Mayday (3 page)

The flurry of on-deck activities from the dawn practice maneuvers had subsided. Hennings counted half-a-dozen aircraft on
the starboard quarter of the
Nimitz
’s flight deck. One by one, they were being taken to the servicing area on the hangar deck below. The plotting board in the
Air-Ops Room had shown only one aircraft yet to be recovered.
Navy 347. F-18. Pilot Lt. P. Matos. Launched 1027 hours, 23 June. Special test. Estimated time of return, 1300 hours
.

Hennings had not liked that “special test” designation. It was too close to the truth—and the truth was not to be openly discussed.
He would have preferred something even more routine, like “extra training.”

Hennings knew too well why the test was a secret, even though no one had actually spoken with him about it. It was, he knew,
because of the new Voluntary Arms Limitation Treaty recently approved by Congress and signed by the President. Hennings had
read that the agreement specifically prohibited the development of improved tactical missiles, among other things. Today’s
secret test would be the first for the updated Phoenix missile. Its range had been doubled to 500 miles, a new self-guiding
radar system had been added, and, most importantly, its maneuverability had been vastly increased. All of this was unquestionably
outside the limitations of the treaty Congress had decided on. But if the weapon proved workable, it could significantly alter
the balance of power in any future air-toair combat scenario.

Hennings became aware that a young ensign was holding a salute, speaking to him. He glanced at the woman’s blue and white
name tag. “What is it, Ms. Phillips?”

The ensign dropped her salute. “Excuse me, Admiral. Commander Sloan requests that you join him in E-334.”

Hennings nodded. “Very well. Lead on.”

Hennings followed the ensign through the hatchway and down the metal stairs. They walked in silence. Hennings had entered
the Navy at a time when female personnel did not serve on warships. By the time he left the Navy, it was not uncommon. While
in the Navy, Hennings had towed the official line and outwardly approved of women serving with men aboard ship. In reality,
Hennings thought the whole social experiment had been and was a disaster. But the Navy and the Pentagon had covered up most
of the problems so that the public was never aware of the high pregnancy rate among unmarried female personnel, the sexual
harassment, abuse, and even rapes, and the general lowering of morale and discipline. In short, it was a nightmare for the
ship’s commanders, but it wasn’t his problem.

On the 0-2 deck of the conning tower, they stepped into a long gray corridor similar to the thousands that Hennings had walked
through in his shipboard career. There had been an incredible amount of technological innovation aboardship since his day,
but the old architectural adage that form should follow function was never more true than on a warship. There was a familiarity
about naval architecture that was comforting. Yet, deep down, he knew that nothing was the same. “Did you ever serve on an
older ship, Ms. Phillips?”

The ensign glanced back over her shoulder. “No, sir. The Nimitz is my first ship.”

“Could you imagine what these corridors were like before air-conditioning?”

“I can imagine, sir.” The ensign stopped abruptly and opened a door marked “E-334.” She was relieved to be rid of her charge,
relieved not to have to hear a story about wooden ships and iron men. “Admiral Hennings, Commander.”

Hennings stepped into the small gray-painted room packed with electronics gear. The door closed behind him.

An enlisted man sat in front of a console. Standing behind the man and looking over his shoulder was Commander James Sloan.
Sloan looked up as Hennings entered the room. “Hello, Admiral. Did you see the launch?”

“Yes. The F-18 was being strapped to the catapult when I arrived on the bridge. Quite impressive.”

“That machine really moves. Excuse me for just one minute, Admiral.” Sloan leaned over and said something to the electronics
specialist, Petty Officer Kyle Loomis, in a voice just a bit too low for Hennings to hear.

Hennings could see that Sloan was unhappy. They were apparently having some technical difficulty. Still,

Hennings had the feeling that he was not being shown all the military courtesy possible, but decided not to make an issue
of it. Retired, after all, meant retired. He had one mission aboard the
Nimitz,
and that was to carry back the results of the “special test” to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, to carry on his person untitled
and unsigned test results, and to commit to memory everything that could not be written. He was a messenger. The execution
of the test was not an area he cared to get involved with.

His old friends in Washington threw him these consulting plums as a favor. He had little else to do. This time, however, he
was beginning to wish he hadn’t been home when the phone rang. Hennings had the feeling that all those soft jobs to exotic
places and those generous “consulting fees” had been a setup for the time when his friends might need a special favor. Could
this be that special time? Hennings shrugged. It didn’t matter. His friends had earned his loyalty, and he would provide it.

Commander Sloan was pointing to a panel of gauges above the console. Loomis mumbled something. Sloan shook his head. He was
clearly not happy.

“Problem, Commander?”

Sloan looked up and forced a smile. “Only the usual . . . Admiral.” He paused and considered for a second. “One of our high-frequency
channels to San Diego isn’t working. Can’t figure out why.” He glanced at the equipment panel as though it were an enlisted
man who had jumped ship.

“Will it delay things?”

Sloan thought it might, but that wasn’t the proper answer. “No. It shouldn’t. We can go through Pearl. Just a procedural step.”
He paused again. He wondered how much of this Hennings was taking in. “We could eliminate the step anyway. The things we need
are working.”

“Good. I’m to be at a conference tomorrow morning.”

Sloan already knew that. The famous breakfast meetings of the Joint Chiefs, where bleary-eyed old men turned the talk from
golf scores to nuclear holocaust with the ease of a piano player going through a familiar medley.

“I’m set up on a commercial flight out of Los Angeles late tonight. I need to be off the carrier by 1600 hours.”

“The mission should be completed shortly.”

“Good. Now, do you mind telling me why you summoned me here, Commander?” His tone was as gentlemanly as always, so the words
were more, not less, terse.

Sloan was taken aback for a second. “I didn’t summon . . . I mean, I thought you would want to be here.”

“This . . .” Hennings waved his hand around the room, “. . . this means very little to me. I would rather have just gotten
an oral and written report from you at the completion of the test. But if you want me here, I’ll stay.” He sat in a small
swivel chair.

“Thank you, sir, I would.” Sloan didn’t trust himself to say any more. He had treated Hennings in an offhand manner since
he’d come aboard, but now he was reminded, in case he had forgotten, that Randolf Hennings had friends. More than that, though,
the old saying, “Once an admiral, always an S.O.B.”, was brought home.

As Hennings watched Sloan shuffle through some papers, he realized for the first time how much Sloan wanted him to be here,
as an actual accomplice in the missile test. They were, Hennings now realized, doing something
criminal
. But it was too late to turn back. Hennings pushed those disquieting notions out of his mind and forced himself to think
of other things.

Sloan turned to the electronics. He peered at the panel intently, but he was trying to recall all that he knew about Randolf
Hennings. Action in and around Vietnam. He was considered a likable man by his peers, but you never knew about admirals, retired
or otherwise. They could change as quickly as the North Atlantic weather. Hennings was known for having enough perseverance
to get his job done but not enough to be a threat to his seniors. Those very seniors who had made it to the top had now picked
Hennings to carry out a most sensitive mission. Hennings was known to be the epitome of dependability and discretion. Like
a dinghy caught in the suction of a battleship’s wake, thought Sloan, retired Rear Admiral Hennings had followed at a speed
and course set by others. Yet Sloan had to reckon with him. He glanced back at Hennings. “Coffee, Admiral?”

“No, thank you.”

Sloan’s mind was still not on the electronics problem but on the politics of the test. He thought about asking Hennings for
some information, but decided that would be a mistake. At any rate, Hennings wouldn’t know much more than he, Sloan, did.

“Sir, the patch to Pearl isn’t carrying.”

Sloan looked at the electronics man. “What?”

“The problem might be on their end.”

“Right. Probably is.” Sloan glanced at Hennings. Hennings was drumming his fingers restlessly on the arm of his chair. His
attention seemed to be focused on the video screen that was displaying routine weather data.

Petty Officer Loomis glanced back over his shoulder. “Sir? Should I keep trying?”

Sloan tapped his foot. Time for a command decision. He felt acid in his stomach and knew why officers had more ulcers than
enlisted men. He considered. The test elements were nearly all in position. A delay could disrupt things for hours. Hennings
had to be at the Pentagon the next morning with the report. If the report said only “Special test delayed,” Commander James
Sloan would look bad. The men behind the test might lose their nerve and cancel it for good. Worse, they might think he had
lost his nerve. He considered asking Hennings for advice, but that would have been a tactical blunder.

“Sir,” the electronics man said, his hand poised over a set of switches on the console.

Sloan shook his head. “Get back to the mission profile. We can’t spend any more time on routine procedures. Send the approval
for the release, then get another update from Lieutenant Matos.”

Petty Officer Kyle Loomis returned to his equipment. He had begun to suspect that all was not routine here, but as a former
submariner, his knowledge of fighters and missiles was too limited to allow him to piece together what was not routine about
this test. Without anyone telling him, he knew that his ignorance had gotten him out of the submarine that he’d come to hate
and onto the
Nimitz
, which he found more tolerable. He also knew that his transfer request to the Mediterranean Fleet was secure as long as he
kept his mouth shut.

Sloan watched the electronics procedure for a few seconds, then glanced at Hennings. The old man was still staring at the
video screen, as inscrutable as if he had suddenly decided to turn Oriental. “Soon, Admiral.”

Hennings looked up. He nodded.

It occurred to Sloan that perhaps Hennings, like himself, wanted to go on record as having said nothing for the record.

Petty Officer Loomis spoke. “Sir, Lieutenant Matos is on-station. Orbiting in sector twenty-three.”

“All right. Tell him that we expect target information shortly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sloan tried to evaluate his own exposure in this thing. It had begun with the routine delivery of the two Phoenix test missiles
to the carrier a month before. He had signed for the missiles. Then came a routine communication from Pearl informing the
Nimitz
’s commander, Captain Diehl, that Hennings was coming to observe an air-to-air missile testing. Not unusual, but not routine.
Then came the brief communication that directed a routine practice firing of the missiles. The only exception to the routine
was that “procedures and distances” be in accordance with the manufacturer’s new specifications for the AIM-63X version of
the Phoenix. That was when Sloan had known that there was a top-level conspiracy—no, wrong word;
initiative
—a top-level initiative among the Joint Chiefs. They were going to secretly ignore the new arms limitation agreement that
Congress had enacted. And by a stroke of fate, Sloan had been named the technical officer in charge of conducting the test.
Within a year, he’d be a captain . . . or he’d be in Portsmouth Naval Prison. He looked at Hennings again. What was in this
for him?

Sloan knew that he could have backed out at any time by asking for shore leave. But those old men in the Pentagon had done
their homework well when they studied his personnel file. They knew a gambler when they saw one. A small stream of perspiration
ran down Sloan’s neck, and he hoped Hennings hadn’t noticed it. “Approximately ten minutes, Admiral.” He punched a button
on the console and a digital countdown clock began to run.

Sloan had an inordinate fascination, mixed with phobia, for countdown procedures. He watched the digital display running down.
He used the time to examine his motives and strengthen his resolve. To rationalize. The updated Phoenix was a crucial weapon
to have in the event of war, even though the idiots in Congress were acting as if there would never be any more wars. One
discreet test of this missile would tell the Joint Chiefs if it would work under combat conditions, if the increased maneuverability
would mean that the kill ratio of this newest weapon could be nearly one hundred percent.

The Navy brass would then know what they had, and the politicians could go on jawing and pretending. American airpower would
have an unpublicized edge, no matter what happened in the future. Russia could go back to being the Soviet Union and the Cold
War could refreeze; U.S. combat forces would have something extra. And with modern technology, a slight edge was all you could
ever hope for. All you ever needed, really. There was also the matter of the Navy finding its balls again, after countless
years of humiliation at the hands of the politicians, the gays, and the feminists. Nine minutes.

Commander Sloan poured a cup of coffee from a metal galley pitcher. He glanced at Hennings. The man was looking uncomfortable.
He could see it in his eyes, as he had seen it several times the day before. Did Hennings know something that he didn’t?