Mayday (9 page)

“We are receiving conflicting signals,” Sloan said.

Matos sensed a growing anger at the edges of Sloan’s voice. He had never personally experienced a run-in with the Commander,
but too many of the other pilots had. Sloan’s wrath was legendary.
Don’t get jumpy,
Matos said to himself.
It’s just an electronic echo that makes him sound that way. Keep your mind on the job
.

“Our monitors agree with your report of missile impact. But we’re still monitoring the target drone,” Sloan continued. “Its
condition reads as steady. That conflicts with the Phoenix’s readout. Do you have the engagement area in good radar resolution?”

Matos slumped lower in the cockpit seat to the limits that his cinched-up harness would allow. His heart sank with the words,
and he could taste the bile from the pit of his stomach.
Christ Almighty, Mother of God
. He moistened his lips and cleared his throat before pressing the transmit button. “Roger, Homeplate. This is three-four-seven.
I’m beginning to get the impact zone in good resolution. Stand by.”

James Sloan had no intention of being put off, even momentarily, by one of his subordinates. “Three-four-seven, execute a
radar lock-on with the Phoenix,” he transmitted. “The test missile must have failed before it engaged the target. That would
explain why we still read the target drone.”

“Roger, Homeplate.” But Matos knew that the Phoenix had hit
something
. He had watched the radar tracks converge. He also knew that the
Nimitz
’s shipboard radar could not see the impact area. The carrier was hundreds of miles astern of his F-18, which put it out
of radar range of the test site. All that the carrier people would be able to tell from the equipment in the electronics room
was that there was no longer any radio signal coming from the test missile, and that the target drone continued, inexplicably,
to send a loud-and-clear transmission.

Matos huddled over his radar screen. The target had maintained a steady course for a short while after the intercept. Matos
turned on two cockpit switches, then made an adjustment to the radar. He could now plot both the target drone and the Phoenix’s
altitude losses on his vertical display board. Beyond the target was the faint radar reflection that was the remains of the
AIM-63X Phoenix missile. It was visible for half a minute, and Matos tracked it continuously as it fell into the sea. “Homeplate,
this is three-four-seven. The test missile has dropped into the ocean. I am now tracking the target drone. I am locked to
it in the vertical scan. It is descending. Altitude is approximately fifty-one thousand feet. Descent rate registers as twelve
thousand feet per minute.”

“Okay,” Sloan answered, “that’s good. Our readout still shows the target as level at sixty-two thousand. The target’s transmitting
equipment must have been damaged by the impact. Maybe the Phoenix just grazed the drone.” With no warhead, Sloan knew that
complete destruction would require a full-face hit. “Continue to track, and we’ll consider our shipboard monitors as dysfunctional.”

“Roger.” But something else bothered Matos. The target was not falling very rapidly. His own jet could dive faster than the
target was going down. For what should have been a smashed target drone tumbling through the sky, it was not performing as
expected.

Data is missing
, he thought. The only reason it made no sense was that he was operating without all the information. Garbage in, garbage
out, as they said in the computer classes at Pensacola. Don’t jump to wild conclusions. Leave the emotional responses to civilians.
Military technicians waited for the data. Technology was really the science of hindsight. When they corrected and analyzed
all the material, they would easily discover what had made this test seem so bizarre.

Matos was no longer apprehensive. There was something about rote procedures that was calming and comforting. As long as he
stuck to the technician’s routines, then he could push his fears away. The blips on his radar had again become no more than
game pieces, and the entire maneuver had taken on the aura of electronic chess.

The impact has distorted the drone’s shape
, Matos thought. It’s been bent into some sort of low-drag lifting body. Flattened out into a metal parachute that has already
reached its terminal velocity. Wilder things have happened. Matos felt that Commander Sloan’s idea that the test missile had
only nicked the target drone was probably right. That would explain how and why the drone’s misleading signals were still
being routinely sent to the
Nimitz
.

“Vertical scan indicates twenty-five thousand,” Matos reported. Events had settled down, and things were beginning to make
sense. “Seventeen thousand feet. The target is now tracking thirty-eight degrees to the right of its intercepted course. I
am showing . . .”

As Matos’s eyes traveled over the array of data readouts, he froze when he saw the new trend. It was too far from normal to
pretend otherwise. “Homeplate . . . the target’s descent rate has decreased.” Matos’s voice was pitched higher. “Eight thousand
a minute. Now it’s six thousand a minute. The altitude is fourteen thousand feet. The descent rate has dropped to three thousand
a minute. The target is leveling out at eleven thousand feet!”

After just a few minutes’ pause, Sloan’s voice filled the void. “Navy three-four-seven, I don’t know what the hell has happened
out there, but you better find out. Fast.” There was no longer any mistake about the timbre of Sloan’s voice or its intent.

“Roger, Homeplate. Proceeding toward the target. I’ll obtain a visual sighting.” Matos pushed the throttles forward. The F-18
accelerated rapidly, pushing him back against his seat. A flood of disjointed emotions swelled in him, but he held them at
bay. He directed all his energies at the technical task of intercepting the moving radar target.

“That’s a good question, Commander. What the hell has happened out there?” Randolf Hennings had begun to allow himself a small
measure of an admiral’s anger. He had played silent errand boy far too long. Retired or not, Hennings’s natural propensity
for leadership—in mothballs for the past several years, like his naval uniforms—had begun to emerge. Sloan was losing control
of the situation.

Hennings had not liked Commander James Sloan from their first handshake. There was something too shrewd and calculated about
the man. He had shown no hint of good nature. It was as if the universe had been created solely for the benefit of Commander
Sloan.

Sloan had ignored the Admiral’s question. “We’ll take over,” he said to Petty Officer Loomis. He dismissed the technician,
and Loomis left the room quickly and quietly. “Nothing wrong has happened, I’m sure,” Sloan finally answered, turning toward
Hennings. “But even if something has . . . there’s no need to let it get beyond the two of us. I won’t call the electronics
specialist back until we’ve resolved whatever the problem is.”

“There are three of us,” Hennings said. “Don’t forget your pilot. He knows more than we do. He’s the one who’s out there.
We don’t get a very clear picture . . .” He motioned toward the stack of electronics. “. . . from all of this.”

“Matos is no problem,” Sloan answered. “I know how to pick men. I know how to assign jobs.”

Randolf Hennings looked with marked disdain at the young commander.
He doesn’t command men. He uses them
, Hennings thought. Men like him were no good for a crew, a ship, or a navy. “Don’t be surprised if your subordinates sometimes
take a tack against the prevailing wind.”

“
Surprised?
Hell, no. I’d be
amazed
.” But as soon as he said it, Sloan knew he had gone too far. He had let the remark out too quickly, on the heels of all the
wrong turns that events had taken. The remark hung in the air between the two men, and Sloan regretted it. An unnecessary
indulgence.

Sloan tried to eradicate his error. He smiled at Hennings, then forced a small laugh. “You’re right, Admiral. They sometimes
try to tack against the wind. We all do, on occasion.”

Hennings nodded slightly but said nothing. He resented being linked to Sloan, no matter how minor the inference. If this were
the old days back on the
John Hood
, he would have called this officer to his quarters and, in private, reamed him out.
Remember the mission
, Hennings thought, quoting to himself what a lifetime of experience had taught him.

“We’re trying to do a job, not win points,” Hennings said. The retired Admiral had built his naval career on precisely that
premise. Embarrassing your subordinates was, he felt, counterproductive. You would get a man’s best only when he cared enough
to produce. Threats would get you no more.

Sloan grunted an unintelligible reply, then turned his eyes toward the electronics console. He basically understood how to
work the equipment, and he checked it over to refresh his memory. Sloan moved quickly and competently around the gangs of
switches and dials, like a skilled surgeon performing a familiar operation.

Hennings watched him for a few moments, then sighed. Perhaps he had been too critical. Perhaps he was getting too old. Times
had changed. It was Sloan’s show. Undermining the Commander’s confidence or taking exception with his methods would do no
one any good, least of all the Navy. No one should try to be the captain of every ship.

“Just a few more minutes, Admiral.” Sloan was aware of Hennings’s displeasure. It was another factor to be considered. The
successful completion of the mission was the first concern, but not alienating the retired Admiral was an important second.
He had gotten off to a bad start with the old man, and would need to do some work to get things even-keeled. A successful
test firing would make it easy to bridge the gap. Nothing made people friendlier than a shared success.

Hennings sat down on the edge of the console. He gazed blankly across the room at the closed hatchway door.

Sloan found himself tapping his fingers against the glass face of the panel-mounted clock. He shifted positions. Then he coughed
lightly to clear his throat. If things went well, it could all be wrapped up within the hour. “Not much longer,” he said to
break the silence. “Matos should be just about in visual range of our target.”

Matos’s first sight of the target was routine enough: a black dot that hung motionless against the blue sky. Without anything
nearby to provide perspective, size was an indeterminate thing.

The target maintained a steady course of 342 degrees. It had gradually slowed during its descent, and it now held a speed
of 340 knots. Flying the F-18 over three times the target’s velocity, he was quickly closing the remaining distance between
them. He would intercept the target shortly.

Matos had been splitting his attention between the radar and the windshield, and now that he had the target in visual contact,
he kept his eyes fixed on it. “Navy three-four-seven has visual contact,” he transmitted.

“Roger,” Sloan answered, his tone impatient.

Matos paid no attention to the implied message. He had stopped worrying about Sloan, and instead concentrated completely on
the job at hand. To stay emotionally uninvolved was the proper attitude in any scientific trade.

Matos’s left hand eased back the F-18’s throttles. He began a reduction that would have his aircraft flying at a similar speed
when he pulled alongside the target, thus avoiding an overshoot. Formation flying was still a matter of practice, skill, and
gut reactions. In the modern fighter pilot’s repertoire, it was one area that had yet to be taken over by electronics. Peter
Matos was particularly good at high-speed formations. He would sometimes lay far astern of his squadron, then zoom up and
rapidly tuck into his assigned slot. “Nice showboat,” his buddies would radio, but everyone was impressed. Matos was good.

Yet today he was having a problem. The target stayed its distance. Matos had misjudged. He had begun a speed reduction from
a point too far away. The hundreds of subtle clues that went into compiling a pilot’s instinctive reactions were somehow off
base. Something was wrong. Matos took his eyes off the black dot on the horizon and glanced at his radar screen.