Nelson DeMille - Mayday

Sharon stepped over the panty hose at her feet and leaned over Berry’s chair. She looked down at the message. She had decided that if she was going to trust him, she would trust him completely, with no reservations, no hesitation. “What are you going to do?”

Berry kept staring at the new message. It seemed to be patently wrong. If only he could speak to them on the radio, hear their voices instead of reading words displayed on a cathode-ray tube. He remembered his near panic when he had no communication, and knew he ought to be thankful for even this.

Berry thought a minute, then shook his head. “They say they know where we are, but what if they’re wrong? Then the new heading is wrong. A few degrees at this distance from Hawaii would put us hundreds of miles off course. And what if this damned data-link malfunctions before we reach Hawaii? They won’t be able to send us any course corrections. What if the satellite navigation system doesn’t work, or if I can’t work it?” He thought of something he’d read once. The least reliable component of a modern airplane is its pilot. In this case that was he, John Berry. He looked at the control panels in front of him. “We’d run out of fuel somewhere in the Pacific. I’d have to try to land in the ocean. It would be a race between the rescue craft and… the sharks.”

Sharon put her hands on his shoulders, then leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “John, Linda is…”

“Sorry.”

She turned her face and kissed him on the cheek, then straightened up quickly. She looked down at the panty hose and followed it with her eyes to the door handle. It was taut and secure. No hands poked around the small crack in the door. Suddenly, she felt optimistic again. She looked over at Linda. “All right,” she said, trying to put a light tone in her voice. “Linda, Hawaii or California?”

The girl picked up her head from the desk. “I want to go home.”

Sharon smiled. “California it is, then. John, tell them we’re coming home.”

Berry felt the tears collect in his eyes and wiped them quickly. He reached out to the console and typed a short, succinct message.

Mayday

Edward Johnson stared down at the message that had just come from Flight 52.

TO SAN FRANCISCO: WE DO NOT WANT TO TURN. HAWAII IS TOO SMALL A TARGET. WILL MAINTAIN CURRENT HEADING OF 120 DEGREES. ADVISE US OF EXACT COURSE AND DISTANCE/TIME TO SAN FRANCISCO AS SOON AS YOUR COMPUTATIONS ARE AVAILABLE. BERRY.

“Shit.” Johnson took out a cigar and bit the end off. “Smart-ass son-of-a-bitch.” He looked at the cigar for a moment, then threw it on the floor.

Metz looked at Johnson. He hadn’t liked this idea of heading the Straton toward Hawaii, and he was half relieved that it hadn’t worked. “You have to do something, Ed. You have to give him instructions that will put him down so we can get the hell out of here before-”

“Shut up, Metz. I know what I have to do.” There was some question in his mind about whether or not Berry was onto his game. “I can’t push him. He’s too savvy.”

“What are you going to answer?”

“What choice do I have? I’m going to give him the information he asked for.”

“Christ, now we’re helping him.”

“I have to get him off our backs for a while.” Johnson walked to the Pacific chart. He picked up a ruler from the counter and took some crude measurements. “They won’t be any better off with this new heading. Maybe a little worse off. But I can’t make it too absurd. Berry is…”

“I know. Sharp.”

“I was going to say he may be suspicious.”

Metz walked to the data-link machine and slapped his hand on it. “Don’t let this guy spook you. He’s some weekend pilot sitting in the biggest, most complicated aircraft ever built-which, incidentally, has two rather large holes in it, and is crammed full of the living dead. Christ. John Wayne couldn’t buck those odds.” He paused, then said softly, “All Berry needs is a little nudge in the wrong direction and he’ll fall.”

Johnson ignored him and sat down at the data-link. He typed.

TO FLIGHT 52: WE ARE HERE TO HELP YOU BUT WILL DEFER TO YOUR JUDGMENT IN THIS MATTER. PLEASE FOLLOW OUR TECHNICAL INSTRUCTIONS TO THE LETTER. IN COMPLIANCE WITH YOUR REQUEST, ACCURATE HEADING TO SAN FRANCISCO IS 131 DEGREES. DISTANCE IS 1950 MILES. ESTIMATED TIME EN ROUTE IS FIVE HOURS AND TEN MINUTES AT CURRENT SPEED. AM ARRANGING FOR MILITARY INTERCEPT. PROBABLY INTERCEPT YOU WITHIN TWO HOURS. SAN FRANCISCO HQ.

Metz glanced up at the wall clock. It read 2:02.

Johnson followed his gaze. “That’s right. They won’t be in ATC radar range much before six P.M. We have time before anyone sees them on a radar screen.”

“What about the military?”

Johnson allowed himself a smile. “If you don’t call them, I promise, I won’t either.”

“I mean, hasn’t Air Traffic Control called them already?”

“Sure. Half the Air Force and Navy are headed their way. But they don’t have their true heading, and it’s a mighty big sky out there.” Johnson walked over to the weather map printer and glanced down at it. “To add to the search problems, some bad weather is moving in out there.”

Metz looked impatient. “The way our luck is running, they’ll probably find them in the next ten minutes.”

“ Our luck? Mr. Berry’s luck hasn’t been too good today, either. I’ll bet this is one flight he wished he’d missed. I’ll take our luck over his. Anyway, even if a boat or plane does spot them, they can’t do much for them. Only we can do that, because only we are in contact with them, and no one knows that but us.”

“Well, what are we going to do for them? What are we going to do to nudge that pilot down?”

The telephone rang. Johnson rose, walked to the counter, and picked it up. “Johnson.” He paused. “Yes, sir. We’re still trying to make contact. No, sir, I think I can be more effective here.” He spoke for a minute, then said, “If any questions arise, I’ll be here. Thank you.” He replaced the receiver and looked at Metz. “That was our illustrious airline president. Everyone is in the executive conference room. And with any luck they will stay there, close to the bar and the air-conditioning. They don’t like this room.”

“I’m not crazy about it myself.” Metz looked at the telephone. “I have a boss, too, and he’s probably wondering what the hell is going on. If I knew what was going on, I’d call him.”

“You’d better call him before he starts hearing things on the news, or before our president calls him. Presidents are like that. They call people and ask what’s going on. Anyway, if insurance company presidents are like airline presidents, he’ll really want to know everything.”

Metz stared at the phone. “I’ll wait.” He turned to Johnson. “Well, what instructions are you going to give to Berry?”

Johnson opened the pilot’s manual. He glanced at Metz. “There’s an expression: the first time you give bad advice it’s excusable, the second time it’s suspicious, the third time it’s enemy action. I suppose I have one more shot at it.” He looked down at the book.

“Don’t overestimate him. If we’re going to sink him, we have to take some chances.”

Johnson flipped through the book as he spoke. “When I offered him that vector, I held my breath. You know why? Because there is absolutely no way we could have determined his true position, and I didn’t know if he knew that. Also, vector is shorthand for radar vector, and there is no radar out there. That’s the equivalent of me telling you that the fastest way to Sausalito is to drive over the bay without using the Golden Gate Bridge. I gambled that Berry knew nothing about over-ocean flying. I also gambled that Ms. Crandall never spent a lot of time hanging around the cockpit listening to our pilots bore her with flying lessons. So don’t tell me about taking chances.”