Traffic Control.

“Look, I wish you could locate my wife. She’ll be frantic. I’d like to be able to talk to her.”

“Well get back to you. Stay tuned.”

A long silence prevails. Hannan sinks into a state of gloomy acceptance of his fate. Why are they so concerned about the technicalities when they know they can’t do a thing about it? All he wants is for someone to contact his wife so that he can share his last hour with her.

On board Airbus FJW, bound for Sydney from San Francisco, Captain Morgan has obtained approval to alter his flight plan. Under the law of the high seas a Mayday call takes precedence over all other matters. While a mid-air rescue is impossible, any assistance that can be given must be offered. Soon the captain is on line again with fresh information.

“Calling Lima Hotel. Do you read me?”

Hannan stiffens in his seat.

“Affirmative.”

Captain Morgan again. “We’ve been in touch with Wheeler Field. You’re on board a Beechcraft Super King Air 350 twin. Fully loaded with maximum fuel it has a range of 3000 kilometres. We’ve now located you on our radar. There’s a doctor here who wants to talk to you.”

“But … my wife? I just want to be able to say goodbye.”

“We’ve been in touch with the police in Honiara. They’ll find her.”

A new voice is heard.

“This is Dr Robert Julian, Director of Intensive Care at the Princess May Hospital in Sydney. How do you know the pilot is dead?”

“I’m a cop. I’ve served in the Traffic Department. I’ve seen lots of dead people.”

“So have I, and I know also of a woman once who woke up on the way to the mortuary after being proclaimed dead by a junior doctor. What colour are the pilot’s lips? Are they blue?”

“Well … no. They’re just … normal.”

“Do you have a torch with you?”

“A pocket one, yes.”

“Shine it in his eyes. If he’s dead the pupils will be dilated and non-reactive.”

Mechanically, Hannan obeys, shaking his head at the futility of it all. Both pupils are equal, normal in size and react to light. Julian’s voice again.

“So! He’s still alive. Let’s concentrate on trying to revive him.”

How? Hannan shakes his head in disbelief.

The doctor takes him through a rapid routine of checking knee-jerk and upper limb tendon reflexes, arm muscle tone, rate of respiration, pulse rate and rhythm, then a burst of questions relating to events of the last twenty-four hours. Has the patient been on drugs or taken alcohol? Hannan assures his interlocutor he knows the pilot well. He’s been on many flights with him.

“Take a look in his bag. See if you can find any syringes, needles, prescription medicines or sleeping pills like Nembutal.”

Hannan ransacks the bag, finds nothing.

“OK. We seem to have eliminated drugs, booze, stroke and heart attack. You said you had dinner together last night. Where was that?”

“At a little seafood cafe in Honiara.”

“What did you have to eat? What was the name of this little eatery?”

What does it matter? The pilot had fish, he had chicken. Wearily, he tries to recall the name of the cafe, remembering finally, spelling it out.

“Stay on line. We’ll get back to you.”

On the flight deck of the Airbus the anaesthetist sits in the dickie seat behind the two pilots, head in his hands, deep in thought. What possible toxin could induce sleep without producing any other physical effects? Diabetic coma perhaps? Epilepsy? Encephalitis? No! These conditions always produce warning signs. They don’t strike out of the blue. Think, man, think! There’s no time for an internet search. This Airbus can’t hang around for long. A horrifying thought then occurs to him. What if there had been a cabin decompression with loss of oxygen? In that case both men would pass out without ever waking up. The plane would drone on until it ran out of fuel, like the King Air that flew on across Australia for five hours throughout the night with the crew and passengers already dead. He’d better check up!

“Lima Hotel, do you read me?”

To his immense relief the voice answers.

“Are you OK? You’re not feeling drowsy?”

“Not on your life. I wish I were!”

“Thank God for that.”

Now, on a kind of gut feeling, his thoughts turn to that little cafe. Could it be that some toxic detergent got mixed up with the food, generating a deadly neurotoxin, like the poison from the death-cap mushrooms that destroys the liver? Who knows what goes on behind the scenes in the kitchens of some of these scruffy little eating houses, things the public never knows about?

To his astonishment, when he calls back, the hapless wayfarer sounds excited.

“He’s just blinked his eyes. He’s yawning. Perhaps he’s waking up?”

Dr Julian also has startling news. “We’ve just learned from Honiara police that three other patrons of that cafe have been admitted to hospital with similar symptoms. All of them had ordered the fish. I’ve heard of such a fish in Japanese waters, but never in the South-West Pacific. If he’s awake now, he’s probably going to recover, but we still don’t know if there’ll be any after-effects.”

Captain Morgan again. “Look, when he wakes up, he’ll probably be groggy. You’ll have to keep an eye on him. In other words, you’ll be in charge of the aircraft. Do you understand? When you come to the landing approach, make sure he follows exactly the sequence of pre-landing checks specified on that little roller on the top of the panel in front of you. Flap setting, landing lights, instruction to reduce airspeed. Check that those three little green lights appear on the panel before you touch down. If the landing gear is still up when you approach the runway the klaxon will start screaming like a banshee. These planes don’t handle belly landings well.”

“OK. I’m with you.”

“We have to go now. Good luck!”

“Thank you for all your help, Captain.”

When Earnshaw wakes he is confused, frowning, unable to make sense of their situation. He keeps muttering about calling Brisbane for landing instructions. Alas, they have long since over-flown Brisbane! They are now far to the south, heading into the New South Wales hinterland, west of the ranges. Without a skilled navigator in control, without radar contact with any known airfield, without knowledge of the wind drift, they are unable to plot a course. They have left the ocean behind. Now, remote from their original destination, the GPS shows their position somewhere in the neighbourhood of Tamworth.

At this moment the aircraft enters dense cloud. The ride gets rougher. Hannan knows that turbulence in cloud is unexceptional, yet he hates it. The sudden shuddering bumps, the violent lateral jerks, the abrupt drops and the equally alarming upward surges set his nerves on edge. Fearful of the imminent breakup of the aircraft, with each shock his grip on the arms of the seat tightens. Through it all Earnshaw remains unperturbed. He is used to turbulence. It’s part of his daily fare. Right now he is peering intently into the radar screen to identify any dangerous storm cells ahead. Travelling in cloud devoid of contact with airport control also creates an elemental fear of danger from other aircraft.

Heavy rain lashes the aircraft. The mournful whine of the windscreen washers adds piquancy to their plight. They are now adrift in the gloom, alone in the world, at the mercy of their remaining fuel reserve.

Earnshaw is frowning. Now wide awake, he looks troubled. He murmurs a remark that sears Hannan’s composure.

“I don’t like this.”

His passenger, anxious, seeks clarification.

“We’re at eighteen thousand feet in cloud. The temperature outside is zero degrees. These are just the conditions for ice formation on the wings. If it builds up too much it can be deadly.”

They seem to have leapt out of the frying pan into the fire.

“We have to get down lower.”

“How much lower can we go?”

The GPS shows they are approaching the high ground of the Barrington Tops range.

“From memory, Lowest Safe Altitude over Barrington Tops is about seven thousand feet. Can you check that in the navigation manual in the side pocket of your seat?”

Hannan responds with speed. Scanning the pages of the book he comes across the information they need.

“LSA Barrington Tops seven thousand two hundred.”

“OK. We’re going down.”

Until now Hannan’s eyes have been glued to the fuel gauge. Now his attention is gripped by the altimeter. He leans forward, on red alert. He watches the altimeter unwind around the dial, calling out the reading every thousand feet like the MC at a concert. At eight thousand he clutches Earnshaw’s arm, calling out the level in a loud voice. Earnshaw nods. The aircraft levels out. They are safe.

“Do we have enough fuel to reach Sydney?”

“I hope so!”

At precisely this moment the left engine changes tone ominously, emitting a shrill piercing sound with rising pitch that shakes Hannan to the core. A short time later the right-hand engine misbehaves in the same way. Then both engines make a sputtering noise before falling silent, their propellers flailing idly in the airflow. The aircraft begins to drop. Aghast, Hannan spots the fuel gauge reading zero. The pilot looks stunned, uncomprehending. And then, enlightenment dawns. Swiftly his arm snakes out to a switch at his side. In a moment power is restored in both engines. Earnshaw turns to Hannan with a sheepish grin.

“I forgot to switch over to the reserve tank!”

Hannan takes out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. At least, he knows now what the engines sound like when they run out of fuel!

Earnshaw explains to his passenger the difference between the various emergency calls. A Mayday means you are about to plunge into the ground. A PAN call is a lesser degree of urgency. You’re in serious trouble, but right at the moment you are OK. Hannan nods his acknowledgment, ready and able to issue either call at a moment’s notice if required.

They now break out of the cloud bank into clear sky. Below stretches the sun-bathed panorama of the Hunter Valley. The country looks green. On the left Hannan recognises the waters of Lake Macquarie, further on Lake Tuggeranong, and beyond that the tall chimneys of the Munmorah power station. All around is calm. No adverse weather hinders their approach. Their route takes them out to sea again on the shortest route to Sydney. Now the allure of the Hawkesbury, Broken Bay, Mooney Bridge and the serene expanse of the northern beaches capture his attention. In the west red-tinted scattered clouds present an image of wondrous brilliance. For a moment Hannan is distracted by the irenic beauty of it all. Then, a quick glance at the instrument panel shatters his composure. The fuel gauge is flickering on empty! Another fifteen minutes before they reach the approach area, every minute seeming like ten. He leans forward, tense, listening intently for the slightest change in the sound of the engines. It is now time to make that dreaded extremity call.

“Echo Lima Hotel calling Sydney Control. This is a PAN emergency. PAN, PAN, PAN! Fuel spent, pilot sick, partly disabled. Request priority clearance to land.”

A brief silence follows, then the reply.

“Lima Hotel, cleared for landing runway one seven. Straight in!”

“Confirm runway one seven. On short final now.”

Earnshaw hears the message, makes the right turn that will line them up with the long runway stretching out like an extended finger into the waters of Botany Bay. Now for the pre-landing check. Hannan’s lynx eyes fix on the little roller atop the instrument panel displaying the sequence of steps to be taken. Reduce speed to 130 knots. Flap setting fifteen degrees. Landing lights on. Gear down. There is an agonising pause before the light bulbs illuminate. Three greens. Thank Heaven! Speed 120 knots. Reduce power. Now turn on full flap. Altitude five hundred feet.

They are still out over the water. The end of the runway appears an agonising distance away. Hannan casts a sidelong glance at Earnshaw, recoiling in horror on seeing the eyelids drooping. In an instant he grasps the pilot’s arm, shakes it vigorously, cries out in a hoarse voice.

“Ian, don’t do this to me! If you close your eyes now we’re both dead. Wake up, wake up!”

Earnshaw rallies, blinking and shaking his head.

“Huh?”

At this instant a violent cross wind gust hits the aircraft, tilting the wings in a steep bank to the left. This sudden shock rouses the drowsy skipper to full alert. Intuitively, with a quick flick of the right wrist and a kick on the rudder pedal Earnshaw’s masterly airmanship prevails, correcting the landing profile to line up level on the centre line of the runway. Now they are over the chalk marks, altitude fifty feet. The King Air settles gently to touch down softly on its rear wheels, nose sinking quietly. The aircraft rolls on, engines shutting down, propellers spinning freely, braking impaired by loss of power. After an exceptionally long landing run it grinds, finally, to a halt. The last thimble-full of fuel has been exhausted. Earnshaw drops off again. For a moment there is peace. Then comes the sharp order to move.

“Lima Hotel, vacate runway. Exit taxi-way left M3.”

It is now that Hannan explodes. His calm rationality deserts him. Discarding the sterility of air control argot, his reply is blunt.

“Can’t do it!”

A long silence follows. The order is then repeated.

“Exit taxi-way left M3 immediately!”

Again he tells the controller this is impossible.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re out of gas, that’s why! You’re going to have to send us a tow-truck!”

Faced with the demands of a dozen aircraft banked in tiers above the airport with the main runway blocked, the chief controller knows there is not a moment to lose. Two fire engines, an ambulance and a tow-tractor all speed across the grass to render aid and drag the stricken intruder to safety. Soon, the aircraft has been hauled off the runway, the half-conscious pilot brought down the gangway to the waiting ambulance, the long-suffering traveller whisked through passport control.

Outside, after a quick phone check revealing that news of the crisis has not reached his family, he stands apart from the queue awaiting taxis at the airport exit, reaching into his pocket for his cigarette pack. All he needs now is a smoke.