Mayday

6

Lieutenant Matos had the distinct impression, though he was not looking directly at the Straton, that the aircraft had banked briefly, then leveled out again. He stared at it closely, but it seemed level now. He looked at his magnetic compass. Still 325 degrees. No, the Straton had not banked. It was only an illusion. He rubbed his eyes. He was becoming fatigued.

The F-18 lay back in trail and followed the huge airliner at a distance of a thousand yards. Matos experienced some turbulence in the Straton’s wake and lifted his fighter slightly higher. His last message from the Nimitz had been bizarre. A bizarre message even for a bizarre situation. Navy three-four-seven. Follow in trail. Keep out of sight of portholes and cockpit. Do not, I say again, do not attempt to communicate with Straton. Acknowledge.

Matos had acknowledged and followed orders without question. Had his position been more tenable, he would have asked for a clarification. But he was now numero uno on Sloan’s famous shitlist, and that had the effect of putting him in a complete state of psychological dependence and subservience. Whatever Sloan said, Sloan would get. Certainly there was some method to Sloan’s madness.

Matos was beginning to recognize tonal qualities in Sloan’s voice despite the fact that the voice was scrambled in transmission, then unscrambled on his audio. And there had been a strange quality in Sloan’s latest instructions that had not escaped Matos’s attention. The voice was not hostile or curt. It was almost friendly, cajoling. The voice seemed to say, All right, Peter, you screwed up, but just follow orders and we’ll be able to square everything.

But how in the name of God could anyone, even Commander Sloan, square this?

It occurred to Matos, now that he had time to think, that his career wasn’t the only one that was finished. He’d been thinking only of himself, which was natural under the circumstances. Now he saw the situation for what it was. A monumental fuckup. It started with him, but it would chain-react and obliterate Sloan and anyone else unlucky enough to be in the electronics room. It would also smash the Nimitz ’s commander, Captain Diehl, and probably his staff as well. The blast would reach into the Halls of the Pentagon, the Department of the Navy, the Department of Defense, and maybe into the White House itself. At whatever level this decision had been made to test-fire a weapon banned by the new Voluntary Arms Limitation Treaty, everyone involved from that level down would be culpable. No es tu culpa, Pedro.

Yet Matos, though he didn’t fully understand who ordered the test or how illegal it was, was very much in favor of it. He pictured himself in front of some sort of investigating committee-Senate, House, maybe Department of Defense. He would defend his involvement as a moral decision based on national security. A personal decision that transcended any treaty. He would not say he was only following orders. That was the coward’s way. He began to take on the mantle of the patriot and martyr: the Ollie North defense. He would show what he was made of when the senators began firing questions at him. The Navy would be awed by his loyalty. Sloan would be impressed by his defense of his superiors. Peter Matos had the feeling that he had arrived at last.

“Navy three-four-seven.”

Sloan’s voice brought Matos out of his reverie. “Roger.”

“Status report.”

“Roger. In trail. No change in Straton.”

He glanced at the Straton. What had happened was, at the most, only half his fault. Someone on the carrier had failed to note the flight plan of the Straton. The sky was a big test-firing range. It was someone else’s responsibility to make certain the range was clear.

But the feeling that Commander Sloan had something else in mind-something that didn’t require martyrdom or investigations-nagged at him. He knew if he put himself in Commander Sloan’s head, knowing what he knew about Sloan, he would know what Sloan’s next transmission would say. But he wouldn’t let his mind come to the obvious and final conclusion regarding the Straton.

He glanced at the crippled airliner again. It would just fly off into the Arctic Ocean on its present heading, and if no Mayday had been sent from it, and if no one on the Nimitz made a report… Why had he made the report? Damned stupid.

He looked at his fuel gauges. He couldn’t follow the plane much longer. Yet he knew Sloan would want him to do just that. He’d have to stay with the Straton until its fate was resolved.

His radio crackled and he felt himself stiffen. He cleared his throat and waited for the message.

“Navy three-four-seven, this is Homeplate.” Commander Sloan’s voice was cool, controlled. Sloan looked at Hennings out of the corner of his eye as he transmitted. “Status of Straton.”

“Status unchanged.”

“Roger. Stand by for mission order.”

“Roger.”

“Out.” Sloan put down the microphone and turned to Hennings. “All right, Admiral. The time for talk is over. I am going to order Lieutenant Matos to fire his second missile into the cockpit of the Straton. I am fully convinced that there is no one alive on that aircraft. If there was a pilot onboard, he would have changed direction long ago.” He paused again and switched to a conversational tone of voice. “You know that the Navy is required to sink derelict ships that are a hazard to navigation. Now, the analogy is not precise, but that dead aircraft is a hazard to navigation too. At its present altitude and heading, it can potentially cross some commercial air lanes and…”

“That’s absurd.”

Sloan went on. “And it could also crash into a ship. True, there is no precedent for this, but it seems like an obvious obligation to order a derelict aircraft brought down. We must bring it down on our terms. Now. Hazard to navigation,” he said again, hoping the old terminology would produce the necessary response.

Hennings didn’t respond, but a flicker of emotion passed over his craggy features. His memory was drawn back to an incident that they had often talked about at the Naval Academy. It had occurred at the beginning of the Second World War. One ship, the Davis, had been pulling the crew of a badly damaged destroyer, the Mercer, from the water. The Mercer was crippled and aflame but showed no signs of sinking, and the Japanese fleet had sent a cruiser and two destroyers toward it. The last thing the Navy wanted was for the Japanese to take a U.S. warship in tow, complete with maps, charts, codes, new armaments, and encrypting devices. The Davis captain, John Billings, knew there were wounded and trapped men aboard the Mercer. The survivors also reported that the Mercer ’s skipper, Captain Bartlett, a classmate of Billings, was still aboard. Captain Billings, without hesitation or one trace of emotion, was said to have turned to his gunnery officer and ordered, “Sink the Mercer.”

But that was war, Hennings thought. This was quite different. Yet

… they were at war, or at least could be someday-contrary to what the fools in Congress thought with their politically correct solutions and reasoning. The Straton, if it was visually spotted or tracked on radar, or crashed near a ship, might be recovered. And if it was, the nature of its damage would be quickly recognized for what it was. And that would lead back to the Nimitz eventually. Hennings knew that was what Sloan was really saying with all his bilge about hazard to navigation.

And if the Nimitz were suspected, all hell would break loose. America washed its dirty linen in public. The Navy would be subjected to inquiry, scandal, and ruinous publicity. It would be Tailhook a thousand times over. The incident would further emasculate the United States Navy; it was an emasculation that had already gone far beyond belief.

Hennings knew exactly what the Joint Chiefs would say if all that happened. “Why didn’t those sons-of-bitches, Hennings and Sloan, just blow the thing out of the sky?” They would never order that done, but they expected it to be done by their subordinates. Someone had to do the dirty work and protect the people on top. Protect the nation’s defense posture and the viability of its military.

Sloan had let enough time slip by. “Admiral?”

Hennings looked at Sloan. If he didn’t dislike the man personally-if the suggestion had come from a more morally courageous officer-then it would be easier to say yes. Hennings cleared his throat. “Let’s give it ten minutes more.”

“Five.”

“Seven.”

Sloan reached out and set the countdown clock for seven minutes. He hit the start button.

Hennings nodded. Commander Sloan was a man who wasted neither words nor time. “Can you be sure Matos will…”

“We’ll know soon enough. But I’d be surprised if he didn’t come to the same conclusions himself. I understand Matos better than he understands himself, though I’ve hardly spoken to the man. Matos wants to be part of the team.” He sat down and began writing. “I’m drafting a message to him, and I want you to help me with it. What we say and how we say it will be very important.”

“Well, Commander, if you’ve convinced me, you can convince that unfortunate pilot. You need no help from me in that direction.” Randolf Hennings turned his back to Sloan and opened the blackout shade over the porthole. He stared out at the sea. He wondered what fates had conspired against him to make him do such a thing so late in life. The good years, the honest years, all seemed to count for very little when stacked up against this. He thought of the Straton. How many people onboard? Three hundred? Surely they were dead already. But now their fate would never be known to their families. Randolf Hennings had consigned them to their grave. They would lie there in the ocean where so many of his friends already lay, where he himself wished he could lie.

Jerry Brewster stood idly in the small communications room of Trans-United Operations at San Francisco International Airport, his hands in his pockets. He waited for the 500-millibar Pacific weather chart to finish printing. Working in this room was the only part of his job as dispatcher’s aide that he really disliked. The lights were too bright, the noises too loud, and the chemical smells from the color-reproduction-enhancement machines hung heavily in the stagnant air.

The new chart was finished printing. Brewster waited impatiently for it to dry before he pulled it out of the machine. Jack Miller had requested the update on mid-altitude temperatures, and Brewster wanted to get the data to him before lunch. Brewster made it a point to drop everything else whenever Miller asked for something. Brewster liked the old man; Miller was always available for advice and training.

Brewster reached down and carefully pulled the newly printed chart off the roller and held it up. He walked toward the door with the map suspended from two fingers, just to be sure he didn’t smudge the still-damp color ink. A bell rang behind him. The tiny sound carried from the far corner of the room above the other electronic noises. Brewster paused. It was the data-link’s alerting bell. He listened. The screen was displaying a new message, and even from this far away, he could see that it was unusually short-a few letters or numbers. Brewster knew what that meant. Another malfunction. More gibberish. A segment of some half-digested intracompany transmissions. He watched from a distance to see if the screen would update.

After spending a small fortune to equip the entire Trans-United fleet with this electronic marvel, the data-link communications network was still subject to “technical difficulties,” as they called it. Brewster called it screwed up. Garbled messages. Phrases or letters that repeated for screen after screen. Misaligned or inverted columns of data. It was almost funny, except that they were forever calling the system engineers to troubleshoot the damned thing. Fortunately, it was used only for routine and nonessential communications-meal problems, crew scheduling, passenger connections, routine weather and position updates. When it worked fine, it was fine, and when it didn’t, you ignored it. Brewster ignored it.

He stepped toward the door. The chemicals in the room stung his nostrils and made his eyes water. He wanted to get into the cleaner air of the dispatcher’s office, away from the irritants. He opened the door, then hesitated. Monitoring

the data-link was one of his responsibilities. All right, damn it. He slammed the door shut, crossed the room and stood in front of the screen. He read the typed message: SOS

That was all it said. Nothing else. No identity code, no transmission address. Brewster was puzzled, annoyed. What in hell’s name is this? A prank? A joke? No airline pilot in the world would seriously send an SOS. It was archaic, dating from the days of steamships. It was the equivalent of someone reporting a rape in progress by saying, “Maiden in distress.” Who could take that seriously?

Brewster rolled up the weather chart and tucked it under his arm. He stared at the machine in front of him. No, an airline pilot in trouble would transmit a Mayday message on a specific emergency channel using any one of his four radios. He would not send an ancient message on an electronic toy. And even if the impossible had happened and all four radios were malfunctioning, and a pilot resorted to the data-link, then he would send a full message with identifying code. This, then, was either a malfunction in the machine or some pilot’s idea of a joke. A very bad joke. And this pilot knew that his joke would go no further than the Trans-United communications room.

Brewster realized that the joke was aimed at him, and that made him angry. He pressed the print button, then yanked a copy of the message out of the machine and held it in his hand.

SOS

Idiots. It would serve them right if he reported them. He didn’t know if they could trace which of their flights had sent the anonymous message. It was a stupid, irresponsible thing to do, and the pilot who sent it would be in trouble if they could trace it. Then again, it might only be a malfunction. Why get involved? If he reported it, he’d get a bad reputation with the flight crews. That, somehow, might affect his promotion. Miller had always told him to cover for the flight crews. It would pay off. He was glad Evans hadn’t seen the message. He crumpled the data-link’s message and threw it in the trash can and left the room.

Jack Miller saw Brewster walk out of the communications room. “Jerry, can you get that mid-altitude stuff to me soon?”

Brewster looked across the room. “Sure, Mr. Miller. Just a few minutes.” He glanced at the wall clock. Three minutes to twelve. They would both be late for lunch. He unrolled the chart on his desk, weighted it down at the corners, then picked up a pencil and began transcribing pertinent temperatures onto a blank sheet of paper.

John Berry stared at the rotary code selector on the data-link. The thing to do, he decided, was to change codes and send again. A longer message this time. That impulsive SOS had been too brief, enigmatic, he realized. He looked around the cockpit for code books but realized that, even if there had been any, they had probably been sucked out. He would have to try each channel, transmit a complete message, wait for a reply, and if there was none, go on to the next channel. Somewhere, the counterpart to this machine would print. He’d begin monitoring each channel again after he’d transmitted on all of them. It was a shotgun approach, but it was far better than waiting. The urge to hit the key was getting the better of him. “I think I’m going to try another channel. What do you think?”

Sharon Crandall looked at the blank video screen. “Wait a minute or two. I remember that the pilots sometimes waited ten minutes or more for a reply.”

“Why?”

“Well, they don’t send anything important on it. They just want it so they can leave a message in the communications room-for the record.”

“Have you seen the communications room in San Francisco?”

“Once. I used to date a pilot. He brought me in there and showed me the data-link, weather printouts, and all that.”

“Sounds like fun. Where’s the communications room? Physically, I mean.”

“The room’s off the main dispatcher’s office.”

“Anyone on duty there?”

She thought for a moment. “No. I don’t think so… just machines. But people go in and out, though.”

Berry nodded. “Okay. We’ll have to wait for someone to go in there and spot the message. Where’s the machine located?”

“It’s in the middle of the room. The room’s small. They’ll see it.”

“Okay. I hope so.”

Crandall felt defensive, but didn’t know why she should. She tried to concentrate on the panel. Maybe she could come up with something else. The markings above the controls and gauges seemed so cryptic. RMI. LOM. Alternate Static. Gyro Transfer. “Here. This is something I remember. The ADF. I think it’s some kind of radio.”

Berry forced a weak smile. “Yes. The automatic direction finder. It’s to home in on an airport’s signal. Maybe we can use it later.”

“Oh.” She sat back. “I’m worried about Barbara. It’s been a while since we’ve heard from her.”

Berry had found the cockpit clock, but it seemed to be malfunctioning. “What time is it?”

She looked at her watch. “It’s six minutes past twelve, San Francisco time.”

Berry glanced at the clock again. 8:06. Eight hours beyond San Francisco time. He realized it was set to Greenwich Mean Time and remembered that airlines always measured time from that internationally recognized starting point. Berry shook his head in disgust. Everything in this cockpit seemed to provide him with useless information. The radios were filled with frequencies that wouldn’t transmit. The course indicators sat blindly in the center of their scales. The clock told him that at that moment, halfway around the world, neon lights shined on Piccadilly and the London theater had raised the curtain on their first acts. All that useless information was unnerving. He had, he realized, become increasingly morose. He needed to pull himself out of it. He coughed dryly into his hand to clear his parched throat. “At least the weather’s good and we have some daylight left. If this happened at night…”

“Right.” Crandall answered with little enthusiasm.

They both lapsed into silence. Each knew the other was nervous, yet they couldn’t bridge the gap to comfort each other. Berry felt himself wishing that Stein were free to come to the cockpit. Crandall wished Yoshiro would hurry back. Neither of them bothered to wish that the accident had never happened; neither of them was thankful for being alive. Their whole existence was reduced to worrying about the next course of action, the next few minutes.

Berry half rose in his seat and looked back into the lounge. “How is it going, Mr. Stein?” he shouted.

Harold Stein called back. “They seem quiet down there. Up here, too. No change in the copilot.”

“Call out for Barbara Yoshiro.”

Stein called loudly down the stairwell and listened closely. He turned toward the cockpit. “Nothing.”

Sharon picked up the interphone and looked at the console. “I don’t know which station to call.”

“Try any one.”

Crandall selected Station Six in the rear of the aircraft and pressed the call button. She waited. No one answered. “Should I call another station, or wait on this line?”

Berry was impatient. “How would I know?”

“I’m frightened for her.”

Berry was becoming angry. “I didn’t want her to go back in the first place. She’s become part of the problem now and no help with the solution.” He took a deep breath.

Sharon Crandall rose in her seat. “I’m going down there.”

Berry reached out and grabbed her wrist. “No. You’re not going anywhere. I need you here.” Berry looked intently at her. An unspoken message passed between them: Berry was now in command.

Crandall sank slowly into her seat. Finally, she nodded. “Okay.” She looked at John Berry, and he returned her stare. She felt strangely calm and confident in this man’s presence.

“Try the rest of the flight-attendant stations,” Berry said in a low, calm voice. “I’m going to start changing channels on the data-link. Maybe if we work on it, we can get our luck to change.” Berry let his fingers slip gently off Crandall’s wrist, and he reached across the console toward the data-link.

Jack Miller was trying to decide if he should give Flight 52 more time. He looked up at Brewster. “How’s the data-link today?”

Brewster looked up from the weather chart. “What?”

“The link? Is it behaving?”

“Oh.” He hesitated. “No. Just got a garbled message, as a matter of fact.”

“Okay.” He swiveled his chair and looked at Evans. “Okay, Dennis. In ten minutes, call them on the radio. Be gentle.”

“Always gentle, Chief.”

“Right.”

Jerry Brewster abruptly laid his pencil down and walked quickly to the communications room. “Damn waste of time,” he mumbled. He opened the door, ignoring the stench of color-enhancement chemicals, walked to the center of the room, and slid into the chair in front of the data-link keyboard. He saw that there were no messages on the screen, then set the machine to automatically choose and transmit on whatever channel the last incoming message had used. The SOS. He knew this procedure would work only if the aircraft had not changed the code settings on its own machine. Brewster placed his hands over the keyboard and typed a message almost as short as the one he had received.

WHO ARE YOU?

A copy of his message displayed on his own screen.

Berry thought he felt a barely perceptible pulsation in the machine, and had actually seen one of the unit’s lights blink for an instant. He jerked his hand away from the code selector as though it were red hot.

The bell that signaled an incoming message rang twice. Its tone filled the 797’s cockpit like the bells of Notre Dame on Christmas Eve.

Sharon Crandall let out a startled cry.

John Berry felt his chest heave and his throat constrict.

Letters began to print on the data-link’s video screen.

Sharon Crandall reached out and grabbed Berry’s arm.

WHO ARE YOU?

Berry almost rose out of his seat. “Who are we?” he shouted. He let out an involuntary laugh. “I’ll tell them who the hell we are!” He put his fingers on the keyboard. “What the hell is our flight number?”

“Fifty-two. Flight 52! Hurry! For God’s sake don’t let them get away!” For the first time since it had all begun, tears came to Sharon Crandall’s eyes and she sobbed quietly. She watched John Berry’s trembling hand type out a message.

“Jesus Christ!” Jerry Brewster bent over the data-link screen as he watched its message display.

FROM FLIGHT 52. EMERGENCY. MAYDAY. AIRCRAFT DAMAGED. RADIOS DEAD. MID-PACIFIC. NEED HELP. DO YOU READ?

Brewster hit the print button, then ripped the copy off the machine and stared at it. His heart pounded and his mind raced in a thousand different directions. He took a hurried step toward the door but stopped abruptly and returned to the data-link. He knew they would want an immediate acknowledgment. Anyone in that situation would. With fingers that seemed reluctant to do what they were told, he banged out a short reply.

TO FLIGHT 52. MAYDAY CALL RECEIVED. STAND BY ON THIS CHANNEL.

Brewster pushed the transmit button and prayed that the damned machine wasn’t having a bad day. He saw his message displayed before he ran toward the door.

Brewster burst into the large dispatch office and shouted, “Quiet! Listen! Flight 52 is in trouble!” His excited voice cut through the droning noises in the crowded office. The room quickly fell silent except for the ringing of an unanswered telephone.

Jack Miller jumped out of his chair and sent it rolling into the desk behind him. “What happened?” He moved quickly toward Brewster.

Brewster waved the message excitedly. “Here! From the data-link.”

Miller grabbed the message and scanned it quickly. He cleared his throat and read from it in loud, halting tones. “Mayday… Aircraft damaged… radios dead.” Miller was not completely surprised. In the back of his mind that empty data on his computer screen had grown more ominous with each passing minute. Yet he had put off making the call that would have resolved the open question. It was natural to want to assume that everything was perfectly all right.

A murmur of excitement arose from the dispatchers in the room and grew into loud, disjointed questions and exclamations of disbelief.

Miller turned to Brewster. “Did you respond?”

“Yes. Yes, I acknowledged. I told them to stand by.”

“Okay. Okay. Good, good.” Miller’s eyes darted around the dispatch office. Everyone was looking at him. He was the senior dispatcher, and 52 was his flight. Either way, it was his responsibility. That’s what the handbook said. But things never happened the way they were supposed to. For some reason, this emergency message had come directly to him on the data-link, and not through the normal channels. He was unsure of his next step.

Assistant dispatcher Dennis Evans spoke in a flat monotone that reached him over the noises in the room. “We’d better call someone. Quick.”

Miller frowned. Evans was a pain in the ass, but this time he was right. “All right, Dennis,” Miller said in a sharp tone. “You make the notifications. Use the emergency handbook. Call everyone on the list. Tell them…” Miller looked at the message fluttering in his unsteady hand. He knew that from here on they must be very careful. A thousand people, from their bosses at Trans-United to government officials and media people, would second-guess every move they made, every breath they took. Jack Miller and his dispatch office was suddenly onstage. He looked at Evans. “Tell everyone you call that the nature of 52’s emergency is still unknown. Give them only the barest details. Fifty-two sent a blind message on the link. Aircraft damaged. Need help. But they’re still transmitting, so it might not be too bad.” He paused and looked around the room. “Captain Stuart is the best there is.”

Evans reached for his telephone and began speed-dialing.

“Let’s move.” Miller motioned toward the communications room and led the way through the door.

Miller sat at the data-link console and Brewster stood beside him. A dozen dispatchers squeezed into the small stuffy room and jockeyed for positions around the console.

Miller loosened his tie. “Is the code still set?”

Brewster nodded. “Yes, sir.” He wondered at what point he would confess his negligence. Jack Miller began to type.

TO FLIGHT 52. EXPLAIN NATURE OF EMERGENCY. NATURE OF ASSISTANCE REQUESTED. AMOUNT OF FUEL REMAINING. PRESENT POSITION.

Miller pushed the transmit button and sat back.

The room grew very still. Someone coughed. Some brief remarks were passed in low tones.

The data-link’s bell sounded and everyone crowded closer.

Miller motioned to Brewster. “Turn on the overhead monitor. I’ll work the console and display. Everyone else step back and read the monitor. I need room to work the keys.”

The video screen on the rear wall of the communications room lit up. White letters began to appear on the green repeater screen at the same time they printed on the smaller data-link unit.

FROM FLIGHT 52. TWO PILOTS UNCONSCIOUS. ONE DEAD. I AM A PRIVATE PILOT. AIRCRAFT HAS TWO HOLES IN CABIN. SUSPECT BOMB. NO FIRE. COMPLETE DECOMPRESSION. DEAD AND INJURED. ALL INCOHERENT EXCEPT TWO FLIGHT ATTENDANTS, TWO PASSENGERS AND MYSELF. SEARCHING CABIN FOR OTHERS. NEED INSTRUCTIONS TO FLY AIRCRAFT. AUTOPILOT ON. ALTITUDE 11,000. AIRSPEED 340. MAGNETIC HEADING 325. FUEL APPROX. HALF. POSITION UNKNOWN.

The dispatchers remained motionless staring up at the screen, reading the message through a second, a third time. Each man had been automatically formulating responses to the emergency, but as the words Two pilots unconscious, one dead appeared, all the conventional emergency procedures became invalid. Subconsciously, almost everyone was writing off Flight 52.

Miller stared blankly at the printout. “A bomb. Holes in cabin. Complete decompression. Jesus Christ.” Miller knew that had he called earlier for 52’s fuel and status report, he would have realized much sooner that something was wrong. He wondered if that would make a difference in the outcome. He looked at the printout again. “Decompression. At that altitude. Good God… most of them must be dead or…”

Evans came through the door. “Everyone’s notified. Johnson is on the way. I only told them what you said. Unknown emergency. Might not be too bad.”

“I was wrong,” said Miller quietly. He pointed up at the video screen.

Evans stared at the illuminated words. “Oh, shit. How in the name of God could…?”

“All right,” said Miller abruptly. “The problem now is to get them down. The floor’s open for suggestions. Anyone?”

No one spoke.

Brewster cleared his throat. “Can we figure out their position?”

“That’s a good idea,” said Miller. “It would help. Do you have their last position?”

Brewster nodded. “Yes, sir. From the last fuel and status report.” He walked over to another computer and punched up some data. “It’s an hour and a half old, but I can plot a probable course and distance from that based on this new information.” He motioned toward the video screen. “It won’t be an exact position, but it’s better than what we have now.”

“Do it,” said Miller.

Brewster nodded and jotted down the information from Flight 52’s emergency message. “One thing’s for certain,” he said as he finished. “They’re headed the wrong way.” He turned and left the room.

“That’s a good point,” said Evans.

“Yes,” Miller agreed coldly. He could see the need for a decision pressing against him.

“Maybe you should tell them to turn around,” said Evans.

Miller kept his eyes focused on the screen. There was no textbook solution here. And even with all his years of experience, he had never had to deal with anything like this. All he could think of were the consequences for him as well as for the Straton, her crew and passengers. “He’s only a private pilot. He could lose control during the turn.” He drummed his fingers on the console. “There’s no need for a decision right now. We can let them fly on autopilot until we get their position. Maybe the pilots will regain consciousness. I wonder which one is dead?” he added.

Evans slapped his hand on the console. “Damn it, Jack. We have no real idea how much fuel is left onboard and they’re headed the wrong way. They’re headed for the Arctic Ocean. Siberia maybe. No matter what happens we’ve got to turn them around before they reach the point of no return.”

Miller shook his head. “The pilot reported half full. That’s enough fuel to get him to this airport or an airfield in Canada or Alaska. We don’t have enough information right now to make a rational decision.”

“We may never have enough information for that. Look, Jack-” Evans abruptly stopped speaking. Badgering old Jack Miller had always been pure sport. Evans enjoyed taking easy shots at the man in charge. But suddenly he realized that this was life or death; he’d never made a decision like that, and he didn’t want to be responsible for making one now. He realized how awesome the responsibility was and realized, too, that Jack Miller, as senior dispatcher, had had to live with the knowledge that one day he would be called on to help decide the fate of an aircraft in distress. “Do what you want, Jack,” he said softly. “You’re the boss.”

Miller nodded. “Need more input.” He knew that his superiors would be there soon. They might say, “Jack, why the hell didn’t you turn them around?” Christ. He didn’t want to look like a procrastinator. That would be the end of him. But he didn’t want to look compulsive either. He needed more facts. How good was the pilot? How badly damaged was the aircraft? How much fuel actually remained? What was their position? He looked at the clock. The bosses would start arriving soon.

Brewster rushed into the room. Everyone turned toward him. He began without preamble. “The Straton’s estimated position is latitude 47 degrees 10 minutes north, longitude 168 degrees 27 minutes west. They are about 2,500 miles out. A conservative estimate of flying time left is 6 hours and 15 minutes, based on last known fuel report and flying time since then. In about 45 minutes they will pass the point of no return regarding this airport. They may have more or less time, depending on the winds. Luckily, they’re already at the best fuel-consumption speed for a low altitude. They’d get better range at a higher altitude, but I guess they can’t go up with those holes in the fuselage. I just hope none of the fuel tanks are damaged. If so,” Brewster said, waving the paper in his hand, “then all this is out the window.”

Miller looked up at the video screen. Flight 52’s last message was still written there in white letters etched across the dark green screen. The words appeared to pulsate with a sense of urgency as he stared at them. He turned to the console and typed out a short message. CAN YOU IDENTIFY AND USE THE AUTOPILOT HEADING KNOB? A few seconds later, the message bell sounded. YES. There was a murmur of excitement in the room. Miller typed again. CAN YOU RECOVER IF YOU LOSE CONTROL OR AUTOPILOT FAILS? The bell sounded almost immediately. DOUBTFUL. Miller swiveled in his chair and faced his fellow dispatchers. “Well?”

Brewster spoke. “I’d trust the autopilot to get through the turns.”

A dispatcher near the door spoke. “The Straton’s control surfaces may be damaged.”

Miller banged out a message. ANY INDICATIONS OF DAMAGE TO THE FLIGHT CONTROLS? There was a long minute before the bell rang.

HOLE IN PORT CABIN NEAR LEADING EDGE OF WING. SECOND HOLE OPPOSITE. STARBOARD SIDE LARGER. NO VISUAL INDICATIONS OF FLIGHT CONTROL DAMAGE.

A dispatcher cleared his throat. “Eventually he has to turn. We can’t instruct him further on how to twist the autopilot knob. If it gets away from him, there would be no time to give him flying lessons anyway, even if the chief pilot were sitting here.”

A few dispatchers nodded agreement.

Evans spoke in a less strident tone. “I think it would be best if he were heading this way when the bosses get here. Everything else has to develop from there. If he can’t execute that autopilot maneuver, well then…” His voice trailed off and he made a motion of dismissal with his hand that looked too much like a representation of an aircraft spinning out.

Miller looked into the eyes of each man in the room, then turned back to the data-link. He typed.

TO FLIGHT 52. SUGGEST YOU TURN AIRCRAFT AROUND. UNLESS YOU FEEL IT IS TOO DANGEROUS. RECOMMEND MAGNETIC HEADING OF 120 DEGREES. WE WILL PROVIDE MORE ACCURATE HEADING AFTER TURN IS COMPLETE. LEAVE AUTOPILOT ON AND ALLOW IT TO EXECUTE TURN BY USING AUTOPILOT TURN CONTROL KNOB. ARE YOU CAPABLE OF DOING THIS? ADVISE YOUR INTENTIONS.

As the dispatchers waited for the reply, they debated alternatives and theories about what exactly had happened to the Straton. A chart of the Pacific area was brought in and Flight 52’s last reported position was marked. Brewster then marked their estimated present position. A few dispatchers reluctantly left the room to attend to other flights and answer the madly ringing telephones. People from other sections drifted in and were promptly asked to leave. It seemed that Flight 52 was taking a long time to answer, but each man knew what the pilot was going through as he tried to reach a decision. Miller drummed his fingers nervously on the edge of the keyboard.

The bell rang to signal the incoming message, and everyone turned to the video screen.

FROM FLIGHT 52. HAVE PREVIOUSLY TESTED THE AUTOPILOT TURN CONTROL IN TEN DEGREE TURN AND RECOVERY. APPEARS TO FUNCTION. WILL USE IT TO ACCOMPLISH TURNAROUND TO MAGNETIC HEADING OF 120 DEGREES. WILL BEGIN TURN SHORTLY. There was a short pause in the printout, then it began again. FOR THE RECORD, MY NAME IS BERRY. WITH ME ARE FLIGHT ATTENDANTS CRANDALL AND YOSHIRO. PASSENGERS H. STEIN AND L. FARLEY.

Miller looked at the last three lines on his printout. He supposed it was a natural human need to identify oneself, to say, This is my name and if anything happens to me I wanted you to know who you spoke to, who we were… Miller typed out a short message. GOOD LUCK.