Mayday

by Nelson DeMille

  “Oh, fuck you, Kevin. I don’t need a fucking lecture from you. I tried to save this airline. You and your fucking pampered pilots wouldn’t do that.”

  Fitzgerald lost his patience and snapped, “My pilots save this airline every damn day they’re up there, you desk-bound son-of-a—”

  “Enough!” yelled Berry. He had a feeling this was an old argument. “Enough.” He said to Johnson, “Drop the damned ax, or so help me God, I’m coming right at you, and I’m going for your eyes. Drop it!”

  Johnson stood motionless for a second, then swung the ax in a wide arc and with incredible strength sent it sailing into the front windshield, which shattered in a thousand pieces. He said to Fitzgerald, “Fuck you. Try to prove it.” Johnson strode over to the emergency door and stood crouched at the yellow chute for a moment, then looked back over his shoulder and said to Berry, “If you had any real balls and any conscience whatsoever, you would have put this fucking planeload of living dead into the water instead of trying to save your own ass. You can both go to hell.” And with that, he propelled himself, legs first, down the long yellow chute.

  Fitzgerald said to Berry, “Don’t pay any attention to him.”

  Berry didn’t reply.

  Fitzgerald continued, “As I said to you before, and I’ll say again, you did the right thing, and you did it well. Regardless of Mr. Johnson’s opinion, Trans-United is grateful.”

  “Good. Do you think I’m too old to get a job flying commercial airliners?”

  Fitzgerald smiled and replied, “You’re obviously capable.”

  Berry smiled for the first time in a long time. He looked around, then said, “I’ve seen enough of this cockpit.”

  Fitzgerald nodded.

  Both men slid down the yellow chute into the sunlight and landed on their feet.

  21

  * * *

  John Berry passed through the ornate iron gate into the tea garden. He walked slowly down bamboo-railed paths, over grassy slopes, and beside red-leafed Japanese maples.

  He crossed small stone bridges that passed over little streams and lichen-covered rocks, and came to a chain of five pools filled with water lilies and goldfish. Over a still pond in the distance curved a wishing bridge, its reflection in the water completing a perfect circle. Waiting on the bridge was a woman and a girl.

  He moved toward them, passing fantastically misshapen bonsai trees and delicate trees of plum and cherry. The day was still and the smell of camellias and magnolias hung in the air. The setting sun cast elongated shadows of stone lanterns over the paths and dappled the grass between the trees.

  John Berry quickened his pace, and found that his heart was beating rapidly. Then he stopped abruptly at the foot of the bridge, as though the vision in front of him would vanish if he came closer. He looked up and smiled hesitantly.

  Sharon Crandall, dressed in a light blue sundress and straw hat with a wide brim, smiled back. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Linda Farley waved a greeting. “We thought you got lost.”

  Berry stepped onto the bridge and approached them. He stood awkwardly for a moment, then impulsively bent down and kissed Linda Farley on the cheek. “How are you feeling?”

  She nodded. “Good.”

  “Good.” He straightened up and handed her a large box of chocolates. “Here. The prize for spotting land first.”

  Linda took the chocolates and smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He turned to Sharon. “I wanted to bring you something, but I didn’t know—”

  “Dinner in New York.”

  “Yes. We made it to the airport, didn’t we?” He paused. “You’re looking well.”

  She put her hand on his cheek and frowned at his cuts and bruises. “You look as though you lost a fight.”

  “You should have seen the other guy.” He looked out at a red-tiled pagoda surrounded by carefully pruned vegetation. “This is quite a place.”

  “Yes. I thought you’d like it. It’s a beautiful example of how man and nature can live in harmony.”

  “You come here often?”

  “Whenever I have a lot of thinking to do.” She looked down at her reflection in the pond. “I used to come here with Barbara Yoshiro sometimes.”

  “I …” He didn’t know what to say. “I think she would have been happy to know you came here and thought of her.”

  “Let’s take a walk.”

  They crossed the bridge. On the far side they passed through a thicket of leafy bamboo and took a path to the west. They walked in silence for a long time, came to a grassy slope, and climbed it. A breeze came up, and Berry stood on the summit of the hill. Small puffs of white clouds rolled across the sky. Gulls circled in the distance and the vapor trail of a high-flying jet left a white line on the deep blue sky. “No fog today,” he said.

  “No.” Sharon Crandall walked a few yards down to the western slope, took off her hat, and lay in the sunny grass. “No. No fog today. We could have used this weather yesterday at this time. But then, that wouldn’t have been consistent with yesterday’s luck.”

  “No.” Berry sat down beside her.

  They both watched in silence as Linda walked slowly down the grassy slope and toward a brook at the base of the hill.

  “Don’t go too far,” Crandall shouted after her. She turned to Berry. “She has her good and bad moments. She just finished crying before you got here. She hasn’t come to terms with it yet.”

  “Her mother?”

  “She wasn’t one of the survivors.”

  Berry nodded. It was, in his mind, better that way. Easier, in the long run, for Linda.

  Sharon Crandall looked down at the young girl and watched her for a few seconds, then turned back to Berry. “I spoke to Linda’s grandmother.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She’s the only relative, except for some cousins in Kansas or someplace. Linda’s father died years before. The grandmother lives in a small apartment on the south side of the city. She’s going to take custody of Linda now, but she is very concerned about being able to raise a young girl by herself. When I told her I’d like to help out, she was very happy.”

  “I’d like to help out too, if I could.”

  “Sure.”

  Neither of them spoke for some time, then Berry said, “Golden Gate Park reminds me of Central Park.”

  Crandall smiled. “Does it?”

  She closed her eyes and stretched out in the grass and kicked off her shoes. “I don’t really want to hear the latest, but you might as well tell me.”

  Berry looked down at her face. The sun lay on her features the way it did in the cockpit of the Straton and highlighted the nice cheekbones and soft lips. “The latest. The latest is that we have to speak with the FBI again tomorrow morning.”

  “I figured that. What else?”

  “Well, Commander Sloan was flown in to Alameda Naval Air Station this morning from the carrierNimitz and is under custody there. Incidentally, even though it was a top-secret test, all the radio transmissions to and from the fighter were automatically recorded in theNimitz central radio room. It’s some kind of electronic recording loop that they keep for safety investigations, and it erases itself every twenty-four hours. Apparently, Sloan didn’t know that, because only safety officers have access to that stuff. You’d think people would be more careful about recordings these days. Anyway, the Navy got to the recordings before they automatically erased, so the charge against Sloan is evidently going to be murder.”

  “How about the other two Navy men?”

  “The pilot is still missing at sea. Admiral Hennings hasn’t been found onboard yet. Apparently he jumped. But they want that downplayed. The Navy’s not saying much about what exactly was on the recordings, but they did tell me that it proved conclusively that Sloan was the instigator. My impression was that Sloan conned and bullied the Admiral and the pilot into the cover-up. And the original mistake was Sloan’s, too. After the Straton’s
late departure from San Francisco, Sloan never received updates from Air Traffic Control because of a technical problem. He just assumed that the area was clear of traffic, even though he was supposed to check.”

  “He sure doesn’t sound technically competent. What about Edward Johnson and Wayne Metz. They almost pulled it off, didn’t they?”

  “Johnson’s made a full confession. He says he was pulled both ways the entire time—save the airplane or save the airline.”

  “Sure,” Crandall said sarcastically. “He says he did it all for the airline? Nothing in it for him?”

  “That’s his story.”

  Trans-United was certainly going to be under the microscope for a while, Berry thought. But his gut feeling was that the airline would survive it. Even the press seemed to be playing up the actions of individuals rather than organizations. Maybe that’s the way this thing would ultimately wash out. But Berry did understand, at least a little, why Johnson had not wanted Flight 52 to come back. He thought about Daniel McVary.

  “Has there been any improvement in Dan McVary or the others?” Crandall asked, as if she had sensed his thoughts.

  “No. The same. There’s no hope for any of them. The doctors told me that the brain damage is unquestionably permanent.”

  “That’s what I had guessed,” she answered softly, shaking her head.

  Berry nodded. “Me too.” He remembered a similar conversation with Harold Stein. Stein had been right, at least about his family. It was hopeless. Berry could feel his emotions begin to slide again. He was becoming increasingly maudlin. He pulled out a handful of grass and scattered it down the hill. He forced his mind to change gears. “Metz hasn’t said much yet, except to hint that it was all Johnson’s idea. He says he didn’t know what was happening with the data-link.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Hell, Iknow he understood where we were going. The federal prosecutor knows it too.”

  They both looked down the hill and watched Linda for a while as she walked along a brook. Berry coughed lightly to clear his throat. “I called home this morning.”

  “How is everyone?”

  “They’re fine.” He stood up, then helped Sharon to her feet.

  “I’ll bet they can’t wait for you to get back,” Sharon said.

  Berry considered. “Yes … that’s the way they sounded.”

  Sharon Crandall didn’t speak for a few seconds, then said, “Why … why didn’t they fly out here?”

  “Well, the kids have finals now, and Jennifer doesn’t like flying anyway. She never came with me when I flew. All our vacations were by car or, sometimes, by ship. I don’t think Flight 52 helped her overcome her fear of flying.”

  “I shouldn’t think it would.” She watched a flight of gulls sail overhead. “When are you going back?”

  “I’m not sure. I have to stay here for the next few days, just like you. We have a lot of questions to answer for a lot of people. I’ve taken a month’s leave of absence from work.” He hesitated, then went on. “They were good about giving me the time, but there’s something … demeaning in having to ask for time off after nearly twenty years, you know? I mean, they could have offered before I asked. And Jennifer could have arranged for the kids to take their finals some other time, had three martinis, and flown out here. My mother, who is seventy-two and not well, wanted to come out.” He lapsed into silence for a while, then said, “My wife started off predictably enough … great concern … terrible anguish. But ten minutes into the conversation I could already pick up the old line.” He pulled out another handful of grass and threw it into the breeze. “Things would be okay for a few months. … We’d make the round of cocktail parties and country clubs, and I’d have to perform for everyone for a while. Then it would wear off. … .”

  Sharon Crandall reached out and took his hand. “What do youwant to do?”

  He felt the pressure of her hand and returned it. “I’m not sure. But I’m going to stay here for a few weeks until I know. Sometimes I think I’d like to fly for a living. That’s what I wanted when I was young.”

  “I don’t think anyone would doubt your ability to fly.”

  “No.” He laughed. “It’s my ability to land that’s in some doubt.”

  She sat up. “Do you have to go back to the hospital?”

  “No. I’m discharged. I’ve got a hotel room at the Mark.”

  She turned and looked at him. “Stay with me. I have a place in North Beach.”

  He stared out at the sky for a long time. An aircraft came toward them, heading over the city toward the airport, and from a distance it looked like a Straton 797. They both saw it, but neither commented on it. John Berry thought about what lay ahead. Investigations, grand juries, courtrooms, news coverage. Like it or not, he and Sharon were going to be news for some time. “It wouldn’t look right. We have no private lives. At least for a while. It took me a half hour to shake the reporters on my way here.”

  She released his hand and stood. “I have to get Linda back.” She slipped on her shoes and picked up her hat.

  Berry stood beside her and took her arm. “You know I want to. … It’s easier for you to …”

  “Why? Because I have less to lose? You’ve gotnothing to lose.” She turned to him. “What were your first thoughts when you got out of the cockpit and realized you were alive? How you couldn’t wait to go home and get back to work?”

  “No … I thought about you. …”

  She stared at him for several seconds, then turned and called to Linda. “We have to go, honey.” She looked back at Berry. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess. I’m sorry if I put you in a difficult position, but … I care about you. And I can see that you’re unhappy.” She watched Linda running up the hill. “I keep thinking about all the friends I lost on that flight. I think about Captain Stuart. He was a good man. A no-nonsense guy. You remind me of him. He once told me that he had family problems, too, and he couldn’t resolve them. Now he doesn’t have to. But you do.”

  Berry thought for an instant about those he had brought back, the survivors who would never be able to go through more than the barest motions of life. Were they any better off than those who had died? He couldn’t decide. Was survival enough, or should there be more?

  Linda scampered up the hill and ran toward them. “Are we going?”

  Sharon smiled at her. “Yes.” She took Linda’s arm and began walking down the slope.

  Just before she reached the bottom, Berry called after her. “Sharon.”

  She stopped and turned. “Yes, John?” Linda was clutching her hand, and the two of them looked up toward Berry.

  John Berry took a few tentative steps toward her. As he moved down the hill, he could see in the distance the tall towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. They stood majestically, bathed in the late afternoon sun, their rigid beams framing the scene in front of Berry. More than any other single moment, the first sighting of the Golden Gate Bridge towers had marked the beginning of their salvation, the beginning of their new lives.

  He stopped halfway down the hill and asked, “Can we have dinner together tonight?”

  “I can’t. One of my old boyfriends asked me to dinner.”

  “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  “He’s picking me up at eight-thirty.”

  “You won’t be there.”

  Sharon laughed. “Do you know where I live?”

  “I’ll find you.”

  Mayday

  Nelson DeMille and Thomas Block

  NELSONDEMILLEis a former U.S. Army lieutenant who served in Vietnam and is the author of many acclaimed novels, including theNew York Times bestsellersThe Charm School ,The Gold Coast ,The General’s Daughter ,Spencerville , andPlum Island .

  THOMASBLOCKis a senior airline pilot and author of half a dozen novels under his own name, includingAirship Nine ,Skyfall , andOpen Skies . He also writes forFlying magazine and is a contributing editor toPlane & Pilot magazine.

 
 

  Nelson DeMille, Mayday