Berry was grinning. "Yes. Damn it. We did it. Okay. Okay." But Berry suspected that the video screen's picture meant very little. The only way to determine if the signal had actually been sent from the Straton and received by someone else was to wait for an answer to appear on the screen.

Berry was fairly certain that the data-link couldn't send and receive at the same time, so he resisted the temptation to transmit again and waited for the reply. Unlike a radio, if this machine worked, there was a displayed entry somewhere waiting to be read. He wondered how often the data-links were checked.

The Straton 797 maintained a steady northwesterly heading across the Pacific as the minutes ticked off.

John Berry knew that this was their last hope of surviving. He looked at Sharon Crandall. She seemed to know it too. "Buy you a drink?" He motioned back toward the bar.

"No. Not now. Maybe later. Get one if you want, I'll watch the screen."

"I don't need one." He glanced at the video monitor, then back at Sharon Crandall. "You want to hear about Japanese businessmen? Japanese customs? It's very interesting."

She looked at him. "Sure," she said, with little conviction and a forced smile. Her smile faded quickly as she looked down at the data-link screen. Except for their own SOS message printed in the upper corner, the screen remained ominously blank.

6.

Lieutenant Matos had the distinct impression, though he was not looking directly at the Straton, that the aircraft had banked briefly, then leveled out again. He stared at it closely, but it seemed level now. He looked at his magnetic compass. Still 325 degrees. No, the Straton had not banked. It was only an illusion. He rubbed his eyes. He was becoming fatigued.

The F18 lay back in trail and followed the huge airliner at a distance of a thousand yards. Matos experienced some turbulence in the Straton's wake and lifted his fighter slightly higher. His last message from the Nimitz Nimitz had been bizarre. A bizarre message even for a bizarre situation. had been bizarre. A bizarre message even for a bizarre situation. Navy three-four-seven. Follow in trail. Keep out of sight of portholes and cockpit. Do not, I say again, do not attempt to communicate with Straton. Acknowledge. Navy three-four-seven. Follow in trail. Keep out of sight of portholes and cockpit. Do not, I say again, do not attempt to communicate with Straton. Acknowledge.

Matos had acknowledged and followed orders without question. Had his position been more tenable, he would have asked for a clarification. But he was now numero uno on Sloan's famous shitlist, and that had the effect of putting him in a complete state of psychological dependence and subservience. Whatever Sloan said, Sloan would get. Certainly there was some method to Sloan's madness.

Matos was beginning to recognize tonal qualities in Sloan's voice despite the fact that the voice was scrambled in transmission, then unscrambled on his audio. And there had been a strange quality in Sloan's latest instructions that had not escaped Matos's attention. The voice was not hostile or curt. It was almost friendly, cajoling. The voice seemed to say, All right, Peter, you screwed up, but just follow orders and we'll be able to square everything. All right, Peter, you screwed up, but just follow orders and we'll be able to square everything.

But how in the name of God could anyone, even Commander Sloan, square this? this?

It occurred to Matos, now that he had time to think, that his career wasn't the only one that was finished. He'd been thinking only of himself, which was natural under the circumstances. Now he saw the situation for what it was. A monumental fuckup. It started with him, but it would chain-react and obliterate Sloan and anyone else unlucky enough to be in the electronics room. It would also smash the Nimitz Nimitz 's commander, Captain Diehl, and probably his staff as well. The blast would reach into the Halls of the Pentagon, the Department of the Navy, the Department of Defense, and maybe into the White House itself. At whatever level this decision had been made to test-fire a weapon banned by the new Voluntary Arms Limitation Treaty, everyone involved from that level down would be culpable. 's commander, Captain Diehl, and probably his staff as well. The blast would reach into the Halls of the Pentagon, the Department of the Navy, the Department of Defense, and maybe into the White House itself. At whatever level this decision had been made to test-fire a weapon banned by the new Voluntary Arms Limitation Treaty, everyone involved from that level down would be culpable. No es tu culpa, Pedro. No es tu culpa, Pedro.

Yet Matos, though he didn't fully understand who ordered the test or how illegal it was, was very much in favor of it. He pictured himself in front of some sort of investigating committee-Senate, House, maybe Department of Defense. He would defend his involvement as a moral decision based on national security. A personal decision that transcended any treaty. He would not not say he was only following orders. That was the coward's way. He began to take on the mantle of the patriot and martyr: the Ollie North defense. He would show what he was made of when the senators began firing questions at him. The Navy would be awed by his loyalty. Sloan would be impressed by his defense of his superiors. Peter Matos had the feeling that he had arrived at last. say he was only following orders. That was the coward's way. He began to take on the mantle of the patriot and martyr: the Ollie North defense. He would show what he was made of when the senators began firing questions at him. The Navy would be awed by his loyalty. Sloan would be impressed by his defense of his superiors. Peter Matos had the feeling that he had arrived at last.

"Navy three-four-seven."

Sloan's voice brought Matos out of his reverie. "Roger."

"Status report."

"Roger. In trail. No change in Straton."

He glanced at the Straton. What had happened was, at the most, only half his fault. Someone on the carrier had failed to note the flight plan of the Straton. The sky was a big test-firing range. It was someone else's responsibility to make certain the range was clear.

But the feeling that Commander Sloan had something else in mind-something that didn't require martyrdom or investigations-nagged at him. He knew if he put himself in Commander Sloan's head, knowing what he knew about Sloan, he would know what Sloan's next transmission would say. But he wouldn't let his mind come to the obvious and final conclusion regarding the Straton.

He glanced at the crippled airliner again. It would just fly off into the Arctic Ocean on its present heading, and if no Mayday had been sent from it, and if no one on the Nimitz Nimitz made a report . . . Why had made a report . . . Why had he he made the report? Damned stupid. made the report? Damned stupid.

He looked at his fuel gauges. He couldn't follow the plane much longer. Yet he knew Sloan would want him to do just that. He'd have to stay with the Straton until its fate was resolved.

His radio crackled and he felt himself stiffen. He cleared his throat and waited for the message.

"Navy three-four-seven, this is Homeplate." Commander Sloan's voice was cool, controlled. Sloan looked at Hennings out of the corner of his eye as he transmitted. "Status of Straton."

"Status unchanged."

"Roger. Stand by for mission order."

"Roger."

"Out." Sloan put down the microphone and turned to Hennings. "All right, Admiral. The time for talk is over. I am going to order Lieutenant Matos to fire his second missile into the cockpit of the Straton. I am fully convinced that there is no one alive on that aircraft. If there was a pilot onboard, he would have changed direction long ago." He paused again and switched to a conversational tone of voice. "You know that the Navy is required to sink derelict ships that are a hazard to navigation. Now, the analogy is not precise, but that dead aircraft is a hazard to navigation too. At its present altitude and heading, it can potentially cross some commercial air lanes and . . ."

"That's absurd."

Sloan went on. "And it could also crash into a ship. True, there is no precedent for this, but it seems like an obvious obligation to order a derelict aircraft brought down. We must bring it down on our terms. Now. Hazard to navigation," he said again, hoping the old terminology would produce the necessary response.

Hennings didn't respond, but a flicker of emotion passed over his craggy features. His memory was drawn back to an incident that they had often talked about at the Naval Academy. It had occurred at the beginning of the Second World War. One ship, the Davis Davis, had been pulling the crew of a badly damaged destroyer, the Mercer Mercer, from the water. The Mercer Mercer was crippled and aflame but showed no signs of sinking, and the Japanese fleet had sent a cruiser and two destroyers toward it. The last thing the Navy wanted was for the Japanese to take a U.S. warship in tow, complete with maps, charts, codes, new armaments, and encrypting devices. The was crippled and aflame but showed no signs of sinking, and the Japanese fleet had sent a cruiser and two destroyers toward it. The last thing the Navy wanted was for the Japanese to take a U.S. warship in tow, complete with maps, charts, codes, new armaments, and encrypting devices. The Davis Davis captain, John Billings, knew there were wounded and trapped men aboard the captain, John Billings, knew there were wounded and trapped men aboard the Mercer Mercer. The survivors also reported that the Mercer Mercer 's skipper, Captain Bartlett, a classmate of Billings, was still aboard. Captain Billings, without hesitation or one trace of emotion, was said to have turned to his gunnery officer and ordered, "Sink the Mercer." 's skipper, Captain Bartlett, a classmate of Billings, was still aboard. Captain Billings, without hesitation or one trace of emotion, was said to have turned to his gunnery officer and ordered, "Sink the Mercer."

But that was war, Hennings thought. This was quite different. Yet . . . they were were at war, or at least could be someday-contrary to what the fools in Congress thought with their politically correct solutions and reasoning. The Straton, if it was visually spotted or tracked on radar, or crashed near a ship, might be recovered. And if it was, the nature of its damage would be quickly recognized for what it was. And that would lead back to the at war, or at least could be someday-contrary to what the fools in Congress thought with their politically correct solutions and reasoning. The Straton, if it was visually spotted or tracked on radar, or crashed near a ship, might be recovered. And if it was, the nature of its damage would be quickly recognized for what it was. And that would lead back to the Nimitz Nimitz eventually. Hennings knew that was what Sloan was really saying with all his bilge about hazard to navigation. eventually. Hennings knew that was what Sloan was really saying with all his bilge about hazard to navigation.

And if the Nimitz Nimitz were suspected, all hell would break loose. America washed its dirty linen in public. The Navy would be subjected to inquiry, scandal, and ruinous publicity. It would be Tailhook a thousand times over. The incident would further emasculate the United States Navy; it was an emasculation that had already gone far beyond belief. were suspected, all hell would break loose. America washed its dirty linen in public. The Navy would be subjected to inquiry, scandal, and ruinous publicity. It would be Tailhook a thousand times over. The incident would further emasculate the United States Navy; it was an emasculation that had already gone far beyond belief.

Hennings knew exactly what the Joint Chiefs would say if all that happened. "Why didn't those sons-of-bitches, Hennings and Sloan, just blow the thing out of the sky?" They would never order order that done, but they expected it to be done by their subordinates. that done, but they expected it to be done by their subordinates. Someone Someone had to do the dirty work and protect the people on top. Protect the nation's defense posture and the viability of its military. had to do the dirty work and protect the people on top. Protect the nation's defense posture and the viability of its military.

Sloan had let enough time slip by. "Admiral?"

Hennings looked at Sloan. If he didn't dislike the man personally-if the suggestion had come from a more morally courageous officer-then it would be easier to say yes. Hennings cleared his throat. "Let's give it ten minutes more."

"Five."

"Seven."

Sloan reached out and set the countdown clock for seven minutes. He hit the start button.

Hennings nodded. Commander Sloan was a man who wasted neither words nor time. "Can you be sure Matos will . . ."

"We'll know soon enough. But I'd be surprised if he didn't come to the same conclusions himself. I understand Matos better than he understands himself, though I've hardly spoken to the man. Matos wants to be part of the team." He sat down and began writing. "I'm drafting a message to him, and I want you to help me with it. What we say and how we say it will be very important."

"Well, Commander, if you've convinced me, you can convince that unfortunate pilot. You need no help from me in that direction." Randolf Hennings turned his back to Sloan and opened the blackout shade over the porthole. He stared out at the sea. He wondered what fates had conspired against him to make him do such a thing so late in life. The good years, the honest years, all seemed to count for very little when stacked up against this. He thought of the Straton. How many people onboard? Three hundred? Surely they were dead already. But now their fate would never be known to their families. Randolf Hennings had consigned them to their grave. They would lie there in the ocean where so many of his friends already lay, where he himself wished he could lie.

Jerry Brewster stood idly in the small communications room of Trans-United Operations at San Francisco International Airport, his hands in his pockets. He waited for the 500-millibar Pacific weather chart to finish printing. Working in this room was the only part of his job as dispatcher's aide that he really disliked. The lights were too bright, the noises too loud, and the chemical smells from the color-reproduction-enhancement machines hung heavily in the stagnant air.

The new chart was finished printing. Brewster waited impatiently for it to dry before he pulled it out of the machine. Jack Miller had requested the update on mid-altitude temperatures, and Brewster wanted to get the data to him before lunch. Brewster made it a point to drop everything else whenever Miller asked for something. Brewster liked the old man; Miller was always available for advice and training.

Brewster reached down and carefully pulled the newly printed chart off the roller and held it up. He walked toward the door with the map suspended from two fingers, just to be sure he didn't smudge the still-damp color ink. A bell rang behind him. The tiny sound carried from the far corner of the room above the other electronic noises. Brewster paused. It was the data-link's alerting bell. He listened. The screen was displaying a new message, and even from this far away, he could see that it was unusually short-a few letters or numbers. Brewster knew what that meant. Another malfunction. More gibberish. A segment of some half-digested intracompany transmissions. He watched from a distance to see if the screen would update.

After spending a small fortune to equip the entire Trans-United fleet with this electronic marvel, the data-link communications network was still subject to "technical difficulties," as they called it. Brewster called it screwed up. Garbled messages. Phrases or letters that repeated for screen after screen. Misaligned or inverted columns of data. It was almost funny, except that they were forever calling the system engineers to troubleshoot the damned thing. Fortunately, it was used only for routine and nonessential communications- meal problems, crew scheduling, passenger connections, routine weather and position updates. When it worked fine, it was fine, and when it didn't, you ignored it. Brewster ignored it.

He stepped toward the door. The chemicals in the room stung his nostrils and made his eyes water. He wanted to get into the cleaner air of the dispatcher's office, away from the irritants. He opened the door, then hesitated. Monitoring the data-link was one of his responsibilities. All right, damn it. All right, damn it. He slammed the door shut, crossed the room and stood in front of the screen. He read the typed message: He slammed the door shut, crossed the room and stood in front of the screen. He read the typed message: SOS.

That was all it said. Nothing else. No identity code, no transmission address. Brewster was puzzled, annoyed. What in hell's name is this? What in hell's name is this? A prank? A joke? No airline pilot in the world would seriously send an SOS. It was archaic, dating from the days of steamships. It was the equivalent of someone reporting a rape in progress by saying, "Maiden in distress." Who could take that seriously? A prank? A joke? No airline pilot in the world would seriously send an SOS. It was archaic, dating from the days of steamships. It was the equivalent of someone reporting a rape in progress by saying, "Maiden in distress." Who could take that seriously?

Brewster rolled up the weather chart and tucked it under his arm. He stared at the machine in front of him. No, an airline pilot in trouble would transmit a Mayday message on a specific emergency channel using any one of his four radios. He would not send an ancient message on an electronic toy. And even if the impossible had happened and all four radios were malfunctioning, and a pilot resorted to the data-link, then he would send a full message with identifying code. This, then, was either a malfunction in the machine or some pilot's idea of a joke. A very bad joke. And this pilot knew that his joke would go no further than the Trans-United communications room.

Brewster realized that the joke was aimed at him, and that made him angry. He pressed the print button, then yanked a copy of the message out of the machine and held it in his hand.

SOS.

Idiots. It would serve them right if he reported them. He didn't know if they could trace which of their flights had sent the anonymous message. It was a stupid, irresponsible thing to do, and the pilot who sent it would be in trouble if they could trace it. Then again, it might only be a malfunction. Why get involved? If he reported it, he'd get a bad reputation with the flight crews. That, somehow, might affect his promotion. Miller had always told him to cover for the flight crews. It would pay off. He was glad Evans hadn't seen the message. He crumpled the data-link's message and threw it in the trash can and left the room.

Jack Miller saw Brewster walk out of the communications room. "Jerry, can you get that mid-altitude stuff to me soon?"

Brewster looked across the room. "Sure, Mr. Miller. Just a few minutes." He glanced at the wall clock. Three minutes to twelve. They would both be late for lunch. He unrolled the chart on his desk, weighted it down at the corners, then picked up a pencil and began transcribing pertinent temperatures onto a blank sheet of paper.

John Berry stared at the rotary code selector on the data-link. The thing to do, he decided, was to change codes and send again. A longer message this time. That impulsive SOS had been too brief, enigmatic, he realized. He looked around the cockpit for code books but realized that, even if there had been any, they had probably been sucked out. He would have to try each channel, transmit a complete message, wait for a reply, and if there was none, go on to the next channel. Somewhere, the counterpart to this machine would print. He'd begin monitoring each channel again after he'd transmitted on all of them. It was a shotgun approach, but it was far better than waiting. The urge to hit the key was getting the better of him. "I think I'm going to try another channel. What do you think?"

Sharon Crandall looked at the blank video screen. "Wait a minute or two. I remember that the pilots sometimes waited ten minutes or more for a reply."

"Why?"

"Well, they don't send anything important on it. They just want it so they can leave a message in the communications room-for the record."

"Have you seen the communications room in San Francisco?"

"Once. I used to date a pilot. He brought me in there and showed me the data-link, weather printouts, and all that."

"Sounds like fun. Where's the communications room? Physically, I mean."

"The room's off the main dispatcher's office."

"Anyone on duty there?"

She thought for a moment. "No. I don't think so . . . just machines. But people go in and out, though."

Berry nodded. "Okay. We'll have to wait for someone to go in there and spot the message. Where's the machine located?"

"It's in the middle of the room. The room's small. They'll see it."

"Okay. I hope so."

Crandall felt defensive, but didn't know why she should. She tried to concentrate on the panel. Maybe she could come up with something else. The markings above the controls and gauges seemed so cryptic. RMI. LOM. Alternate Static. Gyro Transfer. "Here. This is something I remember. The ADF. I think it's some kind of radio."

Berry forced a weak smile. "Yes. The automatic direction finder. It's to home in on an airport's signal. Maybe we can use it later."

"Oh." She sat back. "I'm worried about Barbara. It's been a while since we've heard from her."

Berry had found the cockpit clock, but it seemed to be malfunctioning. "What time is it?"

She looked at her watch. "It's six minutes past twelve, San Francisco time."

Berry glanced at the clock again. 8:06. Eight hours beyond San Francisco time. He realized it was set to Greenwich Mean Time and remembered that airlines always measured time from that internationally recognized starting point. Berry shook his head in disgust. Everything in this cockpit seemed to provide him with useless information. The radios were filled with frequencies that wouldn't transmit. The course indicators sat blindly in the center of their scales. The clock told him that at that moment, halfway around the world, neon lights shined on Piccadilly and the London theater had raised the curtain on their first acts. All that useless information was unnerving. He had, he realized, become increasingly morose. He needed to pull himself out of it. He coughed dryly into his hand to clear his parched throat. "At least the weather's good and we have some daylight left. If this happened at night . . ."

"Right." Crandall answered with little enthusiasm.

They both lapsed into silence. Each knew the other was nervous, yet they couldn't bridge the gap to comfort each other. Berry felt himself wishing that Stein were free to come to the cockpit. Crandall wished Yoshiro would hurry back. Neither of them bothered to wish that the accident had never happened; neither of them was thankful for being alive. Their whole existence was reduced to worrying about the next course of action, the next few minutes.

Berry half rose in his seat and looked back into the lounge. "How is it going, Mr. Stein?" he shouted.

Harold Stein called back. "They seem quiet down there. Up here, too. No change in the copilot."

"Call out for Barbara Yoshiro."

Stein called loudly down the stairwell and listened closely. He turned toward the cockpit. "Nothing."

Sharon picked up the interphone and looked at the console. "I don't know which station to call."

"Try any one."

Crandall selected Station Six in the rear of the aircraft and pressed the call button. She waited. No one answered. "Should I call another station, or wait on this line?"

Berry was impatient. "How would I know?"

"I'm frightened for her."

Berry was becoming angry. "I didn't want her to go back in the first place. She's become part of the problem now and no help with the solution." He took a deep breath.

Sharon Crandall rose in her seat. "I'm going down there."

Berry reached out and grabbed her wrist. "No. You're not going anywhere. I need you here." Berry looked intently at her. An unspoken message passed between them: Berry was now in command.

Crandall sank slowly into her seat. Finally, she nodded. "Okay." She looked at John Berry, and he returned her stare. She felt strangely calm and confident in this man's presence.

"Try the rest of the flight-attendant stations," Berry said in a low, calm voice. "I'm going to start changing channels on the data-link. Maybe if we work on it, we can get our luck to change." Berry let his fingers slip gently off Crandall's wrist, and he reached across the console toward the data-link.

Jack Miller was trying to decide if he should give Flight 52 more time. He looked up at Brewster. "How's the data-link today?"

Brewster looked up from the weather chart. "What?"

"The link? Is it behaving?"