Evans reached for his telephone and began speed-dialing.
“Let’s move.” Miller motioned toward the communications room and led the way through the door.
Miller sat at the data-link console and Brewster stood beside him. A dozen dispatchers squeezed into the small stuffy room and jockeyed for positions around the console.
Miller loosened his tie. “Is the code still set?”
Brewster nodded. “Yes, sir.” He wondered at what point he would confess his negligence. Jack Miller began to type.TO FLIGHT 52. EXPLAIN NATURE OF EMERGENCY. NATURE OF ASSISTANCE REQUESTED. AMOUNT OF FUEL REMAINING. PRESENT POSITION.
Miller pushed the transmit button and sat back.
The room grew very still. Someone coughed. Some brief remarks were passed in low tones.
The data-link’s bell sounded and everyone crowded closer.
Miller motioned to Brewster. “Turn on the overhead monitor. I’ll work the console and display. Everyone else step back and read the monitor. I need room to work the keys.”
The video screen on the rear wall of the communications room lit up. White letters began to appear on the green repeater screen at the same time they printed on the smaller data-link unit.FROM FLIGHT 52. TWO PILOTS UNCONSCIOUS. ONE DEAD. I AM A PRIVATE PILOT. AIRCRAFT HAS TWO HOLES IN CABIN. SUSPECT BOMB. NO FIRE. COMPLETE DECOMPRESSION. DEAD AND INJURED. ALL INCOHERENT EXCEPT TWO FLIGHT ATTENDANTS, TWO PASSENGERS AND MYSELF. SEARCHING CABIN FOR OTHERS. NEED INSTRUCTIONS TO FLY AIRCRAFT. AUTOPILOT ON. ALTITUDE 11,000. AIRSPEED 340. MAGNETIC HEADING 325. FUEL APPROX. HALF. POSITION UNKNOWN.
The dispatchers remained motionless staring up at the screen, reading the message through a second, a third time. Each man had been automatically formulating responses to the emergency, but as the wordsTwo pilots unconscious, one dead appeared, all the conventional emergency procedures became invalid. Subconsciously, almost everyone was writing off Flight 52.
Miller stared blankly at the printout. “A bomb. Holes in cabin. Complete decompression. Jesus Christ.” Miller knew that had he called earlier for 52’s fuel and status report, he would have realized much sooner that something was wrong. He wondered if that would make a difference in the outcome. He looked at the printout again. “Decompression. At that altitude. Good God … most of them must be dead or …”
Evans came through the door. “Everyone’s notified. Johnson is on the way. I only told them what you said. Unknown emergency. Might not be too bad.”
“I was wrong,” said Miller quietly. He pointed up at the video screen.
Evans stared at the illuminated words. “Oh, shit. How in the name of God could … ?”
“All right,” said Miller abruptly. “The problem now is to get them down. The floor’s open for suggestions. Anyone?”
No one spoke.
Brewster cleared his throat. “Can we figure out their position?”
“That’s a good idea,” said Miller. “It would help. Do you have their last position?”
Brewster nodded. “Yes, sir. From the last fuel and status report.” He walked over to another computer and punched up some data. “It’s an hour and a half old, but I can plot a probable course and distance from that based on this new information.” He motioned toward the video screen. “It won’t be an exact position, but it’s better than what we have now.”
“Do it,” said Miller.
Brewster nodded and jotted down the information from Flight 52’s emergency message. “One thing’s for certain,” he said as he finished. “They’re headed the wrong way.” He turned and left the room.
“That’s a good point,” said Evans.
“Yes,” Miller agreed coldly. He could see the need for a decision pressing against him.
“Maybe you should tell them to turn around,” said Evans.
Miller kept his eyes focused on the screen. There was no textbook solution here. And even with all his years of experience, he had never had to deal with anything like this. All he could think of were the consequences for him as well as for the Straton, her crew and passengers. “He’s only a private pilot. He could lose control during the turn.” He drummed his fingers on the console. “There’s no need for a decision right now. We can let them fly on autopilot until we get their position. Maybe the pilots will regain consciousness. I wonder which one is dead?” he added.
Evans slapped his hand on the console. “Damn it, Jack. We have no real idea how much fuel is left onboard and they’re headed thewrong way . They’re headed for theArctic Ocean. Siberia maybe. No matter what happens we’ve got to turn them around before they reach the point of no return.”
Miller shook his head. “The pilot reported half full. That’s enough fuel to get him to this airport or an airfield in Canada or Alaska. We don’t have enough information right now to make a rational decision.”
“We may never have enough information for that. Look, Jack—” Evans abruptly stopped speaking. Badgering old Jack Miller had always been pure sport. Evans enjoyed taking easy shots at the man in charge. But suddenly he realized that this was life or death; he’d never made a decision like that, and he didn’t want to be responsible for making one now. He realized how awesome the responsibility was and realized, too, that Jack Miller, as senior dispatcher, had had to live with the knowledge that one day he would be called on to help decide the fate of an aircraft in distress. “Do what you want, Jack,” he said softly. “You’re the boss.”
Miller nodded. “Need more input.” He knew that his superiors would be there soon. They might say, “Jack, why the hell didn’t youturn them around ?” Christ. He didn’t want to look like a procrastinator. That would be the end of him. But he didn’t want to look compulsive either. He needed more facts. How good was the pilot? How badly damaged was the aircraft? How much fuel actually remained? What was their position? He looked at the clock. The bosses would start arriving soon.
Brewster rushed into the room. Everyone turned toward him. He began without preamble. “The Straton’s estimated position is latitude 47 degrees 10 minutes north, longitude 168 degrees 27 minutes west. They are about 2,500 miles out. A conservative estimate of flying time left is 6 hours and 15 minutes, based on last known fuel report and flying time since then. In about 45 minutes they will pass the point of no return regarding this airport. They may have more or less time, depending on the winds. Luckily, they’re already at the best fuel-consumption speed for a low altitude. They’d get better range at a higher altitude, but I guess they can’t go up with those holes in the fuselage. I just hope none of the fuel tanks are damaged. If so,” Brewster said, waving the paper in his hand, “then all this is out the window.”
Miller looked up at the video screen. Flight 52’s last message was still written there in white letters etched across the dark green screen. The words appeared to pulsate with a sense of urgency as he stared at them. He turned to the console and typed out a short message.CAN YOU IDENTIFY AND USE THE AUTOPILOT HEADING KNOB?
A few seconds later, the message bell sounded.YES.
There was a murmur of excitement in the room. Miller typed again.CAN YOU RECOVER IF YOU LOSE CONTROL OR AUTOPILOT FAILS?
The bell sounded almost immediately.DOUBTFUL.
Miller swiveled in his chair and faced his fellow dispatchers. “Well?”
Brewster spoke. “I’d trust the autopilot to get through the turns.”
A dispatcher near the door spoke. “The Straton’s control surfaces may be damaged.”
Miller banged out a message.ANY INDICATIONS OF DAMAGE TO THE FLIGHT CONTROLS?
There was a long minute before the bell rang.HOLE IN PORT CABIN NEAR LEADING EDGE OF WING. SECOND HOLE OPPOSITE. STARBOARD SIDE LARGER. NO VISUAL INDICATIONS OF FLIGHT CONTROL DAMAGE.
A dispatcher cleared his throat. “Eventually he has to turn. We can’t instruct him further on how to twist the autopilot knob. If it gets away from him, there would be no time to give him flying lessons anyway, even if the chief pilot were sitting here.”
A few dispatchers nodded agreement.
Evans spoke in a less strident tone. “I think it would be best if he were heading this way when the bosses get here. Everything else has to develop from there. If he can’t execute that autopilot maneuver, well then …” His voice trailed off and he made a motion of dismissal with his hand that looked too much like a representation of an aircraft spinning out.
Miller looked into the eyes of each man in the room, then turned back to the data-link. He typed.TO FLIGHT 52. SUGGEST YOU TURN AIRCRAFT AROUND. UNLESS YOU FEEL IT IS TOO DANGEROUS. RECOMMEND MAGNETIC HEADING OF 120 DEGREES. WE WILL PROVIDE MORE ACCURATE HEADING AFTER TURN IS COMPLETE. LEAVE AUTOPILOT ON AND ALLOW IT TO EXECUTE TURN BY USING AUTOPILOT TURN CONTROL KNOB. ARE YOU CAPABLE OF DOING THIS? ADVISE YOUR INTENTIONS.
As the dispatchers waited for the reply, they debated alternatives and theories about what exactly had happened to the Straton. A chart of the Pacific area was brought in and Flight 52’s last reported position was marked. Brewster then marked their estimated present position. A few dispatchers reluctantly left the room to attend to other flights and answer the madly ringing telephones. People from other sections drifted in and were promptly asked to leave. It seemed that Flight 52 was taking a long time to answer, but each man knew what the pilot was going through as he tried to reach a decision. Miller drummed his fingers nervously on the edge of the keyboard.
The bell rang to signal the incoming message, and everyone turned to the video screen.FROM FLIGHT 52. HAVE PREVIOUSLY TESTED THE AUTOPILOT TURN CONTROL IN TEN DEGREE TURN AND RECOVERY. APPEARS TO FUNCTION. WILL USE IT TO ACCOMPLISH TURNAROUND TO MAGNETIC HEADING OF 120 DEGREES. WILL BEGIN TURN SHORTLY.
There was a short pause in the printout, then it began again.FOR THE RECORD, MY NAME IS BERRY. WITH ME ARE FLIGHT ATTENDANTS CRANDALL AND YOSHIRO. PASSENGERS H. STEIN AND L. FARLEY.
Miller looked at the last three lines on his printout. He supposed it was a natural human need to identify oneself, to say, This is my name and if anything happens to me I wanted you to know who you spoke to, who we were. … Miller typed out a short message.GOOD LUCK.
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 USSNimitz . 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 thingsthey want us to lie about. So it’s no sweat and no big deal to lie about thingswe 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 theMercer , 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 someon
e 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.”
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