"I'll take care of that in a minute."

"Good. What's that book you've been looking at?"

"Get me a cup of coffee."

Wayne Metz had not gotten anyone a cup of coffee in ten years. But he turned toward the coffeepot.

Johnson slid off his stool and walked to the data-link. He took the printouts from the receiving basket and quickly read through them again. No times. No indication of spaces between the messages. Nothing that could be considered poor judgment on the part of Trans-United. The last messages since Miller's ". . . working on bringing you home" looked a bit compromising, and he tore them off. With his pen he marked the SOS message: Discovered by dispatcher in link machine at approximately 1 P.M. Discovered by dispatcher in link machine at approximately 1 P.M. He walked to the door and opened it. He walked to the door and opened it.

At Johnson's appearance the room became quiet. Johnson's eyes swept the room and fixed each man in turn. He said tonelessly, "Gentlemen, I'm afraid we've lost contact with Flight 52."

There was a rush of moans and exclamations.

"I have called the Air Traffic Control and they have initiated a search-and-rescue operation. Of course, the problem may simply be the link, but . . ." He stepped a few feet into the room. "I will remain in the communications room and continue transmitting." Johnson was aware of Metz behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the man holding a cup of coffee. That was good for the dispatchers to see. There was no doubt that Edward Johnson ran things and ran people. He turned and took the coffee from Metz. He spoke in a low voice. "Get back in the communications room and close the damned door. If that alerting bell goes off and they hear it, we're finished." He turned and addressed the dispatchers. "Gather round, please."

The more than two dozen dispatchers moved around him.

Johnson began in an official, but friendly tone. "Gentlemen, there is no doubt in my mind that Jack Miller," he nodded to Miller, "Dennis Evans, and Jerry Brewster," he looked at the two men, "did everything they could do as quickly as possible. However, there was a time lapse between the first link message and now of about half an hour." He paused and studied the faces of the men around him. Some glanced at the wall clock, some at their watches. A few looked surprised, others nodded eagerly. "The first message came in at about one o'clock, I believe someone told me. There will be some problems with ATC and even with our own people over that lag, but I'm solidly behind you, so don't worry too much about it." He looked around the room.

There were more people nodding now.

Johnson looked at Evans. "You call everyone on the list, including our press office. Have the press office call me for a statement. To the president of the airlines and to everyone else, you say the following: Flight 52 has suffered a midair decompression. Radios dead. Amateur pilot flying and communicating on data-link. Communications lost at . . ." he looked at his watch, "one twenty-five P.M P.M. ATC is initiating a search-and-rescue. I suggest an emergency meeting in the executive conference room. Got it?"

Evans nodded quickly. "Yes, sir." He moved rapidly to his desk.

Johnson looked at the men around him. "Each one of you call your flights and tell them to keep off the data-link." He scanned the faces of the men. "Brewster?"

"Here, sir."

"Okay. Brewster, you will take these printouts and make only one copy. Then fax one copy to ATC at the number they show in the Emergency Handbook."

"Yes, sir."

"Then send our copy to the executive conference room in the company office building. The original comes back to me. Quickly."

Brewster took the messages and double-timed out of the dispatch office.

"That's all, gentlemen. Thank you all for your help." He paused. "If any of you are of a religious nature, please ask the man upstairs to look after that Straton and everyone aboard her. Thank you. Miller, come here."

The dispatchers moved back to their desks silently. Jack Miller approached Johnson.

Johnson put his hand on his shoulder. "Jack, fill in the empty updates for 52 and note that they were posted at noon. Leave the one p.m. updates blank, of course."

Miller looked at the big man standing next to him. "Ed . . . we're not going to get away with this."

"Of course we are. I'm doing it for you and the company as much as for myself. There have been a series of errors and blunders here, and we have nothing to lose to try to cover it. If we don't, you, I, Evans, Brewster, and about ten random scapegoats will be fired, then we'll be investigated by the FAA and maybe be charged with something. Your lovely wife can bake cookies for all of us and bring them out to San Quentin on Sundays. Bring the kids along, too."

Miller nodded. He started to move away, but Johnson held onto his shoulder.

"Are the men with us?" Johnson asked.

Miller nodded again. "It's not the first time we've had to cover ourselves."

Johnson smiled. "I always knew you bastards lied for each other. Now you have to lie for me. me. For yourselves, too, of course. Go fill in those updates." For yourselves, too, of course. Go fill in those updates."

Miller moved off.

Johnson walked quickly back into the communications room. He looked at Metz, who was staring down at the big spiral-bound book. "You know, Wayne, the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that Straton should should go down." go down."

Metz looked up at him quizzically. "I thought we agreed on that."

"In principle. Everything I did just now is standard operating procedure. I've done nothing wrong yet, except delay."

"You told everyone the plane went down."

"Did I? I said we lost contact with them. You don't see any new link messages, do you?" He turned and looked out into the dispatch office. "Actually, my responsibility in this screw up is pretty light. Those idiots out there blew it. ATC was not too swift either."

"They've all given us a chance to save it."

Johnson nodded. "Yes. The man who can really testify to our mishandling of this whole thing is Berry."

"And he's heading home."

"I know. God, I wish he'd just crash," Johnson said.

"He probably will. Right into San Francisco. You've got to put him in the ocean."

"I know."

Metz sat down behind the data-link. "Look, Ed, I know this is difficult for you-it goes against all your instincts. But believe me, there is no other way. Do what you've got to do. If it will make it any easier, I'll type the message to Berry."

Johnson laughed. "You stupid bastard. What difference does it make who who types the message? There's no difference in guilt, only a difference in nerve. Get out of that chair." types the message? There's no difference in guilt, only a difference in nerve. Get out of that chair."

Metz quickly vacated the chair behind the data-link. Johnson sat down. He glanced up at the dispatch office outside the glass. A few heads dropped or turned away. "As far as they know, I'm still trying to contact Flight 52."

"What are you gong to tell him to do?"

"There's only a few things about a cockpit I know for sure. I've ridden in the observer's seat enough times and had to listen to enough pilots give me unwanted flying lessons to know what's dangerous and what can bring an aircraft down. That book I was looking at is the Straton's pilot manual."

Metz nodded appreciatively. "Any ideas?"

"A few. I'm trying to work them out. But they're tricky." He looked at his watch. "That meeting in the executive conference room will be rolling in a while. They'll chew over those link printouts and wail and whine for a good fifteen, maybe thirty, minutes. Then they'll ring me here."

"Then you'd better hurry. Jesus, this is cutting it close, Ed. You didn't leave yourself any room."

Neither man was aware of the insistent rapping on the glass door.

Johnson finally looked up.

Jack Miller stood outside the door.

"Oh, Christ," said Johnson. "If we let Miller in and Flight 52 begins transmitting, that would be the end of the game." Johnson knew that if he turned off the machine, Miller would notice and ask why they weren't trying to reestablish contact. He quickly went to the door and opened it.

Miller took a step in.

Johnson moved forward and edged him out a few steps, but couldn't close the door without being too obvious. "What is it, Jack?"

Miller's eyes moved past Johnson into the small room. He stared at Metz, and without looking at Johnson, handed him a sheaf of papers. "Here's the data-link printouts. Faxed to ATC and copied for the executive conference room." He looked at Johnson. "The chief pilot, Captain Fitzgerald, is on his way here in case we make contact. Mr. Abbot, the Straton Aircraft representative, is also on his way. Is there anyone else you want here?"

"I don't want anyone anyone here, Jack. Have a dispatcher intercept them in the parking lot and tell them to drive over to the executive conference room in the company office building. Okay?" here, Jack. Have a dispatcher intercept them in the parking lot and tell them to drive over to the executive conference room in the company office building. Okay?"

Miller ignored the order as if he hadn't heard it. He said, "I just don't understand what could have happened up there. That aircraft was steady and that pilot-"

"It had two great big fucking holes in it. You wouldn't fly too well with two great big damn holes in you you." He pushed Miller's chest with his forefinger and backed him up a step. "Go home and get some rest."

"I'm staying here."

Johnson hesitated, then said, "All right. Take over the Pacific desk from Evans."

"I mean here-in the communications room." Johnson knew what he meant. "It's not necessary." "Does that mean I'm relieved of my duties?" Johnson, for some reason he couldn't explain, felt that the data-link bell was going to ring momentarily. He began to perspire. "Jack . . ." He had to be tactful, careful. "Jack, don't start getting sullen. You may have made a few mistakes, but you did a few heads-up things too. It's like in the military. You're somewhere between a medal and a court-martial. Now, don't forget our conversations. Play it my way and we can all save our asses. Okay?"

Miller nodded. "Are you still trying to contact . . . ?"

"Yes. Every three minutes. And you're holding me up now." Johnson was becoming anxious. He kept glancing up at the door across the room. Soon, someone whom he couldn't keep out of the communications room might walk into the dispatch office. In a way, he would almost have welcomed it.

Metz called out. "I have to finish this business with you and report to my people."

Johnson turned his head. "Right." He turned back to Miller. "Do me a favor. Go to the employees' lounge-no, to the executives' lounge-and while things are still fresh in your mind write a full report of everything that happened before I arrived. Make sure the times and actions tally with our estimates, of course. When you finish, report back here and give the report to me and me only."

Miller nodded.

"Did you fill in the Straton's updates?"

Miller nodded again.

"Good. When you come back you can resume your duties here in the communications room. See you later." He stepped back, then closed and bolted the door just as the data-link bell sounded. "Oh, Christ!"

The data-link began to print.

Metz wiped his face with a handkerchief. "That was too close."

Johnson was visibly shaken. "Wayne, just keep out of this. I understand what's got to be done, and I don't need any help from you. In fact, you can leave."

"I'm going nowhere until that aircraft is down."

Johnson walked over to the data-link and sat down. He glanced out into the dispatch office, then quickly pulled the message off and put it in his lap.

Metz looked down and they read it at the same time.

FROM FLIGHT 52: IMPERATIVE YOU HAVE QUALIFIED PILOT BEGIN TO GIVE ME INSTRUCTIONS ON FLIGHT CONTROLS-NAVIGATION-APPROACH-LANDING. BERRY.

Johnson nodded. "He's very sharp." He turned to Metz. "Wayne, do you feel anything for this poor bastard? Can't you admire his guts?"

Metz looked offended. "Of course I can admire him. I'm not completely inhuman. But . . . didn't you once say that you were in the Korean War? Didn't you ever see a commander sacrifice a few good men to save the whole unit?"

"Enough times to wonder if the good men weren't worth the rest of the unit. Enough times, too, to wonder if it wasn't the commander's own ass he was trying to save." Johnson looked up through the glass panels, then down at the keyboard. "I'm going to give Berry a course change that will put them on a heading for Hawaii."

"Why?"

"Because he'll never find Hawaii. He'll run out of fuel in about six hours. He'll go down at sea looking for Hawaii."

"Can't you do something more positive?" "Too tricky. We'll try this." Metz suspected that Johnson saw a fine-but to him meaningless-line between actually giving information that would cause the Straton to crash and information that would result in its crash several hours from now. "But he'll keep transmitting. We can't stay in this goddamned room and guard this machine for six hours."

"No, we can't. After he takes up the new heading and stays on it for a while, I'll short out the data-link with a screwdriver through a rear access panel. Then we'll call in a technician and leave. The link won't be fixed for hours."

"Are you sure?"

"It'll take over an hour just to get a technician here. Hours, sometimes days, to get parts. These machines are special technology. Never used for vital communications-so it takes a while to get them fixed."

"What if Berry, when he loses contact, turns from the Hawaii heading and heads back toward the coast?"

Johnson shook his head. "He won't. We'll tell him that the air-and-sea rescue units will be intercepting him on his new heading, and that the military and civilian airports in Hawaii are expecting him. He won't want to throw that chance away."

Metz nodded. "Can't he change channels on his data-link?"

"They tell me the different channels are for the relay stations only. There's a computer somewhere that automatically sends all the Trans-United messages to this unit." Johnson pointed at the data-link machine in front of him.

"I see," said Metz, although he didn't see, not exactly. It was, as they said in business school, all PFM- pure fucking magic-and the details of how and why didn't interest him in the slightest. Metz looked up at the Pacific chart. In a vast expanse of blue, a few green dots represented the islands of Hawaii. He spoke to Johnson as he stared at the map. "What if he finds finds Hawaii?" Hawaii?"

"With the heading I give him, he won't come close. He'll be lost, alone, with no radio, a damaged aircraft, no idea of how to fly the aircraft, no fuel reserve, and no one looking for him. If he survives all that, Mr. Metz, he sure deserves to live."

Johnson began to type the new heading.

John Berry watched the small piece of one-way glass in the cockpit door.

The passengers of Flight 52 moved up the staircase of the Straton like fish or birds on some perverse and incomprehensible migration. Or, thought Berry, like air and water that moves according to the laws of physics to fill a sudden vacuum. They filled the lounge and wandered aimlessly over the thick blue carpet, around the brightly upholstered furniture-men, women, and children-ready to seep into the next empty place that they could fill. Berry felt comforted by this analogy. It denied the possibility that they were acting according to a plan, that they were looking looking for the cockpit. for the cockpit.

Berry made a quick count of the passengers in the lounge. About fifty now. If they all suddenly moved toward the door of the cockpit, and if one of them pulled it open rather than pressed against it, then he, Sharon, and Linda could not stop them from flooding the cockpit.

He thought again of the autopilot master switch. Anything was preferable to the nightmare of sharing the cockpit with dozens of them. them.

He noted McVary, sitting in a lounge chair facing the cockpit door, staring hard at it. Berry placed his fingers around the nub of the broken latch. He had very little to grab. He pulled the door shut a few more inches, but it sprang open again.

Berry turned and scanned the cockpit for something that would secure the door, but could find nothing. There was a way to do it, he was sure, but his thoughts, which had stayed so calm for so long, were beginning to ramble; fatigue was dulling his reason. "Damn it! Sharon, we've got to keep this door closed."

She turned in her chair and looked at the door. Forms and shadows passed by the opening between the edge of the door and the jamb. "Why don't I go into the lounge and put my back to the door? I'll take the fire extinguisher. They won't be able-"