Mayday

7

Commander James Sloan sat on the edge of his swivel chair in the small room known as E-334 buried in the bowels of the supercarrier USS Nimitz. His eyes focused on the digital clock as it went through its programmed countdown. “Two minutes.”

Retired Rear Admiral Randolf Hennings stood silently on the far side of the room, his attention focused on the view outside the porthole, his back pointedly turned to the Commander. He wanted a few moments of peace before the finale began. He watched the gentle swells of the sea. But today his mind was too troubled to be soothed.

“One minute,” Sloan announced. He leaned forward and reread the carefully worded order lying on the console deck. He had, he believed, written a minor masterpiece of persuasive argument. The stimuli, the right buzzwords, would produce the conditioned response. “Do you want to hear this before I transmit?”

Hennings wheeled around. “No. Just do it, Commander. Let’s get it over with.”

Sloan didn’t respond, but stared hard at Hennings. He tried to get a reading on the condition of the man’s mind.

Hennings took a few paces toward Sloan. “Your pilot may not go along with it.” He couldn’t decide how he wanted Matos to respond.

“We’ll know soon enough.” Sloan looked at the paper again. As the situation stood now, he was guilty of criminal negligence and dereliction of duty. But if he transmitted this order and Matos disregarded it and made a full report, then they had him for attempted homicide.

Hennings moved closer and glanced at the written order. “He may not believe this is a lawful order. He may report… us.”

“Admiral,” Sloan replied, “in the new Navy, we cover up all problems of race and gender, problems of poor morale, discipline problems, problems of hetero-and homosexual behavior, and in fact we’ve become masters of deceit and paragons of political correctness. We had to lie about the death of that female aircraft carrier pilot so it looked like mechanical failure rather than heart failure, which it was. We are awash in a sea of self-serving bullshit. The people in Washington want us to lie about things they want us to lie about. So it’s no sweat and no big deal to lie about things we want to lie about.” Sloan added, “Matos, like everyone else in this unhappy Navy, understands all of this. The only report he’ll make is the one I write for him to sign. I guarantee it.”

But Sloan wasn’t quite that sure about Matos. As he watched Hennings, however, he was reasonably sure his words had hit their mark. Sloan knew exactly which of the old man’s buttons to push.

Hennings remained silent.

Sloan’s mind went back to Matos. Matos could be a problem, but Sloan didn’t intend to give Matos enough time to think. Matos would hear the order and obey automatically. The command would enter Matos’s brain through his headset like the voice of God. James Sloan believed that the measure of a good leader was how much he sounded like God. What most men wanted was to be told what to do. A small bell sounded, and Sloan looked at the countdown clock. It read 00:00. He picked up the microphone.

Hennings wanted to stall. “I wonder if burying this mistake in the ocean will be the end of it. The dead have a way of coming back.”

“Don’t try to spook me, Admiral. But if blaming me makes you feel better, go ahead. That’s fine. I don’t care. I only want to get this job done.”

Hennings’s face flushed with anger. The knowledge that Sloan was on the mark kept him from responding. Sloan was unquestionably an immoral man. But what gnawed at Hennings was the thought that he himself was not much… not any better. This was not quite like the sinking of the Mercer, and Hennings knew it. Yes, it was easy to blame James Sloan. But Hennings knew better. He was doing nothing to stop Sloan. He looked up. “Get on with it.”

“I am, Admiral.” Sloan reached across the electronics panel and turned on the transmitter. He checked the power output, then verified that the voice scrambler was operating properly. Without it, he would never send a message like this one. To all the eavesdropping electronic ears in the world, Commander James Sloan’s voice would be gibberish, but to Lieutenant Peter Matos, the message would come in loud and clear. “Navy three-four-seven, do you read, Homeplate?” Sloan stared at the console speaker and waited.

Hennings moved closer and also fixed his eyes on the speaker.

“Roger, Homeplate. Navy three-four-seven read. Go ahead.”

Sloan took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Lieutenant Matos, this is Commander Sloan.” He paused.

“Roger, Commander.”

“We have consulted with our commanders at the highest levels and they have advised us on a course of action which will take extraordinary skill and courage on your part. The situation as it now stands has been complicated by several outside factors beyond our control. I will brief you on the details when you come home. The important thing that we have learned is that the accident is in no way our fault. The Straton was off course and did not report its position. How do you read?”

“Read you fine. Go ahead.”

“We have been informed that it is physiologically impossible for anyone to have survived a decompression at the altitude at which the accident took place. The problem we face now has to do with that derelict craft. It is a threat to sea and air navigation that must be eliminated. Only a pilot with your personal skills could accomplish this.”

“Christ,” Hennings murmured in the background.

Sloan spoke quickly into the microphone. “Wait one.” He turned in his seat and glared at Hennings, but he was thankful for the break. A few seconds’ pause would do Matos good.

Hennings leaned over, very close to Sloan. “You should try being honest with him,” Hennings said in a low voice. “Tell him you want him to destroy the damned evidence. Tell him you want him to knock it down and stay over it until he makes sure it has sunk. Tell him also that it’s possible that someone onboard is alive and well enough to transmit a message. You owe him that much, Commander.”

Sloan fixed Hennings with a cold stare and spoke through clenched teeth. “Don’t be a fool. I’m making it easier for him, not harder. The last goddamned thing he wants is the truth. The truth,” Sloan snarled, “is that the whole damned thing is Matos’s fault.” He turned back to the microphone. “All right, Lieutenant, we have just received our final authorization.” He lifted the written text and noticed that his hands were trembling, which was unusual for him. “You are to fire your remaining missile in such a way as to make inoperable the Straton’s autopilot. Since the test missiles weren’t equipped with explosive warheads, this can only be accomplished by a direct hit in the area of the cockpit of the derelict craft. The accuracy of your shot is well beyond the profile that you’ve been trained for. The assignment is beyond the normal call of duty. We, and everyone here, are depending on you and praying for your success.” He paused. “Take your time, but try to accomplish this mission within the next few minutes. Good luck, Peter. Acknowledge, please.”

A silence settled over the small room. Sloan made an exaggerated gesture of crossing his fingers.

Hennings thought that he had never seen anything so obscene in his life. He turned away, then retreated to the porthole to wait. Perhaps Lieutenant Peter Matos, whoever he was, had more moral courage than they did.

The radio crackled. Hennings turned his head toward the speaker.

“Roger, Homeplate. Proceeding with new mission profile. Out.”

Sloan settled back in his chair. Out of habit, he set the countdown clock for five minutes.

Hennings felt a tear forming in his eye and wiped it before Sloan could see it.

Peter Matos stared blankly out the windshield of his F-18. His reply had been automatic. Now he was beginning to fully understand what he was supposed to do. He looked at his console clock, then reached out to push his radio-transmit button. What was he going to ask Commander Sloan? What was left unclear? Nothing that concerned him. He drew his hand away from the radio button and rested it listlessly at his side.

He glanced out of the cockpit. The Straton 797 maintained its heading and altitude with an unerring precision. Far too precise a flight to have been guided by any human hand. He watched carefully for a full minute. He was satisfied that the Straton was indeed being flown by its computerized autopilot.

He settled back in his flight chair. Commander Sloan’s earlier orders had not made a great deal of sense. Matos had been certain that Sloan was leading up to something. And he knew, deep inside, what it was. Even though the actual order had now been sent, it was still hard to believe.

Matos considered his options. There were none, really, that he could exercise without a great deal of unpleasantness. The facts were that the Straton had been off course, everyone aboard was now dead, the craft presented a hazard of some sort, and the top brass wanted it brought down. Simple. Follow orders. They would take care of everything. They would look after Peter Matos once he completed the mission.

He stared at his fuel gauges. Less than half full. He glanced at his compass. With every passing minute he delayed, he was getting farther away from the Nimitz. Every minute of delay now would add another minute to his trip home. He looked again at his clock. Three minutes had already gone by. He desperately wanted to be done with this within the next few minutes. More than anything else he wanted to be back in his bunk on the Nimitz. That was his home-he wanted to go home.

Without another disturbing thought, he began to maneuver his fighter into a better position for the missile strike.

His mind was now filled with the logistics of the difficult shot. The technical trade-offs were complex. The derelict Straton was a large stable target, but its very size presented a problem. How many dummy warheads would it take to bring it down? The first one had not done it. A half-dozen more might not do it. He had only one left. He was reminded of a bull in the ring being stuck with lances and banderillas.

The Phoenix missile would hit the Straton. That was no problem. It could do that automatically. But he had to hit a particular spot. He needed a brain shot.

The solution, now that he had a chance to study the problem, was suddenly obvious. He had to fly close to the cockpit and fire his missile at point-blank range. With no exploding warhead he could do this with a fair degree of safety. Then he had to pull out quickly and turn away. The Phoenix would strike the cockpit before its elaborate guidance system could alter its course and steer it toward the target’s midsection. Matos managed a small smile. He had outwitted the designers of the weapon. The pilot was still in control after all.

Matos knew that selecting the best angle for the shot would have to be a compromise. He slid his fighter to the starboard side of the Straton. The small shadow of his craft passed over the gleaming silver airframe of the huge airliner. He looked down. Normally, a full side view of the target would be best, but he saw that a missile shot from that angle would be far too risky. He was liable to miss the aircraft entirely because of the high-closure speeds and his need to do the firing manually.

He slid his craft back over the top of the Straton and a hundred yards behind its tail. The shot would have to be made from the twelve-o’clock-high position, right down into the dome that was the lounge and cockpit. The angle would have to be such that the missile would enter the roof of the lounge, pass through the cockpit, and exit from the lower nose. That would wipe out everything on the flight deck. He reached for the manual gun sight above the glare shield and snapped it into place. He looked through it. The gunnery crosshairs seemed to bob and weave as the relative positions of the two aircraft changed.

Matos set his experienced hands to work on the flight control and soon had the calibrated crosshairs steadied and within range. The bulge of the upper lounge and cockpit filled the scope. The sight’s bull’s-eye swayed back and forth over the protruding dome.

Matos reached down without taking his eyes off the target and turned off the Phoenix’s safety switch. He moved his hand laterally and placed his finger on the firing button. He took a deep breath and began nudging the F-18’s control stick forward. The fighter came in closer. The bull’s-eye was dead center over the dome and holding steady. The Straton’s towering tail loomed up in front of him. He would fire when he passed over the tail. He judged that from tail to dome was almost two hundred feet, and that was a good yardstick to use. Closer than that would expose him to danger from debris. And if the stricken airliner suddenly rolled, the wing could come up and hit his fighter.

He looked through the gun sight. Thirty feet from the tail. He had never flown this close to such a large aircraft. Twenty feet. The huge Straton was spread out below him like the deck of a carrier. Ten feet. He could see the rivets in the tail. His heart started to beat heavily in his chest.

The nose of the F-18 passed over the tail of the Straton. The bull’s-eye covered the center of the silver dome. The glare of the silvery skin made Matos squint. He exhaled deeply and pressed his finger against the firing button.

John Berry was anxious to get on with the maneuver, yet he was doing nothing. He ran his eyes over the instruments, trying to appear as though he were doing something important.

“John?”

“What?”

Sharon Crandall looked anxious. “Is anything wrong?”

“No. Just a few checks.” He paused. “Try to call Barbara again. I want her to know we’re turning. When we start to bank, she’s liable to become frightened. And tell her to stay away from the holes.”

“Okay.” Sharon Crandall set the interphone for the mid-ship station and pressed the button repeatedly. “She doesn’t answer,” she said in a trembling voice.

“Try another station.”

Crandall selected the aft flight-attendant station and pressed the button. Almost immediately a muffled voice came back, nearly drowned out by the sound of rushing wind and odd babbling voices in the background. “Barbara, can you hear me? Is that you?”

“Yes. I’m at the rear station,” Yoshiro answered in a clear voice.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

Crandall turned to Berry. “I’ve got her. Thank God. She’s at the rear station. She’s okay.”

Berry nodded.

“Barbara, come back up,” Crandall said.

“Give me five more minutes. I have to check one more lavatory. I don’t see the steward-Jeff Price. Maybe I’ll go below to the galley.”

Crandall glanced at Berry.

Berry was ready to begin the turn. “Okay. Tell her we’re about to turn. Stay where she is until the turn is completed.”

Crandall nodded and spoke into the phone. “Wait in the rear station. John is going to turn the aircraft. We’ve made contact on the data-link. Everything is all right. We’re heading in. Stay there until the turn is completed. Take care. See you soon. Okay?”

There was a lighter note in Barbara Yoshiro’s voice. “Yes. Good. Very good.”

Berry took the phone. “Barbara, this is John Berry. How are the passengers?”

There was a short pause, then the voice came back. “I… I don’t know. They seem… better.”

Berry shook his head. They were not better. They never would be. Better meant worse. More animated. More dangerous. “Be very, very careful. See you later.”

“Okay.”

The phone clicked dead.

Berry exchanged glances with Crandall, then looked over his shoulder into the lounge. Stein had taken the news about the data-link connection calmly, almost without interest. He had other things on his mind. “Harold. Linda,” Berry shouted back to them. “Hold on to something. We’re turning. Back to California. Be home in a few hours.”

Stein looked up from his post at the head of the stairs and waved distractedly.

Berry turned and positioned himself carefully in his seat. He reached out and put his hand on the autopilot heading control knob. He had a vague awareness of a shadow passing over the starboard side of the cockpit’s windshield. He glanced at Sharon Crandall, but she seemed unaware of it. He half stood and leaned over her seat and looked out the side windshield. He craned his neck back toward the tail. Nothing. A cloud probably. But he could see no clouds.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He sat down and again placed his hand over the small heading knob. “Okay. We’re heading home.” Slowly, a few degrees at a time, he began turning the knob. The big supersonic craft banked to the right.

For a brief instant, Matos thought that his aircraft was responsible for the apparent movement between them. The action of a missile release would do that. But he had not, he realized, pressed the button hard enough to make contact. His missile-fire light was not on.

The large Straton transport moved rapidly across Matos’s gun sight. He removed his hand from the firing button and raised his eyes from the crosshairs. The Straton was in a shallow bank, moving away from the fighter.

Turbulence, was Matos’s first thought. No. Impossible. There is no turbulence. His own aircraft flew smoothly. Yet the 797 was banking. Instinctively, he banked with it and lined up his gun sights again. The Straton moved at a steady rate. Gracefully. Deliberately. Intentionally.

Matos sat up straight in his seat. His hand came down hard on his radio transmit button. “Homeplate! Homeplate! Navy three-four-seven. The Straton is turning. Banking.” He followed the airliner as it began its slow, wide circle. “It’s going through a north heading. Still turning. Approaching a northeasterly heading. The turn remains steady. The bank angle is approximately thirty degrees and steady. The airspeed and altitude are unchanged.” Matos kept his transmit button locked on so he could not receive, and kept up a continuous report of the airliner’s progress.

As gently as it had begun, the Straton’s bank angle started to lessen. Matos watched as the airliner began to roll to wings-level position. He placed his fighter twenty-five yards astern of the 797.

Matos could see from the rate of the Straton’s turn and the symmetry of its entry and exit that the control inputs were being measured electronically. Only a computer-controlled autopilot could provide that sort of precise motion control. He radioed, “Homeplate, the Straton is still on autopilot.” But he also knew, beyond any doubt, that there was a human hand working that autopilot.

Matos looked up at the manual gun sight, then down at the unguarded firing mechanism as though he were seeing them both for the first time. Oh, Jesus.

His hand was cramped, and he realized he had been pressing hard on his radio transmit button to keep possession of the radio channel between him and the Nimitz. But he knew he could not keep the channel away from Sloan forever. He spoke, to justify his finger on the transmit button, and to give himself time to think. “It was a deliberate turn. Someone is flying the aircraft-someone is working the autopilot. I could fly alongside the cockpit to verify.” He released the button.

“No!” shouted Sloan. “This is an order. Stay in trail formation. Do nothing to attract attention until you receive orders to do so. And keep your hand off the transmit button unless you are transmitting. Don’t try to cut me off again. Do you understand?”

Matos nodded, almost meekly. “Roger. Sorry, I was just… excited and… must have been gripping the stick… Over.”

“Roger. Are you still monitoring the radio channels?”

Matos glanced down at his side console. His monitoring equipment was still on, still silent. “That’s affirmative. No radio activity from the Straton on the normal frequencies.”

“Okay, Peter. Stay in trail until further notice. Acknowledge.”

“Roger, I read, stay in trail.”

“Roger, out.”

Matos ran his tongue across his parched lips and looked down at his compass. Reluctantly, he reached for his transmit button. When a commander gave an “out” it was the equivalent of, Don’t call me, I’ll call you. End of conversation. But Matos had things he wanted to say. “Homeplate.”

There was a short pause. “What is it, Navy?”

“Homeplate, whoever is flying that airliner knows what they’re doing. The Straton is flying steadily. Its new heading is 120 degrees. They are heading toward California.”

The silence in Matos’s headset seemed to last a long time.

“Roger. Anything further?”

Matos could not read the flat tone in Sloan’s voice. He wondered what was going through the Commander’s mind now. Why had they thought everyone onboard the Straton was dead? Matos could not hold himself back from asking the obvious question. “Homeplate, I don’t understand. Why am I staying out of sight of the cockpit?” He settled back and waited through the long, expected silence.

After a full minute his headset crackled. “Because, Lieutenant, I ordered you to.” The voice was no longer neutral. Sloan’s words continued, “We are all ass-deep in bad trouble. If you don’t want to spend the rest of your fucking life in Portsmouth Naval Prison, you will stay out of sight of that cockpit. Suppose, Lieutenant, you think about why you should keep out of sight and you radio me back with the answer when you figure it out. Okay?”

Matos nodded again and stared at his hands wrapped around the control stick. “Roger.”

“Homeplate, out.”

Matos pushed aside the manual gun sight and snapped back the safety cover of the firing switch. He sat back, deep in his upholstered flight chair, and stared down at the Straton until his eyes went out of focus. He closed his eyes, then made his mind go blank. He erased all the extraneous information he had accumulated and started at the beginning, at the moment he had first seen two targets on his radar screen. Slowly, he realized what Sloan was getting to. Now he knew precisely what he might yet be called on to do. Say it, Peter, he thought. Murder.