Nelson DeMille - Mayday

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 the Mercer, 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 someone 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.”

Sloan settled back in his chair. Out of habit, he set the countdown clock for five minutes.

Hennings felt a tear forming in his eye and wiped it before Sloan could see it.

Peter Matos stared blankly out the windshield of his F-18. His reply had been automatic. Now he was beginning to fully understand what he was supposed to do. He looked at his console clock, then reached out to push his radio-transmit button. What was he going to ask Commander Sloan? What was left unclear? Nothing that concerned him. He drew his hand away from the radio button and rested it listlessly at his side.

He glanced out of the cockpit. The Straton 797 maintained its heading and altitude with an unerring precision. Far too precise a flight to have been guided by any human hand. He watched carefully for a full minute. He was satisfied that the Straton was indeed being flown by its computerized autopilot.

He settled back in his flight chair. Commander Sloan’s earlier orders had not made a great deal of sense. Matos had been certain that Sloan was leading up to something. And he knew, deep inside, what it was. Even though the actual order had now been sent, it was still hard to believe.

Matos considered his options. There were none, really, that he could exercise without a great deal of unpleasantness. The facts were that the Straton had been off course, everyone aboard was now dead, the craft presented a hazard of some sort, and the top brass wanted it brought down. Simple. Follow orders. They would take care of everything. They would look after Peter Matos once he completed the mission.

He stared at his fuel gauges. Less than half full. He glanced at his compass. With every passing minute he delayed, he was getting farther away from the Nimitz. Every minute of delay now would add another minute to his trip home. He looked again at his clock. Three minutes had already gone by. He desperately wanted to be done with this within the next few minutes. More than anything else he wanted to be back in his bunk on the Nimitz. That was his home-he wanted to go home.

Without another disturbing thought, he began to maneuver his fighter into a better position for the missile strike.

His mind was now filled with the logistics of the difficult shot. The technical trade-offs were complex. The derelict Straton was a large stable target, but its very size presented a problem. How many dummy warheads would it take to bring it down? The first one had not done it. A half-dozen more might not do it. He had only one left. He was reminded of a bull in the ring being stuck with lances and banderillas.

The Phoenix missile would hit the Straton. That was no problem. It could do that automatically. But he had to hit a particular spot. He needed a brain shot.

The solution, now that he had a chance to study the problem, was suddenly obvious. He had to fly close to the cockpit and fire his missile at point-blank range. With no exploding warhead he could do this with a fair degree of safety. Then he had to pull out quickly and turn away. The Phoenix would strike the cockpit before its elaborate guidance system could alter its course and steer it toward the target’s midsection. Matos managed a small smile. He had outwitted the designers of the weapon. The pilot was still in control after all.