Mayday (39 page)

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 inter-phone 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 airsea rescue craft will home in on
his raft transmitter.”

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.