Mayday

by Nelson DeMille

  “For the good of the Navy, for the good of national security, for our own good.”

  “Yes.”

  “The test we were conducting is in violation of an international treaty. It is illegal. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “The people onboard are dead or brain damaged. They are heading toward California—like a cruise missile, with enough destructive force to level a small town or wipe out twenty city blocks.”

  “I understand.”

  “Every boat and aircraft in the area is heading your way now, including a flight from this carrier. If anyone sees you, we are all finished. Within the next ten minutes, you are to fire the Phoenix missile into the Straton, just as you were going to do before.”

  “Roger.” There was a pause. “My fuel is low.”

  “All the more reason to get it done quickly. When you complete your mission, keep heading for the coast and I will have a refuel mission meet you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Sloan decided it was time to pull out all the stops. He said to Matos, “I have here with me Rear Admiral Randolf Hennings, who concurs with my decision. He will personally debrief you when you land. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Sloan glanced at Hennings, whose face had gone white. Sloan said to Matos, “Enough talk, Peter. Fire your missile into the cockpit of the Straton. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get into position, steady aim, and fire. No miss. Ten minutes, max. Call me when you’ve accomplished the mission.”

  “Roger.”

  “Roger. Out.” Sloan set his countdown clock for ten minutes, then swiveled his chair and faced Hennings. The Admiral looked pale and was leaning against the bulkhead. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  Sloan nodded. “I hope you don’t think this is any easier for me than for you.”

  Hennings wiped the clammy sweat from his neck. “I suspect it is.”

  Sloan stared at him. The old man looked as if he might be having a heart attack.

  Hennings stood up straight. “I think I’ll go on deck and get some air.”

  Sloan didn’t want Hennings out of his sight. There was an aura in this room, a spell that could be broken by sunlight and other voices, other faces. “I’d like you to stay around. For ten minutes at least.”

  Hennings nodded. “Yes. Of course. I’ll see it through.” He pushed aside the blackout curtain, opened the porthole, and took a deep breath. Then, for the first time in more than forty years, he became sick at sea.

  Sloan watched the man out of the corner of his eye. Hennings was a very weak link in a three-link chain. Matos was stronger, but he might break too. Now that the problem of the Straton was as good as out of the way, Sloan thought more about Matos and Hennings. He had pretty much decided how to deal with Lieutenant Peter Matos.

  Sloan walked over to the end of the console where a half-dozen interphones, color coded to indicate their function, sat in a row. He picked up the green one and, before anyone answered, reached down and switched it off. “Operations? This is Commander Sloan. We have a problem. Navy three-four-seven, F-18, Matos, is in a critical fuel situation. I want a tanker from the closest coastal base to rendezvous with him.” Sloan gave Matos’s present coordinates into the dead phone. “Thank you.” He hung up and picked up the blue phone and switched it off. “Rowles? Sloan. Alert the Straton search party that they may have to split the mission and look for three-four-seven. Yes. He had a fuel emergency, but I have a tanker on the way and it should reach him in plenty of time. Just keeping you alerted. Right.” He hung up and slid a clipboard over the on-off switches, then turned toward the Admiral.

  Randolf Hennings was a more difficult problem. As long as Hennings lived and breathed and spoke, with all his pent-up guilt and remorse, James Sloan would never have another good night’s sleep, never know when a summons to the captain’s office would be arrest. James Sloan couldn’t allow that. Not at all.

  * * *

  The view from the captain’s flight chair of the Straton 797 was spectacular. Berry sat, mesmerized by the churning mass of black boiling clouds in the distance. He had seen them first as a vague haziness on the far horizon, shafts of sunlight streaking from them into the ocean at a sharp angle. The closer he got, the more awesome they looked—and the more he knew he was in trouble.

  He leaned forward and scanned the horizon. The line of storms stretched as far as he could see in either direction, like a great solid wall between heaven and earth. They’d dropped down into the sea like a curtain, hiding the horizon line, and towered up above them so high that he knew he could not climb above them.

  Sharon touched his arm and spoke softly, worry in her voice. “I haven’t seen them this bad in a long time.”

  Berry had never seen them quite this bad, ever. The only thing they had going for them had been the weather and the daylight, and he had begun to take that for granted, not believing that anything else could go wrong for Flight 52. “You’ve been through these before?”

  “A few times. You?”

  “No. Not on a commercial flight.”

  “In your Skymaster?”

  “No.” In his Skymaster he would simply have turned and found an airport. Out here there was no airport to turn to.

  Crandall looked down at the weather radar screen on the center instrument panel. “Do you see a break in the clouds?”

  Berry stared at the screen. A thin green trace line swept across the radarscope every six seconds, leaving patterns of colored patches in its wake. “I don’t really know how to work it or how to read it.” He glanced at the line of thunderstorms, then back at the radarscope. What he saw on the scope was supposed to represent what he saw from his windshield, but he could see no correlation. “I’ve read articles on weather radar, but I’ve never worked it.”

  Crandall heard a noise behind her and looked back. Linda was curled up near the cockpit’s rear bulkhead, asleep. Crandall looked up at the door. An entire arm, right up to the shoulder, had slid through the opening and the hand was feeling around the inside of the door. The hand found the nylon hose and pulled at it, loosening the tension on the door and allowing his shoulder to slide through. She saw the blue shoulder boards of First Officer Daniel McVary, then saw his face peeking in at the opening. “John. …”

  Berry looked back. “For God’s sake.” He hesitated, then stood. He walked to the door and examined the knot around the latch. He took the disembodied arm and tried to force it out, but the hand grabbed his shirt. Berry stepped back. There was something grotesque about this arm reaching out to him. He was reminded of the stories told around a campfire at night. But this was real. He reached into his pocket and found the gold lighter that he carried. He lit it, hesitated, then reluctantly touched the flame to McVary’s hand. There was a long scream and the arm disappeared from the cockpit. Berry looked up at Sharon and met her eyes, but there was no censure in them, only understanding.

  Berry knelt down beside Linda, who had awakened. “Go back to sleep.”

  She closed her eyes. “I’m very thirsty.”

  Berry patted her cheek. “Soon. Don’t think about it.” He stood and walked back to his chair.

  Sharon fixed her eyes on the radar set. “Are these all the radar controls?”

  Berry looked at her. There had developed a tacit understanding among the three of them that they were not to talk about the others. Berry looked down at the console. “Yes. Antenna tilt. Gain. Brilliance. Mode selector. … Here’s one called erase rate. I’ve never even heard of that.”

  Crandall looked up again at the black wall outside the windshield. It was closer now, and she could see its inner violence, the black-gray smoke churning. “Can we go around it without the radar?”

  Berry shook his head. “These lines sometimes stretch for hundreds of miles. I don’t think we have the fuel to try an end run.”

  “Hawaii?” She didn’t want to throw
that up to him, but it seemed too important to be left unsaid.

  “No. In addition to the other reasons I gave you, we don’t have the fuel for that any longer. We have only enough to fly straight to California.”

  Crandall looked at the fuel gauges. They read less than one-third full.

  Berry played with the radar controls. If he could understand the picture on the screen, he might be able to pick out a weak spot in the wall of clouds in front of him.

  Crandall remembered other storms she’d gone through in other aircraft. The Straton 797 flew above the weather, and that, at least, was one advantage to traveling in subspace. “We can’t climb above it?”

  Berry looked up at the sheer wall of clouds. “Not with this aircraft. It won’t hold its air pressure.” He looked at the oxygen mask hanging beside his seat. An oxygen mask should be enough, as long as they didn’t climb much above 30,000 feet. Was that high enough to clear these storms? He couldn’t tell for sure, but he didn’t think so. Besides, the oxygen tanks would probably be empty, and he didn’t know if there was a reserve tank.

  Crandall was following his thoughts. “There may be an unused oxygen tank that we could switch to.”

  “There might be. But do you think we should put those people through another period of oxygen deprivation? Don’t we have to draw the line somewhere?”

  “Not if it’s our lives.”

  “They are not dead, and we don’t know that they won’t get better, and even if they won’t … Besides, in order to gain enough altitude to get over this weather, I’d have to circle—spiral upward. I’d rather not try my flying skills at this point. Anyway, the maneuver would burn off a tremendous amount of fuel.”

  “What you’re saying is that we’re committed to bucking into the storm.”

  “I’m not sure. The other options look better in the short run, but I’m thinking of the California coast.”

  “Me too.” She hesitated, then said, “Will the holes in the cabin … could the plane … ?”

  “I don’t think it will come apart.” But he didn’t know if the structure was weakened, how many longerons were severed. Completely airworthy craft had broken up in storms. He said, “It’s the wings that take the most punishment. They don’t appear to be damaged.”

  Crandall nodded. There was something reassuring about John Berry’s voice, his manner. Most pilots had that ability to make even bad news sound routine. Yet she felt there was something else troubling him. “If you think the Straton can handle it, then I can handle it.”

  Berry decided that he had to tell it to her truthfully. It was her life too, and she had a right to know what could happen. “Look, Sharon, the major problem is not the aircraft. If the turbulence gets too rough—and there’s no reason to think it won’t, by the looks of those clouds—then the autopilot could disengage itself. Then I’d have to hand-fly this thing. Christ, three experienced pilots in an undamaged craft have their hands full during a storm. I have to think about the throttles, the pitch trim … I haven’t flown this aircraft ingood weather. The plane could get away from me … spin out …” Berry suddenly wanted to turn, to run and get away from the black wall closing in on him, even if he had to put the plane down at sea. Anything would be preferable to the nightmare of a bouncing, heaving aircraft caught in the center of a storm of unknown width and breadth. He turned to Sharon. “Do you want to turn? We can outrun it, but we’d probably have to ditch before we reached any land.”

  Crandall considered the options: Running from the storm knowing that each minute of flight time was another minute from the coast. Then putting it down at sea. And if they survived the landing, there would be the agony of the sea, maybe other passengers floating in the water. … She weighed that against the storm. They would live or die in the storm—nothing in between. She looked up at the clouds. Somewhere on the other side of that black veil the sun shone, and over the next horizon was the coastline of America. That’s where they said they wanted to go, and that’s where they would go. A sense of calm came over her, and she knew that one way or the other the end of their long trial was near. “We should maintain our present heading.”

  Berry nodded. He also had a need to meet the storm head-on. He thought about his wife and children for the first time in over an hour. Then he thought about his employer and his job. The worst thing that could happen to him, he realized, was that he would survive, only to pick up his life where he’d left it. He believed that somehow the crucible of that storm would cleanse him, even rebaptize him.

  Crandall said, “We should call San Francisco and tell them what’s happening. They may be able to give us some advice.”

  Berry nodded. He realized that, subconsciously, he had been avoiding the data-link. Instead of it being a lifeline, the link had become an intrusion into his small world. He typed.TO SAN FRANCISCO: WE ARE APPROACHING AN AREA OF THUNDERSTORMS. I AM UNABLE TO WORK OR READ WEATHER RADAR. WE HAVE DETERMINED THAT THE BEST COURSE OF ACTION IS TO MAINTAIN PRESENT HEADING. IS THERE ANYTHING WE SHOULD DO TO PREPARE THE AIRCRAFT?

  He reached for the transmit button, then decided to type an additional line.IS THERE ANY INDICATION AT YOUR END THAT WE CAN GET AROUND THE WEATHER WITHOUT EXPENDING TOO MUCH FUEL? BERRY.

  He pushed the transmit button, then looked up at the windshield. Thin wisps of smoky gray clouds sailed past the Straton; the cockpit became a little darker. “I’d say we’ve got about fifty miles to go before we’re into the heavy weather. Nine or ten minutes’ flying time.”

  Crandall noticed that her calm had turned to edginess, as it always did when she entered a storm. It seemed like the waiting was the worst part of it—until you were in it. Then, when you thought the worst was happening, it got even worse than that. But breaking out of a storm into the sun or the moonlight was one of those rare and exhilarating moments in flying. She turned to Berry. “Is there anything you’d be doing in your private plane that we haven’t done yet?”

  “Yes.” He forced a smile. “Turn around and get the hell out of here.” The aircraft bumped slightly, and he turned and looked back at Linda. She was awake now, sitting in one of the empty flight chairs with her knees up to her chin. He turned to Sharon. “Buckle her into the observer’s seat.”

  Crandall rose from her chair and walked over to the girl. “Let’s get up and sit over here where you’ll be more comfortable.” She took her by the arm and led her to the observer’s seat that was directly behind the captain’s chair. “That’s right. Here. I’ll buckle you in just like when you first came onboard.”

  “Thank you. Are we going into a storm?”

  “It’ll be all right. But remember, it’s going to get very dark in here. You’ll hear the rain against the windshield. It might be louder than you expect. And it will be a very bumpy ride. But Mr. Berry will fly us right through it. You’re not afraid of lightning, are you?”

  “No. Only when I was little.”

  “Good. Lightning is nothing to be afraid of.” Crandall patted the girl on the cheek, then climbed into her chair and buckled herself in.

  The three of them sat quietly in the darkening cockpit as the Straton sailed toward some thin, layered clouds that preceded the wall of thunderstorms. Wisps of light gray flew past the windshield. The Straton bounced suddenly, and from the lounge came a wailing and moaning that Berry recognized instinctively as something very primeval, an ancient inborn terror that came from the very soul of the species. “Poor bastards.” They were going to be hurt if it got very bad. There was nothing he could do for them.

  The alerting bell sounded.TO FLIGHT 52: NO INDICATION AT THIS END THAT WEATHER IS AVOIDABLE CONSIDERING YOUR ESTIMATED FUEL RESERVE AND CONSIDERING THE UNPRESSURIZED CONDITION OF THE AIRCRAFT. MAINTAIN PRESENT HEADING AND ALTITUDE AS YOU INDICATED. IT IS VERY IMPORTANT THAT YOU ALTER CENTER OF GRAVITY FOR TURBULENCE BY TRANSFERRING FUEL BETWEEN TANKS. STAND BY FOR DETAILED INSTRUCTION. ACKNOWLEDGE A READY CONDITION. SAN FRANCISCO HQ.

  Berry typed.EXPERIENCING SOME TURBULENCE. SHOULD I C
IRCLE TO AVOID TURBULENCE BEFORE PROCEDURE IS COMPLETE?

  The reply came quickly.NEGATIVE. MAINTAIN HEADING. PROCEDURE WILL TAKE ONLY TWO OR THREE MINUTES. ALL CONTROLS ARE LOCATED ON OVERHEAD PANEL.

  “Okay.” Berry looked up at the large panel above his head. “Sharon, read me the instructions as they print.”

  “Here it comes, John. Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “In the center of … the overhead panel … four switches … labeled … low pressure fuel valve position … acknowledge. …”

  “I see them.”

  “Good.” Crandall typed a quick acknowledgment. “Okay … here comes more. … Turn the switches … to off. …”

  Berry looked over at her. “All of them?” He glanced down at the display screen himself, but at the angle he was at it was difficult to read.

  “That’s what it says.”

  Berry looked back at the switches. There was something wrong. Some instinct told him to be careful. To proceed cautiously. He remembered a line from an aviation magazine.Operate important switches one at a time . He put his hand on switch number one. Tentatively, he pulled it toward him so it would clear its guard, then pushed down on it and moved it to the off position. He counted off a few seconds.

  “Done?”

  Berry looked around the cockpit, then scanned the panel in front of him. Nothing unusual was happening.

  “Did you do it?”

  “Wait a minute. That’s just the first one.”

  Crandall looked back at him. “Is anything wrong?”

  “No. I’m just proceeding cautiously.”

  Crandall turned to the console. “They want an acknowledgment.”

  “Tell them to hold their fucking horses.” Berry hit the second switch, then the third, and finally the last. He sat very still but could feel nothing in the seat of his pants to indicate any transfer of fuel, any shift in center of gravity. Maybe the autopilot was compensating. It probably was. “Finished. Is that all?”

  Crandall typed the acknowledgment, then read the next message as it came through. “Last step … a covered switch … labeled … fuel valve emergency power … engage the switch … then fuel transfer … will be done … automatically … it will take … two or three more minutes.”