Nelson DeMille - Mayday

Hennings spoke into the microphone and relayed the message. He added, “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. We’re with you, and we’re praying for you. Out.” Hennings released the microphone button so that Matos could continue to transmit. Tears came to his eyes, and he turned away and stared out toward the porthole.

Matos’s voice broke the silence in the room. “I am down to ten thousand feet. Preparing to eject.” His voice had become matter-of-fact, as though he were reporting on someone else’s problem. “Eight thousand feet.”

Hennings took note of the calmness in his voice. He knew it was important for a pilot, as for a seaman, to do this well, to go down with dignity.

“Still extremely turbulent…” The sound of Matos’s breathing came through loudly on the speaker and filled the electronics room. “This is my last transmission. I am leaving the aircraft now.” The speaker gave a loud pop as the canopy blew off, followed by an earpiercing rushing sound as the transmitter picked up the three hundred-mile-an-hour wind that filled the cockpit. Then, a split second later, they heard the loud explosion of the ejecting charge as Peter Matos’s flight chair was blown clear of the F-18.

The continuous, unnerving roar of the abandoned fighter was broadcast into Room E-334. Hennings thought for a moment that he could hear the crashing sea, then an odd sound, like a muffled slap vibrated through the speaker, followed by silence.

Sloan reached out and shut off the radio. He spoke softly into the interphone. “The aircraft is down. The pilot has ejected. Home in on his raft transmitter when he lands. Yes. Thank you.” He hung up. Sloan put his hand on the digital clock and erased the remaining minutes of fuel time that Matos never had. The digits 00:00 seemed appropriate. He sat down. “We can console ourselves, Admiral, with the fact that one F-18 is a small price to pay for the continuation of the Phoenix program. The program, like its namesake, will rise from its own ashes and fly again.”

“Your attempt at metaphor is grotesque, ill-timed, and inappropriate, Commander. What I’m concerned about now is Flight Lieutenant Matos.”

“Yes, of course. We all are. Lieutenant Matos is trained in sea survival. His life raft will keep him afloat and his flight suit will keep him dry. And at these latitudes, the water is not that cold.” Sloan rocked back in his swivel chair and closed his eyes. He pictured Peter Matos dropping quickly into the sea, his parachute ripped apart by the winds. Then another picture flashed through his mind: Peter Matos landing softly, inflating his raft, clinging to it. How long could he live in the sea? No one was looking for him. It might take days for him to die. Then again, he might not die. There had always been that possibility. He suddenly saw Matos being transferred from a rescue craft to the Nimitz — stepping aboard, his flight suit covered for some reason with seaweed, walking across the wide flight deck before him. No. Even without the storm, he had no chance if no one was looking for him in the right place.

The sound of Hennings’s voice penetrated Sloan’s thoughts. He opened his eyes and looked up at the Admiral. Hennings was speaking into the blue interphone.

“Hello? Hello?” He pushed repeatedly on the headset buttons. “Hello? Air-sea rescue?” Hennings looked down at Sloan, then down at the series of colored phones in their cradles. He reached over and slid the clipboard away from the switches, saw that they were off, then looked back at Sloan.

Sloan sat silently and met the old man’s eyes. Finally, he said, “Sorry, Admiral. It was the only way out for us.”

Hennings let the phone fall from his hand and heard it hit the floor. His voice was barely above a whisper. “You… you son-of-a-bitch. You murdering son-of-a-bitch… How in the name of God

…?” Hennings’s senses reeled, and he had to make an effort to stand steady. His eyes tried to focus on Sloan, but he saw sitting in front of him not Sloan himself, but Sloan’s true essence. “Who are you? What are you?”

“ We, Admiral. We.”

The illusion passed, and Hennings regained control of himself. “Matos was… he trusted you… he was one of your men…”

“I see you’re not giving as much thought to the hundreds of people we sent down on the Straton. Don’t civilians count?”

Hennings put his hands on the console and leaned over, close to Sloan. “You know the expression: three may keep a secret if two of them are dead.” He looked Sloan in the eye. “Me next?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

Hennings straightened up. “Call air-sea rescue right now.” He reached for the phone switches.

Sloan grabbed his arm and held it tight. “Don’t be a fool. We’ve already consigned a planeload of civilians to their deaths. If we start a search for one man who can hang us, we may as well do it for all of them.” He tightened his grip on the Admiral’s arm. “And it would be a useless exercise. No one can survive that sea.” He released Hennings’s arm and spoke in a calmer tone. “Admiral, it’s not even jail I mind very much. It’s the indignity of the proceedings. We’ll be treated as the most vile things that ever lived. Our names will be spit out in the officers’ clubs and ward rooms for generations. That’s no way to end a career. If you remain silent, no one will ever know. Nothing is gained by confessing. Nothing. The dead are dead. The Navy and the nation are intact.” He changed the tone of his voice and spoke as though he were giving an official report. “Flight Lieutenant Peter Matos was killed when the rocket engine of his Phoenix missile exploded while strapped to his aircraft. He will receive full military honors and his family will cherish his memory, and they will receive his insurance and all standard benefits due an officer’s family. His name will not be besmirched in any way.” Sloan paused for a long time. “Admiral?”

Hennings nodded.

Sloan looked up at the wall clock. Three-ten. “Isn’t your flight off the carrier scheduled for 1600 hours?”

“Yes,” Hennings answered absently.

“Then I suggest you gather your gear, Admiral. You’ve only got fifty minutes, and I expect you’ll first want to pay your respects to Captain Diehl.”

Hennings glared at Sloan.

“Also,” Sloan added, waving his hand at the report sheets that still lay on the radio console, “I expect your report to the Joint Chiefs will stress that this mishap was in no way my fault.”

Without answering, Randolf Hennings turned and walked out of Room E-334

John Berry felt the familiar pilot’s control pressures in his hands and realized that this was the first time he had attempted to hand-fly the giant Straton. The warning horn sounded weak and the lights became dimmer as the electrical energy was being drained away from the dying airliner. The cockpit became quieter as they dropped beneath the worst part of the storm. From the lounge, Berry could hear the moans of the injured. He released one hand from the wheel and turned on the windshield wipers. Through the rain and clouds, he thought he could see glimpses of the ocean. His heart pounded quickly. He forced himself to look down at the altimeter. “Four thousand feet,” he said aloud. They were dropping at the rate of about forty feet a second. “Less than two minutes to impact. Hold on. Sharon… the life vests…”

“Yes. In the orange pouch against the rear wall.”

Berry turned and looked at the orange pouch hanging on the wall, then saw the small emergency exit near the right rear of the cockpit. “When we hit, you get the vests. I’ll open the door. Linda, stay in your seat until we come for you.”

Crandall grabbed his arm. “John… John, I’m scared.”

“Stay calm. For God’s sake, stay calm.” Berry held the controls tightly. He knew he should be thinking about how to bring the aircraft in, and what to do if they survived the crash. But he couldn’t get his mind off the problem of the dead engines. The fuel was shut off. But the fuel is now on again. What else…?