“I see. That was part of the test profile?”
Sloan paused purposely, as though he were reluctant to commit a security breach. “Yes, sir.”
“All right. The Admiral is still with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine. I won’t take any more of your time, Commander.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sloan hung up, took a deep breath, and turned to Hennings. “The Captain is concerned about three-four-seven.”
“So am I.”
Sloan stared at the radio speaker. Matos’s open transmitter filled the room with rushing noises, noises of the cockpit, noises that came from nine miles above the earth. Occasionally, he could hear Matos, forgetful or uncaring that his transmitter was on, talking softly to himself, humming once, cursing many times. Then his voice came through the speaker loud and clear. “Homeplate, no tanker in sight. No air-sea rescue in sight. Fuel estimated at fifteen minutes. Maintaining heading of zero-seven-five, at thirty one thousand feet.” He read his coordinates from his satellite navigation set. “Storm still below me. Shutting off transmitter so I can receive you.”
The rushing sound stopped, and Sloan quickly picked up the microphone. “Roger. Civilian and military air-sea rescue closing on you. Tanker should be in sight.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Stand by.” Sloan picked up the green phone and spoke for a few seconds, then took up the microphones. “Matos, he thinks he has visual contact with you as well as radar contact. As a backup, keep your transmitter sending a signal so he can home in. Hang in there, Peter.”
“Roger.” The rushing sound of the open transmitter filled Room E-334 again.
Sloan looked at his countdown clock, which had been set at Matos’s estimated forty-five minutes of flying time. It read fourteen minutes. Fourteen minutes to keep this incredible juggling act with the dead, colored interphones, with Hennings, with the live, gold interphone to the bridge, and most of all with Lieutenant Peter Matos. A lesser man than himself would have fallen apart long ago, but James Sloan had a strong will, and he knew that one man, with a strong sense of mission and a keen sense of self-preservation, could control any situation. People wanted to believe, and if you gave them no cause for suspicion, if you acted with confidence and assurance, they would believe.
Suddenly, the room was filled with a voice that was at once familiar and unfamiliar. “Mayday! Mayday! Navy three-four-seven is flaming out!”
Hennings jumped to his feet.
Sloan grabbed the microphone and glanced at the countdown clock. Eleven minutes left. Matos had made some kind of calculation error, or the fuel gauges were slightly off at the low end. Maybe the missile produced more drag than he thought. “Roger, Peter. I understand. Air-sea rescue has a good fix on you.”
Matos’s voice was shaking, but he fought for control and replied, “Roger. I’m going through thirty thousand now. I’ll be into the top of the storm in a few seconds.” He read his coordinates, then said, “Violent updrafts, buffeting the aircraft. Unstable.”
Partly out of instinct, and partly because Hennings was in the room, Sloan gave Matos the best advice possible under the circumstances. “Peter, hold off on ejecting for as long as possible. When you eject, hold off on the chute as long as you can.”
“Roger.” Sloan pictured Matos falling, still in his flight chair, waiting as long as possible before opening the parachute, then opening it at the last possible moment, being caught in the wild currents-being taken up instead of down, then dropping again, then rising with the currents-a process that could go on for a long, long time. If that didn’t kill him, the sea would.
Hennings stood next to Sloan and watched the radio speaker, then looked toward the interphones. “How far is the closest air-rescue craft?”
Sloan grabbed the blue interphone and poised a pencil over the clipboard that covered the switches. “Operator. Patch me into the rescue command craft. Quickly. Rescue? This is the Nimitz. How far is your closest air or sea craft from the target aircraft? Right. He has flamed out. Copy these coordinates.” Sloan read them off. “He will eject shortly. Do you still have a good fix on his transmission signal? Right.” Sloan nodded his head. “Yes, all right…” This absurd monologue into a dead phone was becoming tiresome. He hoped he was still doing it well. “All right, we-”
Matos’s voice cut into the room. “Homeplate-I am down to twenty thousand. The ride is very rough. Rain and hail. No visibility.”
Hennings grabbed the microphone. “Navy three-four-seven, we are talking to air-sea rescue now. You will be picked up soon. Stand by.” He looked at Sloan.
Sloan spoke into the interphone. “Hold on, rescue.” He turned to Hennings. “Tell Matos he will be in the water in less than ten minutes. Tell him to keep the fighter’s transmitter signal on. After ejecting, the air-sea rescue craft will home in on his raft transmitter.”
Hennings spoke into the microphone and relayed the message. He added, “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. We’re with you, and we’re praying for you. Out.” Hennings released the microphone button so that Matos could continue to transmit. Tears came to his eyes, and he turned away and stared out toward the porthole.
Matos’s voice broke the silence in the room. “I am down to ten thousand feet. Preparing to eject.” His voice had become matter-of-fact, as though he were reporting on someone else’s problem. “Eight thousand feet.”
Hennings took note of the calmness in his voice. He knew it was important for a pilot, as for a seaman, to do this well, to go down with dignity.
“Still extremely turbulent…” The sound of Matos’s breathing came through loudly on the speaker and filled the electronics room. “This is my last transmission. I am leaving the aircraft now.” The speaker gave a loud pop as the canopy blew off, followed by an earpiercing rushing sound as the transmitter picked up the three hundred-mile-an- hour wind that filled the cockpit. Then, a split second later, they heard the loud explosion of the ejecting charge as Peter Matos’s flight chair was blown clear of the F-18.
The continuous, unnerving roar of the abandoned fighter was broadcast into Room E-334. Hennings thought for a moment that he could hear the crashing sea, then an odd sound, like a muffled slap vibrated through the speaker, followed by silence.
Sloan reached out and shut off the radio. He spoke softly into the interphone. “The aircraft is down. The pilot has ejected. Home in on his raft transmitter when he lands. Yes. Thank you.” He hung up. Sloan put his hand on the digital clock and erased the remaining minutes of fuel time that Matos never had. The digits 00:00 seemed appropriate. He sat down. “We can console ourselves, Admiral, with the fact that one F-18 is a small price to pay for the continuation of the Phoenix program. The program, like its namesake, will rise from its own ashes and fly again.”
“Your attempt at metaphor is grotesque, ill-timed, and inappropriate, Commander. What I’m concerned about now is Flight Lieutenant Matos.”
“Yes, of course. We all are. Lieutenant Matos is trained in sea survival. His life raft will keep him afloat and his flight suit will keep him dry. And at these latitudes, the water is not that cold.” Sloan rocked back in his swivel chair and closed his eyes. He pictured Peter Matos dropping quickly into the sea, his parachute ripped apart by the winds. Then another picture flashed through his mind: Peter Matos landing softly, inflating his raft, clinging to it. How long could he live in the sea? No one was looking for him. It might take days for him to die. Then again, he might not die. There had always been that possibility. He suddenly saw Matos being transferred from a rescue craft to the Nimitz — stepping aboard, his flight suit covered for some reason with seaweed, walking across the wide flight deck before him. No. Even without the storm, he had no chance if no one was looking for him in the right place.
The sound of Hennings’s voice penetrated Sloan’s thoughts. He opened his eyes and looked up at the Admiral. Hennings was speaking into the blue interphone.
“Hello? Hello?” He pushed repeatedly on the headset buttons. “Hello? Air-sea rescue?” Hennings looked down at Sloan, then down at the series of colored phones in their cradles. He reached over and slid the clipboard away from the switches, saw that they were off, then looked back at Sloan.
Sloan sat silently and met the old man’s eyes. Finally, he said, “Sorry, Admiral. It was the only way out for us.”
Hennings let the phone fall from his hand and heard it hit the floor. His voice was barely above a whisper.
