Mayday

15

Jack Miller walked alone through the long empty corridor outside the dispatch office. Edward Johnson had taken his detailed report and told him to go home, again denying him entry to the communications room. Jack Miller knew that his days at Trans-United were nearly over.

He heard footsteps coming quickly up the stairs at the end of the corridor. He stopped.

The figure of Chief Pilot Kevin Fitzgerald-tall, muscular, tanned, wearing faded jeans and T-shirt-appeared suddenly from the stairwell. He came quickly toward Miller, who stepped aside and exchanged nods with the man. Miller cleared his throat. “Captain Fitzgerald…”

The chief pilot moved quickly past him and turned his head back as he kept walking toward the door at the end of the corridor. “What is it, Jack?”

“Everyone is in the administration building. Executive conference room, sir.”

“Damn!” He turned and headed back. “Nothing happening here?”

“No, sir. Communications with 52 has been lost.”

Fitzgerald kept walking, retracing his steps to the stairs. “Screwed up, Jack. It’s all been screwed up. No one knows what the hell is going on.”

“Yes, sir,” he called to the retreating figure.

Fitzgerald disappeared down the stairs.

Jack Miller stood alone in the corridor for a few seconds. He considered for a moment, hesitated, then broke into a run down the corridor and took the steps down, three and four at a time.

In the parking lot, he saw Fitzgerald get into a foreign sports car. He ran to it.

Fitzgerald started the engine and looked at him. “What is it, Jack?”

Miller found he couldn’t speak.

“I’m in a hurry. Is it important?” Fitzgerald looked up at him. He put a softer tone in his voice. “What’s up?” He turned off his engine.

Miller stepped up closer to the window. “Captain, I have to speak to you.”

Fitzgerald had handled men long enough, and he knew Jack Miller well enough to know that he was about to hear something important and disturbing. “Get in the car. We can talk while I drive.”

“No, sir. I think you’d better stay here.”

Fitzgerald swung the door open and climbed out of the car. “Shoot.”

“Well…”

“Forget all the modifiers, Jack. Give it to me straight and quickly.”

“I think… I’m sure something here smells.”

Fitzgerald nodded. “Go on.”

Jack Miller began his story.

With the door closed, the Trans-United communications room had become hotter. Fumes from the color-reproduction machine lay heavily in the stagnant air. Edward Johnson sat with his sleeves rolled up and his tie loose.

Wayne Metz kept mopping the perspiration from his face with a damp handkerchief. He nodded in satisfaction. “I think that’s it, Ed.”

Johnson nodded slowly. He felt badly-there was no doubt about it-but he also felt that the weight of the world-the weight of the Straton-was lifted from his shoulders. He was annoyed that Metz was having trouble concealing his glee. The man didn’t understand flying, didn’t understand airlines or the people who worked for them. He only understood liabilities and how to eliminate them. Johnson reached out and pressed the data-link’s repeat button and held it down.

The message printed.

TO FLIGHT 52: DO YOU READ? ACKNOWLEDGE. SAN FRANCISCO HQ.

The message printed again and again as he held his finger on the repeat button. A long stream of printouts began to collect in the link’s receiving basket. Johnson looked at his watch. “That should be enough to show one every three minutes for the last hour.” He released the repeat button, then typed a final message.

TO FLIGHT 52: IF YOU READ, TRANSMIT MAYDAY OR ANY COMBINATION OF LETTERS OR NUMBERS. SAN FRANCISCO HQ.

They both waited in silence.

Metz looked at the clock. Two-thirty. He cleared his throat. “That’s it.”

“I suppose.” Johnson thought for a moment. There was no possibility that a weekend pilot could have survived after a flame out of all four engines. At 11,000 feet, he would have had less than five minutes until impact. That was enough time to reignite the engines if he knew how, but Berry had neither the skill nor the knowledge to keep the Straton under control. Five minutes. He was momentarily overwhelmed by the thought of the huge Straton falling 11,000 feet into the Pacific. His mind conjured up a vivid picture of the scene in the cockpit as Berry and the others fell toward the sea. By then, they probably knew for certain that someone had murdered them-if they had time to think about it. “My God, Wayne. It’s really over.” His knees were shaking, and he hoped Metz did not notice.

Metz glanced around the room. “Did we forget anything?”

Johnson looked at him. “If we did, you wouldn’t know what the hell it was anyway.”

“Okay,” said Metz, “none of this is pleasant. Don’t take it out on me. I’m only trying to see if we left a loose end hanging around. Loose ends can become nooses. We’ve come too far to-”

“Do you have the printouts?”

“Yes.” He pointed to the sports jacket hanging over a chair.

“Put the jacket on.” Johnson took his own jacket and threw it over his shoulder. He walked toward the door. For an instant he wished he were back on the loading ramp, throwing around luggage in the bright sunlight with the other men, talking about women and sports, untouched by the years of compromise, untroubled by the corporate casualties he had engineered, and unhaunted by the specter of the Straton that he knew he would see every day of his life.

Johnson was aware of someone staring at him through the glass door. He looked up and saw Kevin Fitzgerald’s form filling the doorway. The doorknob rotated.

Instantly, Metz could see the antagonism between these two men, and he could see also the change in Johnson’s demeanor. He suddenly felt frightened again.

Johnson turned to Metz as he hurried to the door. “It’s Fitzgerald. Follow my lead. Don’t volunteer anything.” Johnson quickly unlocked the door. “How are you, Kevin?”

Fitzgerald stared at the door latch for a long second, then looked up. “What’s the latest?” He walked into the communications room, and looked around.

“You’ve been briefed at the conference room?”

“No, I was beeped at the beach. I called in and got the message. No one mentioned the conference room, and I came here, naturally.”

“Right.” Had he forgotten to station someone in the parking lot? No, he had told Miller to do it. That bastard. Damn. Johnson knew he was lucky that Fitzgerald hadn’t arrived earlier. “This whole thing has been fucked up from the beginning. ATC mostly, although our people have stepped on their dicks a couple of times, too.”

“There’ll be time enough for public executions later. Who’s this?”

Johnson turned his head. “This is Wayne Metz. From Beneficial Insurance-our liability carrier.”

Metz extended his hand. “I’m very sorry about this, Captain Fitzgerald.”

Fitzgerald took his hand perfunctorily. “Yeah. Us, too.” He turned to Johnson. “Still no word from them?”

“No. It’s been over an hour now.” Johnson motioned toward the data-link. “I’ve been repeating my last message every three minutes. No response.”

Fitzgerald strode up to the machine and ripped the paper from it. He strung out the messages between his outstretched arms, looked at them, then dropped them across the data-link. He turned to Johnson and seemed to stare at him a second longer than would have been considered polite. “I understand that this pilot-Berry-had the aircraft under control.”

Johnson wondered where he got that information if he hadn’t been to the executive conference room. “It seemed that way. At first, anyway.”

Fitzgerald continued. “Damage to the aircraft was extensive, but not critical.”

“Apparently it was critical.” Miller. He had been speaking to Miller.

“He sent no last message indicating he was in trouble? No Mayday?”

Johnson’s heart began to pound. Why was he asking questions like this? “There are the original printouts of the first messages on the counter. I had them copied and sent to ATC and to the conference room. They may answer some of your questions.”

Fitzgerald spread the messages out on the long counter beneath the Pacific chart. He had already looked up the pilots’ names on the crew scheduling sheet in the main dispatch office. Fitzgerald quickly scanned the printouts. Stuart… McVary… Fessler… Brain damage… Good God. Miller’s words did not have the impact of these actual printed messages from the damaged Straton. Fitzgerald glanced between the messages and the markings on the Pacific chart. “Why didn’t someone get a pilot in here right away to give him instructions?”

“Things happened too fast. Look, Captain, if you have any questions, let’s take them over to the executive conference room. This is hardly the place or time for this conversation.”

Fitzgerald ignored him and looked back at Wayne Metz. “What’s your function here?”

Metz felt immediately intimidated by this man. “Well… Captain, from a liability standpoint, I wanted to be absolutely certain that we had done everything humanly possible to minimize your exposure and ours.” Fitzgerald kept staring at him, and he knew he was supposed to keep talking. “And you can imagine, Captain, how even a minor oversight could be blown out of proportion by the attorneys for the injured parties. Actually, your company rule book recommends that the insurance carrier be present during-”

“I know what the company rule book says.” Fitzgerald turned to Johnson. “Where’s our legal man? Where’s our hull insurer? Where’s Abbot, the Straton Aircraft representative?”

“At the conference, I suppose. Look, Kevin, I don’t know why you have a bug up your ass, but if there are any questions, we’d better go and settle them at the conference.” Johnson didn’t want Kevin Fitzgerald in this room, though he knew it should no longer matter. “Come on, Captain. I have to lock up this room.” He regretted the remark as soon as he made it.

“Lock it? Why?”

Johnson didn’t speak for a few seconds, then said, “We’re supposed to leave it intact for the government investigators.”

Fitzgerald shook his head slowly. “Read your manual, Ed. That rule only applies to the scene of the accident. I don’t think,” Fitzgerald said, gesturing slowly around the room, “that this qualifies as the location where the accident occurred.”

Yes, it does. Johnson was becoming edgy, and he tried to hide it with a show of impatience. “Then stay here. I have to go to the conference.” He moved toward the door.

Metz followed.

Fitzgerald stayed where he was. “Hold on.”

Johnson turned.

“I know you don’t know anything about flying, but if you were a pilot, lost over the ocean, and your only means of communication was malfunctioning, you wouldn’t want everyone at the other end walking out of the communications room. Would you?” He stepped up to the data-link and typed.

TO FLIGHT 52: IF YOU CAN RECEIVE US, DON’T THINK WE HAVE ABANDONED YOU. THIS LINK WILL BE MANNED CONTINUOUSLY UNTIL YOU ARE FOUND. SAN FRANCISCO HQ.

Fitzgerald looked up at Johnson. “Call Miller in here.”

Johnson thought he had sent Miller home, but as he looked up, he saw him sitting at his desk. Bastard. “Miller! Get in here.”

Jack Miller walked quickly into the communications room. He looked squarely at Johnson.

Johnson saw the defiant expression on his face and knew that Jack Miller was under the protection of Kevin Fitzgerald. Son-of-a-bitch. When this was behind them, he’d see to it that Miller never dispatched anything bigger than a lunch wagon. “The Captain would like to speak to you.”

Fitzgerald indicated the data-link chair. “Jack, sit here and monitor. Send about once every two or three minutes, and then wait. Wait for an answer, Jack.”

“Yes, sir.” Miller sat at the data-link.

Johnson watched Miller hit the repeat button to send Fitzgerald’s message again. The Straton was down, and no one could change that-not Kevin Fitzgerald, not Jack Miller, not all the company executives, not the company president or the chairman of the board. And he’d done this for them as much as for himself-but they’d never understand that, and never know it.

Kevin Fitzgerald picked up the company phone and dialed the executive conference room. “Let me speak to the president.”

Johnson knew his uneasiness was starting to show. He took a cigar out of his pocket and clamped it in his jaws.

Metz wanted to leave but thought it wouldn’t be a good idea. His hand reached into his jacket and touched the wad of data-link printouts. He noticed Johnson glaring at him.

Fitzgerald spoke into the phone. “Yes, sir. Fitzgerald. Just got the word. Damned bad business. I’m at the dispatch office with Ed Johnson and Mr. Metz from Beneficial. Yes. We’re leaving a dispatcher here to keep sending and to monitor. We’ll be along in ten minutes. Fine.” He hung up and turned to Johnson. “Press conference for six o’clock. You’re the star. Can you handle it?”

“Of course.”

“There are relatives of the passengers assembling in the VIP lounge. I have to speak to them. I wish I was as confident as you.” He looked at Johnson closely. “I don’t know exactly what happened here, but when those reporters start firing away at you, you damned well better have your act together.”

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

Both men glared at each other.

Metz edged out of the door and stood awkwardly in the middle of the dispatch office.

Miller pretended to be concentrating on the data-link machine. He knew that Fitzgerald was proceeding very rashly and very dangerously. He hoped to God that his suspicions-vague as they were-had at least enough substance to ensure that the chief pilot was not sticking his neck out too far.

Fitzgerald finally broke the silence. “Johnson, we’re going to find out what happened to Flight 52, what happened here, and who was negligent. And I don’t care how long it takes or who gets burned.”

Johnson took his cigar out of his mouth. “You act as though you think I planted the fucking bomb. Don’t try to use this accident to discredit me, Captain. I know how to survive, and I promise you I’ll come out of this looking just fine. Just fine.” He turned and walked out of the room, breathing the clean air of the dispatch office. His head was pounding and his stomach was in knots. He walked past Wayne Metz, past the dispatchers whose heads were down over their desks, and out into the corridor that he had walked through not so long ago.

Retired Rear Admiral Randolf Hennings leaned heavily on the rail that ran along the passageway of the 0–2 deck of the Nimitz ’s superstructure. The passageway was deserted, and it would most likely remain that way for some time. He looked up at the two white stars painted above the stairwell designating the Admiral’s Passageway. This passage was off-limits to anyone of lesser rank without a specific duty there. It was another of the Navy’s long-standing traditions to have an uncluttered passageway for an admiral. Hennings had always realized how anachronistic things like that were. Pointless traditions. But he also knew how much he enjoyed them. Codes of honor. Allegiances and oaths of duty. They were all manufactured from the same need, and they all served the same end. But they were artifacts of a vanished world, and like him, they belonged in a museum… or a tomb.

Hennings let out a long breath. He rubbed his fingers along the rope-lined handrail. Just the feel of the twisted hemp brought back a flood of memories. The South Pacific-or the South Seas, as it was called in old days. Blue water, sunny skies, palm-lined beaches, and the young officers in their tropical tan uniforms. Standing on the decks or sitting in the wardroom, listening to senior officers telling firsthand stories of the war. The great sea battles and the amphibious assaults. But those memories were tainted now. Like a submarine breaking through the surface of the sea, one word kept rising through the depths of his mind and formed on his lips: “Murder.”

Hennings descended slowly down the deserted gray passage, then opened a hatch and stepped out onto the sunlit flight deck.

A moderate breeze swept the wide expanses of the nearly deserted deck. Seventy-five yards forward of the conning tower sat the S-3 transport. The pilots were giving it a final line check. An orderly had already collected Hennings’s luggage from his stateroom, and it was sitting near the baggage door. It seemed so long ago that the S-3 had brought him here. Hennings turned and walked away from the aircraft.

The Pacific sun lay directly astern of the ship, and the asphalt flight deck gave off waves of undulating heat. He spotted a seaman working near the aft starboard elevator, and he turned to avoid him. He crossed the deck diagonally and walked toward the fantail. He approached the edge of the deck and stood with his hands on the chain rail. Below, he could see the white foaming wake left behind by the giant nuclear-powered carrier. Straight down, mounted on the stern, a huge American flag hung from its mast. The flag snapped nicely in the wind, its bright colors standing out against the white wake.

Randolf Hennings thought about his wife, Mary. He had spent most of their thirty-nine years of marriage away from her. And with her death coming so soon after his retirement, he had never really had the time to do the things with her that he had put off for so long.

He thought about his friends. Most of them were dead, some in battle, some from natural causes. The remainder were living out their lonely retirements. As a Navy man, he had no roots, no hometown, no family that knew him.

More and more he had come to understand that he was not only lonely, he was an anachronism as well. He had always believed that today’s scientific advancements and solutions were going to require some unexpected and unacceptable payments tomorrow. Now he realized that tomorrow was here. And today’s situation ethics as practiced by James Sloan, often led to more unhappiness and more dire consequences than yesterday’s rigid moral code. It was this runaway technology, with no clear sense of ethics and no accountability, that killed the Straton and everyone aboard her. That killed Peter Matos. Hennings had tried to fit into the new scheme but had succeeded only in being an accessory to a monstrous crime.

He had heard the S-3’s engines starting on the forward service elevator 200 yards behind him. They would be looking for him soon. Captain Diehl and a few officers and men would assemble quickly to pipe him off, then get back to more important duties.

Randolf Hennings stared into the churning wake. He thought of those officers he knew who were buried at sea, and whose lives had ended in the sea. They had lived shorter lives than his, but had died before anything could erase their heroic deeds.

Someday, he believed, on the Judgment Day, the sea and the earth would give up its dead, and give up its secrets as well. Then men would point to their murderers, their torturers, to those who falsely accused them, to those whose negligence and stupidity had caused their deaths. Then God would judge each man in turn and mete out a fitting punishment.

He heard the ship’s address system call his name in the distance.

Randolf Hennings slid beneath the chain rail and strode purposefully to the edge of the ship’s fantail. Without breaking stride he stepped from the carrier’s deck, fell past the safety net, past the unfurled American flag, and dropped unnoticed into the white wake of the USS Chester W. Nimitz.