Nelson DeMille - Mayday

As Hennings watched Sloan shuffle through some papers, he realized for the first time how much Sloan wanted him to be here, as an actual accomplice in the missile test. They were, Hennings now realized, doing something criminal. But it was too late to turn back. Hennings pushed those disquieting notions out of his mind and forced himself to think of other things.

Sloan turned to the electronics. He peered at the panel intently, but he was trying to recall all that he knew about Randolf Hennings. Action in and around Vietnam. He was considered a likable man by his peers, but you never knew about admirals, retired or otherwise. They could change as quickly as the North Atlantic weather. Hennings was known for having enough perseverance to get his job done but not enough to be a threat to his seniors. Those very seniors who had made it to the top had now picked Hennings to carry out a most sensitive mission. Hennings was known to be the epitome of dependability and discretion. Like a dinghy caught in the suction of a battleship’s wake, thought Sloan, retired Rear Admiral Hennings had followed at a speed and course set by others. Yet Sloan had to reckon with him. He glanced back at Hennings. “Coffee, Admiral?”

“No, thank you.”

Sloan’s mind was still not on the electronics problem but on the politics of the test. He thought about asking Hennings for some information, but decided that would be a mistake. At any rate, Hennings wouldn’t know much more than he, Sloan, did.

“Sir, the patch to Pearl isn’t carrying.”

Sloan looked at the electronics man. “What?”

“The problem might be on their end.”

“Right. Probably is.” Sloan glanced at Hennings. Hennings was drumming his fingers restlessly on the arm of his chair. His attention seemed to be focused on the video screen that was displaying routine weather data.

Petty Officer Loomis glanced back over his shoulder. “Sir? Should I keep trying?”

Sloan tapped his foot. Time for a command decision. He felt acid in his stomach and knew why officers had more ulcers than enlisted men. He considered. The test elements were nearly all in position. A delay could disrupt things for hours. Hennings had to be at the Pentagon the next morning with the report. If the report said only “Special test delayed,” Commander James Sloan would look bad. The men behind the test might lose their nerve and cancel it for good. Worse, they might think he had lost his nerve. He considered asking Hennings for advice, but that would have been a tactical blunder.

“Sir,” the electronics man said, his hand poised over a set of switches on the console.

Sloan shook his head. “Get back to the mission profile. We can’t spend any more time on routine procedures. Send the approval for the release, then get another update from Lieutenant Matos.”

Petty Officer Kyle Loomis returned to his equipment. He had begun to suspect that all was not routine here, but as a former submariner, his knowledge of fighters and missiles was too limited to allow him to piece together what was not routine about this test. Without anyone telling him, he knew that his ignorance had gotten him out of the submarine that he’d come to hate and onto the Nimitz, which he found more tolerable. He also knew that his transfer request to the Mediterranean Fleet was secure as long as he kept his mouth shut.

Sloan watched the electronics procedure for a few seconds, then glanced at Hennings, who was still staring at the video screen. “Soon, Admiral.”

Hennings looked up. He nodded.

It occurred to Sloan that perhaps Hennings, like himself, wanted to go on record as having said nothing for the record.

Petty Officer Loomis spoke. “Sir, Lieutenant Matos is on-station. Orbiting in sector twenty-three.”

“All right. Tell him that we expect target information shortly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sloan tried to evaluate his own exposure in this thing. It had begun with the routine delivery of the two Phoenix test missiles to the carrier a month before. He had signed for the missiles. Then came a routine communication from Pearl informing the Nimitz ’s commander, Captain Diehl, that Hennings was coming to observe an air-to-air missile testing. Not unusual, but not routine. Then came the brief communication that directed a routine practice firing of the missiles. The only exception to the routine was that “procedures and distances” be in accordance with the manufacturer’s new specifications for the AIM-63X version of the Phoenix. That was when Sloan had known that there was a top-level conspiracy-no, wrong word; initiative — a top-level initiative among the Joint Chiefs. They were going to secretly ignore the new arms limitation agreement that Congress had enacted. And by a stroke of fate, Sloan had been named the technical officer in charge of conducting the test. Within a year, he’d be a captain… or he’d be in Portsmouth Naval Prison. He looked at Hennings again. What was in this for him?

Sloan knew that he could have backed out at any time by asking for shore leave. But those old men in the Pentagon had done their homework well when they studied his personnel file. They knew a gambler when they saw one. A small stream of perspiration ran down Sloan’s neck, and he hoped Hennings hadn’t noticed it. “Approximately ten minutes, Admiral.” He punched a button on the console and a digital countdown clock began to run.

Sloan had an inordinate fascination, mixed with phobia, for countdown procedures. He watched the digital display running down. He used the time to examine his motives and strengthen his resolve. To rationalize. The updated Phoenix was a crucial weapon to have in the event of war, even though the idiots in Congress were acting as if there would never be any more wars. One discreet test of this missile would tell the Joint Chiefs if it would work under combat conditions, if the increased maneuverability would mean that the kill ratio of this newest weapon could be nearly one hundred percent.

The Navy brass would then know what they had, and the politicians could go on jawing and pretending. American airpower would have an unpublicized edge, no matter what happened in the future. Russia could go back to being the Soviet Union and the Cold War could refreeze; U.S. combat forces would have something extra. And with modern technology, a slight edge was all you could ever hope for. All you ever needed, really. There was also the matter of the Navy finding its balls again, after countless years of humiliation at the hands of the politicians, the gays, and the feminists. Nine minutes.

Commander Sloan poured a cup of coffee from a metal galley pitcher. He glanced at Hennings. The man was looking uncomfortable. He could see it in his eyes, as he had seen it several times the day before. Did Hennings know something that he didn’t?

Sloan walked to the far end of the console and looked at the gauges. But his thoughts were on Hennings now. Hennings seemed to be almost uninterested in the testing. Uninterested in Sloan, too, which was unusual since Sloan was certain that Hennings was to make an oral evaluation report on him. Sloan felt that almost forgotten ensign’s paranoia creeping over him and shook it off quickly. A seasoned officer turns everything to his advantage. He would turn Hennings’s detachment to his advantage, if necessary.

Hennings stood suddenly and moved nearer to Sloan. He spoke in a low voice. “Commander, will the data be ready as soon as the testing is complete? Will you need to do anything else?”

Sloan nodded. “Just a few qualitative forms.” He tapped his fingers on a stack of paperwork on the console desk. “Thirty minutes or so.”

Hennings nodded. The room was silent except for the ambient sounds of electronics.

Randolf Hennings let his eyes wander absently over the equipment in the tight room. The functions of this equipment were not entirely a mystery to him. He recognized some of it and guessed at what looked vaguely familiar, as a man might do who had been asleep for a hundred years and had awakened in the twenty-first century.