Berry knew that sending a list of who was still in the cockpit—who was still alive and rational—was an unnecessary addition to the message. But after his comment to Sharon about them needing to not split up anymore, sending that shortened list of names seemed like a necessary comment to the world. Berry pushed the transmit button, and they waited in the silent cockpit.
Suddenly, the door swung open. Linda Farley screamed.
Berry vaulted out of his chair and stared up at the door. Faces, some grinning, some frowning, peered in at him. Daniel McVary stepped into the cockpit, looking, thought Berry, very irate.
Berry grabbed the fire extinguisher from the floor and sprayed it into the faces closest to him. The people screamed and tried to move back, but the press from behind was too great and the crowd moved forward, squeezing through the door, one and two at a time, into the cockpit.
Berry was vaguely aware of the sounds of feminine screams behind him and the hands and faces pressing in on him. Without being conscious of it, he had raised the heavy metal extinguisher above his head and brought it down into the face of the man closest to him. The man’s face erupted into a distorted mass of red pulp.
Berry swung the extinguisher again and again, striking at the heads and faces of the men and women around him. He was half aware of hitting a young boy in the face. Screams filled the cockpit and the lounge, and drowned out the sounds of even the Straton’s engines. Blood and teeth splattered in the air, and he could hear the distinct crack of skulls and jaws. The loudest sound of all was a voice that he identified as his own. The voice bellowed out like an animal in agony.
Berry swung the extinguisher, but nothing stood around him any longer. He dropped to one knee, picked up a body and pushed it out the door, then pushed and pulled the rest of the limp or writhing forms into the lounge. He laid them in an open space made by the crowd, which stood in a semicircle watching curiously, fearfully, but without any hate or anger that he could detect. McVary, he noticed, was among them.
Berry grabbed the edge of the door and drew it toward him as he stepped back into the cockpit. He turned and looked around, trying to focus his eyes.
Sharon Crandall was standing in front of him. She had kicked off her shoes and was peeling off her panty hose. She pushed by him without a word and tied the feet of the hose around the small broken latch, then pulled on them.
Berry grabbed the top of the panty hose and stretched them out. He looked around quickly for something to fasten it to.
Fingers and hands curled around the edge of the door, trying to pull it open. Berry pulled harder on the hose, drawing the door tight against the probing fingers. He found a cross brace on the left sidewall. He looped the panty hose around the brace and pulled them so tightly that they thinned out, resembling a long rope running between the door and the cross brace. He knotted it quickly, then leaned back heavily against the pilot’s chair, his whole body shaking. An involuntary laugh rose in his throat.
Sharon fell into his arms and they held on to each other, her body trembling against his, both of them trying to keep from crying and laughing.
Linda Farley moved toward them tentatively, then rushed to them, circling their waists with her arms.
Berry looked up at the door. There was less than an inch of opening around the jamb, and no fingers probing at the edges. He saw blood splattered on the door’s blue-green paint. He pressed Sharon closer to him.
“Oh, God, Sharon, good thinking. . . . God, we . . .”
Crandall shook her head quickly and wiped her tears. “How stupid of me not to think of it sooner.”
“Me too,” Berry said. It was an indication of his state of mind, he thought, that his initial resourcefulness was failing him. He wondered if he hadn’t misjudged San Francisco’s intentions.
He stepped away from Sharon and Linda, then looked down at his hands. He was covered with blood, and he could see pieces of teeth, gums, and flesh on his arms and hands. The gray carpet near the door was soaked with blood. As the shock wore off, he felt his stomach heave, and his body began to tremble again. He stumbled up to the pilot’s chair and sat there trying to get control of himself.
Linda sat in the extra pilot’s chair, slumped over the small desk on the sidewall, her face buried in her arms. Sharon stood behind the girl and stroked her hair.
After a full minute, Berry looked up at the data-link screen and stared at the new message that was waiting there to be read.
TO FLIGHT 52: EXECUTE TURN AS INSTRUCTED. SATELLITE SETS NOT CRITICAL FOR FINDING HAWAII—BUT WILL BEGIN NAV OPERATING INSTRUCTIONS EN ROUTE TO HAWAII. UNDERSTAND 3 REMAINING IN COCKPIT. ACKNOWLEDGE. SAN FRANCISCO HQ.
It seemed to Berry that the tone of the last few data-link messages had changed, as though someone new was sending them. But, of course, he knew that it was he, the receiver, who was reading them in a different state of mind.
Sharon stepped over the panty hose at her feet and leaned over Berry’s chair. She looked down at the message. She had decided that if she was going to trust him, she would trust him completely, with no reservations, no hesitation. “What are you going to do?”
Berry kept staring at the new message. It seemed to be patently wrong. If only he could speak to them on the radio, hear their voices instead of reading words displayed on a cathode-ray tube. He remembered his near panic when he had no communication, and knew he ought to be thankful for even this.
Berry thought a minute, then shook his head. “They say they know where we are, but what if they’re wrong? Then the new heading is wrong. A few degrees at this distance from Hawaii would put us hundreds of miles off course. And what if this damned data-link malfunctions before we reach Hawaii? They won’t be able to send us any course corrections. What if the satellite navigation system doesn’t work, or if I can’t work it?” He thought of something he’d read once. The least reliable component of a modern airplane is its pilot. In this case that was he, John Berry. He looked at the control panels in front of him. “We’d run out of fuel somewhere in the Pacific. I’d have to try to land in the ocean. It would be a race between the rescue craft and . . . the sharks.”
Sharon put her hands on his shoulders, then leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “John, Linda is . . .”
“Sorry.”
She turned her face and kissed him on the cheek, then straightened up quickly. She looked down at the panty hose and followed it with her eyes to the door handle. It was taut and secure. No hands poked around the small crack in the door. Suddenly, she felt optimistic again. She looked over at Linda. “All right,” she said, trying to put a light tone in her voice. “Linda, Hawaii or California?”
The girl picked up her head from the desk. “I want to go home.”
Sharon smiled. “California it is, then. John, tell them we’re coming home.”
Berry felt the tears collect in his eyes and wiped them quickly. He reached out to the console and typed a short, succinct message.
12
Edward Johnson stared down at the message that had just come from Flight 52.
TO SAN FRANCISCO: WE DO NOT WANT TO TURN. HAWAII IS TOO SMALL A TARGET. WILL MAINTAIN CURRENT HEADING OF 120 DEGREES. ADVISE US OF EXACT COURSE AND DISTANCE/TIME TO SAN FRANCISCO AS SOON AS YOUR COMPUTATIONS ARE AVAILABLE. BERRY.
“Shit.” Johnson took out a cigar and bit the end off. “Smart-ass son-of-a-bitch.” He looked at the cigar for a moment, then threw it on the floor.
Metz looked at Johnson. He hadn’t liked this idea of heading the Straton toward Hawaii, and he was half relieved that it hadn’t worked. “You have to do something, Ed. You have to give him instructions that will put him down so we can get the hell out of here before—”
“Shut up, Metz. I know what I have to do.” There was some question in his mind about whether or not Berry was onto his game. “I can’t push him. He’s too savvy.”
“What are you going to answer?”
“What choice do I have? I’m going to give him the information
he asked for.”
“Christ, now we’re helping him.”
“I have to get him off our backs for a while.” Johnson walked to the Pacific chart. He picked up a ruler from the counter and took some crude measurements. “They won’t be any better off with this new heading. Maybe a little worse off. But I can’t make it too absurd. Berry is . . .”
“I know. Sharp.”
“I was going to say he may be suspicious.”
Metz walked to the data-link machine and slapped his hand on it. “Don’t let this guy spook you. He’s some weekend pilot sitting in the biggest, most complicated aircraft ever built—which, incidentally, has two rather large holes in it, and is crammed full of the living dead. Christ. John Wayne couldn’t buck those odds.” He paused, then said softly, “All Berry needs is a little nudge in the wrong direction and he’ll fall.”
Johnson ignored him and sat down at the data-link. He typed.
TO FLIGHT 52: WE ARE HERE TO HELP YOU BUT WILL DEFER TO YOUR JUDGMENT IN THIS MATTER. PLEASE FOLLOW OUR TECHNICAL INSTRUCTIONS TO THE LETTER. IN COMPLIANCE WITH YOUR REQUEST, ACCURATE HEADING TO SAN FRANCISCO IS 131 DEGREES. DISTANCE IS 1950 MILES. ESTIMATED TIME EN ROUTE IS FIVE HOURS AND TEN MINUTES AT CURRENT SPEED. AM ARRANGING FOR MILITARY INTERCEPT. PROBABLY INTERCEPT YOU WITHIN TWO HOURS. SAN FRANCISCO HQ
Metz glanced up at the wall clock. It read 2:02.
Johnson followed his gaze. “That’s right. They won’t be in ATC radar range much before six p.m. We have time before anyone sees them on a radar screen.”
“What about the military?”
Johnson allowed himself a smile. “If you don’t call them, I promise, I won’t either.”
“I mean, hasn’t Air Traffic Control called them already?”
“Sure. Half the Air Force and Navy are headed their way. But they don’t have their true heading, and it’s a mighty big sky out there.” Johnson walked over to the weather map printer and glanced down at it. “To add to the search problems, some bad weather is moving in out there.”
Metz looked impatient. “The way our luck is running, they’ll probably find them in the next ten minutes.”
“Our luck? Mr. Berry’s luck hasn’t been too good today, either. I’ll bet this is one flight he wished he’d missed. I’ll take our luck over his. Anyway, even if a boat or plane does spot them, they can’t do much for them. Only we can do that, because only we are in contact with them, and no one knows that but us.”
“Well, what are we going to do for them? What are we going to do to nudge that pilot down?”
The telephone rang. Johnson rose, walked to the counter, and picked it up. “Johnson.” He paused. “Yes, sir. We’re still trying to make contact. No, sir, I think I can be more effective here.” He spoke for a minute, then said, “If any questions arise, I’ll be here. Thank you.” He replaced the receiver and looked at Metz. “That was our illustrious airline president. Everyone is in the executive conference room. And with any luck they will stay there, close to the bar and the air-conditioning. They don’t like this room.”
“I’m not crazy about it myself.” Metz looked at the telephone. “I have a boss, too, and he’s probably wondering what the hell is going on. If I knew what was going on, I’d call him.”
“You’d better call him before he starts hearing things on the news, or before our president calls him. Presidents are like that. They call people and ask what’s going on. Anyway, if insurance company presidents are like airline presidents, he’ll really want to know everything.”
Metz stared at the phone. “I’ll wait.” He turned to Johnson. “Well, what instructions are you going to give to Berry?”
Johnson opened the pilot’s manual. He glanced at Metz. “There’s an expression: the first time you give bad advice it’s excusable, the second time it’s suspicious, the third time it’s enemy action. I suppose I have one more shot at it.” He looked down at the book.
“Don’t overestimate him. If we’re going to sink him, we have to take some chances.”
Johnson flipped through the book as he spoke.
“When I offered him that vector, I held my breath. You know why? Because there is absolutely no way we could have determined his true position, and I didn’t know if he knew that. Also, vector is shorthand for radar vector, and there is no radar out there. That’s the equivalent of me telling you that the fastest way to Sausalito is to drive over the bay without using the Golden Gate Bridge. I gambled that Berry knew nothing about over-ocean flying. I also gambled that Ms. Crandall never spent a lot of time hanging around the cockpit listening to our pilots bore her with flying lessons. So don’t tell me about taking chances.”
Metz wiped the perspiration from his face with a handkerchief. “God, I didn’t know it was going to be this complicated.”
“Ignorance, Mr. Metz, is bliss. And if you are so ignorant that you think we can yell ‘Game’s over’ and go home and forget what we tried to do, then I have news for you. As soon as I sent that bullshit message, we were committed. Because if he gets back, we may be able to lie about the phony break in communications, but we can’t lie about that phony vector.”
Metz lowered himself into a chair. “If they get back . . . if they do land . . . we can say they misunderstood. They were suffering from lack of oxygen . . .”
Johnson stopped at a page and began reading, then looked up. “Right. If they do get back and survive the landing, we can say that. Maybe we can make everyone believe that an amateur pilot who was smart enough to land a supersonic jetliner is too stupid to accurately recall the messages we sent a short while before. Besides, there are still three normal people in that cockpit with functioning brains. But the biggest factor of all might well become the printouts. Wayne, do you see the printouts that are coming from our data-link?” Johnson asked.
“Yes.” Metz had forgotten about them, and what their existence implied. “We’ve got to get rid of those.”
“Good thought, Sherlock. But before we do, take a guess where the corresponding printouts are. Go ahead. One guess.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Right. Data-links sure act funny sometimes, but they don’t get brain damaged, and don’t babble on with conveniently murderous messages. What we’ve sent to that cockpit is more than enough to have us indicted for attempted murder. If the printer in the cockpit is turned on—and it usually is, as a backup—then they’ll have all the physical evidence they’ll need.”
Metz slumped forward in his chair. “Good God! Why didn’t you tell me all this?”
“Why? Because you have no real balls. You were all for this as long as you thought I could come up with a simple technical solution to the problem of putting the Straton in the ocean. If you knew all the problems involved, you would have run off to your group therapy or wherever it is that screw-up insurance whiz kids go.”
Metz stood slowly. “It’s more than our careers now. If . . .”
“Right. It’s our lives against theirs. If they land, we go up for twenty to life. That might affect our promotions.” Johnson looked back at the book, then glanced up at the data-link. He turned to Metz. “Instead of standing there with your finger up your ass, go over to the link and very coolly remove the printouts of the last messages.”
Metz walked over to the machine. His hands were shaking and perspiration ran from his face. He looked up into the dispatch office. Occasionally a man would glance up at him.
Johnson stood and walked toward the door. “Go on, Wayne. One quick motion, from the printer to your pocket.” Johnson put his hand on the doorknob to attract the attention of anyone outside who was watching them. “Go.”
Metz ripped the messages off and stuffed them in his trouser pocket.
Johnson pretended to change his mind and walked away from the door. He sat back down at the counter.
“Very good. In case of imminent capture, eat them.”
Metz walked up to Johnson. “I don’t like your sense of humor.”
Johnson shrugge
d. “I’m not sure I like your lack of one. First sign of mental disease—lack of humor. Inability to see the funny side of things. Humor keeps you alert and opened to all possibilities.”
Metz felt he was losing control of the situation. He felt he had unleashed forces that were now beyond his control. Everything in this room, including Johnson, seemed so alien. He could manipulate people and he could also manipulate, through them, their technology, their factories, their machines. But he couldn’t manipulate the machines themselves. The human factor was really not so unpredictable as the technical factors— the computers and the engines that ran when they should have stopped, stopped when they should have run. “I have a feeling that the Straton will land unless we bring it down.”
Johnson smiled. “I think you’ve finally arrived at the truth. There is nothing radically wrong with that aircraft or its pilot. If his nerve holds, he’ll bring it down on some runway, somewhere, and in some sort of condition that will allow him or some of the others in the cockpit, or the flight recorder, to survive.”
“We can’t let that happen.”
“No, we can’t.” Johnson tapped his finger on the pilot’s manual. “In this book is something that will finish him—quickly. And I think I’m onto what it is.”
The early afternoon sun reflected brilliantly off the tranquil sea that surrounded the USS Chester W. Nimitz . The aircraft carrier plodded steadily along its course. A moderate breeze, generated by the ship’s eighteen knots of forward speed, swept across its empty flight deck from bow to stern. Below-decks, the afternoon’s activities were routine.
Commander James Sloan and retired Rear Admiral Randolf Hennings sat quietly in room E-334 on the 0-2 level of the conning tower. Neither of them had spoken for several minutes; each was lost in his own thoughts. For Sloan, the problem was clear and the solution was obvious. For Hennings, the situation was far more complex. Sloan’s face was set in a rigid, uncompromising expression. Hennings’s face betrayed his inner struggle.