Mayday

by Nelson DeMille

  He thought of Sloan briefly. There was no percentage in going to Captain Diehl and confessing. Sloan might be difficult to deal with, but he was all Navy. He anticipated problems and put the wheels in motion to take care of them before they became insoluble. He was cunning and even somewhat dishonest in his methods, but whatever he did, he did for his country, for the Phoenix program, for national security. And in the final analysis, no matter what else he did, James Sloan took care of his men.

  * * *

  John Berry sat motionless in the captain’s chair. An instant before the failure of the Straton’s four jet engines registered on the instrument gauges, it registered on John Berry’s senses, and he knew exactly what was happening to them. He felt the aircraft yaw slightly to the left, then felt the deceleration forces against his body.

  Sharon Crandall shouted, “John! What’s happening? What’s happening?” The panel in front of her was a sudden mass of blinking lights and bouncing needles. The engine gauges in the center of the panel unwound rapidly.

  A loud warning horn blared from somewhere in the panel and the cockpit was filled with its ominous, deep-pitched sound.

  Linda Farley opened her mouth, and her long, piercing scream drowned out the sound of the horn.

  In the lounge, the passengers began losing their precarious balance and fell to the floor or crashed against the bulkhead of the cockpit. Deep bellowing cries, punctuated by shrill screeching, penetrated the cabin.

  Berry’s ears were filled with noise, and his eyes blurred from the blinking colored lights in front of him. For a few seconds, he was stunned. His stomach churned from the sinking sensation of the sudden descent. He felt his heart speed up and his mouth went dry. It was only the full realization of what they had done to him, and the anger it produced, that brought him back to his senses. He slammed his fist on the glare shield in front of him. “Bastards! Goddamned sons-of-bitches!”

  His eyes ran wildly over the center instrument panel. Nearly every needle and light on the electronic display was active, but the messages they sent him were too complex to comprehend. He could see that the aircraft had lost all engine power. “Flame out in all four” was the expression, he remembered. He was also able to see that their electrical energy was falling off as each of the engine’s generators dropped out of the circuit. Berry took a few long, deep breaths and steadied his hands. He reached up and pushed the fuel valve emergency power switch back to its previous position, then reset the four fuel valves.

  Crandall turned in her seat and shouted above the noise of the screaming girl and the blaring horn. “John! We’re going down! Put the switches back! Put them back! Please hurry!”

  Berry looked up and yelled, “They’re back. Calm down. Just sit there. Linda! Be quiet.” Berry looked down at the panel and waited for some sign from it, or for some physical sensation that would indicate that the engines were producing power again. But nothing happened. Whatever he had done by moving the switches could not be undone by putting them back.

  Crandall’s voice was choked with sobs. “John … John … do something. … We’re going to crash. …”

  Berry was alternating between periods of trying to disassociate himself from his impending death and trying to find a way to avoid it. He made an effort to sort out the messages that the lights and instruments were telling him, but couldn’t keep his thoughts straight.Valve power. Fuel. Generator . He knew what was wrong, but he had no idea of what to do about it. It was only the image of a man in San Francisco typing out his death warrant that kept him from giving up.

  Most of the cockpit lights had gone out when the generators shut down, but a few remained on, dimly powered by the aircraft’s batteries. Suddenly, the cockpit became darker and Berry heard a new noise that completely obliterated all the others. He turned and looked at the windshield. The Straton had entered the edge of the first thunderstorm, and the roar of rain and hail hammered against the windows and the roofline. The hail was so violent he thought the windshield might shatter. “Hold on! Hold on!” he shouted, but he knew no one could hear him.

  The Straton began to bounce wildly, then slid dangerously to the right. The nose of the aircraft pitched up and down at the same time that its wings rolled on its axis and its tail yawed left and right.

  Berry thought the aircraft might break apart if the violent, unstable flight condition kept up much longer. He saw Sharon Crandall hunched forward in her chair, holding on to the armrests. Linda Farley couldn’t get a grip on her chair and was lifted up and dropped, held down only by her lap belt.

  The autopilot made the corrections in the flight and the Straton began to steady out, except for the bouncing caused by the air turbulence as it continued its powerless descent.

  Berry tried to catch his breath and steady his shaking body. He turned back to the panel and scanned the small display of emergency instruments, which were all that remained after the generators failed. He was searching for anything that might spark his memory and set in motion a sequence of thoughts that would tell him what he must do.Circuit breakers . Berry thought that maybe the panel of circuit breakers on the right would be a clue—maybe one of the breakers was out. He flipped off his seat belt, stood up, and moved aft. He knew he had not much more time before the Straton hit the ocean.

  Cutting through the sounds of the weather, the blare of the warning horn and the screaming from the lounge, he heard a voice shouting a single word over and over. He looked over at Sharon, who was turned in her seat, gesturing wildly at him. Her mouth kept forming a single word.Autopilot .

  Berry looked back at the center instrument panel between the two seats. The amber disengage light now glowed brightly in the darkened cockpit. “Oh, God.” With the generators dropped off the circuits, he knew the autopilot was not getting the proper power to stay engaged. The last chance that they had for staying in control until the ditching was now gone. He shouted to Crandall, “Hold the wheel! Hold the wheel!”

  The Straton’s forward momentum had kept the downward glide steady for a few seconds, but the winds began to break up the controlled descent. The Straton pitched nose upward, and the first step Berry took to get himself back into the captain’s chair sent him careening in the opposite direction, backward, into the cockpit door. The door gave slightly under his weight. The aircraft rolled to the right, and he collided with the circuit breaker panel. He lunged at the back of Crandall’s chair, but the aircraft rolled left and he headed straight for Linda Farley. He tried to avoid her, but his foot caught the tautly stretched nylons and he tumbled over and fell onto her, then rolled off and came to rest against the left wall.

  Sharon Crandall watched for a second, then turned and faced the flight controls. The copilot’s control wheel moved by itself, as if it were still safely under the command of the autopilot. But the blinking amber light told her it was not. She reached out and took hold of the wheel.

  Berry managed to stand and grabbed the back of the captain’s chair. The aircraft remained in a sharp nose-up attitude and he hung on, trying to climb into the chair. He knew that the aircraft’s normal stability would keep it upright for a few seconds longer, but unless he could get to the wheel, the Straton could point itself straight up or straight down, go into a spin, or roll, wing over wing, into the sea. “Hold the wheel, Sharon! Hold the wheel!”

  Crandall was trying to hold on to it, but it had begun to vibrate with such force that it broke her grip each time she grabbed it.

  Berry climbed head first over the back of the pilot’s chair. The first violent updraft smacked into the Straton like a giant fist aimed at the solar plexus. The huge aircraft lifted like a toy, then dropped sickeningly, straight down. Berry saw himself rise off the chair, almost hit the ceiling, then fall abruptly to the floor between the captain’s chair and the observer’s chair. He lay there, dazed and disoriented, not able to tell up from down, or to determine what he had to do to stand upright. He saw Linda Farley’s face above him, and heard her screaming his name.

&
nbsp; Sharon Crandall seized the wheel and held it, letting it move her arms at first, then slowly exerting more and more pressure to steady it. She focused on the largest and most prominent gauge on the panel in front of her, one of the few of them that was still lit. It was markedARTIFICIAL HORIZON . This was one instrument that was familiar to anyone who had ever spent any time inside a cockpit. It showed the relative position of the aircraft against a horizon line, and she could see that the Straton was far from level. But inside the clouds she was too disoriented to tell if they were pitched forward or backward, or if the wings were rolled right or left. She tried to get a physical sensation of how the aircraft was moving, but the increased Gs kept her pressed to her seat and she had no sensation of backward or forward, left or right. All she knew for certain was that they were going to crash. It occurred to her that if it weren’t for the fact that John Berry was on the floor, they could even be upside down.

  She had a firm grip on the vibrating wheel, but her arms and shoulders ached. She knew she had to do something before the aircraft tumbled. She glanced at the artificial horizon, then tried to get a gut feeling based on her thousands of hours in flight. She decided that the aircraft was traveling nose up and the left wing was dropped, though the reverse might be true if she were reading the instrument backwards. She pushed forward with all the strength she had and rotated the wheel to the right.

  For an instant, she thought she had guessed wrong as the artificial horizon line traveled even farther the wrong way. Then slowly the line straightened, then moved to align itself. The vibrations subsided and the aircraft flew steady except for the constant buffeting of the winds. She gripped the wheel tightly and held it with every ounce of strength she had left.

  Berry pulled himself up and noticed that the aircraft was much steadier. He looked quickly at Linda. She was very pale and her body was doubled over with dry heaves. He climbed quickly into the pilot’s chair. He strapped himself in and grabbed the captain’s control wheel. He held it very tight, his knuckles turning white. It wasn’t the wheel that was shaking, he realized, but his hands. He took several long breaths before he found his voice. “Sharon … Sharon …” He looked at her but couldn’t think of what to say.

  Sharon released the wheel and sat back, trying to prepare herself for the coming impact. Several thoughts and memories flashed through her mind, but none of them seemed important. She reached out and touched Berry’s arm, then looked back at Linda.

  The girl was staring at her. “Are we going to crash?”

  “Yes. Hold on tight.”

  14

  * * *

  Commander James Sloan kept up a constant stream of talk into the dead interphones, speaking alternatively to the phantom air-sea rescue and the phantom tanker. He was becoming bored with the charade, but saw no alternative to it. He had to keep Hennings in Room E-334 until Matos was down, and until he could decide what had to be done with the Admiral.

  Outside the door of the room, voices and footsteps approached.

  Hennings looked up from his chair, an uneasiness in his eyes.

  Sloan replaced the green interphone. “Just a changing of the watch, Admiral. Room E-334 is inviolate, off-limits to everyone except the few of us with an official need-to-know. I don’t think even the Fleet Admiral would walk in here without calling first.”

  Hennings slumped back into his chair. That had been the problem from the start. An illegal test, shrouded by secrecy, had concentrated an inordinate amount of power into the hands of James Sloan.

  Sloan looked at the old man hunched over in his chair. The long years of sea duty had permanently darkened his face, but the last few hours had cast an unhealthy pallor over his features.

  Hennings seemed to rouse himself out of his lethargy and looked up. “Why are we taking the transmissions from the tanker and the rescue operation through the interphones? Let’s put a few radios on those frequencies.”

  Sloan shook his head; he had already thought of an answer for that. “These are not my operations. They are being handled from separate electronics rooms, separate commands. And I don’t want two more squawk boxes turned on. I have enough to think about without listening to a lot of jet jockeys talking to each other.”

  Hennings nodded and slumped back into his chair.

  The gold-colored bridge phone rang, and Sloan snatched it up. This was areal call. His heart began to pound. “Yes, sir.”

  Captain Diehl’s voice sounded unsure, almost apologetic. “Commander, I’d like a status report on Navy three-four-seven.”

  Sloan had known this call would have to come eventually. The Captain wanted to know as little as possible about the Phoenix test, and that was the reason Sloan had kept control so long. But now Diehl wanted to know why one of his aircraft was overdue. “Status unchanged, sir.” He glanced at Hennings.

  There was a pause, then the Captain said, “I can assume, then, that everything is going well with three-four-seven?”

  “Right, sir. He’s employing fuel-saving techniques at this time.”

  “I see. That was part of the test profile?”

  Sloan paused purposely, as though he were reluctant to commit a security breach. “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. The Admiral is still with you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine. I won’t take any more of your time, Commander.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Sloan hung up, took a deep breath, and turned to Hennings. “The Captain is concerned about three-four-seven.”

  “So am I.”

  Sloan stared at the radio speaker. Matos’s open transmitter filled the room with rushing noises, noises of the cockpit, noises that came from nine miles above the earth. Occasionally, he could hear Matos, forgetful or uncaring that his transmitter was on, talking softly to himself, humming once, cursing many times. Then his voice came through the speaker loud and clear. “Homeplate, no tanker in sight. No air-sea rescue in sight. Fuel estimated at fifteen minutes. Maintaining heading of zero-seven-five, at thirty one thousand feet.” He read his coordinates from his satellite navigation set. “Storm still below me. Shutting off transmitter so I can receive you.”

  The rushing sound stopped, and Sloan quickly picked up the microphone. “Roger. Civilian and military air-sea rescue closing on you. Tanker should be in sight.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “Stand by.” Sloan picked up the green phone and spoke for a few seconds, then took up the microphones. “Matos, he thinks he has visual contact with you as well as radar contact. As a backup, keep your transmitter sending a signal so he can home in. Hang in there, Peter.”

  “Roger.” The rushing sound of the open transmitter filled Room E-334 again.

  Sloan looked at his countdown clock, which had been set at Matos’s estimated forty-five minutes of flying time. It read fourteen minutes. Fourteen minutes to keep this incredible juggling act with the dead, colored interphones, with Hennings, with the live, gold interphone to the bridge, and most of all with Lieutenant Peter Matos. A lesser man than himself would have fallen apart long ago, but James Sloan had a strong will, and he knew that one man, with a strong sense of mission and a keen sense of self-preservation, could control any situation. People wanted to believe, and if you gave them no cause for suspicion, if you acted with confidence and assurance, theywould believe.

  Suddenly, the room was filled with a voice that was at once familiar and unfamiliar. “Mayday! Mayday! Navy three-four-seven is flaming out!”

  Hennings jumped to his feet.

  Sloan grabbed the microphone and glanced at the countdown clock. Eleven minutes left. Matos had made some kind of calculation error, or the fuel gauges were slightly off at the low end. Maybe the missile produced more drag than he thought. “Roger, Peter. I understand. Air-sea rescue has a good fix on you.”

  Matos’s voice was shaking, but he fought for control and replied, “Roger. I’m going through thirty thousand now. I’ll be into the top of the storm in a few seconds.” He read hi
s coordinates, then said, “Violent updrafts, buffeting the aircraft. Unstable.”

  Partly out of instinct, and partly because Hennings was in the room, Sloan gave Matos the best advice possible under the circumstances. “Peter, hold off on ejecting for as long as possible. When you eject, hold off on the chute as long as you can.”

  “Roger.” Sloan pictured Matos falling, still in his flight chair, waiting as long as possible before opening the parachute, then opening it at the last possible moment, being caught in the wild currents—being taken up instead of down, then dropping again, then rising with the currents—a process that could go on for a long, long time. If that didn’t kill him, the sea would.

  Hennings stood next to Sloan and watched the radio speaker, then looked toward the interphones. “How far is the closest air-rescue craft?”

  Sloan grabbed the blue interphone and poised a pencil over the clipboard that covered the switches. “Operator. Patch me into the rescue command craft. Quickly. Rescue? This is theNimitz . How far is your closest air or sea craft from the target aircraft? Right. He has flamed out. Copy these coordinates.” Sloan read them off. “He will eject shortly. Do you still have a good fix on his transmission signal? Right.” Sloan nodded his head. “Yes, all right. …” This absurd monologue into a dead phone was becoming tiresome. He hoped he was still doing it well. “All right, we—”

  Matos’s voice cut into the room. “Homeplate—I am down to twenty thousand. The ride is very rough. Rain and hail. No visibility.”

  Hennings grabbed the microphone. “Navy three-four-seven, we are talking to air-sea rescue now. You will be picked up soon. Stand by.” He looked at Sloan.

  Sloan spoke into the interphone. “Hold on, rescue.” He turned to Hennings. “Tell Matos he will be in the water in less than ten minutes. Tell him to keep the fighter’s transmitter signal on. After ejecting, the air-sea rescue craft will home in on his raft transmitter.”