Mayday (5 page)

Matos worked hard at his duties, studied his manuals, watched what he said, never bucked the chain of command, expressed opinions
only when asked, and carried out all orders with enthusiasm and without hesitation. Outwardly, he was sure he was getting
it all right, but inwardly, he prayed to San Geronimo that he wouldn’t be passed over for promotion. One pass-over could mean
the end of his military career, especially in a peacetime Navy.

Loomis’s voice jarred him out of his reverie. “Navy three-four-seven, do you have target acquisition?”

Matos glanced down at his radar screen. “Negative, Homeplate.”

“Roger, Navy. Keep us informed.”

“Will do.” Matos kept an eye on the radar screen as he let his mind drift back to the larger problems. Matos was certain that
the results of this test would determine how the rest of his life would run. The test was secret. That much he was told. It
was also illegal. That much he had figured out for himself. What he could not figure out was why they had chosen him to fire
this missile.

The new AIM-63X Phoenix missiles rode on the belly mounts of his F-18. For this test, the missiles were fitted with dummy
warheads of stainless steel and titanium, and the target was a supersonic military drone launched several hundred miles away
by a Navy C-130 Hercules turboprop. Except for those facts, thought Matos, he could have been aiming a pair of live missiles
at an attacking Tupolev bomber or a Chinese MiG-21. Of course, both Russia and China were friends of the United States at
the moment—but like most military people, Matos knew that friends like these could turn into foes in a heartbeat.

Matos glanced down at his radar screen. No target yet. Today’s mission was a maximum-range exercise to test the updated maneuverability
of the new weapon. The radar’s normal 200-mile range had been modified to accept a 500-mile limit. Once launched, the new
Phoenix would require none of his usual follow-through guidance. His orders were to fire the first missile, wait for it to
stabilize, fire the second missile, then turn 180 degrees and proceed at top speed away from the combat area. The new self-guidance
system would seek out the target and continue to track it with no further assistance from Peter Matos.

Tactically, this missile was much safer for a combat pilot. Before the enemy craft knew they had been attacked, the fighter
was gone. Matos wasn’t sure he liked this innovation. It called for less personal skill than guiding the missile from the
F-18, and it was not as . . . manly . . . as remaining in the area. Too, there was no longer even a remote possibility of
seeing the hit. But none of that was his business.

He focused on the radar. An electronic blip began to track across the outer fringes of his screen. He pressed the radio button
on his control stick. “Homeplate. Three-four-seven has preliminary target acquisition.” His voice was cool, almost laconic.
He smiled at the image of those German and Japanese pilots on the late-night movies screaming into their aircraft’s radio,
while the American and British pilots always sounded so bored as their craft was falling apart around their ears. Cool. “Do
you copy, Homeplate?”

“Roger, three-four-seven. Preliminary target acquisition. Proceed. Out.”

Lieutenant Matos punched a console button, then raised his eyes toward the firing control processor. An electronic symbol
slewed to the target’s blip. Matos watched the screen for a few seconds. Suddenly, another blip appeared. Matos blinked. He
looked again. The second blip looked weaker and smaller. It was directly behind the first one.
False image
, Matos thought.
Some screwy transistor or diode a tenth of a degree too warm. Something like that
. He’d experienced these electronic aberrations before. So had most of the fighter pilots in his squadron. Glitches, or angels,
they were called. False images. Echoes. Bounceback. Reflections from some other radar set. Reflections from the surface of
the sea. Apparitions with no more substance than a vapor cloud. Vaporware, in the parlance of modern-day computer-speak.

Matos pressed a button on his console. He twisted a knob to adjust the screen’s resolution setting. The aft target began to
fade. Then it disappeared. It appeared to have merged with the original, stronger blip, which he was certain was the target.
He pressed his radio talk button. “Homeplate, Navy three-four-seven has the target in good resolution. Distance is four hundred
and eighty miles. Over.”

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.

J
ohn 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.

The distance between the hunter and the hunted narrowed to less than 200 miles. The missile was traveling at Mach 3, covering
nearly one mile every second.

Matos started to press the radio button but took his hand away. He racked his brain for answers.
Could the Hercules be off course? Could my navigation equipment be wrong?
He knew that if the problem was his equipment, it would still be technically his fault. An error from his craft was equivalent
to an error from its captain. It was unfair, but effective. It compelled those in authority to pay close attention to details.
The modern Navy was getting away from that concept, but it wasn’t totally gone. Not yet. And this accountability did not discriminate
between the captain of the 91,000-ton
Nimitz
and the captain of a 64,000-pound naval aircraft. Electronics could betray you, but a navigation set would never stand in
the dock with you in front of a board of inquiry. If he had fired at the Hercules, a demonstrable mechanical fault in his
navigation set might keep him from being court-martialed, but his naval career would be finished. He reminded himself that
the naval careers of the crew of the Hercules would be terminated even more abruptly if that missile were headed for them.