Mayday

by Nelson DeMille

  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 peopl
e 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 grow
n 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.”