Mayday (19 page)

“Okay. Okay. Good, good.” Miller’s eyes darted around the dispatch office. Everyone was looking at him. He was the senior
dispatcher, and 52 was his flight. Either way, it was his responsibility. That’s what the handbook said. But things never
happened the way they were supposed to. For some reason, this emergency message had come directly to him on the data-link,
and not through the normal channels. He was unsure of his next step.

Assistant dispatcher Dennis Evans spoke in a flat monotone that reached him over the noises in the room. “We’d better call
someone. Quick.”

Miller frowned. Evans was a pain in the ass, but this time he was right. “All right, Dennis,” Miller said in a sharp tone.
“You make the notifications. Use the emergency handbook. Call everyone on the list. Tell them . . .” Miller looked at the
message fluttering in his unsteady hand. He knew that from here on they must be very careful. A thousand people, from their
bosses at Trans-United to government officials and media people, would second-guess every move they made, every breath they
took. Jack Miller and his dispatch office was suddenly onstage. He looked at Evans. “Tell everyone you call that the nature
of 52’s emergency is still unknown. Give them only the barest details. Fifty-two sent a blind message on the link. Aircraft
damaged. Need help. But they’re still transmitting, so it might not be too bad.” He paused and looked around the room. “Captain
Stuart is the best there is.”

Evans reached for his telephone and began speed-dialing.

“Let’s move.” Miller motioned toward the communications room and led the way through the door.

Miller sat at the data-link console and Brewster stood beside him. A dozen dispatchers squeezed into the small stuffy room
and jockeyed for positions around the console.

Miller loosened his tie. “Is the code still set?”

Brewster nodded. “Yes, sir.” He wondered at what point he would confess his negligence.

Jack Miller began to type.

TO FLIGHT 52. EXPLAIN NATURE OF EMERGENCY. NATURE OF ASSISTANCE REQUESTED. AMOUNT OF FUEL REMAINING. PRESENT POSITION.

Miller pushed the transmit button and sat back.

The room grew very still. Someone coughed. Some brief remarks were passed in low tones.

The data-link’s bell sounded and everyone crowded closer.

Miller motioned to Brewster. “Turn on the overhead monitor. I’ll work the console and display. Everyone else step back and
read the monitor. I need room to work the keys.”

The video screen on the rear wall of the communications room lit up. White letters began to appear on the green repeater screen
at the same time they printed on the smaller data-link unit.

FROM FLIGHT 52. TWO PILOTS UNCONSCIOUS. ONE DEAD. I AM A PRIVATE PILOT. AIRCRAFT HAS TWO HOLES IN CABIN. SUSPECT BOMB. NO
FIRE. COMPLETE DECOMPRESSION. DEAD AND INJURED. ALL INCOHERENT EXCEPT TWO FLIGHT ATTENDANTS, TWO PASSENGERS AND MYSELF. SEARCHING
CABIN FOR OTHERS. NEED INSTRUCTIONS TO FLY AIRCRAFT. AUTOPILOT ON. ALTITUDE 11,000. AIRSPEED 340. MAGNETIC HEADING 325. FUEL
APPROX. HALF. POSITION UNKNOWN.

The dispatchers remained motionless staring up at the screen, reading the message through a second, a third time. Each man
had been automatically formulating responses to the emergency, but as the words
Two pilots unconscious, one dead
appeared, all the conventional emergency procedures became invalid. Subconsciously, almost everyone was writing off

Flight 52.

Miller stared blankly at the printout. “A bomb. Holes in cabin. Complete decompression. Jesus Christ.” Miller knew that had
he called earlier for 52’s fuel and status report, he would have realized much sooner that something was wrong. He wondered
if that would make a difference in the outcome. He looked at the printout again. “Decompression. At that altitude. Good God
. . . most of them must be dead or . . .”

Evans came through the door. “Everyone’s notified. Johnson is on the way. I only told them what you said. Unknown emergency.
Might not be too bad.”

“I was wrong,” said Miller quietly. He pointed up at the video screen.

Evans stared at the illuminated words. “Oh, shit. How in the name of God could . . .?”

“All right,” said Miller abruptly. “The problem now is to get them down. The floor’s open for suggestions. Anyone?”

No one spoke.

Brewster cleared his throat. “Can we figure out their position?”

“That’s a good idea,” said Miller. “It would help. Do you have their last position?”

Brewster nodded. “Yes, sir. From the last fuel and status report.” He walked over to another computer and punched up some
data. “It’s an hour and a half old, but I can plot a probable course and distance from that based on this new information.”
He motioned toward the video screen. “It won’t be an exact position, but it’s better than what we have now.”

“Do it,” said Miller.

Brewster nodded and jotted down the information from Flight 52’s emergency message. “One thing’s for certain,” he said as
he finished. “They’re headed the wrong way.” He turned and left the room.

“That’s a good point,” said Evans.

“Yes,” Miller agreed coldly. He could see the need for a decision pressing against him.

“Maybe you should tell them to turn around,” said Evans.

Miller kept his eyes focused on the screen. There was no textbook solution here. And even with all his years of experience,
he had never had to deal with anything like this. All he could think of were the consequences for him as well as for the Straton,
her crew and passengers. “He’s only a private pilot. He could lose control during the turn.” He drummed his fingers on the
console. “There’s no need for a decision right now. We can let them fly on autopilot until we get their position. Maybe the
pilots will regain consciousness. I wonder which one is dead?” he added.

Evans slapped his hand on the console. “Damn it, Jack. We have no real idea how much fuel is left on-board and they’re headed
the
wrong way.
They’re headed for the
Arctic Ocean
.
Siberia
maybe. No matter what happens we’ve got to turn them around before they reach the point of no return.”

Miller shook his head. “The pilot reported half full. That’s enough fuel to get him to this airport or an airfield in Canada
or Alaska. We don’t have enough information right now to make a rational decision.”

“We may never have enough information for that. Look, Jack—” Evans abruptly stopped speaking. Badgering old Jack Miller had
always been pure sport. Evans enjoyed taking easy shots at the man in charge. But suddenly he realized that this was life
or death; he’d never made a decision like that, and he didn’t want to be responsible for making one now. He realized how awesome
the responsibility was and realized, too, that Jack Miller, as senior dispatcher, had had to live with the knowledge that
one day he would be called on to help decide the fate of an aircraft in distress. “Do what you want, Jack,” he said softly.
“You’re the boss.”

Miller nodded. “Need more input.” He knew that his superiors would be there soon. They might say, “Jack, why the hell didn’t
you
turn them around?”
Christ. He didn’t want to look like a procrastinator. That would be the end of him. But he didn’t want to look compulsive
either. He needed more facts. How good was the pilot? How badly damaged was the aircraft? How much fuel actually remained?
What was their position? He looked at the clock. The bosses would start arriving soon.

Brewster rushed into the room. Everyone turned toward him. He began without preamble. “The Straton’s estimated position is
latitude 47 degrees 10 minutes north, longitude 168 degrees 27 minutes west. They are about 2,500 miles out. A conservative
estimate of flying time left is 6 hours and 15 minutes, based on last known fuel report and flying time since then. In about
45 minutes they will pass the point of no return regarding this airport. They may have more or less time, depending on the
winds. Luckily, they’re already at the best fuel-consumption speed for a low altitude. They’d get better range at a higher
altitude, but I guess they can’t go up with those holes in the fuselage. I just hope none of the fuel tanks are damaged. If
so,” Brewster said, waving the paper in his hand, “then all this is out the window.”

Miller looked up at the video screen. Flight 52’s last message was still written there in white letters etched across the
dark green screen. The words appeared to pulsate with a sense of urgency as he stared at them. He turned to the console and
typed out a short message.

CAN YOU IDENTIFY AND USE THE AUTOPILOT HEADING KNOB?

A few seconds later, the message bell sounded.

YES.

There was a murmur of excitement in the room. Miller typed again.

CAN YOU RECOVER IF YOU LOSE CONTROL OR AUTOPILOT FAILS?

The bell sounded almost immediately.

DOUBTFUL.

Miller swiveled in his chair and faced his fellow dispatchers. “Well?”

Brewster spoke. “I’d trust the autopilot to get through the turns.”

A dispatcher near the door spoke. “The Straton’s control surfaces may be damaged.”

Miller banged out a message.

ANY INDICATIONS OF DAMAGE TO THE FLIGHT CONTROLS?

There was a long minute before the bell rang.

HOLE IN PORT CABIN NEAR LEADING EDGE OF WING. SECOND HOLE OPPOSITE. STARBOARD SIDE LARGER. NO VISUAL INDICATIONS OF FLIGHT
CONTROL DAMAGE.

A dispatcher cleared his throat. “Eventually he has to turn. We can’t instruct him further on how to twist the autopilot knob.
If it gets away from him, there would be no time to give him flying lessons anyway, even if the chief pilot were sitting here.”

A few dispatchers nodded agreement.

Evans spoke in a less strident tone. “I think it would be best if he were heading this way when the bosses get here. Everything
else has to develop from there. If he can’t execute that autopilot maneuver, well then . . .” His voice trailed off and he
made a motion of dismissal with his hand that looked too much like a representation of an aircraft spinning out.

Miller looked into the eyes of each man in the room, then turned back to the data-link. He typed.

TO FLIGHT 52. SUGGEST YOU TURN AIRCRAFT AROUND. UNLESS YOU FEEL IT IS TOO DANGEROUS. RECOMMEND MAGNETIC HEADING OF 120 DEGREES.
WE WILL PROVIDE MORE ACCURATE HEADING AFTER TURN IS COMPLETE. LEAVE AUTOPILOT ON AND ALLOW IT TO EXECUTE TURN BY USING AUTOPILOT
TURN CONTROL KNOB. ARE YOU CAPABLE OF DOING THIS? ADVISE YOUR INTENTIONS.

As the dispatchers waited for the reply, they debated alternatives and theories about what exactly had happened to the Straton.
A chart of the Pacific area was brought in and Flight 52’s last reported position was marked. Brewster then marked their estimated
present position. A few dispatchers reluctantly left the room to attend to other flights and answer the madly ringing telephones.
People from other sections drifted in and were promptly asked to leave. It seemed that Flight 52 was taking a long time to
answer, but each man knew what the pilot was going through as he tried to reach a decision. Miller drummed his fingers nervously
on the edge of the keyboard.

The bell rang to signal the incoming message, and everyone turned to the video screen.

FROM FLIGHT 52. HAVE PREVIOUSLY TESTED THE AUTOPILOT TURN CONTROL IN TEN DEGREE TURN AND RECOVERY. APPEARS TO FUNCTION. WILL
USE IT TO ACCOMPLISH TURNAROUND TO MAGNETIC HEADING OF 120 DEGREES. WILL BEGIN TURN SHORTLY.

There was a short pause in the printout, then it began again.

FOR THE RECORD, MY NAME IS BERRY. WITH ME ARE FLIGHT ATTENDANTS CRANDALL AND YOSHIRO. PASSENGERS H. STEIN AND L. FARLEY.

Miller looked at the last three lines on his printout. He supposed it was a natural human need to identify oneself, to say,
This is my name and if anything happens to me I wanted you to know who you spoke to, who we were. . .. Miller typed out a
short message.

GOOD LUCK.

C
ommander James Sloan sat on the edge of his swivel chair in the small room known as E-334 buried in the bowels of the supercarrier
USS
Nimitz
. His eyes focused on the digital clock as it went through its programmed countdown. “Two minutes.”

Retired Rear Admiral Randolf Hennings stood silently on the far side of the room, his attention focused on the view outside
the porthole, his back pointedly turned to the Commander. He wanted a few moments of peace before the finale began. He watched
the gentle swells of the sea. But today his mind was too troubled to be soothed.

“One minute,” Sloan announced. He leaned forward and reread the carefully worded order lying on the console deck. He had,
he believed, written a minor masterpiece of persuasive argument. The stimuli, the right buzzwords, would produce the conditioned
response. “Do you want to hear this before I transmit?”

Hennings wheeled around. “No. Just do it, Commander. Let’s get it over with.”

Sloan didn’t respond, but stared hard at Hennings. He tried to get a reading on the condition of the man’s mind.

Hennings took a few paces toward Sloan. “Your pilot may not go along with it.” He couldn’t decide how he wanted Matos to respond.

“We’ll know soon enough.” Sloan looked at the paper again. As the situation stood now, he was guilty of criminal negligence
and dereliction of duty. But if he transmitted this order and Matos disregarded it and made a full report, then they had him
for attempted homicide.

Hennings moved closer and glanced at the written order. “He may not believe this is a lawful order. He may report . . . us.”

“Admiral,” Sloan replied, “in the new Navy, we cover up all problems of race and gender, problems of poor morale, discipline
problems, problems of heteroand homosexual behavior, and in fact we’ve become masters of deceit and paragons of political
correctness. We had to lie about the death of that female aircraft carrier pilot so it looked like mechanical failure rather
than heart failure, which it was. We are awash in a sea of self-serving bullshit. The people in Washington want us to lie
about things
they
want us to lie about. So it’s no sweat and no big deal to lie about things
we
want to lie about.” Sloan added, “Matos, like everyone else in this unhappy Navy, understands all of this. The only report
he’ll make is the one I write for him to sign. I guarantee it.”