the hole, but he could barely see it through the tears in his eyes. He looked back at Miriam’s face. Two lines of dried blood ran from her tear ducts down her cheeks. He pulled her face to his chest. “Miriam, Miriam. I know you don’t understand, but…” His voice trailed off into a series of spasmodic sobs.
He stepped closer to the hole. He could feel the force of the slipstream as it pressed against his body. “Miriam, I love you. I’ve loved you all.” He was going to say, “God, forgive me,” but he was certain that this was what God had intended for him to do.
With his arms wrapped tightly around his wife, Harold Stein stepped out of the aircraft and away from the nightmare of Flight 52.
Lieutenant Peter Matos fidgeted in the seat of his F-18 fighter. A hundred yards ahead, the Trans-United Straton flew a steady course. Matos forced himself to glance at his panel clock. Its luminescent numbers seemed to jump out at him. He was amazed to see that it had been more than an hour since the Straton had turned toward California. To Matos, it seemed no more than a few minutes. He shook his head in disbelief. During all that time, all he remembered was receiving a few transmissions from Commander Sloan and doing some calculations with his navigation equipment. But other than those brief duties, he could not account for the missing minutes.
Peter, snap out of it. Do something. Right now. Matos felt as if he were in a trance, hypnotized by the enormous and unchanging Pacific. He sucked hard on his oxygen mask to clear his head. Check the flight instruments, he said to himself. Matos knew that he should get himself back into his normal pilot’s routine. It was the best way to get his thoughts back on the right track. The gauge readings were familiar and friendly. Starting on the panel’s left side, he saw that the oil pressure was normal, the engine temperatures were normal, the fuel…
Matos stopped. His brief moment of reverie ended abruptly. Jesus Christ. The F-18’s fuel situation was not yet critical, but Matos could see that it soon would be. Even though he had taken off on this mission with the maximum fuel the aircraft could carry, he would, without any question, have to do something very soon.
Matos bit into his lower lip while his mind wrestled with the alternatives. But he knew what he had to do first. He read the hurriedly punched coordinates into his computer. He read the results. “Shit.” He had very little extra fuel left. The luxury of waiting out the Straton was coming to an end.
What would happen next? Matos agonized over his choices. Should he defy Commander Sloan? He had never defied an order before, and the idea was unnerving. Bucking James Sloan-and the United States Navy, for that matter-was too drastic a course to consider. It was outside the range of his thoughts, just as the Nimitz would soon be outside the range of his fuel.
Matos glanced at the Straton. It was flying evenly and steadily. Too steadily. He knew damn well that he had exaggerated those last damage reports he had sent to Sloan. Fatigue cracks have developed along the cabin wall. The wing spar may be damaged. It can’t fly much longer. It will overstress soon. None of that was exactly false, but it wasn’t true either. There were some cracks and signs of stress, but …
“Navy, three-four-seven, do you read?”
Sloan’s sudden transmission startled Matos. “Roger,” he answered, gripping tightly to the F-18’s control stick, “go ahead.” He could tell from the Commander’s voice that he had grown impatient with their unspoken plan. A sense of dread flooded Matos. He had, he now realized, put off the inevitable as long as he could.
“What’s the situation?” Sloan asked tersely.
“No change so far.”
“Nothing?” Sloan sounded honestly astonished. “What about the fatigue cracks? What about the wing spar?”
“A little more deterioration. Maybe. Not much.” Matos wished he hadn’t begun this lie. It had only made things worse. He allowed his eyes to wander over to the missile-firing controls on his side console. He was sorry he had waited. He should have shot the Straton down immediately, before he had time to think about it.
“Matos, your damage reports have been pure bullshit. You’ve only made this goddamn job longer and harder for everyone. Don’t think I’ll forget that.”
“No. The Straton was getting worse,” Matos lied. “Its airspeed is still steady at 340, but its altitude has drifted slightly…” Something caught Matos’s eye. It was a small, dark object below the Straton. It was falling rapidly toward the sea. Was it part of the fuselage? Was the airliner finally coming apart? Matos peered over the side of his canopy, and as he did his finger slipped off the transmit button.
“Matos,” shouted Sloan as he latched on to the radio’s clear channel, “I don’t give a shit about airspeeds and altitudes. Will that goddamn airplane go down? That’s what I want to know. Answer the fucking question.”
“Homeplate-people are falling out of the Straton!” Matos had not heard one word of Sloan’s last message.
“What? Say again.”
“Yes. They’re falling. Jumping.” Matos edged his fighter downward, closer to the airliner. He could see clearly now, as he watched another body tumble out of the port-side hold. Oh, my God. “There’s another one! There must be a fire inside.” It was the only reason Matos could think of for a person to jump to a certain death. He watched the second body turn end over end until it was too far away to see its flailing arms and legs. It receded farther and farther away, until it was no more than a black pinpoint silhouetted against the sea. Then he saw it hit the waves and disappear instantly beneath them.
“Do you see any smoke?”
Smoke? Matos jerked his head up and stared at the Straton. But everything appeared as it had before. Too calm. Too steady. Matos ran his tongue across his parched lips, then pushed the transmit button. “No visible smoke. Not yet.” His new bubble of hope hadn’t yet burst, but it was quickly losing air. No smoke, no fire, nothing. What could be happening in there? For a brief instant he realized the kind of person he had turned into. He pushed that thought aside. He could live with the memory of this accident-even if it was his fault-as long as he didn’t do anything else to the Straton. Please, God, let it go down. By itself.
“Matos, don’t give me more bullshit,” Sloan said angrily, but then quickly changed his tone. “Is there any turbulence? Do you see any reason for them to jump?”
“No, but… wait… wait…” Matos kept his finger pressed firmly to the microphone button. “More people are jumping. Two of them. Together. Yes. There must be something going on. Definitely. A fire, or fumes. Something. No doubt. We should wait. Wait. It will go down. I know it will.”
Sloan did not answer for a long time. When he finally did, his voice had again assumed a flat and official tone. “Roger, three-four-seven. Understand. We will wait.”
As he fell with his wife in his arms, Harold Stein raised his head up and stared at the Straton above him. In that split second he saw and identified a jet fighter hovering above and behind the huge aircraft. The silver image of a long rocket hanging from its belly stuck in his mind. In a clear flash of understanding, he knew what had happened to Flight 52.
Wayne Metz disengaged the BMW cruise control and took the airport entrance at sixty miles an hour. He drove directly to the Trans-United hangar and slipped the BMW into a VIP space. He sat staring up at the blue and yellow hangar for a full minute.
He had come up with a plan that could greatly reduce Beneficial’s enormous liability. A plan that would lessen his own liability as well.
The plan had not been difficult to formulate. It was an obvious one. The problem now was to convince Edward Johnson that their interests coincided, and that these mutual interests could best be served by Wayne Metz’s plan. He thought he knew Johnson well enough to risk approaching him.
Metz rummaged around his glove compartment and found his Trans-United ID card. He got out of his car and crossed the hot tarmac toward the hangar. He spotted the personnel entrance and quickened his pace. A group of airline employees stood near the door talking, and Metz brushed by them. He flashed his Trans-United “Official Visitor/Contractor” identification card at the guard, then pushed open the small inner door and mounted a flight of steps two at a
time. He moved quickly down a long corridor and opened a blue door marked DISPATCH OFFICE
Metz approached a clerk. “I’m here to see Edward Johnson.”
The clerk pointed to the glass-enclosed communications room. “Over there. But I don’t think he’s seeing anyone.”
“He’s seeing me.” Metz crossed the office and stood in front of one of the thick glass panels. In the small room he could see Edward Johnson looking down at a big machine. Another man stood next to him. In an instant,
