Mayday (20 page)

But Sloan wasn’t quite that sure about Matos. As he watched Hennings, however, he was reasonably sure his words had hit their
mark. Sloan knew exactly which of the old man’s buttons to push.

Hennings remained silent.

Sloan’s mind went back to Matos. Matos could be a problem, but Sloan didn’t intend to give Matos enough time to think. Matos
would hear the order and obey automatically. The command would enter Matos’s brain through his headset like the voice of God.
James Sloan believed that the measure of a good leader was how much he sounded like God. What most men wanted was to be told
what to do. A small bell sounded, and Sloan looked at the countdown clock. It read 00:00. He picked up the microphone.

Hennings wanted to stall. “I wonder if burying this mistake in the ocean will be the end of it. The dead have a way of coming
back.”

“Don’t try to spook me, Admiral. But if blaming me makes you feel better, go ahead. That’s fine. I don’t care. I only want
to get this job done.”

Hennings’s face flushed with anger. The knowledge that Sloan was on the mark kept him from responding. Sloan was unquestionably
an immoral man. But what gnawed at Hennings was the thought that he himself was not much . . . not any better. This was not
quite like the sinking of the
Mercer
, and Hennings knew it. Yes, it was easy to blame James Sloan. But Hennings knew better. He was doing nothing to stop Sloan.
He looked up. “Get on with it.”

“I am, Admiral.” Sloan reached across the electronics panel and turned on the transmitter. He checked the power output, then
verified that the voice scrambler was operating properly. Without it, he would never send a message like this one. To all
the eavesdropping electronic ears in the world, Commander James Sloan’s voice would be gibberish, but to Lieutenant Peter
Matos, the message would come in loud and clear. “Navy three-four-seven, do you read Homeplate?” Sloan stared at the console
speaker and waited.

Hennings moved closer and also fixed his eyes on the speaker.

“Roger, Homeplate. Navy three-four-seven read. Go ahead.”

Sloan took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Lieutenant Matos, this is Commander Sloan.” He paused.

“Roger, Commander.”

“We have consulted with our commanders at the highest levels and they have advised us on a course of action which will take
extraordinary skill and courage on your part. The situation as it now stands has been complicated by several outside factors
beyond our control. I will brief you on the details when you come home. The important thing that we have learned is that the
accident is in no way our fault. The Straton was off course and did not report its position. How do you read?”

“Read you fine. Go ahead.” “We have been informed that it is physiologically impossible for anyone to have survived a decompression
at the altitude at which the accident took place. The problem we face now has to do with that derelict craft. It is a threat
to sea and air navigation that must be eliminated. Only a pilot with your personal skills could accomplish this.”

“Christ,” Hennings murmured in the background.

Sloan spoke quickly into the microphone. “Wait one.” He turned in his seat and glared at Hennings, but he was thankful for
the break. A few seconds’ pause would do Matos good.

Hennings leaned over, very close to Sloan. “You should try being honest with him,” Hennings said in a low voice. “Tell him
you want him to destroy the damned evidence. Tell him you want him to knock it down and stay over it until he makes sure it
has sunk. Tell him also that it’s possible that someone onboard is alive and well enough to transmit a message. You owe him
that much, Commander.”

Sloan fixed Hennings with a cold stare and spoke through clenched teeth. “Don’t be a fool. I’m making it easier for him, not
harder. The last goddamned thing he wants is the truth. The truth,” Sloan snarled, “is that the whole damned thing is Matos’s
fault.” He turned back to the microphone. “All right, Lieutenant, we have just received our final authorization.” He lifted
the written text and noticed that his hands were trembling, which was unusual for him. “You are to fire your remaining missile
in such a way as to make inoperable the Straton’s autopilot. Since the test missiles weren’t equipped with explosive warheads,
this can only be accomplished by a direct hit in the area of the cockpit of the derelict craft. The accuracy of your shot
is well beyond the profile that you’ve been trained for. The assignment is beyond the normal call of duty. We, and everyone
here, are depending on you and praying for your success.” He paused. “Take your time, but try to accomplish this mission within
the next few minutes. Good luck, Peter. Acknowledge, please.”

A silence settled over the small room. Sloan made an exaggerated gesture of crossing his fingers.

Hennings thought that he had never seen anything so obscene in his life. He turned away, then retreated to the porthole to
wait. Perhaps Lieutenant Peter Matos, whoever he was, had more moral courage than they did.

The radio crackled. Hennings turned his head toward the speaker.

“Roger, Homeplate. Proceeding with new mission profile. Out.”

Sloan settled back in his chair. Out of habit, he set the countdown clock for five minutes.

Hennings felt a tear forming in his eye and wiped it before Sloan could see it.

Peter Matos stared blankly out the windshield of his F-18. His reply had been automatic. Now he was beginning to fully understand
what he was supposed to do. He looked at his console clock, then reached out to push his radio-transmit button. What was he
going to ask Commander Sloan? What was left unclear? Nothing that concerned him. He drew his hand away from the radio button
and rested it listlessly at his side.

He glanced out of the cockpit. The Straton 797 maintained its heading and altitude with an unerring precision. Far too precise
a flight to have been guided by any human hand. He watched carefully for a full minute. He was satisfied that the Straton
was indeed being flown by its computerized autopilot.

He settled back in his flight chair. Commander Sloan’s earlier orders had not made a great deal of sense. Matos had been certain
that Sloan was leading up to something. And he knew, deep inside, what it was. Even though the actual order had now been sent,
it was still hard to believe.

Matos considered his options. There were none, really, that he could exercise without a great deal of unpleasantness. The
facts were that the Straton had been off course, everyone aboard was now dead, the craft presented a hazard of some sort,
and the top brass wanted it brought down. Simple. Follow orders. They would take care of everything. They would look after
Peter Matos once he completed the mission.

He stared at his fuel gauges. Less than half full. He glanced at his compass. With every passing minute he delayed, he was
getting farther away from the
Nimitz
. Every minute of delay now would add another minute to his trip home. He looked again at his clock. Three minutes had already
gone by. He desperately wanted to be done with this within the next few minutes. More than anything else he wanted to be back
in his bunk on the
Nimitz
. That was his home—he wanted to go home.

Without another disturbing thought, he began to maneuver his fighter into a better position for the missile strike.

His mind was now filled with the logistics of the difficult shot. The technical trade-offs were complex. The derelict Straton
was a large stable target, but its very size presented a problem. How many dummy warheads would it take to bring it down?
The first one had not done it. A half-dozen more might not do it. He had only one left. He was reminded of a bull in the ring
being stuck with lances and banderillas.

The Phoenix missile would hit the Straton. That was no problem. It could do that automatically. But he had to hit a particular
spot. He needed a brain shot.

The solution, now that he had a chance to study the problem, was suddenly obvious. He had to fly close to the cockpit and
fire his missile at point-blank range. With no exploding warhead he could do this with a fair degree of safety. Then he had
to pull out quickly and turn away. The Phoenix would strike the cockpit before its elaborate guidance system could alter its
course and steer it toward the target’s midsection. Matos managed a small smile. He had outwitted the designers of the weapon.
The pilot was still in control after all.

Matos knew that selecting the best angle for the shot would have to be a compromise. He slid his fighter to the starboard
side of the Straton. The small shadow of his craft passed over the gleaming silver airframe of the huge airliner. He looked
down. Normally, a full side view of the target would be best, but he saw that a missile shot from that angle would be far
too risky. He was liable to miss the aircraft entirely because of the high-closure speeds and his need to do the firing manually.

He slid his craft back over the top of the Straton and a hundred yards behind its tail. The shot would have to be made from
the twelve-o’clock-high position, right down into the dome that was the lounge and cockpit. The angle would have to be such
that the missile would enter the roof of the lounge, pass through the cockpit, and exit from the lower nose. That would wipe
out everything on the flight deck. He reached for the manual gun sight above the glare shield and snapped it into place. He
looked through it. The gunnery crosshairs seemed to bob and weave as the relative positions of the two aircraft changed.

Matos set his experienced hands to work on the flight control and soon had the calibrated crosshairs steadied and within range.
The bulge of the upper lounge and cockpit filled the scope. The sight’s bull’s-eye swayed back and forth over the protruding
dome.

Matos reached down without taking his eyes off the target and turned off the Phoenix’s safety switch. He moved his hand laterally
and placed his finger on the firing button. He took a deep breath and began nudging the F-18’s control stick forward. The
fighter came in closer. The bull’s-eye was dead center over the dome and holding steady. The Straton’s towering tail loomed
up in front of him. He would fire when he passed over the tail. He judged that from tail to dome was almost two hundred feet,
and that was a good yardstick to use. Closer than that would expose him to danger from debris. And if the stricken airliner
suddenly rolled, the wing could come up and hit his fighter.

He looked through the gun sight. Thirty feet from the tail. He had never flown this close to such a large aircraft. Twenty
feet. The huge Straton was spread out below him like the deck of a carrier. Ten feet. He could see the rivets in the tail.
His heart started to beat heavily in his chest.

The nose of the F-18 passed over the tail of the Straton. The bull’s-eye covered the center of the silver dome. The glare
of the silvery skin made Matos squint. He exhaled deeply and pressed his finger against the firing button.

John Berry was anxious to get on with the maneuver, yet he was doing nothing. He ran his eyes over the instruments, trying
to appear as though he were doing something important.

“John?”

“What?”

Sharon Crandall looked anxious. “Is anything wrong?”

“No. Just a few checks.” He paused. “Try to call Barbara again. I want her to know we’re turning. When we start to bank, she’s
liable to become frightened. And tell her to stay away from the holes.”

“Okay.” Sharon Crandall set the interphone for the mid-ship station and pressed the button repeatedly. “She doesn’t answer,”
she said in a trembling voice.

“Try another station.”

Crandall selected the aft flight-attendant station and pressed the button. Almost immediately a muffled voice came back, nearly
drowned out by the sound of rushing wind and odd babbling voices in the background. “Barbara, can you hear me? Is that you?”

“Yes. I’m at the rear station,” Yoshiro answered in a clear voice.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

Crandall turned to Berry. “I’ve got her. Thank God. She’s at the rear station. She’s okay.”