Mayday (36 page)

Berry knelt down beside Linda, who had awakened.

“Go back to sleep.”

She closed her eyes. “I’m very thirsty.”

Berry patted her cheek. “Soon. Don’t think about it.” He stood and walked back to his chair.

Sharon fixed her eyes on the radar set. “Are these all the radar controls?”

Berry looked at her. There had developed a tacit understanding among the three of them that they were not to talk about the
others. Berry looked down at the console. “Yes. Antenna tilt. Gain. Brilliance. Mode selector. . . . Here’s one called erase
rate. I’ve never even heard of that.”

Crandall looked up again at the black wall outside the windshield. It was closer now, and she could see its inner violence,
the black-gray smoke churning. “Can we go around it without the radar?”

Berry shook his head. “These lines sometimes stretch for hundreds of miles. I don’t think we have the fuel to try an end run.”

“Hawaii?” She didn’t want to throw that up to him, but it seemed too important to be left unsaid.

“No. In addition to the other reasons I gave you, we don’t have the fuel for that any longer. We have only enough to fly straight
to California.”

Crandall looked at the fuel gauges. They read less than one-third full.

Berry played with the radar controls. If he could understand the picture on the screen, he might be able to pick out a weak
spot in the wall of clouds in front of him.

Crandall remembered other storms she’d gone through in other aircraft. The Straton 797 flew above the weather, and that, at
least, was one advantage to traveling in subspace. “We can’t climb above it?”

Berry looked up at the sheer wall of clouds. “Not with this aircraft. It won’t hold its air pressure.” He looked at the oxygen
mask hanging beside his seat. An oxygen mask should be enough, as long as they didn’t climb much above 30,000 feet. Was that
high enough to clear these storms? He couldn’t tell for sure, but he didn’t think so. Besides, the oxygen tanks would probably
be empty, and he didn’t know if there was a reserve tank.

Crandall was following his thoughts. “There may be an unused oxygen tank that we could switch to.”

“There might be. But do you think we should put those people through another period of oxygen deprivation? Don’t we have to
draw the line somewhere?”

“Not if it’s our lives.”

“They are not dead, and we don’t know that they won’t get better, and even if they won’t . . . Besides, in order to gain enough
altitude to get over this weather, I’d have to circle—spiral upward. I’d rather not try my flying skills at this point. Anyway,
the maneuver would burn off a tremendous amount of fuel.”

“What you’re saying is that we’re committed to bucking into the storm.”

“I’m not sure. The other options look better in the short run, but I’m thinking of the California coast.”

“Me too.” She hesitated, then said, “Will the holes in the cabin . . . could the plane. . . ?”

“I don’t think it will come apart.” But he didn’t know if the structure was weakened, how many longerons were severed. Completely
airworthy craft had broken up in storms. He said, “It’s the wings that take the most punishment. They don’t appear to be damaged.”

Crandall nodded. There was something reassuring about John Berry’s voice, his manner. Most pilots had that ability to make
even bad news sound routine. Yet she felt there was something else troubling him. “If you think the Straton can handle it,
then I can handle it.”

Berry decided that he had to tell it to her truthfully. It was her life too, and she had a right to know what could happen.
“Look, Sharon, the major problem is not the aircraft. If the turbulence gets too rough—and there’s no reason to think it won’t,
by the looks of those clouds—then the autopilot could disengage itself. Then I’d have to hand-fly this thing. Christ, three
experienced pilots in an undamaged craft have their hands full during a storm. I have to think about the throttles, the pitch
trim . . . I haven’t flown this aircraft in
good
weather. The plane could get away from me . . . spin out . . .” Berry suddenly wanted to turn, to run and get away from the
black wall closing in on him, even if he had to put the plane down at sea. Anything would be preferable to the nightmare of
a bouncing, heaving aircraft caught in the center of a storm of unknown width and breadth. He turned to Sharon. “Do you want
to turn? We can outrun it, but we’d probably have to ditch before we reached any land.”

Crandall considered the options: Running from the storm knowing that each minute of flight time was another minute from the
coast. Then putting it down at sea. And if they survived the landing, there would be the agony of the sea, maybe other passengers
floating in the water. . . . She weighed that against the storm. They would live or die in the storm—nothing in between. She
looked up at the clouds. Somewhere on the other side of that black veil the sun shone, and over the next horizon was the coastline
of America. That’s where they said they wanted to go, and that’s where they would go. A sense of calm came over her, and she
knew that one way or the other the end of their long trial was near. “We should maintain our present heading.”

Berry nodded. He also had a need to meet the storm head-on. He thought about his wife and children for the first time in over
an hour. Then he thought about his employer and his job. The worst thing that could happen to him, he realized, was that he
would survive, only to pick up his life where he’d left it. He believed that somehow the crucible of that storm would cleanse
him, even rebaptize him.

Crandall said, “We should call San Francisco and tell them what’s happening. They may be able to give us some advice.”

Berry nodded. He realized that, subconsciously, he had been avoiding the data-link. Instead of it being a lifeline, the link
had become an intrusion into his small world. He typed.

TO SAN FRANCISCO: WE ARE APPROACHING AN AREA OF THUNDERSTORMS. I AM UNABLE TO WORK OR READ WEATHER RADAR. WE HAVE DETERMINED
THAT THE BEST COURSE OF ACTION IS TO MAINTAIN PRESENT HEADING. IS THERE ANYTHING WE SHOULD DO TO PREPARE THE AIRCRAFT?

He reached for the transmit button, then decided to type an additional line.

IS THERE ANY INDICATION AT YOUR END THAT WE CAN GET AROUND THE WEATHER WITHOUT EXPENDING TOO MUCH FUEL? BERRY.

He pushed the transmit button, then looked up at the windshield. Thin wisps of smoky gray clouds sailed past the Straton;
the cockpit became a little darker. “I’d say we’ve got about fifty miles to go before we’re into the heavy weather. Nine or
ten minutes’ flying time.”

Crandall noticed that her calm had turned to edginess, as it always did when she entered a storm. It seemed like the waiting
was the worst part of it—until you were in it. Then, when you thought the worst was happening, it got even worse than that.
But breaking out of a storm into the sun or the moonlight was one of those rare and exhilarating moments in flying. She turned
to Berry. “Is there anything you’d be doing in your private plane that we haven’t done yet?”

“Yes.” He forced a smile. “Turn around and get the hell out of here.” The aircraft bumped slightly, and he turned and looked
back at Linda. She was awake now, sitting in one of the empty flight chairs with her knees up to her chin. He turned to Sharon.
“Buckle her into the observer’s seat.”

Crandall rose from her chair and walked over to the girl. “Let’s get up and sit over here where you’ll be more comfortable.”
She took her by the arm and led her to the observer’s seat that was directly behind the captain’s chair. “That’s right. Here.
I’ll buckle you in just like when you first came onboard.”

“Thank you. Are we going into a storm?”

“It’ll be all right. But remember, it’s going to get very dark in here. You’ll hear the rain against the windshield. It might
be louder than you expect. And it will be a very bumpy ride. But Mr. Berry will fly us right through it. You’re not afraid
of lightning, are you?”

“No. Only when I was little.”

“Good. Lightning is nothing to be afraid of.” Crandall patted the girl on the cheek, then climbed into her chair and buckled
herself in.

The three of them sat quietly in the darkening cockpit as the Straton sailed toward some thin, layered clouds that preceded
the wall of thunderstorms. Wisps of light gray flew past the windshield. The Straton bounced suddenly, and from the lounge
came a wailing and moaning that Berry recognized instinctively as something very primeval, an ancient inborn terror that came
from the very soul of the species. “Poor bastards.” They were going to be hurt if it got very bad. There was nothing he could
do for them.

The alerting bell sounded.

TO FLIGHT 52: NO INDICATION AT THIS END

THAT WEATHER IS AVOIDABLE

CONSIDERING YOUR ESTIMATED FUEL

RESERVE AND CONSIDERING THE

UNPRESSURIZED CONDITION OF THE

AIRCRAFT. MAINTAIN PRESENT HEADING

AND ALTITUDE AS YOU INDICATED. IT IS

VERY IMPORTANT THAT YOU ALTER CENTER OF GRAVITY FOR TURBULENCE BY

TRANSFERRING FUEL BETWEEN TANKS. STAND BY FOR DETAILED INSTRUCTION.

ACKNOWLEDGE A READY CONDITION. SAN FRANCISCO HQ.

Berry typed.

EXPERIENCING SOME TURBULENCE.

SHOULD I CIRCLE TO AVOID TURBULENCE

BEFORE PROCEDURE IS COMPLETE?

The reply came quickly.

NEGATIVE. MAINTAIN HEADING.

PROCEDURE WILL TAKE ONLY TWO OR

THREE MINUTES. ALL CONTROLS ARE

LOCATED ON OVERHEAD PANEL.

“Okay.” Berry looked up at the large panel above his head. “Sharon, read me the instructions as they print.”

“Here it comes, John. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“In the center of . . . the overhead panel . . . four switches . . . labeled . . . low pressure fuel valve position . . .
acknowledge. . . .”

“I see them.”

“Good.” Crandall typed a quick acknowledgment. “Okay . . . here comes more. . . . Turn the switches . . . to off. . . .”

Berry looked over at her. “All of them?” He glanced down at the display screen himself, but at the angle he was at it was
difficult to read.

“That’s what it says.”

Berry looked back at the switches. There was something wrong. Some instinct told him to be careful. To proceed cautiously.
He remembered a line from an aviation magazine.
Operate important switches one at a time
. He put his hand on switch number one. Tentatively, he pulled it toward him so it would clear its guard, then pushed down
on it and moved it to the off position. He counted off a few seconds.

“Done?”

Berry looked around the cockpit, then scanned the panel in front of him. Nothing unusual was happening.

“Did you do it?”

“Wait a minute. That’s just the first one.”

Crandall looked back at him. “Is anything wrong?”

“No. I’m just proceeding cautiously.” Crandall turned to the console. “They want an acknowledgment.”

“Tell them to hold their fucking horses.” Berry hit the second switch, then the third, and finally the last. He sat very still
but could feel nothing in the seat of his pants to indicate any transfer of fuel, any shift in center of gravity. Maybe the
autopilot was compensating. It probably was. “Finished. Is that all?”

Crandall typed the acknowledgment, then read the next message as it came through. “Last step . . . a covered switch . . .
labeled . . . fuel valve emergency power . . . engage the switch . . . then fuel transfer . . . will be done . . . automatically
. . . it will take . . . two or three more minutes.”

Berry found the switch. Not only was it covered by a special guard, but the guard was fixed in place by a thin strand of safety
wire. Clearly, this switch was not used very often. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll read it again . . . a covered switch labeled fuel valve emergency power. Engage the switch. . . .” She paused. “John,
please hurry. We’re almost into the storm.”

Somewhere in the deepest recesses of Berry’s mind a warning flashed for a thousandth of a second, like a subliminal message
on a video screen. He could not see it, though he sensed it for a passing moment, but did not believe what he thought it said.
For to believe it was to admit to something he could not possibly handle. Without another thought, John Berry snapped the
safety wire with his thumb and lifted the guard.

He pushed the emergency power switch into an engaged position.

Within the span of a microsecond, an electrical signal went to each fuel valve on the Straton’s four jet engines. Before John
Berry had even taken his hand off the switch, the valves had already begun to choke off the flow of fuel to all four of the
engines.

L
ieutenant Peter Matos had never fired a shot in anger, but now he was to fire one in sorrow. His first kill would be an unarmed
American civilian transport.

Matos edged his F-18 twenty-five yards astern of the transport’s towering tail and one hundred fifty feet above it. He snapped
his manual gun sight into place and looked through it.

Shredded clouds flew by his canopy and over the wide expanse of the silvery Straton, causing alternating overcast and bright
glare in the gun sight. Matos rubbed his eyes. These were not optimum conditions for a close-in shot.

He looked out toward the horizon. The dark, ugly storm clouds rolled toward him like a high surf sweeping up the beach. In
front of the storm were several thin layers of clouds, and he would pass under them within a minute. Then and there, under
the heavy veil of gray, he would strike. “Okay, okay, let’s go,” he said to himself, and pushed forward on the control stick,
then hit the transmit button. “Navy three-four-seven beginning the attack.”

“Roger.”

Matos snapped back the safety cover and put his finger over the missile’s firing button.

The target proved more difficult to align this time. The increasing turbulence caused the two aircraft to sway and bounce,
and the bull’s-eye danced in circles around the center of the airliner’s high dome.