Nelson DeMille - Mayday

Sharon released the wheel and sat back, trying to prepare herself for the coming impact. Several thoughts and memories flashed through her mind, but none of them seemed important. She reached out and touched Berry’s arm, then looked back at Linda.

The girl was staring at her. “Are we going to crash?”

“Yes. Hold on tight.”

Commander James Sloan kept up a constant stream of talk into the dead interphones, speaking alternatively to the phantom air-sea rescue and the phantom tanker. He was becoming bored with the charade, but saw no alternative to it. He had to keep Hennings in Room E-334 until Matos was down, and until he could decide what had to be done with the Admiral.

Outside the door of the room, voices and footsteps approached.

Hennings looked up from his chair, an uneasiness in his eyes.

Sloan replaced the green interphone. “Just a changing of the watch, Admiral. Room E-334 is inviolate, off-limits to everyone except the few of us with an official need-to-know. I don’t think even the Fleet Admiral would walk in here without calling first.”

Hennings slumped back into his chair. That had been the problem from the start. An illegal test, shrouded by secrecy, had concentrated an inordinate amount of power into the hands of James Sloan.

Sloan looked at the old man hunched over in his chair. The long years of sea duty had permanently darkened his face, but the last few hours had cast an unhealthy pallor over his features.

Hennings seemed to rouse himself out of his lethargy and looked up. “Why are we taking the transmissions from the tanker and the rescue operation through the interphones? Let’s put a few radios on those frequencies.”

Sloan shook his head; he had already thought of an answer for that. “These are not my operations. They are being handled from separate electronics rooms, separate commands. And I don’t want two more squawk boxes turned on. I have enough to think about without listening to a lot of jet jockeys talking to each other.”

Hennings nodded and slumped back into his chair.

The gold-colored bridge phone rang, and Sloan snatched it up. This was a real call. His heart began to pound. “Yes, sir.”

Captain Diehl’s voice sounded unsure, almost apologetic. “Commander, I’d like a status report on Navy three-four-seven.”

Sloan had known this call would have to come eventually. The Captain wanted to know as little as possible about the Phoenix test, and that was the reason Sloan had kept control so long. But now Diehl wanted to know why one of his aircraft was overdue. “Status unchanged, sir.” He glanced at Hennings.

There was a pause, then the Captain said, “I can assume, then, that everything is going well with three-four-seven?”

“Right, sir. He’s employing fuel-saving techniques at this time.”

“I see. That was part of the test profile?”

Sloan paused purposely, as though he were reluctant to commit a security breach. “Yes, sir.”

“All right. The Admiral is still with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. I won’t take any more of your time, Commander.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sloan hung up, took a deep breath, and turned to Hennings. “The Captain is concerned about three-four-seven.”

“So am I.”

Sloan stared at the radio speaker. Matos’s open transmitter filled the room with rushing noises, noises of the cockpit, noises that came from nine miles above the earth. Occasionally, he could hear Matos, forgetful or uncaring that his transmitter was on, talking softly to himself, humming once, cursing many times. Then his voice came through the speaker loud and clear. “Homeplate, no tanker in sight. No air-sea rescue in sight. Fuel estimated at fifteen minutes. Maintaining heading of zero-seven-five, at thirty one thousand feet.” He read his coordinates from his satellite navigation set. “Storm still below me. Shutting off transmitter so I can receive you.”

The rushing sound stopped, and Sloan quickly picked up the microphone. “Roger. Civilian and military air-sea rescue closing on you. Tanker should be in sight.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Stand by.” Sloan picked up the green phone and spoke for a few seconds, then took up the microphones. “Matos, he thinks he has visual contact with you as well as radar contact. As a backup, keep your transmitter sending a signal so he can home in. Hang in there, Peter.”

“Roger.” The rushing sound of the open transmitter filled Room E-334 again.

Sloan looked at his countdown clock, which had been set at Matos’s estimated forty-five minutes of flying time. It read fourteen minutes. Fourteen minutes to keep this incredible juggling act with the dead, colored interphones, with Hennings, with the live, gold interphone to the bridge, and most of all with Lieutenant Peter Matos. A lesser man than himself would have fallen apart long ago, but James Sloan had a strong will, and he knew that one man, with a strong sense of mission and a keen sense of self-preservation, could control any situation. People wanted to believe, and if you gave them no cause for suspicion, if you acted with confidence and assurance, they would believe.

Suddenly, the room was filled with a voice that was at once familiar and unfamiliar. “Mayday! Mayday! Navy three-four-seven is flaming out!”

Hennings jumped to his feet.

Sloan grabbed the microphone and glanced at the countdown clock. Eleven minutes left. Matos had made some kind of calculation error, or the fuel gauges were slightly off at the low end. Maybe the missile produced more drag than he thought. “Roger, Peter. I understand. Air-sea rescue has a good fix on you.”

Matos’s voice was shaking, but he fought for control and replied, “Roger. I’m going through thirty thousand now. I’ll be into the top of the storm in a few seconds.” He read his coordinates, then said, “Violent updrafts, buffeting the aircraft. Unstable.”

Partly out of instinct, and partly because Hennings was in the room, Sloan gave Matos the best advice possible under the circumstances. “Peter, hold off on ejecting for as long as possible. When you eject, hold off on the chute as long as you can.”

“Roger.” Sloan pictured Matos falling, still in his flight chair, waiting as long as possible before opening the parachute, then opening it at the last possible moment, being caught in the wild currents-being taken up instead of down, then dropping again, then rising with the currents-a process that could go on for a long, long time. If that didn’t kill him, the sea would.

Hennings stood next to Sloan and watched the radio speaker, then looked toward the interphones. “How far is the closest air-rescue craft?”

Sloan grabbed the blue interphone and poised a pencil over the clipboard that covered the switches. “Operator. Patch me into the rescue command craft. Quickly. Rescue? This is the Nimitz. How far is your closest air or sea craft from the target aircraft? Right. He has flamed out. Copy these coordinates.” Sloan read them off. “He will eject shortly. Do you still have a good fix on his transmission signal? Right.” Sloan nodded his head. “Yes, all right…” This absurd monologue into a dead phone was becoming tiresome. He hoped he was still doing it well. “All right, we-”

Matos’s voice cut into the room. “Homeplate-I am down to twenty thousand. The ride is very rough. Rain and hail. No visibility.”

Hennings grabbed the microphone. “Navy three-four-seven, we are talking to air-sea rescue now. You will be picked up soon. Stand by.” He looked at Sloan.

Sloan spoke into the interphone. “Hold on, rescue.” He turned to Hennings. “Tell Matos he will be in the water in less than ten minutes. Tell him to keep the fighter’s transmitter signal on. After ejecting, the air-sea rescue craft will home in on his raft transmitter.”