Nelson DeMille - Mayday

“Yes.”

“The people onboard are dead or brain damaged. They are heading toward California-like a cruise missile, with enough destructive force to level a small town or wipe out twenty city blocks.”

“I understand.”

“Every boat and aircraft in the area is heading your way now, including a flight from this carrier. If anyone sees you, we are all finished. Within the next ten minutes, you are to fire the Phoenix missile into the Straton, just as you were going to do before.”

“Roger.” There was a pause. “My fuel is low.”

“All the more reason to get it done quickly. When you complete your mission, keep heading for the coast and I will have a refuel mission meet you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Sloan decided it was time to pull out all the stops. He said to Matos, “I have here with me Rear Admiral Randolf Hennings, who concurs with my decision. He will personally debrief you when you land. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Sloan glanced at Hennings, whose face had gone white. Sloan said to Matos, “Enough talk, Peter. Fire your missile into the cockpit of the Straton. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Get into position, steady aim, and fire. No miss. Ten minutes, max. Call me when you’ve accomplished the mission.”

“Roger.”

“Roger. Out.” Sloan set his countdown clock for ten minutes, then swiveled his chair and faced Hennings. The Admiral looked pale and was leaning against the bulkhead. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I think so.”

Sloan nodded. “I hope you don’t think this is any easier for me than for you.”

Hennings wiped the clammy sweat from his neck. “I suspect it is.”

Sloan stared at him. The old man looked as if he might be having a heart attack.

Hennings stood up straight. “I think I’ll go on deck and get some air.”

Sloan didn’t want Hennings out of his sight. There was an aura in this room, a spell that could be broken by sunlight and other voices, other faces. “I’d like you to stay around. For ten minutes at least.”

Hennings nodded. “Yes. Of course. I’ll see it through.” He pushed aside the blackout curtain, opened the porthole, and took a deep breath. Then, for the first time in more than forty years, he became sick at sea.

Sloan watched the man out of the corner of his eye. Hennings was a very weak link in a three-link chain. Matos was stronger, but he might break too. Now that the problem of the Straton was as good as out of the way, Sloan thought more about Matos and Hennings. He had pretty much decided how to deal with Lieutenant Peter Matos.

Sloan walked over to the end of the console where a half-dozen interphones, color coded to indicate their function, sat in a row. He picked up the green one and, before anyone answered, reached down and switched it off. “Operations? This is Commander Sloan. We have a problem. Navy three-four-seven, F-18, Matos, is in a critical fuel situation. I want a tanker from the closest coastal base to rendezvous with him.” Sloan gave Matos’s present coordinates into the dead phone. “Thank you.” He hung up and picked up the blue phone and switched it off. “Rowles? Sloan. Alert the Straton search party that they may have to split the mission and look for three-four-seven. Yes. He had a fuel emergency, but I have a tanker on the way and it should reach him in plenty of time. Just keeping you alerted. Right.” He hung up and slid a clipboard over the on-off switches, then turned toward the Admiral.

Randolf Hennings was a more difficult problem. As long as Hennings lived and breathed and spoke, with all his pent-up guilt and remorse, James Sloan would never have another good night’s sleep, never know when a summons to the captain’s office would be arrest. James Sloan couldn’t allow that. Not at all.

The view from the captain’s flight chair of the Straton 797 was spectacular. Berry sat, mesmerized by the churning mass of black boiling clouds in the distance. He had seen them first as a vague haziness on the far horizon, shafts of sunlight streaking from them into the ocean at a sharp angle. The closer he got, the more awesome they looked-and the more he knew he was in trouble.

He leaned forward and scanned the horizon. The line of storms stretched as far as he could see in either direction, like a great solid wall between heaven and earth. They’d dropped down into the sea like a curtain, hiding the horizon line, and towered up above them so high that he knew he could not climb above them.

Sharon touched his arm and spoke softly, worry in her voice. “I haven’t seen them this bad in a long time.”

Berry had never seen them quite this bad, ever. The only thing they had going for them had been the weather and the daylight, and he had begun to take that for granted, not believing that anything else could go wrong for Flight 52. “You’ve been through these before?”

“A few times. You?”

“No. Not on a commercial flight.”

“In your Skymaster?”

“No.” In his Skymaster he would simply have turned and found an airport. Out here there was no airport to turn to.

Crandall looked down at the weather radar screen on the center instrument panel. “Do you see a break in the clouds?”

Berry stared at the screen. A thin green trace line swept across the radarscope every six seconds, leaving patterns of colored patches in its wake. “I don’t really know how to work it or how to read it.” He glanced at the line of thunderstorms, then back at the radarscope. What he saw on the scope was supposed to represent what he saw from his windshield, but he could see no correlation. “I’ve read articles on weather radar, but I’ve never worked it.”

Crandall heard a noise behind her and looked back. Linda was curled up near the cockpit’s rear bulkhead, asleep. Crandall looked up at the door. An entire arm, right up to the shoulder, had slid through the opening and the hand was feeling around the inside of the door. The hand found the nylon hose and pulled at it, loosening the tension on the door and allowing his shoulder to slide through. She saw the blue shoulder boards of First Officer Daniel McVary, then saw his face peeking in at the opening. “John…”

Berry looked back. “For God’s sake.” He hesitated, then stood. He walked to the door and examined the knot around the latch. He took the disembodied arm and tried to force it out, but the hand grabbed his shirt. Berry stepped back. There was something grotesque about this arm reaching out to him. He was reminded of the stories told around a campfire at night. But this was real. He reached into his pocket and found the gold lighter that he carried. He lit it, hesitated, then reluctantly touched the flame to McVary’s hand. There was a long scream and the arm disappeared from the cockpit. Berry looked up at Sharon and met her eyes, but there was no censure in them, only understanding.

Berry knelt down beside Linda, who had awakened. “Go back to sleep.”

She closed her eyes. “I’m very thirsty.”

Berry patted her cheek. “Soon. Don’t think about it.” He stood and walked back to his chair.

Sharon fixed her eyes on the radar set. “Are these all the radar controls?”

Berry looked at her. There had developed a tacit understanding among the three of them that they were not to talk about the others. Berry looked down at the console. “Yes. Antenna tilt. Gain. Brilliance. Mode selector… Here’s one called erase rate. I’ve never even heard of that.”

Crandall looked up again at the black wall outside the windshield. It was closer now, and she could see its inner violence, the black-gray smoke churning. “Can we go around it without the radar?”

Berry shook his head. “These lines sometimes stretch for hundreds of miles. I don’t think we have the fuel to try an end run.”