Nelson DeMille - Mayday

Miller nodded. “Need more input.” He knew that his superiors would be there soon. They might say, “Jack, why the hell didn’t you turn 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.

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 USS Nimitz. 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 things they want us to lie about. So it’s no sweat and no big deal to lie about things we 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.