Mayday

by Nelson DeMille

  Metz looked impatient. “The way our luck is running, they’ll probably find them in the next ten minutes.”

  “Ourluck? Mr. Berry’s luck hasn’t been too good today, either. I’ll bet this is one flight he wished he’d missed. I’ll take our luck over his. Anyway, even if a boat or plane does spot them, they can’t do much for them. Only we can do that, because only we are in contact with them, and no one knows that but us.”

  “Well, what are we going to do for them? What are we going to do to nudge that pilot down?”

  The telephone rang. Johnson rose, walked to the counter, and picked it up. “Johnson.” He paused. “Yes, sir. We’re still trying to make contact. No, sir, I think I can be more effective here.” He spoke for a minute, then said, “If any questions arise, I’ll be here. Thank you.” He replaced the receiver and looked at Metz. “That was our illustrious airline president. Everyone is in the executive conference room. And with any luck they will stay there, close to the bar and the air-conditioning. They don’t like this room.”

  “I’m not crazy about it myself.” Metz looked at the telephone. “I have a boss, too, and he’s probably wondering what the hell is going on. If I knew what was going on, I’d call him.”

  “You’d better call him before he starts hearing things on the news, or before our president calls him. Presidents are like that. They call people and ask what’s going on. Anyway, if insurance company presidents are like airline presidents, he’ll really want to know everything.”

  Metz stared at the phone. “I’ll wait.” He turned to Johnson. “Well, what instructions are you going to give to Berry?”

  Johnson opened the pilot’s manual. He glanced at Metz. “There’s an expression: the first time you give bad advice it’s excusable, the second time it’s suspicious, the third time it’s enemy action. I suppose I have one more shot at it.” He looked down at the book.

  “Don’t overestimate him. If we’re going to sink him, we have to take some chances.”

  Johnson flipped through the book as he spoke. “When I offered him that vector, I held my breath. You know why? Because there is absolutely no way we could have determined his true position, and I didn’t know if he knew that. Also, vector is shorthand for radar vector, and there is no radar out there. That’s the equivalent of me telling you that the fastest way to Sausalito is to drive over the bay without using the Golden Gate Bridge. I gambled that Berry knew nothing about over-ocean flying. I also gambled that Ms. Crandall never spent a lot of time hanging around the cockpit listening to our pilots bore her with flying lessons. So don’t tell me about taking chances.”

  Metz wiped the perspiration from his face with a handkerchief. “God, I didn’t know it was going to be this complicated.”

  “Ignorance, Mr. Metz, is bliss. And if you are so ignorant that you think we can yell ‘Game’s over’ and go home and forget what we tried to do, then I have news for you. As soon as I sent that bullshit message, we were committed. Because if he gets back, we may be able to lie about the phony break in communications, but we can’t lie about that phony vector.”

  Metz lowered himself into a chair. “If they get back … if they do land … we can say they misunderstood. They were suffering from lack of oxygen …”

  Johnson stopped at a page and began reading, then looked up. “Right. If they do get back and survive the landing, we can say that. Maybe we can make everyone believe that an amateur pilot who was smart enough to land a supersonic jetliner is too stupid to accurately recall the messages we sent a short while before. Besides, there are still three normal people in that cockpit with functioning brains. But the biggest factor of all might well become the printouts. Wayne, do you see the printouts that are coming from our data-link?” Johnson asked.

  “Yes.” Metz had forgotten about them, and what their existence implied. “We’ve got to get rid of those.”

  “Good thought, Sherlock. But before we do, take a guess where the corresponding printouts are. Go ahead. One guess.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Right. Data-links sure act funny sometimes, but they don’t get brain damaged, and don’t babble on with conveniently murderous messages. What we’ve sent to that cockpit is more than enough to have us indicted for attempted murder. If the printer in the cockpit is turned on—and it usually is, as a backup—then they’ll have all the physical evidence they’ll need.”

  Metz slumped forward in his chair. “Good God! Why didn’t you tell me all this?”

  “Why? Because you have no real balls. You were all for this as long as you thought I could come up with a simple technical solution to the problem of putting the Straton in the ocean. If you knew all the problems involved, you would have run off to your group therapy or wherever it is that screw-up insurance whiz kids go.”

  Metz stood slowly. “It’s more than our careers now. If …”

  “Right. It’s our lives against theirs. If they land, we go up for twenty to life. That might affect our promotions.” Johnson looked back at the book, then glanced up at the data-link. He turned to Metz. “Instead of standing there with your finger up your ass, go over to the link and very coolly remove the printouts of the last messages.”

  Metz walked over to the machine. His hands were shaking and perspiration ran from his face. He looked up into the dispatch office. Occasionally a man would glance up at him.

  Johnson stood and walked toward the door. “Go on, Wayne. One quick motion, from the printer to your pocket.” Johnson put his hand on the doorknob to attract the attention of anyone outside who was watching them. “Go.”

  Metz ripped the messages off and stuffed them in his trouser pocket.

  Johnson pretended to change his mind and walked away from the door. He sat back down at the counter. “Very good. In case of imminent capture, eat them.”

  Metz walked up to Johnson. “I don’t like your sense of humor.”

  Johnson shrugged. “I’m not sure I like your lack of one. First sign of mental disease—lack of humor. Inability to see the funny side of things. Humor keeps you alert and opened to all possibilities.”

  Metz felt he was losing control of the situation. He felt he had unleashed forces that were now beyond his control. Everything in this room, including Johnson, seemed so alien. He could manipulate people and he could also manipulate, through them, their technology, their factories, their machines. But he couldn’t manipulate the machines themselves. The human factor was really not so unpredictable as the technical factors—the computers and the engines that ran when they should have stopped, stopped when they should have run. “I have a feeling that the Straton will land unless we bring it down.”

  Johnson smiled. “I think you’ve finally arrived at the truth. There is nothing radically wrong with that aircraft or its pilot. If his nerve holds, he’ll bring it down on some runway, somewhere, and in some sort of condition that will allow him or some of the others in the cockpit, or the flight recorder, to survive.”

  “We can’t let that happen.”

  “No, we can’t.” Johnson tapped his finger on the pilot’s manual. “In this book is something that will finish him—quickly. And I think I’m onto what it is.”

  * * *

  The early afternoon sun reflected brilliantly off the tranquil sea that surrounded the USSChester W. Nimitz . The aircraft carrier plodded steadily along its course. A moderate breeze, generated by the ship’s eighteen knots of forward speed, swept across its empty flight deck from bow to stern. Belowdecks, the afternoon’s activities were routine.

  Commander James Sloan and retired Rear Admiral Randolf Hennings sat quietly in Room E-334 on the 0-2 level of the conning tower. Neither of them had spoken for several minutes; each was lost in his own thoughts. For Sloan, the problem was clear and the solution was obvious. For Hennings, the situation was far more complex. Sloan’s face was set in a rigid, uncompromising expression. Hennings’s face betrayed his inner struggle.

  Sloan finally spoke. “The situation has n
ot changed. Our only mistake was waiting for the Straton to go down by itself. But there’s no sense continuing this argument. Try to think of it as a tactical war problem.”

  Hennings was fatigued and his head ached. “Stop giving me those war analogies, Commander. That doesn’t work anymore.” After Matos’s report that the Straton had made a turn, Hennings thought that Sloan would see that they couldn’t proceed with the destruction of the aircraft. Hennings was almost relieved at the prospect of confessing to Captain Diehl what they had done. But Sloan, as Hennings should have known, had not given up so easily. To Sloan there was little difference between shooting down an aircraft that they first believed to be filled with corpses, and shooting down an aircraft that showed signs of life. “And stop telling me nothing has changed. Everything is changed now.”

  “Yes, and for the worse. Let me point out again, Admiral, that I don’t want to go to jail. I have my whole life in front of me.You may get VIP treatment in Portsmouth—a cottage of your own, or whatever they do with admirals, but I … Which reminds me, you’ll be the first American admiral to be court-martialed in this century, won’t you? Or maybe with your retired status, you’ll suffer the indignity of a civilian trial.”

  Hennings tried to remember—to understand the sequence of small compromises that had brought him so far down that he had to listen to this from a man like Sloan. He was either getting senile or there was a flaw in his moral fiber that he had not been made aware of. Certainly James Sloan wasn’t that sharp. “You think a lot of yourself, don’t you?” he said. “But if you were as shrewd as you think you are, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “I don’t mind sticking my neck out if I can gain by it. What I do mind is your getting in my way. This would have all been resolved long ago if you hadn’t procrastinated, and if we hadn’t listened to Matos’s bullshit about fatigue cracks and damage.”

  Hennings nodded. That was certainly true. For the last hour, Sloan had explained to him why Peter Matos should destroy the Straton. For the last hour, Hennings had advised waiting for some word from Matos that the Straton had gone down by itself. Matos’s reports had confirmed that the Straton was damaged but still flying, straight and steady, except for one deliberate but unexplainable course change from a 120-degree heading to a 131-degree heading. Also, Matos reported people falling or jumping from the airliner. None of this was comprehensible. “Why did they change course? Why are people falling from a steady aircraft? There was obviously no fire. They can’t be jumping. That makes no sense. What the hell is going on up there?”

  Sloan wasn’t sure he knew what was going on up there either. The first heading seemed to put the Straton closer to its home base of San Francisco. The new heading might put them on a parallel course to the coast. He looked at Hennings. “The pilot must be lost. His navigation sets are probably malfunctioning. As for the people …” He thought for a moment about that bizarre happening. “I told you they’ve probably suffered brain damage.” He was beginning to imagine for the first time what it must be like for the people onboard the Straton. “The pilots may be brain damaged, too. That’s why they’re changing their headings.” He looked Hennings in the eye. “They may crash into a populated area. Think about that.”

  Hennings was through thinking and through arguing. His only argument had been based on his own understanding of the moral and ethical issues involved. Against that thin, apparently weightless argument, Sloan had thrown a dozen expedient reasons for destroying the Straton and the people onboard.

  “We’re running out of time.” Sloan said it casually, as if he were late for a tennis match at the officers’ club. “Matos is low on fuel.”

  Hennings stepped closer to Sloan. “If I say no?”

  Sloan shrugged. “Then I go to Captain Diehl and tell him my side of the story.”

  “You don’t bluff well.”

  Sloan smiled. “Well, I guess it’s not important for you to concur any longer. You’ve already committed a half-dozen court-martial offenses. Just stay out of my way, and I’ll call Matos and finish it off. The Straton’s obviously not going down on its own.” Sloan picked up the microphone and glanced at Hennings out of the corner of his eye. He started to push the transmit button, then hesitated. It would be much better if the Admiral was in on it. As he pondered his next move, the telephone rang. He put down the microphone and snatched up the receiver. “Commander Sloan,” he said impatiently, then listened for a few seconds. “Yes. Go ahead with the message. Exactly as received.”

  “Who is it?” Hennings asked, apprehension in his voice.

  Sloan ignored him. “Okay. I understand. Then their request is specifically for a broad-area search, and only within the boundaries you’ve described?”

  Hennings was certain that it concerned the Straton, but couldn’t guess in what way.

  Sloan was shaking his head. “I’m tied up here—with this special test. Yes, it’s still not finished, but that’s not your business. Have Lieutenant Rowles lay out the initial patterns and assignments. At least eight aircraft each shift. To be launched at one-hour intervals. Begin the search in the northern quadrant, and expand the search southward.” Sloan glanced at the console clock. “Tell Rowles to get the first group off within fifteen minutes.” He hung up and turned to Hennings. “A message came from Air Traffic Control to initiate a search and possible rescue mission.”

  “The Straton?”

  “Trans-United Flight 52. A supersonic Straton 797 from San Francisco to Tokyo. Unless the Trans-United Stratons are having a bad day, that must be ours.”

  “But I thought we would hear any transmissions from them.” He gestured toward the radio-monitoring equipment.

  Sloan hesitated. He had to pick and choose what to tell Hennings. “They transmitted on a data-link, a typed-out message that displays on a computer screen. I presume only the Trans-United operations office can receive from them. Anyway, the pilot was apparently dying. Brain damage. He made that turn, then made the course change, then they lost contact. They suspect that he died or blacked out, and that the Straton went down and …”

  “Then they don’t know it’s still—”

  “No. They don’t. The good news is that one of the data-link messages from the Straton mentioned a bomb. Everyone thinks there was a bomb onboard. Do you see it all now, Admiral? A pilotless aircraft filled with dead and dying, and with enough fuel left to reach California. Even if it weren’t our fault, I’d say we had a duty to bring it down.”

  “How soon will your search party be in the area?”

  “Soon.” Sloan had been asked to search an area that was hundreds of miles from where he knew the Straton actually was. By the time his aircraft worked their search pattern, the Straton would have flown hundreds of miles farther. “Very soon,” he lied. He looked at Hennings. “You can’t avoid any of the responsibility if I order this aircraft shot down. Silence is acquiescence. You’re no better than I am. But if you want to remain silent and let me do the dirty work …”

  Suddenly, Hennings understood Sloan’s insistence on getting his approval for an act that he had the power to accomplish by himself. Sloan was looking for a personal victory over Hennings, and all that Hennings represented. All the old notions of honor, virtue, and integrity. Somehow it would make Sloan feel better to rub Hennings’s face in the muck.

  Sloan said, “You had no qualms about serving a commander in chief who was a draft dodger, a notorious liar, and who had nothing but contempt for the military. Or, if you had any such qualms, you sure kept them to yourself, Admiral. We all did. Don’t talk to me about doing the right thing, about standing up for principle. None of us resigned over Vietnam, and none of us spoke out against the draft dodger in the White House. We’re all whores and we’re all compromised. The only thing I believe in is the career of James Sloan.”

  Hennings made no reply, no protest.

  Neither man spoke for a long time.

  Hennings looked around the room known as E-334. Sterile, gray me
tal, covered with mazes of electrical conduit, the smell of electronics hanging in the airconditioned atmosphere. The world was full of Room E-334s now, on the sea, in the air, underground. Small tight compartments with no human touch. The destiny and the fate of mankind would someday be decided from a room like this one. Hennings was glad he would not be around to see it. He looked at Sloan. This man was the future. He knows how to live in this world. “Yes. Of course. Order Matos to shoot the Straton down.”

  Sloan hesitated for a second, then sat down quickly at the radio console.

  “Make sure he understands what he is to do and why he is to do it, Commander.”

  Sloan glanced back at Hennings. “Yes. All right. I know what to do. We had him at this point once before.” But he knew Matos could go either way. “Navy three-four-seven, this is Homeplate. Do you read?” Sloan looked again at Hennings. “You wanted me to be honest with him, and I will.”

  The radio crackled, and Matos’s voice, strained and perhaps even frightened, came through the scrambler and filled the room. “Roger, Homeplate. Go ahead.”

  Sloan heard the edginess in the young man’s voice. That was a good beginning. “Peter, this is Commander Sloan. I asked you a question before, and now I want the answer. Why have you been ordered to keep out of sight of the cockpit?”

  There was a long silence in the room, then the radio came alive with Matos’s voice. “I was to keep out of sight of the cockpit because there might be a pilot in there. If he was able to get his radios working, and if he saw me, he might understand what happened to his aircraft and radio the message. Or he might tell someone when he landed.”

  “Yes. And we have new information from ATC. They think it was a bomb onboard. Go on. What else, Peter?”

  “The accident was our … my fault. I have a chance to cover it up by shooting the Straton down.”