Mayday

  He stepped closer to the hole. He could feel the force of the slipstream as it pressed against his body. “Miriam, I love you. I’ve loved you all.” He was going to say, “God, forgive me,” but he was certain that this was what God had intended for him to do.

  With his arms wrapped tightly around his wife, Harold Stein stepped out of the aircraft and away from the nightmare of Flight 52.

  Lieutenant Peter Matos fidgeted in the seat of his F-18 fighter. A hundred yards ahead, the Trans-United Straton flew a steady course. Matos forced himself to glance at his panel clock. Its luminescent numbers seemed to jump out at him. He was amazed to see that it had been more than an hour since the Straton had turned toward California. To Matos, it seemed no more than a few minutes. He shook his head in disbelief. During all that time, all he remembered was receiving a few transmissions from Commander Sloan and doing some calculations with his navigation equipment. But other than those brief duties, he could not account for the missing minutes.

  Peter, snap out of it. Do something. Right now. Matos felt as if he were in a trance, hypnotized by the enormous and unchanging Pacific. He sucked hard on his oxygen mask to clear his head. Check the flight instruments, he said to himself. Matos knew that he should get himself back into his normal pilot’s routine. It was the best way to get his thoughts back on the right track. The gauge readings were familiar and friendly. Starting on the panel’s left side, he saw that the oil pressure was normal, the engine temperatures were normal, the fuel . . .

  Matos stopped. His brief moment of reverie ended abruptly. Jesus Christ. The F-18’s fuel situation was not yet critical, but Matos could see that it soon would be. Even though he had taken off on this mission with the maximum fuel the aircraft could carry, he would, without any question, have to do something very soon.

  Matos bit into his lower lip while his mind wrestled with the alternatives. But he knew what he had to do first. He read the hurriedly punched coordinates into his computer. He read the results. “Shit.” He had very little extra fuel left. The luxury of waiting out the Straton was coming to an end.

  What would happen next? Matos agonized over his choices. Should he defy Commander Sloan? He had never defied an order before, and the idea was unnerving. Bucking James Sloan—and the United States Navy, for that matter—was too drastic a course to consider. It was outside the range of his thoughts, just as the Nimitz would soon be outside the range of his fuel.

  Matos glanced at the Straton. It was flying evenly and steadily. Too steadily. He knew damn well that he had exaggerated those last damage reports he had sent to Sloan. Fatigue cracks have developed along the cabin wall. The wing spar may be damaged. It can’t fly much longer. It will overstress soon. None of that was exactly false, but it wasn’t true either. There were some cracks and signs of stress, but . . .

  “Navy, three-four-seven, do you read?”

  Sloan’s sudden transmission startled Matos. “Roger,” he answered, gripping tightly to the F-18’s control stick, “go ahead.” He could tell from the Commander’s voice that he had grown impatient with their unspoken plan. A sense of dread flooded Matos. He had, he now realized, put off the inevitable as long as he could.

  “What’s the situation?” Sloan asked tersely.

  “No change so far.”

  “Nothing?” Sloan sounded honestly astonished.

  “What about the fatigue cracks? What about the wing spar?”

  “A little more deterioration. Maybe. Not much.” Matos wished he hadn’t begun this lie. It had only made things worse. He allowed his eyes to wander over to the missile-firing controls on his side console. He was sorry he had waited. He should have shot the Straton down immediately, before he had time to think about it.

  “Matos, your damage reports have been pure bull-shit. You’ve only made this goddamn job longer and harder for everyone. Don’t think I’ll forget that.”

  “No. The Straton was getting worse,” Matos lied. “Its airspeed is still steady at 340, but its altitude has drifted slightly . . .” Something caught Matos’s eye. It was a small, dark object below the Straton. It was falling rapidly toward the sea. Was it part of the fuselage? Was the airliner finally coming apart? Matos peered over the side of his canopy, and as he did his finger slipped off the transmit button.

  “Matos,” shouted Sloan as he latched on to the radio’s clear channel, “I don’t give a shit about airspeeds and altitudes. Will that goddamn airplane go down? That’s what I want to know. Answer the fucking question.”

  “Homeplate—people are falling out of the Straton!” Matos had not heard one word of Sloan’s last message.

  “What? Say again.”

  “Yes. They’re falling. Jumping.” Matos edged his fighter downward, closer to the airliner. He could see clearly now, as he watched another body tumble out of the port-side hold. Oh, my God. “There’s another one! There must be a fire inside.” It was the only reason Matos could think of for a person to jump to a certain death. He watched the second body turn end over end until it was too far away to see its flailing arms and legs. It receded farther and farther away, until it was no more than a black pinpoint silhouetted against the sea. Then he saw it hit the waves and disappear instantly beneath them.

  “Do you see any smoke?”

  Smoke? Matos jerked his head up and stared at the Straton. But everything appeared as it had before. Too calm. Too steady. Matos ran his tongue across his parched lips, then pushed the transmit button. “No visible smoke. Not yet.” His new bubble of hope hadn’t yet burst, but it was quickly losing air. No smoke, no fire, nothing. What could be happening in there? For a brief instant he realized the kind of person he had turned into. He pushed that thought aside. He could live with the memory of this accident—even if it was his fault—as long as he didn’t do anything else to the Straton. Please, God, let it go down. By itself.

  “Matos, don’t give me more bullshit,” Sloan said angrily, but then quickly changed his tone. “Is there any turbulence? Do you see any reason for them to jump?”

  “No,but . . . wait . . . wait . . . ” Matos kept his finger pressed firmly to the microphone button. “More people are jumping. Two of them. Together. Yes. There must be something going on. Definitely. A fire, or fumes. Something. No doubt. We should wait. Wait. It will go down. I know it will.”

  Sloan did not answer for a long time. When he finally did, his voice had again assumed a flat and official tone. “Roger, three-four-seven. Understand. We will wait.”

  As he fell with his wife in his arms, Harold Stein raised his head up and stared at the Straton above him. In that split second he saw and identified a jet fighter hovering above and behind the huge aircraft. The silver image of a long rocket hanging from its belly stuck in his mind. In a clear flash of understanding, he knew what had happened to Flight 52.

  Wayne Metz disengaged the BMW cruise control and took the airport entrance at sixty miles an hour. He drove directly to the Trans-United hangar and slipped the BMW into a VIP space. He sat staring up at the blue and yellow hangar for a full minute.

  He had come up with a plan that could greatly reduce Beneficial’s enormous liability. A plan that would lessen his own liability as well.

  The plan had not been difficult to formulate. It was an obvious one. The problem now was to convince Edward Johnson that their interests coincided, and that these mutual interests could best be served by Wayne Metz’s plan. He thought he knew Johnson well enough to risk approaching him.

  Metz rummaged around his glove compartment and found his Trans-United ID card. He got out of his car and crossed the hot tarmac toward the hangar. He spotted the personnel entrance and quickened his pace. A group of airline employees stood near the door talking, and Metz brushed by them. He flashed his Trans-United “Official Visitor/Contractor” identification card at the guard, then pushed open the small inner door and mounted a flight of steps two at a time. He moved quickly down a long corridor and opened a blue door marked DISPATCH OFFICE.

&
nbsp; Metz approached a clerk. “I’m here to see Edward Johnson.”

  The clerk pointed to the glass-enclosed communications room. “Over there. But I don’t think he’s seeing anyone.”

  “He’s seeing me.” Metz crossed the office and stood in front of one of the thick glass panels. In the small room he could see Edward Johnson looking down at a big machine. Another man stood next to him. In an instant, Metz could see that they were both highly tense, and guessed that the tension was not completely a result of the situation but was partly generated by a friction between the two men. Metz knew that his plan could work only if he were alone with Johnson. He watched for another few seconds. The other man appeared to be a subordinate. Johnson could get rid of him. Metz rapped sharply on the glass.

  Johnson looked up, then walked to the door and unlocked it.

  Wayne Metz entered the communications room. “Hello, Ed.”

  The two men shook hands perfunctorily.

  Johnson noticed that several of the employees were looking up from their work. He glared back at them, and heads lowered all over the office. He slammed the door and bolted it. “Goddamned center stage.” Everything in this damned Straton program was too visible. He motioned to Miller. “This is Jack Miller. He’s the senior dispatcher. Fifty-two was his flight.”

  Metz nodded absently to Miller, then turned to Johnson. “Was? Did it . . . ?”

  “No. Wrong tense. It’s still up there. But it’s my flight now. Jack is helping out.” Yet Johnson knew that deep down he had already written the Straton off. The past tense fit the Straton, but he’d have to be more careful when he spoke of the aircraft. You had to sound optimistic. “Actually, we haven’t communicated with them since I spoke to you. But the flight is steady and there’s no reason to keep calling. If he wants us, he’ll call.”

  Metz nodded. “It looks like he might make it, then?”

  Johnson shook his head. “I didn’t say that. We’ve got to talk him through an approach and landing.” He decided to be blunt with Metz. “As far as I’m concerned, that’s almost certain death.” He motioned toward Miller. “Jack’s a bit more optimistic. He thinks this guy Berry can make a perfect three-point landing and taxi to the assigned gate.”

  Miller cleared his throat. “I do think he has a chance, Mr. Metz. He seems competent. The messages reflect that.” He glanced between Johnson and the printout of the data-link messages lying on the console.

  Johnson nodded.

  Miller picked up the messages. “All the data-link messages are here if you’d like to see them.”

  Johnson pulled them from Miller’s hand and thrust them toward Metz. “Go ahead, Wayne. Read them. They’re good for your ulcer. That goddamned Straton. I knew that goddamned airplane would get us.”

  Metz took the sheets and began reading. He subconsciously shook his head. The impersonal words, spelled out in that odd computer type, somehow made the news much worse. Made it infinitely more believable in any case. Lack of air pressure caused brain damage.

  Miller glanced at Metz, then at Johnson. He barely knew Metz, but felt an instinctive dislike for the man. Too meticulously dressed. His hair was styled like a movie star’s. Miller didn’t trust men like that, although he knew it wasn’t a fair way to judge. The fact that Johnson had asked Metz to come in was indicative of the way this airline was run these days. Ten or twenty years before, this room would have been filled with men in shirtsleeves, smoking, and drinking coffee— pilots, flight instructors, executives, dispatchers, the Straton Aircraft people, anyone who cared about Trans-United and who could lend a hand. Today, when an aircraft got into trouble, they called the insurance man and the corporation lawyers before anyone else. No one dared to smoke a cigarette, or say anything that wasn’t politically correct. It was time, thought Miller, to get out of the business.

  Metz handed the messages back to Miller and turned to Johnson. “Are you certain these messages are an accurate appraisal?”

  Johnson tapped his finger on the stack of printouts. “If he says people are dead, they’re dead. I imagine that he also knows what two holes look like.”

  “I’m talking about the brain damage business. And why do you think it’s irrevocable?”

  “My expert,” he nodded toward Miller, “tells me that, more than likely, what Berry is observing is in fact brain damage. Is it irrevocable? Probably. It’s caused by cells dying. That’s irrevocable. But who’s to say for sure what state those poor bastards are in? Berry is an amateur pilot, not a neurosurgeon. For all we know, Berry could be the son-of-a-bitch who planted the bomb in the first place, although that doesn’t seem too likely.”

  Metz nodded. “Well, it certainly looks bad.”

  “Very perceptive,” said Johnson. “Thank you for sharing. I’m glad I asked you here.”

  Metz decided to play it cool. “Why did you ask me here?”

  Johnson stared at him a long time. He answered, finally, “Evans called you because you’re in the emergency handbook.”

  Metz looked pointedly around the empty room.

  Johnson smiled to himself. Metz was a sharp customer. He was playing hard to get. “All right, I wanted some assurances from you, Mr. Insurance Man. First of all, are we completely covered for this type of thing?”

  “You would seem to be. Your hull carrier will cover the damage to the aircraft, of course. But everything else is our potential responsibility.”

  Johnson didn’t like “seem” or “potential.” He said, “Including any claims that arise if the Straton smacks into San Francisco? Everything it hits? Everybody on the ground?”

  “That’s basically correct.”

  Johnson paced for a few seconds. He hadn’t gotten the bad news that Metz wanted to give him, because he hadn’t yet asked the right questions. He looked up at Metz. “Can your company afford this?”

  Metz gave a barely perceptible shrug.

  Johnson stopped pacing. A chill ran up his spine. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that no one can answer that until the damage is done. It also means that it is the responsibility of the insured to take every reasonable step to minimize the loss. It also means that Trans-United Airlines had better be able to prove that the accident was not a direct result of negligence on its part. It—”

  “Wait a goddamned minute. First of all, you’d better have the money. Secondly, we are trying to minimize the loss. That’s what we’re here to do. Thirdly, there was no negligence on . . .” But even as he said it, Johnson wondered again if any of his recent cutbacks in maintenance could have contributed to the accident—or could be made to look that way by some lawyer.

  “Someone with a bomb slipped through your security. Maybe Berry. You almost said so yourself.”

  Johnson took a step toward Metz, then turned to Miller. “Call the legal department, Jack. Then escort Mr. Metz out of here.”

  Metz realized he had pushed too far. “Wait. There are a few things I’d like to speak to about first.” He nodded toward Miller. “Privately.”

  Before Johnson could respond, there was a knock at the door. All three men turned.

  Dennis Evans stood on the other side of the glass, nervously clutching a piece of paper.

  Edward Johnson walked to the door and unlocked it. “What is it, Evans?”

  “I’ve got a call about the Straton,” said Evans waving the paper in his hand. “From air traffic control. They can’t contact Flight 52. They want to know if we can contact them on a company frequency. The guy who called, Malone, thought the flight might be having radio trouble.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing, sir. I put him off.” He handed Johnson the piece of paper. “This is his name and phone number. I told him we’d call him back.”

  Johnson took the note and stuck it into his pocket. “Okay, Evans. Good work.” He closed the door before Evans could reply. Johnson turned and approached the telephone.

  Metz placed himself between Johnson an
d the phone. “Hold on, Ed. Can’t we have that talk first?”

  Johnson was not accustomed to having someone try to intimidate him. He decided that Wayne Metz was either very brash or very desperate. In either case, he had something on his mind. “I have to call them. It should have been done first thing, only this accident is happening all ass-backwards. Normally, there’d be a search-and-rescue operation heading toward them already. We’re probably going to be in a shit pot of trouble over these delays as it is.”

  Jack Miller moved around the men and picked up the phone. “I’ll take the rap for that. Give me the number, Ed. I’ll call.”

  Johnson shook his head impatiently. “Don’t be an idiot. I’ll hang Evans with it. He’s the stupid son-of-a-bitch who was supposed to make all the calls.”

  “I’m the man in charge.”

  “Jack, let me handle it.” Johnson turned and spoke to Metz. “First of all, there was always the possibility that the data-link messages were a hoax. That’s why we delayed in calling. Second, like I said, this accident happened ass-backwards. Air traffic control is always the first to find out, and they, in turn, notify the airline involved. Having a distress message come in on the company data-link is highly unusual. Actually, it’s never happened to any airline. It isn’t even covered in the company’s emergency handbook. And don’t forget that you asked me not to call any—”

  Metz shook his head impatiently. “This FAA business is no concern of mine. I only want to plan our announcement before you make any calls. We should keep the operations and the liability conversations separate. Otherwise, it might compromise our posture in court. I need a minute with you. One minute.”

  Johnson looked at Miller. “Jack . . .”

  Miller shook his head. “Now, wait a minute. Flight 52 is my flight, Ed. I have to know what’s going on.”

  Johnson put his hand on Miller’s shoulder. “This is just insurance crap, Jack. You don’t want to hear it, because if you do, you’ll be asked about it someday. Give us just one minute.”