threat to sea and air navigation that must be eliminated. Only a pilot with your personal skills could accomplish this.”
“Christ,” Hennings murmured in the background.
Sloan spoke quickly into the microphone. “Wait one.” He turned in his seat and glared at Hennings, but he was thankful for the break. A few seconds’ pause would do Matos good.
Hennings leaned over, very close to Sloan. “You should try being honest with him,” Hennings said in a low voice. “Tell him you want him to destroy the damned evidence. Tell him you want him to knock it down and stay over it until he makes sure it has sunk. Tell him also that it’s possible that someone onboard is alive and well enough to transmit a message. You owe him that much, Commander.”
Sloan fixed Hennings with a cold stare and spoke through clenched teeth. “Don’t be a fool. I’m making it easier for him, not harder. The last goddamned thing he wants is the truth. The truth,” Sloan snarled, “is that the whole damned thing is Matos’s fault.” He turned back to the microphone. “All right, Lieutenant, we have just received our final authorization.” He lifted the written text and noticed that his hands were trembling, which was unusual for him. “You are to fire your remaining missile in such a way as to make inoperable the Straton’s autopilot. Since the test missiles weren’t equipped with explosive warheads, this can only be accomplished by a direct hit in the area of the cockpit of the derelict craft. The accuracy of your shot is well beyond the profile that you’ve been trained for. The assignment is beyond the normal call of duty. We, and everyone here, are depending on you and praying for your success.” He paused. “Take your time, but try to accomplish this mission within the next few minutes. Good luck, Peter. Acknowledge, please.”
A silence settled over the small room. Sloan made an exaggerated gesture of crossing his fingers.
Hennings thought that he had never seen anything so obscene in his life. He turned away, then retreated to the porthole to wait. Perhaps Lieutenant Peter Matos, whoever he was, had more moral courage than they did.
The radio crackled. Hennings turned his head toward the speaker.
“Roger, Homeplate. Proceeding with new mission profile. Out.”
Sloan settled back in his chair. Out of habit, he set the countdown clock for five minutes.
Hennings felt a tear forming in his eye and wiped it before Sloan could see it.
Peter Matos stared blankly out the windshield of his F-18. His reply had been automatic. Now he was beginning to fully understand what he was supposed to do. He looked at his console clock, then reached out to push his radio-transmit button. What was he going to ask Commander Sloan? What was left unclear? Nothing that concerned him. He drew his hand away from the radio button and rested it listlessly at his side.
He glanced out of the cockpit. The Straton 797 maintained its heading and altitude with an unerring precision. Far too precise a flight to have been guided by any human hand. He watched carefully for a full minute. He was satisfied that the Straton was indeed being flown by its computerized autopilot.
He settled back in his flight chair. Commander Sloan’s earlier orders had not made a great deal of sense. Matos had been certain that Sloan was leading up to something. And he knew, deep inside, what it was. Even though the actual order had now been sent, it was still hard to believe.
Matos considered his options. There were none, really, that he could exercise without a great deal of unpleasantness. The facts were that the Straton had been off course, everyone aboard was now dead, the craft presented a hazard of some sort, and the top brass wanted it brought down. Simple. Follow orders. They would take care of everything. They would look after Peter Matos once he completed the mission.
He stared at his fuel gauges. Less than half full. He glanced at his compass. With every passing minute he delayed, he was getting farther away from the Nimitz. Every minute of delay now would add another minute to his trip home. He looked again at his clock. Three minutes had already gone by. He desperately wanted to be done with this within the next few minutes. More than anything else he wanted to be back in his bunk on the Nimitz. That was his home-he wanted to go home.
Without another disturbing thought, he began to maneuver his fighter into a better position for the missile strike.
His mind was now filled with the logistics of the difficult shot. The technical trade-offs were complex. The derelict Straton was a large stable target, but its very size presented a problem. How many dummy warheads would it take to bring it down? The first one had not done it. A half-dozen more might not do it. He had only one left. He was reminded of a bull in the ring being stuck with lances and banderillas.
The Phoenix missile would hit the Straton. That was no problem. It could do that automatically. But he had to hit a particular spot. He needed a brain shot.
The solution, now that he had a chance to study the problem, was suddenly obvious. He had to fly close to the cockpit and fire his missile at point-blank range. With no exploding warhead he could do this with a fair degree of safety. Then he had to pull out quickly and turn away. The Phoenix would strike the cockpit before its elaborate guidance system could alter its course and steer it toward the target’s midsection. Matos managed a small smile. He had outwitted the designers of the weapon. The pilot was still in control after all.
Matos knew that selecting the best angle for the shot would have to be a compromise. He slid his fighter to the starboard side of the Straton. The small shadow of his craft passed over the gleaming silver airframe of the huge airliner. He looked down. Normally, a full side view of the target would be best, but he saw that a missile shot from that angle would be far too risky. He was liable to miss the aircraft entirely because of the high-closure speeds and his need to do the firing manually.
He slid his craft back over the top of the Straton and a hundred yards behind its tail. The shot would have to be made from the twelve-o’clock-high position, right down into the dome that was the lounge and cockpit. The angle would have to be such that the missile would enter the roof of the lounge, pass through the cockpit, and exit from the lower nose. That would wipe out everything on the flight deck. He reached for the manual gun sight above the glare shield and snapped it into place. He looked through it. The gunnery crosshairs seemed to bob and weave as the relative positions of the two aircraft changed.
Matos set his experienced hands to work on the flight control and soon had the calibrated crosshairs steadied and within range. The bulge of the upper lounge and cockpit filled the scope. The sight’s bull’s-eye swayed back and forth over the protruding dome.
Matos reached down without taking his eyes off the target and turned off the Phoenix’s safety switch. He moved his hand laterally and placed his finger on the firing button. He took a deep breath and began nudging the F-18’s control stick forward. The fighter came in closer. The bull’s-eye was dead center over the dome and holding steady. The Straton’s towering tail loomed up in front of him. He would fire when he passed over the tail. He judged that from tail to dome was almost two hundred feet, and that was a good yardstick to use. Closer than that would expose him to danger from debris. And if the stricken airliner suddenly rolled, the wing could come up and hit his fighter.
He looked through the gun sight. Thirty feet from the tail. He had never flown this close to such a large aircraft. Twenty feet. The huge Straton was spread out below him like the deck of a carrier. Ten feet. He could see the rivets in the tail. His heart started to beat heavily in his chest.
The nose of the F-18 passed over the tail of the Straton. The bull’s-eye covered the center of the silver dome. The glare of the silvery skin made Matos squint. He exhaled deeply and pressed his finger against the firing button.
John Berry was anxious to get on with the maneuver, yet he was doing nothing. He ran his eyes over the instruments, trying to appear as though he were doing something important.
“John?”
“What?”
Sharon Crandall looked anxious. “Is anything wrong?”
“No. Just a few checks.” He paused. “Try to call Barbara again. I want her to know we’re turning. When we start to bank, she’s liable to become frightened. And tell her to stay away from the holes.”
“Okay.” Sharon Crandall set the interphone for the mid-ship station and pressed the button repeatedly. “She doesn’t answer,” she said in a trembling voice.
“Try another station.”
Crandall selected the aft flight-attendant station and pressed the button. Almost immediately a muffled voice came back, nearly drowned out by the sound of rushing wind and odd babbling voices in the background. “Barbara, can you hear me? Is that you?”
“Yes. I’m at the rear station,” Yoshiro answered in a clear voice.
