Hennings stepped into the small gray-painted room packed with electronics gear. The door closed behind him.
An enlisted man sat in front of a console. Standing behind the man and looking over his shoulder was Commander James Sloan. Sloan looked up as Hennings entered the room. “Hello, Admiral. Did you see the launch?”
“Yes. The F-18 was being strapped to the catapult when I arrived on the bridge. Quite impressive.”
“That machine really moves. Excuse me for just one minute, Admiral.” Sloan leaned over and said something to the electronics specialist, Petty Officer Kyle Loomis, in a voice just a bit too low for Hennings to hear.
Hennings could see that Sloan was unhappy. They were apparently having some technical difficulty. Still, Hennings had the feeling that he was not being shown all the military courtesy possible, but decided not to make an issue of it. Retired, after all, meant retired. He had one mission aboard theNimitz , and that was to carry back the results of the “special test” to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, to carry on his person untitled and unsigned test results, and to commit to memory everything that could not be written. He was a messenger. The execution of the test was not an area he cared to get involved with.
His old friends in Washington threw him these consulting plums as a favor. He had little else to do. This time, however, he was beginning to wish he hadn’t been home when the phone rang. Hennings had the feeling that all those soft jobs to exotic places and those generous “consulting fees” had been a setup for the time when his friends might need a special favor. Could this be that special time? Hennings shrugged. It didn’t matter. His friends had earned his loyalty, and he would provide it.
Commander Sloan was pointing to a panel of gauges above the console. Loomis mumbled something. Sloan shook his head. He was clearly not happy.
“Problem, Commander?”
Sloan looked up and forced a smile. “Only the usual … Admiral.” He paused and considered for a second. “One of our high-frequency channels to San Diego isn’t working. Can’t figure out why.” He glanced at the equipment panel as though it were an enlisted man who had jumped ship.
“Will it delay things?”
Sloan thought it might, but that wasn’t the proper answer. “No. It shouldn’t. We can go through Pearl. Just a procedural step.” He paused again. He wondered how much of this Hennings was taking in. “We could eliminate the step anyway. The things we need are working.”
“Good. I’m to be at a conference tomorrow morning.”
Sloan already knew that. The famous breakfast meetings of the Joint Chiefs, where bleary-eyed old men turned the talk from golf scores to nuclear holocaust with the ease of a piano player going through a familiar medley.
“I’m set up on a commercial flight out of Los Angeles late tonight. I need to be off the carrier by 1600 hours.”
“The mission should be completed shortly.”
“Good. Now, do you mind telling me why you summoned me here, Commander?” His tone was as gentlemanly as always, so the words were more, not less, terse.
Sloan was taken aback for a second. “I didn’t summon … I mean, I thought you would want to be here.”
“This …” Hennings waved his hand around the room, “… this means very little to me. I would rather have just gotten an oral and written report from you at the completion of the test. But if you want me here, I’ll stay.” He sat in a small swivel chair.
“Thank you, sir, I would.” Sloan didn’t trust himself to say any more. He had treated Hennings in an offhand manner since he’d come aboard, but now he was reminded, in case he had forgotten, that Randolf Hennings had friends. More than that, though, the old saying, “Once an admiral, always an S.O.B.”, was brought home.
As Hennings watched Sloan shuffle through some papers, he realized for the first time how much Sloan wanted him to be here, as an actual accomplice in the missile test. They were, Hennings now realized, doing somethingcriminal . But it was too late to turn back. Hennings pushed those disquieting notions out of his mind and forced himself to think of other things.
Sloan turned to the electronics. He peered at the panel intently, but he was trying to recall all that he knew about Randolf Hennings. Action in and around Vietnam. He was considered a likable man by his peers, but you never knew about admirals, retired or otherwise. They could change as quickly as the North Atlantic weather. Hennings was known for having enough perseverance to get his job done but not enough to be a threat to his seniors. Those very seniors who had made it to the top had now picked Hennings to carry out a most sensitive mission. Hennings was known to be the epitome of dependability and discretion. Like a dinghy caught in the suction of a battleship’s wake, thought Sloan, retired Rear Admiral Hennings had followed at a speed and course set by others. Yet Sloan had to reckon with him. He glanced back at Hennings. “Coffee, Admiral?”
“No, thank you.”
Sloan’s mind was still not on the electronics problem but on the politics of the test. He thought about asking Hennings for some information, but decided that would be a mistake. At any rate, Hennings wouldn’t know much more than he, Sloan, did.
“Sir, the patch to Pearl isn’t carrying.”
Sloan looked at the electronics man. “What?”
“The problem might be on their end.”
“Right. Probably is.” Sloan glanced at Hennings. Hennings was drumming his fingers restlessly on the arm of his chair. His attention seemed to be focused on the video screen that was displaying routine weather data.
Petty Officer Loomis glanced back over his shoulder. “Sir? Should I keep trying?”
Sloan tapped his foot. Time for a command decision. He felt acid in his stomach and knew why officers had more ulcers than enlisted men. He considered. The test elements were nearly all in position. A delay could disrupt things for hours. Hennings had to be at the Pentagon the next morning with the report. If the report said only “Special test delayed,” Commander James Sloan would look bad. The men behind the test might lose their nerve and cancel it for good. Worse, they might think he had lost his nerve. He considered asking Hennings for advice, but that would have been a tactical blunder.
“Sir,” the electronics man said, his hand poised over a set of switches on the console.
Sloan shook his head. “Get back to the mission profile. We can’t spend any more time on routine procedures. Send the approval for the release, then get another update from Lieutenant Matos.”
Petty Officer Kyle Loomis returned to his equipment. He had begun to suspect that all was not routine here, but as a former submariner, his knowledge of fighters and missiles was too limited to allow him to piece together what was not routine about this test. Without anyone telling him, he knew that his ignorance had gotten him out of the submarine that he’d come to hate and onto theNimitz , which he found more tolerable. He also knew that his transfer request to the Mediterranean Fleet was secure as long as he kept his mouth shut.
Sloan watched the electronics procedure for a few seconds, then glanced at Hennings, who was still staring at the video screen. “Soon, Admiral.”
Hennings looked up. He nodded.
It occurred to Sloan that perhaps Hennings, like himself, wanted to go on record as having said nothing for the record.
Petty Officer Loomis spoke. “Sir, Lieutenant Matos is on-station. Orbiting in sector twenty-three.”
“All right. Tell him that we expect target information shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sloan tried to evaluate his own exposure in this thing. It had begun with the routine delivery of the two Phoenix test missiles to the carrier a month before. He had signed for the missiles. Then came a routine communication from Pearl informing theNimitz ’s commander, Captain Diehl, that Hennings was coming to observe an air-to-air missile testing. Not unusual, but not routine. Then came the brief communication that directed a routine practice firing of the missiles. The only exception to the routine was that “procedures and distanc
es” be in accordance with the manufacturer’s new specifications for the AIM-63X version of the Phoenix. That was when Sloan had known that there was a top-level conspiracy—no, wrong word;initiative —a top-level initiative among the Joint Chiefs. They were going to secretly ignore the new arms limitation agreement that Congress had enacted. And by a stroke of fate, Sloan had been named the technical officer in charge of conducting the test. Within a year, he’d be a captain … or he’d be in Portsmouth Naval Prison. He looked at Hennings again. What was in this for him?
Sloan knew that he could have backed out at any time by asking for shore leave. But those old men in the Pentagon had done their homework well when they studied his personnel file. They knew a gambler when they saw one. A small stream of perspiration ran down Sloan’s neck, and he hoped Hennings hadn’t noticed it. “Approximately ten minutes, Admiral.” He punched a button on the console and a digital countdown clock began to run.
Sloan had an inordinate fascination, mixed with phobia, for countdown procedures. He watched the digital display running down. He used the time to examine his motives and strengthen his resolve. To rationalize. The updated Phoenix was a crucial weapon to have in the event of war, even though the idiots in Congress were acting as if there would never be any more wars. One discreet test of this missile would tell the Joint Chiefs if it would work under combat conditions, if the increased maneuverability would mean that the kill ratio of this newest weapon could be nearly one hundred percent.
The Navy brass would then know what they had, and the politicians could go on jawing and pretending. American airpower would have an unpublicized edge, no matter what happened in the future. Russia could go back to being the Soviet Union and the Cold War could refreeze; U.S. combat forces would have something extra. And with modern technology, a slight edge was all you could ever hope for. All you ever needed, really. There was also the matter of the Navy finding its balls again, after countless years of humiliation at the hands of the politicians, the gays, and the feminists. Nine minutes.
Commander Sloan poured a cup of coffee from a metal galley pitcher. He glanced at Hennings. The man was looking uncomfortable. He could see it in his eyes, as he had seen it several times the day before. Did Hennings know something that he didn’t?
Sloan walked to the far end of the console and looked at the gauges. But his thoughts were on Hennings now. Hennings seemed to be almost uninterested in the testing. Uninterested in Sloan, too, which was unusual since Sloan was certain that Hennings was to make an oral evaluation report on him. Sloan felt that almost forgotten ensign’s paranoia creeping over him and shook it off quickly. A seasoned officer turns everything to his advantage. He would turn Hennings’s detachment to his advantage, if necessary.
Hennings stood suddenly and moved nearer to Sloan. He spoke in a low voice. “Commander, will the data be ready as soon as the testing is complete? Will you need to do anything else?”
Sloan nodded. “Just a few qualitative forms.” He tapped his fingers on a stack of paperwork on the console desk. “Thirty minutes or so.”
Hennings nodded. The room was silent except for the ambient sounds of electronics.
Randolf Hennings let his eyes wander absently over the equipment in the tight room. The functions of this equipment were not entirely a mystery to him. He recognized some of it and guessed at what looked vaguely familiar, as a man might do who had been asleep for a hundred years and had awakened in the twenty-first century.
When he was a younger man he had asked many questions of his shipboard technicians and officers. But as the years passed, the meaning of those young men’s answers eluded him more each time. He was, he reminded himself, a product of another civilization. He had been born during the Great Depression. His older brother had died of a simple foot infection. He remembered, firsthand, a great deal about World War II, the Nazis and the Japs, listening to the bulletins as they came across the radio in their living room. He recalled vividly the day that FDR died, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, the day the Japanese surrendered, the day, as a teenager, that he saw a television screen for the first time. He remembered the family car, a big, old, round-bodied Buick, and how his mother had never learned to drive it. They’d come an incredibly long way in a short span of time. Many people had chosen not to go along on that fast ride. Others had become the helmsmen and navigators. Then there were people like himself who found they were in positions of command without understanding what those helmsmen and navigators were doing, where they were going.
He walked over to the single porthole in the room and pushed back the blackout shade. The tranquil sea calmed his troubled conscience. He remembered when he had finally made the decision that he would have to evaluate his men on their personal traits and then trust their technical advice accordingly. Men, he understood. Human beings did not really change from generation to generation. If his sixty-seven years were good for anything, it was that he had arrived at an understanding of the most complex piece of machinery of all. He could read the hearts and souls of his fellow men; he had peered into the psyche of Commander James Sloan, and he did not like what he saw.
Petty Officer Loomis turned around. “Commander Sloan.” He pointed to a video display screen.
Sloan walked over to the screen. He looked at the message. “Good news, Admiral.”
Hennings closed the blackout shade and turned around.
Sloan spoke as he read the data. “Our elements are in position. The F-18 is on station, and the C-130 is also in position. We need only the release verification.” He glanced at the digital countdown clock. Five minutes.
Hennings nodded. “Fine.”
Sloan gave a final thought to the one command check he was not able to complete. If the test had not been a secret, and if delay had not meant possible cancellation, and if cancellation had not meant potential disadvantage in a future war, and his career weren’t in the balance, and if Hennings weren’t evaluating him with those steely gray eyes, and if it wasn’t time for the Navy to gets its balls back, and if that damn digital clock weren’t running down … then, maybe, maybe he would have waited. Four minutes.
The video screen’s display updated again, and Sloan looked at the short message. He read it first to himself, smiled, and then read it aloud. “The C-130 has launched its target and it was last tracked as steady and on course. The target drone has accelerated to Mach 2, and is now level at sixty-two thousand feet.” He glanced at the digital countdown. “In two minutes and thirty seconds I can instruct Lieutenant Matos to begin tracking the target and engage it at will.”
* * *
“Would you like another drink?”
“No, I think I’ll wait.” John Berry put down his empty glass and looked up at the flight attendant. Her shoulder-length brunette hair brushed across the top of her white blouse. She had narrow hips, a slender waist, and very little visible makeup. She looked like one of those models from a tennis club brochure. Berry had spoken to her several times since the flight had begun. Now that the job of serving the midmorning snack was nearly finished, she seemed to be lingering near his seat. “Not too crowded,” Berry said, motioning around the half-empty forward section of the Straton 797.
“Not here. In the back. I’m glad I pulled first-class duty. The tourist section is full.”
“High season in Tokyo?”
“I guess. Maybe there’s a special on electronics factory tours.” She laughed at her own joke. “Are you going on business or pleasure?”
“Both. It’s a pleasure to be away on business.” Disclosures can come out at unusual moments. Yet, for John Berry, that particular moment wasn’t an unusual one. The young flight attendant was everything that Jennifer Berry was not. Even better, she seemed to be none of the things that Jennifer Berry had become. “Sharon?” He pointed to the flight attendant’s name tag.
“Yes, Sharon Crandall. From San Francisco.”
“John Berry. From New York. I’m going to see Kabushi Steel in Tokyo. Then a metal-fabricating co
mpany in Nagasaki. No electronics factories. I go twice a year. The boss sends me because I’m the tallest. The Japanese like to emphasize their differences with the West. Short salespeople make them nervous.”
“Really?” She looked at him quizzically. She grinned. “No one ever told me that before. Are you kidding?”
“Sure.” He hesitated. His throat was dry. Just the thought of asking this young woman to sit with him was mildly unnerving. Yet all he wanted was someone to talk to. To pass the time. To pretend for a few relaxing moments that the situation in New York didn’t exist.
Jennifer Berry’s tentacles reached even this far. Her presence stretched across a continent and over an ocean. The image of his difficult and complaining wife lay over John Berry’s thoughts. Their two teenaged children—a son and a daughter—were on his mind, too. They had grown further from him every year. The family tie had become mainly their shared name. Shared living space and shared documents. Legalities.
The rest of what was termed these days their lifestyle was, to Berry, a cruel joke. An outrageously expensive house in Oyster Bay that he had always disliked. The pretentious country club. The phony bridge group. Hollow friendships. Neighborhood gossip. The cocktails, without which all of Oyster Bay, along with the neighboring suburbs, would have committed mass suicide long ago. The futility. The silliness. The boredom. What had happened to the things he cared about? He could hardly remember the good times anymore. The all-night talks with Jennifer, and their lovemaking, before it became just another obligation. Those camping trips with the kids. The long Sunday breakfasts. The backyard baseball games. It seemed like another life. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
John Berry found himself dwelling on the past more and more. Living in the past. A 1960s song on the radio made him yearn for Dayton, Ohio, his hometown. An old movie or serial on television brought on a nostalgia so acute that his heart ached.
He looked up at the young woman standing over him. “How about having a drink with me? Never mind. I know … you’re on duty. Then how about a Coke?” Berry was speaking quickly. “I’ll tell you about Japanese businessmen. Japanese customs. Very educational. Wonderful information. Great stuff to know if you ever want to become an international corporation.”
Mayday Page 3