On his way to the rear of the cabin, Berry glanced out the window again. He marveled at the enormous size and power of the giant airliner's engines. He marveled, too, at the solitude of space. What he failed to notice was that they were not alone. He did not see the tiny dot against the horizon that was rapidly approaching the Straton airliner.

Lieutenant Peter Matos held the F-18's control stick with his right hand. He inched the power levers slightly forward. The two General Electric engines spooled up to a higher setting. Matos continued to fly his Navy fighter in wide, lazy circles at 54,000 feet. He held the craft's airspeed constant at slightly less than Mach 1. He was loitering, flying nondescript patterns inside a chunk of international airspace known to his country's military as Operations Area R-23. He was waiting for a call from Home. It was overdue and he was just beginning to wonder about it when his earphones crackled with the beginning of a message. It was the voice of Petty Officer Kyle Loomis, whom Matos vaguely knew.

"Navy three-four-seven, this is Homeplate, over." Matos pressed a button on the top of his control stick "Roger, Homeplate. Three-four-seven. Go ahead, over." He began another turn through the tranquil Pacific sky.

The voice of the electronics mate in Room E-334 carried loud and clear. "The target has been released. We estimate an initial in-range penetration of your operational area within two minutes. Operation status is now changed to Foxtrot-alpha-whiskey. I say again, Foxtrot-alpha-whiskey."

"Roger, Homeplate. I read Foxtrot-alpha-whiskey." Matos released the transmit button and simultaneously pulled back on the control stick. Foxtrot-alpha-whiskey. Fire-at-will. He would never see the target, the hit, or the destruction except on his radar, yet the predator's stimuli were there and his heart beat faster. The F-18 tightened its turn, and Matos felt the increase in G forces as he accelerated around the remainder of the circle he had been flying. He leveled the fighter on a northeasterly heading and spooled up the engines again. He felt like a knight charging into the field to do battle.

Peter Matos, like most military men who were not born in the continental United States, was more loyal, more patriotic, more enthusiastic than the native-born Americans. He had noticed this right from the beginning. Wherever the flags of the American military had flown-Germany, Guam, the Canal Zone, the Philippines-young men had rallied to those flags. There was also the Cuban officer subculture, the Mexicans, the Canadians, and others who saw the American armed forces as more than a military organization, more than a necessary expense, or just an organization you sent your tax money to, but never your sons. To men like Pedro Matos, who came out of the most abject poverty that his homeland, Puerto Rico, had to offer, the military was home, family, friends, life itself.

Matos worked hard at his duties, studied his manuals, watched what he said, never bucked the chain of command, expressed opinions only when asked, and carried out all orders with enthusiasm and without hesitation. Outwardly, he was sure he was getting it all right, but inwardly, he prayed to San Geronimo that he wouldn't be passed over for promotion. One pass-over could mean the end of his military career, especially in a peacetime Navy.

Loomis's voice jarred him out of his reverie. "Navy three-four-seven, do you have target acquisition?"

Matos glanced down at his radar screen. "Negative, Homeplate."

"Roger, Navy. Keep us informed."

"Will do." Matos kept an eye on the radar screen as he let his mind drift back to the larger problems. Matos was certain that the results of this test would determine how the rest of his life would run. The test was secret. That much he was told. It was also illegal. That much he had figured out for himself. What he could not figure out was why they had chosen him to fire this missile.

The new AIM-63X Phoenix missiles rode on the belly mounts of his F-18. For this test, the missiles were fitted with dummy warheads of stainless steel and titanium, and the target was a supersonic military drone launched several hundred miles away by a Navy C-130 Hercules turboprop. Except for those facts, thought Matos, he could have been aiming a pair of live missiles at an attacking Tupolev bomber or a Chinese MiG-21. Of course, both Russia and China were friends of the United States at the moment-but like most military people, Matos knew that friends like these could turn into foes in a heartbeat.

Matos glanced down at his radar screen. No target yet. Today's mission was a maximum-range exercise to test the updated maneuverability of the new weapon. The radar's normal 200-mile range had been modified to accept a 500-mile limit. Once launched, the new Phoenix would require none of his usual follow-through guidance. His orders were to fire the first missile, wait for it to stabilize, fire the second missile, then turn 180 degrees and proceed at top speed away from the combat area. The new self-guidance system would seek out the target and continue to track it with no further assistance from Peter Matos.

Tactically, this missile was much safer for a combat pilot. Before the enemy craft knew they had been attacked, the fighter was gone. Matos wasn't sure he liked this innovation. It called for less personal skill than guiding the missile from the F-18, and it was not as . . . manly . . . as remaining in the area. Too, there was no longer even a remote possibility of seeing the hit. But none of that was his business.

He focused on the radar. An electronic blip began to track across the outer fringes of his screen. He pressed the radio button on his control stick. "Homeplate. Three-four-seven has preliminary target acquisition." His voice was cool, almost laconic. He smiled at the image of those German and Japanese pilots on the late-night movies screaming into their aircraft's radio, while the American and British pilots always sounded so bored as their craft was falling apart around their ears. Cool. "Do you copy, Homeplate?"

"Roger, three-four-seven. Preliminary target acquisition. Proceed. Out."

Lieutenant Matos punched a console button, then raised his eyes toward the firing control processor. An electronic symbol slewed to the target's blip. Matos watched the screen for a few seconds. Suddenly, another blip appeared. Matos blinked. He looked again. The second blip looked weaker and smaller. It was directly behind the first one. False image False image, Matos thought. Some screwy transistor or diode a tenth of a degree too warm. Something like that Some screwy transistor or diode a tenth of a degree too warm. Something like that. He'd experienced these electronic aberrations before. So had most of the fighter pilots in his squadron. Glitches, or angels, they were called. False images. Echoes. Bounceback. Reflections from some other radar set. Reflections from the surface of the sea. Apparitions with no more substance than a vapor cloud. Vaporware, in the parlance of modern-day computer-speak.

Matos pressed a button on his console. He twisted a knob to adjust the screen's resolution setting. The aft target began to fade. Then it disappeared. It appeared to have merged with the original, stronger blip, which he was certain was the target. He pressed his radio talk button. "Homeplate, Navy three-four-seven has the target in good resolution. Distance is four hundred and eighty miles. Over."

Loomis's voice was flat, neutral, like every radio operator's in the military. "Roger, three-four-seven."

Matos hesitated. He thought about mentioning the glitch, but decided against it. If there was one thing they didn't want to hear about, it was nonexistent problems. He looked back at the radar screen. Good target. He flipped a safety switch, then lifted a cover that guarded the firing trigger. He was about to fire the longest air-to-air missile shot ever attempted. He pressed his radio button. "Fire number one." He waited a second, took a deep breath, then pressed the triggering button.

The AIM-63X Phoenix missile dropped away from the F-18's supporting structure. For a brief moment the missile appeared dormant as an electronic delaying device allowed the weapon to clear itself from any potential conflict with Matos's aircraft. When the proper interval had passed, a microvolt was internally induced. Flowing down a maze of printed circuit boards, the current reached its goal-the proper solenoids were activated and the rocket engine was ignited.

A stream of orange flame roared out of the Phoenix's tailpipe. Within seconds the missile accelerated to twice the speed of the F-18.

Matos saw the missile streak off. He was about to begin the launch sequence for the second Phoenix. He glanced down at his radar screen. The target had again split into two images. Two targets Two targets. Matos pressed the console resolution buttons. No change. He pressed them again. Still the same. Two distinct targets. If one was the target drone, what was the other one? Jesus Christ Two distinct targets. If one was the target drone, what was the other one? Jesus Christ. The self-guided missile that he had already launched was completely out of his control.

The Phoenix's self-guiding system was working on the problem. The conflict between the two electronic images presented the missile with a quandary. In keeping with a logic and priority array that had been formulated in a conference room thousands of miles away, a trickle of voltage moved down yet another decisive path. The AIM-63X Phoenix, with its enhanced tracking and maneuverability, made a slight adjustment in its course. It steered toward the larger of the two targets.

2.

John Berry stared at the reflection of his face in the mirror of the first-class lavatory. He ran a finger through the streaks of gray in his brown hair. There were a few wrinkles around his eyes. Still, at forty-one, he looked good.

Some of the women he knew from the country club or at work used words such as "interesting," "charming," and "solid" to describe him. He knew that he was supposed to make a move toward these women, but he could not work up the enthusiasm for it. Except once. A saleswoman at the office. And that had been a disaster.

John Berry thought about his father, as he did more and more these days. At forty-one his father had had a loving wife, four loyal children, his church, his community, his country, his own small business that he enjoyed. But that was in another time, another country almost. John Berry had none of those things, and at forty-one would never have them. Still, there was a way out. He could leave Jennifer and make a fresh start of it; just another divorced couple, just like so many of his friends. At least then he'd have hope. Whenever he flew the Skymaster he thought about it. But somehow he wondered if he could bring himself to do it.

Berry ran through the conversation he'd just had with the flight attendant. Why had he done that? Who the hell was Sharon Crandall? An hour ago, he didn't know she existed. She wasn't going to solve his problems. Yet he felt less alienated, felt more of a bond with the rest of humanity for having made that contact.

A light flashed on at the end of his peripheral vision. It was several seconds before he realized that it was the return-to-cabin light above the door. Berry knew that the cabin seat-belt lights were on as well. As a seasoned air traveler, he found that unusual since the flight was smooth. Another flight must have reported some chop ahead Another flight must have reported some chop ahead, he thought. It did not occur to him that the Straton was the only commercial aircraft using that route and altitude. His thoughts were on Sharon Crandall. With the seat-belt sign on, she would probably sit with the other flight attendants. Then there would be lunch preparation. Damn it Damn it. He took his time washing his hands and ignored the return-to-cabin light.

Lieutenant Peter Matos kept staring at his radar screen, hoping that the second target would disappear. He knew he needed to make some sort of report. The seconds were flashing by on his console clock. They're waiting to hear from you, Matos They're waiting to hear from you, Matos. Reluctantly, he slid his thumb back to the microphone button. "Homeplate, this is Navy three-four-seven."

"Go ahead, three-four-seven," replied Loomis.

"I . . . I'm having difficulty with target resolution. Will delay second firing. Stand by for updates."

"Roger. Out."

Matos's throat was dry. He had evaded the problem. Lied. But if the worst had happened, then nothing could save that other aircraft-if that's what the second radar blip was. On the other hand, if it was only an electronic aberration, then there was no reason to report anything more than he'd already said. Trouble with target resolution. They were already probably chewing their lips on the Nimitz. Play it cool, Peter. Nimitz. Play it cool, Peter.

He looked back at the screen, hoping again that it was all resolved. But there were still two targets. The weaker of the two crossed in front of the stronger, then disappeared off his screen to the southwest. The stronger blip remained steady on its previous course. Again he reminded himself that even if the stronger target began evasive maneuvers, the outcome would be the same. The Phoenix AIM-63X's guidance system had already chosen the larger object-chosen it to die. Phoenix would stay with its victim like a hunting bird, stalk it, pursue it, and pounce on it. That's all it knew. All it had been created for.

But what was the other target? Who was he? Then it hit him like a fist. It had to be the Hercules C-130. Jesus Christ Jesus Christ, he thought. Jesus Christ, I've made a navigation error. My fault. My fault. Jesus Christ, I've made a navigation error. My fault. My fault.

Matos turned to the satellite navigation set on the left side of the F-18's cockpit. He punched in several commands. His hand sweated beneath the leather of his flying glove. He hit a wrong button and had to clear the set and start over. Damn it. Calmete! Damn it. Calmete!

While he fumbled with the navigation set, his memory slid into an unpleasant track. He was seventeen years old and he was driving his first car, a '71 Ford. In the rear of the car were his mother, father, and Grandmother Matos. His sister was seated next to him. He had gotten off the interstate at the wrong exit. While his cousin Dolores was being married, he steered his angry family through the unfamiliar streets of North Miami. His father had hissed at him through clenched teeth, "Es tu culpa, Pedro."

He looked down at the navigation display. It verified his position as correct. To be certain, he went through it again. Correct. He was where he was supposed to be. At least that's what the equipment said. Then what was that second target?

He looked down at his radar screen. The Phoenix missile was small and ghostly white as it tracked across the green screen, outbound toward its target. Matos was always reminded of one of those video games. A game. That' s all it is, A game. That' s all it is, he decided. They had introduced another element into the game to see how he would respond. That big white target on the green field was not an aircraft transporting flesh and blood. It was an electronic decoy. A mirage, sent out by the Hercules or the target drone. He should have reported it. They had tested he decided. They had introduced another element into the game to see how he would respond. That big white target on the green field was not an aircraft transporting flesh and blood. It was an electronic decoy. A mirage, sent out by the Hercules or the target drone. He should have reported it. They had tested him, him, and he had failed. He had compromised himself. He was through. and he had failed. He had compromised himself. He was through.

He kept staring at the screen. It all made sense. It all fit. Except for one thing. The Phoenix was tracking the large target, and the Phoenix would not track an electronic decoy.

The distance between the hunter and the hunted narrowed to less than 200 miles. The missile was traveling at Mach 3, covering nearly one mile every second.

Matos started to press the radio button but took his hand away. He racked his brain for answers. Could the Hercules be off course? Could my navigation equipment be wrong? Could the Hercules be off course? Could my navigation equipment be wrong? He knew that if the problem was his equipment, it would still be technically his fault. An error from his craft was equivalent to an error from its captain. It was unfair, but effective. It compelled those in authority to pay close attention to details. The modern Navy was getting away from that concept, but it wasn't totally gone. Not yet. And this accountability did not discriminate between the captain of the 91,000-ton He knew that if the problem was his equipment, it would still be technically his fault. An error from his craft was equivalent to an error from its captain. It was unfair, but effective. It compelled those in authority to pay close attention to details. The modern Navy was getting away from that concept, but it wasn't totally gone. Not yet. And this accountability did not discriminate between the captain of the 91,000-ton Nimitz Nimitz and the captain of a 64,000-pound naval aircraft. Electronics could betray you, but a navigation set would never stand in the dock with you in front of a board of inquiry. If he had fired at the Hercules, a demonstrable mechanical fault in his navigation set might keep him from being court-martialed, but his naval career would be finished. He reminded himself that the naval careers of the crew of the Hercules would be terminated even more abruptly if that missile were headed for them. and the captain of a 64,000-pound naval aircraft. Electronics could betray you, but a navigation set would never stand in the dock with you in front of a board of inquiry. If he had fired at the Hercules, a demonstrable mechanical fault in his navigation set might keep him from being court-martialed, but his naval career would be finished. He reminded himself that the naval careers of the crew of the Hercules would be terminated even more abruptly if that missile were headed for them.

The sound of his own breathing filled his helmet and perspiration collected under his pressure suit. His right hand gripped tightly around the control stick. His left arm tensed against the side console, his fingers touching the throttles. He had stopped trying to make any additional adjustments on the radar. The picture that it painted was accurate.

He felt his nerves becoming steadier as he resigned himself to all the worst possible scenarios. He stared distractedly at the radar screen, then, for the first time since he had fired, he looked out of the Plexiglas bubble at the world he flew in. Es tu culpa, Pedro. It is your fault, Peter. Es tu culpa, Pedro. It is your fault, Peter. He pushed his finger against the thin Plexiglas. Half an inch away was an airless, subzero void. He pushed his finger against the thin Plexiglas. Half an inch away was an airless, subzero void.

A glint of hope shook him out of his lassitude. There was one straw he hadn't grasped at yet. He looked back at his console. Working quickly with the radar controls, he slewed a computer readout to the target on his screen. In a few seconds another entry displayed on his information board. The target was cruising at 62,000 feet. It was making a ground speed of 910 miles per hour.

Matos smiled for the first time since he had catapulted off the deck of the Nimitz Nimitz. No Hercules turbo-prop could match even half that performance. Very few aircraft could. High-altitude supersonic flight was the province of missiles, special target drones, and advanced fighters, bombers, and spy planes. He would know of any such friendly craft in his area unless they had gotten off course. Two possibilities remained: The first was that it was an enemy aircraft, in which case he wouldn't get a medal for shooting it down, but he wouldn't be court-martialed either. It would be covered up and he would be the secret envy of every flight officer aboard. It had happened before.

The second possibility was the more likely. The profile being flown by the target on his screen was very close to the predicted performance of the drone. The Hercules must have released two drones, either by mistake or by design. The Hercules must have released two drones, either by mistake or by design. That must be it. Matos felt better. His naval career had a fair chance now. He had to call the That must be it. Matos felt better. His naval career had a fair chance now. He had to call the Nimitz Nimitz immediately. Explain. He could still relocate the other target, fire the missile, do a turnaround, and get the hell out of there. He looked down again at the radar screen. The distance between the Phoenix and its target lessened rapidly. Thirty miles, twenty miles, ten miles. Then the missile and the target merged, became one. Matos nodded. The missile worked. That much they now knew. But he was left wondering what he had hit. immediately. Explain. He could still relocate the other target, fire the missile, do a turnaround, and get the hell out of there. He looked down again at the radar screen. The distance between the Phoenix and its target lessened rapidly. Thirty miles, twenty miles, ten miles. Then the missile and the target merged, became one. Matos nodded. The missile worked. That much they now knew. But he was left wondering what he had hit.

John Berry pushed the stopper valve halfway and turned on the water until the basin filled, then adjusted the taps until the inflowing water equaled the draining water. He took off his wristwatch and laid it on the aluminum shelf. 11:02. It was still set to California time. Jet lag was not nearly so bad with the Straton as it was on the conventional jets, but it still caused his body clock to become disoriented. Time was was relative. His body was on New York time, his watch was on California time, but he was actually in an obscure time zone called Samoan-Aleutian, and he would soon land in Tokyo at a different time altogether. Yet at home, time dragged, almost stood still, hourly, daily, weekly. But that hadn't stopped him from getting older-in fact, it speeded up his aging process. relative. His body was on New York time, his watch was on California time, but he was actually in an obscure time zone called Samoan-Aleutian, and he would soon land in Tokyo at a different time altogether. Yet at home, time dragged, almost stood still, hourly, daily, weekly. But that hadn't stopped him from getting older-in fact, it speeded up his aging process. Relative. No doubt about it. Relative. No doubt about it. He bent over the basin and began splashing water on his face. He bent over the basin and began splashing water on his face.

The Phoenix missile, with its updated maneuverability, made one small correction and aimed itself so that it would strike the broad port side of the midfuselage slightly above the leading edge of the wing. Somewhere in the circuitry, the sensors, the microcomputer of the Phoenix-the place that was the seat of its incomplete powers of judgment and reason-there might have been a sense or an awareness that it had succeeded in its purpose. And having no fear, no hesitation, no instinct for survival, it accelerated headlong into its prey, consigning it, and itself, into oblivion.

A middle-aged man sitting in aisle 15, seat A, glanced out the window. He noticed a silvery spot at least a mile away. He blinked. The spot was now as large as a basketball and a few inches outside the window. Before his brain could transmit even the most primitive response of ducking or screaming, the silver orb was through the window, taking a section of the fuselage and his head and torso with it. The Phoenix plowed across the remaining two seats in the section, B and C, disintegrating the passenger's wife and mother. It crossed the aisle to the middle section, pushing some of its grisly harvest with it, and swept away the four center seats, D, E, F, and G, and the passengers in them, then crossed the starboard aisle. It then pushed seats H, J, and K, with three more passengers, through the fuselage and, along with other collected debris, out into the void.

Everything in the Phoenix's path, its wake, and a yard on either side of it, was pulverized by the high-speed disintegration of the fuselage wall. Seats and people were turned into unrecognizable forms and their high-speed disintegration in turn reduced people and objects near them to smashed and torn remnants of what they had been. With no warhead on the missile there was, of course, no explosion-but the impact forces had the same effect on everything in its path.

The deceleration had caused the Phoenix to begin to tumble as it reached the third gang of seats. Its tail rose up and it hit the starboard sidewall broadside, cutting, as it exited, an elongated swath nearly eight feet high and six feet across. It tumbled out into space, dragging more metal and flesh with it. Its energies spent, the Phoenix continued for only a short distance before it faltered and fell, end over end, twelve miles down into the Pacific Ocean.

The first sound that John Berry heard was an indistinct noise, as if a high shelf stacked with rolls of sheet metal had been knocked over. He felt the aircraft bump slightly. Before he could even raise his head from the basin, he heard a rushing noise, a roar, that sounded like someone had opened the window of a speeding subway train. He straightened up quickly and froze for a second until his senses could take in all the stimuli. The flight was steady, the water was still running in the tap, the lights were on, and the rushing sound was lower now. Everything seemed nearly normal, but something-his pilot's instincts-told him he was flying in a dying aircraft.

Outside, in the cabin, the enormous quantity of internal pressurized air began to exit through the gaping holes in the Straton's fuselage. All the small, loose objects onboard-glasses, trays, hats, papers, briefcases-were immediately propelled through the cabin, and were either wedged behind something stationary or sucked out the holes.

The passengers sat quietly for a long second, completely unable to comprehend what had just happened. There was no point of reference in their minds for it. The normal reactions of screaming, quickened heartbeat, adrenaline flow, fight or flight, were absent. They reacted with only silence and stillness amid the noises of rushing air.

Like a growing tidal wave, the escaping air was gathering momentum.

A baby was sucked out of its uncomprehending mother's arms and hurled along over the heads of the passengers and out the starboard hole and into the nothingness of space.

Someone screamed.

Three unaccompanied children, a boy and two girls, in seats H, J, and K, aisle 13, near the starboard hole, had not fastened their seat belts and were picked up by the howling wind and sucked out, screeching with terror.

Everyone was screaming now as the sights and sounds around them began to register on their consciousness.

A teenaged girl in aisle 18, seat D, near the port-side aisle, her seat dislocated by the original impact, suddenly found herself gripping her seat track on the floor, her overturned seat still strapped to her body. The seat belt failed and the seat shot down the aisle. She lost her grip and was dragged down the aisle by an invisible and extreme force. Her long blonde hair was pulled taut and her skirt and blouse were stripped from her body. Her eyes were filled with horror as she continued to fight against the unseen thing that wanted to take her. She dug her nails into the carpet as the racing air pulled her toward the yawning hole that led outside.

Her cries were unheard by even those passengers who sat barely inches away from her struggle. The noise of the escaping air was so loud that it was no longer decipherable as sound, but seemed instead a solid thing pounding at the people in their seats. The events in the cabin took on a horrific aura of pantomime.

Some of the bolts that held other damaged seats to their tracks began to fail. Several gangs of seats broke loose in sequence and rammed into rows of seats ahead, some of the seats tumbling over the tops of other seats as they rushed toward the hole. A gang of four seats, the passengers still strapped in, wedged into the smaller entry hole, partly blocking the hole and causing more suction at the larger exit hole on the starboard side. At the starboard hole, a gang of loosened seats seemed to pile up like paratroopers nervously bunching up, waiting for their turn to jump. Another flying seat loosened the logjam and one after the other they all shot out into space, the passengers strapped in them screaming, kicking, and clawing at the air.

John Berry, unaware of what was happening outside, turned the handle of the lavatory door and pulled inward on it. It seemed to be stuck. He tried again, pulling with all his strength, but the fiberglass door would not budge, though he could see the latch disengage. He braced both feet against the jamb and with both hands on the latch pulled with every ounce of strength he could summon. Still it would not move even a fraction of an inch. He was frightened and puzzled. He repeatedly pressed the assistance call button and waited for help.

As the internal air escaped from the Straton's tourist cabin, then its first-class cabin and upstairs lounge, the flow of cabin pressure still being pumped into the aircraft was literally piling up in those areas where it could not so readily escape-the five lavatories with inward-opening doors. The pressurized air poured into these lavatories through the normal air vents, and though some of the pressurized air leaked out from around the edges of the lavatory doors, the net trend was positive. Those five inward-opening fiberglass doors were sealed shut with a differential air pressure of two pounds per square inch, which added up to four thousand pounds pressing them shut.

The seven outward-opening lavatory doors blew open into the vacuum, hurling their occupants into the cabin and toward the two gaping holes that awaited them.

In the lounge on the upper deck, drink glasses and liquor bottles were sucked toward the spiral staircase that led down to the first-class cabin. Books, magazines, and newspapers were ripped from passengers' hands and sent into the vortex of rushing air. Every loose object in the lounge spun around the stairwell like a tornado.

The passengers who had chosen to stay in the lounge when the seat belt signs came on watched in horrified fascination as every movable thing in the room was sucked toward the growing vortex of debris around the stairwell.

Eddie Hogan, the piano player, had been playing "Autumn Leaves" when the sudden burst of airflow pulled him backward off the rigidly mounted bench. The bench had been equipped with a special seat belt, but Hogan had declined to use it. He was pulled, head-first, down the staircase, across the main cabin, and then swiftly out through the gaping starboard hole.

A blind man, seated near the piano, screamed repeatedly for someone to tell him what was happening. His body strained against his seat belt and he pulled against the leash of his Seeing Eye dog. The golden retriever seemed to be pulling away from him with an unnatural strength. He yelled at the dog. "Shannon! Shannon! Stop that!" The dog whimpered as she dug her claws into the soft pile. The leash broke and the dog was taken into the vortex and carried down into the first-class cabin, where its limp body wedged under an empty seat.

As the dozen lounge passengers watched from their secured seats, the piano and bench danced in their mounts but continued to hold against the maelstrom. Everyone in the upper deck became hysterical almost simultaneously.

In the first-class cabin below, objects from the lounge ripped through the accelerating air, cutting and smashing against heads and arms held up in protective gestures. The cloud of debris raced through the curtain into the tourist cabin and joined the other, incredibly numerous objects in their headlong rush out into the vacuum as though this void could be filled, satiated, if only enough objects and people were sacrificed to it.

In the tourist cabin, a big man strapped to his seat in the aft section was bellowing at the top of his lungs. He was raging against the wind, against the hurtling objects, and against the fates that had conspired to put him on this aircraft for his first flight. He had seen his half-dressed wife pulled out of one of the seven outward-opening lavatories and watched her as she seemed to run, tumble, and fly toward the hole, screaming his name as she went by and looking at him with puzzled eyes. Suddenly, he unfastened his belt and jumped to his feet. He half flew, arms and legs outstretched over seated passengers, skimming their heads as he sailed along. At the starboard-side hole his big body smashed into the jagged aluminum skin, opening his throat and severing his left arm as he was vomited out of the sick and dying aircraft.

In those lavatories that had opened, water gushed out of the taps and commodes into the low-pressure environment. From the bowels of the giant airliner, waste tanks flowed backward and their contents came up through the sink drains and toilets.

In the galleys, water valves ruptured and water overflowed the sinks. Pantries and refrigerators swung open and their contents flew out into the passageways and into the cabins.

In the pressurized baggage compartments below the cabin floor, aerosols and pressurized containers ruptured and disgorged their contents throughout the luggage. The cats and dogs that rode in kennels beneath their masters were banging wildly against their cages in fear.

The outward-opening cockpit door held for a moment. It strained against its lock and aluminum hinges, but the difference in pressure between the cockpit and the cabin was too great and the door finally burst outward into the first-class upper lounge.

Captain Stuart heard the door go. Suddenly, every loose object on the flight deck-maps, pencils, coffee cups, hats, and jackets-lifted into the air and converged on the open door, then disappeared into the lounge and down the stairway. Stuart felt himself pulled back into his seat. His arms flew up over his head and his wristwatch ripped loose. He pulled his arms down into his lap and waited until the initial rush of air subsided. He sat still trying to steady the hard beating in his chest. He calmed his rushing thoughts and tried to reconstruct what had happened in the last few seconds. He remembered that he had felt the jolt of a mild impact on the Straton only seconds before, but he had no idea what had caused it. What he did know was that the autopilot was still functioning and the craft was still under control. He glanced quickly at McVary, then glanced quickly back at Fessler. "What happened?" he yelled.

McVary kept staring silently at his instruments.

Fessler was looking back at the open door and didn't respond.

"Descend!" Stuart commanded, and yanked shut the power levers controlling all four engines, then disengaged the autopilot and pushed forward on the control wheel. The Straton transport abruptly nosed downward. But at their incredibly high cruise speed, the forward momentum slowed their initial descent. Stuart watched the ground altimeter as they moved slowly downward. Fifty-eight thousand feet. Fifty seconds had gone by since the impact.

Stuart quickly scanned his instruments. Cockpit indications were still good, except that he had already lost a major portion of his pressurized cabin air. His first thought was that a fuselage door had somehow opened. He looked at the door warning lights. They showed all the doors closed. Had a faulty window blown out? No. The decompression was much too rapid for that, and what had caused the jolt? A bomb. It had to be a bomb, It had to be a bomb, he thought. he thought. What is happening back there? What is happening back there?

Stuart looked at the cabin altimeter-the differential pressure gauge-which told him at what relative altitude the cabin pressure was. The hands of the cabin altimeter were spinning upward like those of a broken clock. The cabin pressure, which had always been kept at 10,000 feet, was now at 19,000 feet. Losing pressure. Hold the pressure Losing pressure. Hold the pressure. They were losing the artificial atmosphere that they had brought with them-this atmosphere from earth that made it possible to live at 62,000 feet-throwing it out into subspace, through some large hole.

Stuart glanced at the two altimeters together. The ground altimeter showed that the Straton had only gotten down to 55,000 feet. The cabin altimeter showed that they now had an artificial altitude pressure of 30,000 feet, then 35,000 feet. Stuart estimated that the artificial atmosphere would bleed off at about the time the Straton hit 50,000 feet. Then the altimeters would read the same. Subspace would be in the cabin.

Stuart started to feel light-headed. Instinctively, he pushed the autopilot button back on. He slammed his hand into the automatic descent selector, pushing it to its maximum rate of descent, letting the computer bring it down as fast as it was safely possible. He sat back in his seat. His head was pounding with pain. Sinus cavities. The air pockets inside his skull could not adjust to the rapid rate of cabin altitude change. His nose began to bleed. A river of blood poured down his white shirt. His lungs had already been emptied of most of their air. He felt hollowed out. His hands and feet were cold, and he didn't know if it was from loss of blood or loss of cabin heat.

The Straton's four engines were sucking up and compressing the thin outside air and pumping all the pressurized air they could into the ruptured cabin. As they descended lower, the air was slightly thicker and the pressurized airflow became stronger. But Alan Stuart suspected, knew really, that it was a losing battle. There was one hell of a big hole back there, and the arithmetic of the problem . . . If a basin has ten gallons of water and is losing one gallon a second through the drain, and a tap is replacing a half gallon every five seconds, how long before If a basin has ten gallons of water and is losing one gallon a second through the drain, and a tap is replacing a half gallon every five seconds, how long before. . . Too long. His head was bursting, and he couldn't think of anything but the pain now.

Captain Stuart turned his head slowly toward McVary. McVary had strapped on the copilot's oxygen mask and was transmitting an emergency radio message on the international distress frequency. Stuart shook his head. "Useless," he said softly, but he also reached for his oxygen mask and pulled it on, tightening the straps hard against his face. He looked back at Fessler. Fessler was lying slumped across his desk. Blood was pouring from his mouth, ears, and nose.

McVary continued to transmit the distress signal, though his speech and thoughts were fragmented. He sucked hard on the oxygen mask as he spoke, and blood collected in his mouth and he had to swallow it.

McVary knew that the oxygen mask alone was not enough. Without a sustaining pressure to force the oxygen into and through his lungs, it was almost totally useless. The flight deck's emergency oxygen canister, behind Fessler's panel, could just as well be back in San Francisco for all the good it was doing them. Only a military pressure suit-a space suit-of the type he had once worn could exert the necessary pressure on his body so that he could breathe. But he knew that even if he had one, there would not have been enough time to hook it up.