Nelson DeMille - Mayday

The more than two dozen dispatchers moved around him.

Johnson began in an official, but friendly tone. “Gentlemen, there is no doubt in my mind that Jack Miller,” he nodded to Miller, “Dennis Evans, and Jerry Brewster,” he looked at the two men, “did everything they could do as quickly as possible. However, there was a time lapse between the first link message and now of about half an hour.” He paused and studied the faces of the men around him. Some glanced at the wall clock, some at their watches. A few looked surprised, others nodded eagerly. “The first message came in at about one o’clock, I believe someone told me. There will be some problems with ATC and even with our own people over that lag, but I’m solidly behind you, so don’t worry too much about it.” He looked around the room.

There were more people nodding now.

Johnson looked at Evans. “You call everyone on the list, including our press office. Have the press office call me for a statement. To the president of the airlines and to everyone else, you say the following: Flight 52 has suffered a midair decompression. Radios dead. Amateur pilot flying and communicating on data-link. Communications lost at…” he looked at his watch, “one twenty-five P.M. ATC is initiating a search-and-rescue. I suggest an emergency meeting in the executive conference room. Got it?”

Evans nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.” He moved rapidly to his desk.

Johnson looked at the men around him. “Each one of you call your flights and tell them to keep off the data-link.” He scanned the faces of the men. “Brew-ster?”

“Here, sir.”

“Okay. Brewster, you will take these printouts and make only one copy. Then fax one copy to ATC at the number they show in the Emergency Handbook.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then send our copy to the executive conference room in the company office building. The original comes back to me. Quickly.”

Brewster took the messages and double-timed out of the dispatch office.

“That’s all, gentlemen. Thank you all for your help.” He paused. “If any of you are of a religious nature, please ask the man upstairs to look after that Straton and everyone aboard her. Thank you. Miller, come here.”

The dispatchers moved back to their desks silently. Jack Miller approached Johnson.

Johnson put his hand on his shoulder. “Jack, fill in the empty updates for 52 and note that they were posted at noon. Leave the one P.M. updates blank, of course.”

Miller looked at the big man standing next to him. “Ed… we’re not going to get away with this.”

“Of course we are. I’m doing it for you and the company as much as for myself. There have been a series of errors and blunders here, and we have nothing to lose to try to cover it. If we don’t, you, I, Evans, Brewster, and about ten random scapegoats will be fired, then we’ll be investigated by the FAA and maybe be charged with something. Your lovely wife can bake cookies for all of us and bring them out to San Quentin on Sundays. Bring the kids along, too.”

Miller nodded. He started to move away, but Johnson held onto his shoulder.

“Are the men with us?” Johnson asked.

Miller nodded again. “It’s not the first time we’ve had to cover ourselves.”

Johnson smiled. “I always knew you bastards lied for each other. Now you have to lie for me. For yourselves, too, of course. Go fill in those updates.”

Miller moved off.

Johnson walked quickly back into the communications room. He looked at Metz, who was staring down at the big spiral-bound book. “You know, Wayne, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that Straton should go down.”

Metz looked up at him quizzically. “I thought we agreed on that.”

“In principle. Everything I did just now is standard operating procedure. I’ve done nothing wrong yet, except delay.”

“You told everyone the plane went down.”

“Did I? I said we lost contact with them. You don’t see any new link messages, do you?” He turned and looked out into the dispatch office. “Actually, my responsibility in this screw-up is pretty light. Those idiots out there blew it. ATC was not too swift either.”

“They’ve all given us a chance to save it.”

Johnson nodded. “Yes. The man who can really testify to our mishandling of this whole thing is Berry.”

“And he’s heading home.”

“I know. God, I wish he’d just crash,” Johnson said.

“He probably will. Right into San Francisco. You’ve got to put him in the ocean.”

“I know.”

Metz sat down behind the data-link. “Look, Ed, I know this is difficult for you-it goes against all your instincts. But believe me, there is no other way. Do what you’ve got to do. If it will make it any easier, I’ll type the message to Berry.”

Johnson laughed. “You stupid bastard. What difference does it make who types the message? There’s no difference in guilt, only a difference in nerve. Get out of that chair.”

Metz quickly vacated the chair behind the data-link.

Johnson sat down. He glanced up at the dispatch office outside the glass. A few heads dropped or turned away. “As far as they know, I’m still trying to contact Flight 52.”

“What are you going to tell him to do?”

“There’s only a few things about a cockpit I know for sure. I’ve ridden in the observer’s seat enough times and had to listen to enough pilots give me unwanted flying lessons to know what’s dangerous and what can bring an aircraft down. That book I was looking at is the Straton’s pilot manual.”

Metz nodded appreciatively. “Any ideas?”

“A few. I’m trying to work them out. But they’re tricky.” He looked at his watch. “That meeting in the executive conference room will be rolling in a while. They’ll chew over those link printouts and wail and whine for a good fifteen, maybe thirty, minutes. Then they’ll ring me here.”

“Then you’d better hurry. Jesus, this is cutting it close, Ed. You didn’t leave yourself any room.”

Neither man was aware of the insistent rapping on the glass door.

Johnson finally looked up.

Jack Miller stood outside the door.

“Oh, Christ,” said Johnson. “If we let Miller in and Flight 52 begins transmitting, that would be the end of the game.” Johnson knew that if he turned off the machine, Miller would notice and ask why they weren’t trying to reestablish contact. He quickly went to the door and opened it.

Miller took a step in.

Johnson moved forward and edged him out a few steps, but couldn’t close the door without being too obvious. “What is it, Jack?”

Miller’s eyes moved past Johnson into the small room. He stared at Metz, and without looking at Johnson, handed him a sheaf of papers. “Here’s the data-link printouts. Faxed to ATC and copied for the executive conference room.” He looked at Johnson. “The chief pilot, Captain Fitzgerald, is on his way here in case we make contact. Mr. Abbot, the Straton Aircraft representative, is also on his way. Is there anyone else you want here?”

“I don’t want anyone here, Jack. Have a dispatcher intercept them in the parking lot and tell them to drive over to the executive conference room in the company office building. Okay?”

Miller ignored the order as if he hadn’t heard it. He said, “I just don’t understand what could have happened up there. That aircraft was steady and that pilot-”

“It had two great big fucking holes in it. You wouldn’t fly too well with two great big damn holes in you.” He pushed Miller’s chest with his forefinger and backed him up a step. “Go home and get some rest.”

“I’m staying here.”

Johnson hesitated, then said, “All right. Take over the Pacific desk from Evans.”