Nelson DeMille - Mayday

Loomis’s voice was flat, neutral, like every radio operator’s in the military. “Roger, three-four-seven.”

Matos hesitated. He thought about mentioning the glitch, but decided against it. If there was one thing they didn’t want to hear about, it was nonexistent problems. He looked back at the radar screen. Good target. He flipped a safety switch, then lifted a cover that guarded the firing trigger. He was about to fire the longest air-to-air missile shot ever attempted. He pressed his radio button. “Fire number one.” He waited a second, took a deep breath, then pressed the triggering button.

The AIM-63X Phoenix missile dropped away from the F-18’s supporting structure. For a brief moment the missile appeared dormant as an electronic delaying device allowed the weapon to clear itself from any potential conflict with Matos’s aircraft. When the proper interval had passed, a microvolt was internally induced. Flowing down a maze of printed circuit boards, the current reached its goal-the proper solenoids were activated and the rocket engine was ignited.

A stream of orange flame roared out of the Phoenix’s tailpipe. Within seconds the missile accelerated to twice the speed of the F-18.

Matos saw the missile streak off. He was about to begin the launch sequence for the second Phoenix. He glanced down at his radar screen. The target had again split into two images. Two targets. Matos pressed the console resolution buttons. No change. He pressed them again. Still the same. Two distinct targets. If one was the target drone, what was the other one? Jesus Christ. The self-guided missile that he had already launched was completely out of his control.

The Phoenix’s self-guiding system was working on the problem. The conflict between the two electronic images presented the missile with a quandary. In keeping with a logic and priority array that had been formulated in a conference room thousands of miles away, a trickle of voltage moved down yet another decisive path. The AIM-63X Phoenix, with its enhanced tracking and maneuverability, made a slight adjustment in its course. It steered toward the larger of the two targets.

John Berry stared at the reflection of his face in the mirror of the first-class lavatory. He ran a finger through the streaks of gray in his brown hair. There were a few wrinkles around his eyes. Still, at forty-one, he looked good.

Some of the women he knew from the country club or at work used words such as “interesting,” “charming,” and “solid” to describe him. He knew that he was supposed to make a move toward these women, but he could not work up the enthusiasm for it. Except once. A saleswoman at the office. And that had been a disaster.

John Berry thought about his father, as he did more and more these days. At forty-one his father had had a loving wife, four loyal children, his church, his community, his country, his own small business that he enjoyed. But that was in another time, another country almost. John Berry had none of those things, and at forty-one would never have them. Still, there was a way out. He could leave Jennifer and make a fresh start of it; just another divorced couple, just like so many of his friends. At least then he’d have hope. Whenever he flew the Skymaster he thought about it. But somehow he wondered if he could bring himself to do it.

Berry ran through the conversation he’d just had with the flight attendant. Why had he done that? Who the hell was Sharon Crandall? An hour ago, he didn’t know she existed. She wasn’t going to solve his problems. Yet he felt less alienated, felt more of a bond with the rest of humanity for having made that contact.

A light flashed on at the end of his peripheral vision. It was several seconds before he realized that it was the return-to-cabin light above the door. Berry knew that the cabin seat-belt lights were on as well. As a seasoned air traveler, he found that unusual since the flight was smooth. Another flight must have reported some chop ahead, he thought. It did not occur to him that the Straton was the only commercial aircraft using that route and altitude. His thoughts were on Sharon Crandall. With the seat-belt sign on, she would probably sit with the other flight attendants. Then there would be lunch preparation. Damn it. He took his time washing his hands and ignored the return-to-cabin light.

Lieutenant Peter Matos kept staring at his radar screen, hoping that the second target would disappear. He knew he needed to make some sort of report. The seconds were flashing by on his console clock. They’re waiting to hear from you, Matos. Reluctantly, he slid his thumb back to the microphone button. “Homeplate, this is Navy three-four-seven.”

“Go ahead, three-four-seven,” replied Loomis.

“I… I’m having difficulty with target resolution. Will delay second firing. Stand by for updates.”

“Roger. Out.”

Matos’s throat was dry. He had evaded the problem. Lied. But if the worst had happened, then nothing could save that other aircraft-if that’s what the second radar blip was. On the other hand, if it was only an electronic aberration, then there was no reason to report anything more than he’d already said. Trouble with target resolution. They were already probably chewing their lips on the Nimitz. Play it cool, Peter.

He looked back at the screen, hoping again that it was all resolved. But there were still two targets. The weaker of the two crossed in front of the stronger, then disappeared off his screen to the southwest. The stronger blip remained steady on its previous course. Again he reminded himself that even if the stronger target began evasive maneuvers, the outcome would be the same. The Phoenix AIM-63X’s guidance system had already chosen the larger object-chosen it to die. Phoenix would stay with its victim like a hunting bird, stalk it, pursue it, and pounce on it. That’s all it knew. All it had been created for.

But what was the other target? Who was he? Then it hit him like a fist. It had to be the Hercules C-130. Jesus Christ, he thought. Jesus Christ, I’ve made a navigation error. My fault. My fault.

Matos turned to the satellite navigation set on the left side of the F-18’s cockpit. He punched in several commands. His hand sweated beneath the leather of his flying glove. He hit a wrong button and had to clear the set and start over. Damn it. Calmete!

While he fumbled with the navigation set, his memory slid into an unpleasant track. He was seventeen years old and he was driving his first car, a ’71 Ford. In the rear of the car were his mother, father, and Grandmother Matos. His sister was seated next to him. He had gotten off the interstate at the wrong exit. While his cousin Dolores was being married, he steered his angry family through the unfamiliar streets of North Miami. His father had hissed at him through clenched teeth, “ Es tu culpa, Pedro.”

He looked down at the navigation display. It verified his position as correct. To be certain, he went through it again. Correct. He was where he was supposed to be. At least that’s what the equipment said. Then what was that second target?

He looked down at his radar screen. The Phoenix missile was small and ghostly white as it tracked across the green screen, outbound toward its target. Matos was always reminded of one of those video games. A game. That’s all it is, he decided. They had introduced another element into the game to see how he would respond. That big white target on the green field was not an aircraft transporting flesh and blood. It was an electronic decoy. A mirage, sent out by the Hercules or the target drone. He should have reported it. They had tested him, and he had failed. He had compromised himself. He was through.

He kept staring at the screen. It all made sense. It all fit. Except for one thing. The Phoenix was tracking the large target, and the Phoenix would not track an electronic decoy.