He focused on the radar. An electronic blip began to track across the outer fringes of his screen. He pressed the radio button on his control stick. “Homeplate. Three-four-seven has preliminary target acquisition.” His voice was cool, almost laconic. He smiled at the image of those German and Japanese pilots on the late-night movies screaming into their aircraft’s radio, while the American and British pilots always sounded so bored as their craft was falling apart around their ears. Cool. “Do you copy, Homeplate?”
“Roger, three-four-seven. Preliminary target acquisition. Proceed. Out.”
Lieutenant Matos punched a console button, then raised his eyes toward the firing control processor. An electronic symbol slewed to the target’s blip. Matos watched the screen for a few seconds. Suddenly, another blip appeared. Matos blinked. He looked again. The second blip looked weaker and smaller. It was directly behind the first one. False image, Matos thought. Some screwy transistor or diode a tenth of a degree too warm. Something like that. He’d experienced these electronic aberrations before. So had most of the fighter pilots in his squadron. Glitches, or angels, they were called. False images. Echoes. Bounceback. Reflections from some other radar set. Reflections from the surface of the sea. Apparitions with no more substance than a vapor cloud. Vaporware, in the parlance of modern-day computer-speak.
Matos pressed a button on his console. He twisted a knob to adjust the screen’s resolution setting. The aft target began to fade. Then it disappeared. It appeared to have merged with the original, stronger blip, which he was certain was the target. He pressed his radio talk button. “Homeplate, Navy three-four-seven has the target in good resolution. Distance is four hundred and eighty miles. Over.”
Loomis’s voice was flat, neutral, like every radio operator’s in the military. “Roger, three-four-seven.”
Matos hesitated. He thought about mentioning the glitch, but decided against it. If there was one thing they didn’t want to hear about, it was nonexistent problems. He looked back at the radar screen. Good target. He flipped a safety switch, then lifted a cover that guarded the firing trigger. He was about to fire the longest air-to-air missile shot ever attempted. He pressed his radio button. “Fire number one.” He waited a second, took a deep breath, then pressed the triggering button.
The AIM-63X Phoenix missile dropped away from the F-18’s supporting structure. For a brief moment the missile appeared dormant as an electronic delaying device allowed the weapon to clear itself from any potential conflict with Matos’s aircraft. When the proper interval had passed, a microvolt was internally induced. Flowing down a maze of printed circuit boards, the current reached its goal—the proper solenoids were activated and the rocket engine was ignited.
A stream of orange flame roared out of the Phoenix’s tailpipe. Within seconds the missile accelerated to twice the speed of the F-18.
Matos saw the missile streak off. He was about to begin the launch sequence for the second Phoenix. He glanced down at his radar screen. The target had again split into two images. Two targets. Matos pressed the console resolution buttons. No change. He pressed them again. Still the same. Two distinct targets. If one was the target drone, what was the other one? Jesus Christ. The self-guided missile that he had already launched was completely out of his control.
The Phoenix’s self-guiding system was working on the problem. The conflict between the two electronic images presented the missile with a quandary. In keeping with a logic and priority array that had been formulated in a conference room thousands of miles away, a trickle of voltage moved down yet another decisive path. The AIM-63X Phoenix, with its enhanced tracking and maneuverability, made a slight adjustment in its course. It steered toward the larger of the two targets.
2
John Berry stared at the reflection of his face in the mirror of the first-class lavatory. He ran a finger through the streaks of gray in his brown hair. There were a few wrinkles around his eyes. Still, at forty-one, he looked good.
Some of the women he knew from the country club or at work used words such as “interesting,” “charming,” and “solid” to describe him. He knew that he was supposed to make a move toward these women, but he could not work up the enthusiasm for it. Except once. A saleswoman at the office. And that had been a disaster.
John Berry thought about his father, as he did more and more these days. At forty-one his father had had a loving wife, four loyal children, his church, his community, his country, his own small business that he enjoyed. But that was in another time, another country almost. John Berry had none of those things, and at forty-one would never have them. Still, there was a way out. He could leave Jennifer and make a fresh start of it; just another divorced couple, just like so many of his friends. At least then he’d have hope. Whenever he flew the Skymaster he thought about it. But somehow he wondered if he could bring himself to do it.
Berry ran through the conversation he’d just had with the flight attendant. Why had he done that? Who the hell was Sharon Crandall? An hour ago, he didn’t know she existed. She wasn’t going to solve his problems. Yet he felt less alienated, felt more of a bond with the rest of humanity for having made that contact.
A light flashed on at the end of his peripheral vision. It was several seconds before he realized that it was the return-to-cabin light above the door. Berry knew that the cabin seat-belt lights were on as well. As a seasoned air traveler, he found that unusual since the flight was smooth. Another flight must have reported some chop ahead, he thought. It did not occur to him that the Straton was the only commercial aircraft using that route and altitude. His thoughts were on Sharon Crandall. With the seat-belt sign on, she would probably sit with the other flight attendants. Then there would be lunch preparation. Damn it. He took his time washing his hands and ignored the return-to-cabin light.
Lieutenant Peter Matos kept staring at his radar screen, hoping that the second target would disappear. He knew he needed to make some sort of report. The seconds were flashing by on his console clock. They’re waiting to hear from you, Matos. Reluctantly, he slid his thumb back to the microphone button. “Homeplate, this is Navy three-four-seven.”
“Go ahead, three-four-seven,” replied Loomis.
“I . . . I’m having difficulty with target resolution. Will delay second firing. Stand by for updates.”
“Roger. Out.”
Matos’s throat was dry. He had evaded the problem. Lied. But if the worst had happened, then nothing could save that other aircraft—if that’s what the second radar blip was. On the other hand, if it was only an electronic aberration, then there was no reason to report anything more than he’d already said. Trouble with target resolution. They were already probably chewing their lips on the Nimitz. Play it cool, Peter.
He looked back at the screen, hoping again that it was all resolved. But there were still two targets. The weaker of the two crossed in front of the stronger, then disappeared off his screen to the southwest. The stronger blip remained steady on its previous course. Again he reminded himself that even if the stronger target began evasive maneuvers, the outcome would be the same. The Phoenix AIM-63X’s guidance system had already chosen the larger object—chosen it to die. Phoenix would stay with its victim like a hunting bird, stalk it, pursue it, and pounce on it. That’s all it knew. All it had been created for.
But what was the other target? Who was he? Then it hit him like a fist. It had to be the Hercules C-130. Jesus Christ, he thought. Jesus Christ, I’ve made a navigation error. My fault. My fault.
Matos turned to the satellite navigation set on the left side of the F-18’s cockpit. He punched in several commands. His hand sweated beneath the leather of his flying glove. He hit a wrong button and had to clear the set and start over. Damn it. Calmete!
While he fumbled with the navigation set, his memory slid into an unpleasant track. He was seventeen years old and he was driving his first car, a ’71 Ford. In the rear of the car were his mother, father, and Grandmother Matos. His siste
r was seated next to him. He had gotten off the interstate at the wrong exit. While his cousin Dolores was being married, he steered his angry family through the unfamiliar streets of North Miami. His father had hissed at him through clenched teeth, “Es tu culpa, Pedro.”
He looked down at the navigation display. It verified his position as correct. To be certain, he went through it again. Correct. He was where he was supposed to be. At least that’s what the equipment said. Then what was that second target?
He looked down at his radar screen. The Phoenix missile was small and ghostly white as it tracked across the green screen, outbound toward its target. Matos was always reminded of one of those video games. A game. That’ s all it is, he decided. They had introduced another element into the game to see how he would respond. That big white target on the green field was not an aircraft transporting flesh and blood. It was an electronic decoy. A mirage, sent out by the Hercules or the target drone. He should have reported it. They had tested him, and he had failed. He had compromised himself. He was through.
He kept staring at the screen. It all made sense. It all fit. Except for one thing. The Phoenix was tracking the large target, and the Phoenix would not track an electronic decoy.
The distance between the hunter and the hunted narrowed to less than 200 miles. The missile was traveling at Mach 3, covering nearly one mile every second.
Matos started to press the radio button but took his hand away. He racked his brain for answers. Could the Hercules be off course? Could my navigation equipment be wrong? He knew that if the problem was his equipment, it would still be technically his fault. An error from his craft was equivalent to an error from its captain. It was unfair, but effective. It compelled those in authority to pay close attention to details. The modern Navy was getting away from that concept, but it wasn’t totally gone. Not yet. And this accountability did not discriminate between the captain of the 91,000-ton Nimitz and the captain of a 64,000-pound naval aircraft. Electronics could betray you, but a navigation set would never stand in the dock with you in front of a board of inquiry. If he had fired at the Hercules, a demonstrable mechanical fault in his navigation set might keep him from being court-martialed, but his naval career would be finished. He reminded himself that the naval careers of the crew of the Hercules would be terminated even more abruptly if that missile were headed for them.
The sound of his own breathing filled his helmet and perspiration collected under his pressure suit. His right hand gripped tightly around the control stick. His left arm tensed against the side console, his fingers touching the throttles. He had stopped trying to make any additional adjustments on the radar. The picture that it painted was accurate.
He felt his nerves becoming steadier as he resigned himself to all the worst possible scenarios. He stared distractedly at the radar screen, then, for the first time since he had fired, he looked out of the Plexiglas bubble at the world he flew in. Es tu culpa, Pedro. It is your fault, Peter. He pushed his finger against the thin Plexiglas. Half an inch away was an airless, subzero void.
A glint of hope shook him out of his lassitude. There was one straw he hadn’t grasped at yet. He looked back at his console. Working quickly with the radar controls, he slewed a computer readout to the target on his screen. In a few seconds another entry displayed on his information board. The target was cruising at 62,000 feet. It was making a ground speed of 910 miles per hour.
Matos smiled for the first time since he had catapulted off the deck of the Nimitz. No Hercules turbo-prop could match even half that performance. Very few aircraft could. High-altitude supersonic flight was the province of missiles, special target drones, and advanced fighters, bombers, and spy planes. He would know of any such friendly craft in his area unless they had gotten off course. Two possibilities remained: The first was that it was an enemy aircraft, in which case he wouldn’t get a medal for shooting it down, but he wouldn’t be court-martialed either. It would be covered up and he would be the secret envy of every flight officer aboard. It had happened before.
The second possibility was the more likely. The profile being flown by the target on his screen was very close to the predicted performance of the drone. The Hercules must have released two drones, either by mistake or by design. That must be it. Matos felt better. His naval career had a fair chance now. He had to call the Nimitz immediately. Explain. He could still relocate the other target, fire the missile, do a turnaround, and get the hell out of there. He looked down again at the radar screen. The distance between the Phoenix and its target lessened rapidly. Thirty miles, twenty miles, ten miles. Then the missile and the target merged, became one. Matos nodded. The missile worked. That much they now knew. But he was left wondering what he had hit.
John Berry pushed the stopper valve halfway and turned on the water until the basin filled, then adjusted the taps until the inflowing water equaled the draining water. He took off his wristwatch and laid it on the aluminum shelf. 11:02. It was still set to California time. Jet lag was not nearly so bad with the Straton as it was on the conventional jets, but it still caused his body clock to become disoriented. Time was relative. His body was on New York time, his watch was on California time, but he was actually in an obscure time zone called Samoan-Aleutian, and he would soon land in Tokyo at a different time altogether. Yet at home, time dragged, almost stood still, hourly, daily, weekly. But that hadn’t stopped him from getting older—in fact, it speeded up his aging process. Relative. No doubt about it. He bent over the basin and began splashing water on his face.
The Phoenix missile, with its updated maneuverability, made one small correction and aimed itself so that it would strike the broad port side of the midfuselage slightly above the leading edge of the wing. Somewhere in the circuitry, the sensors, the microcomputer of the Phoenix—the place that was the seat of its incomplete powers of judgment and reason—there might have been a sense or an awareness that it had succeeded in its purpose. And having no fear, no hesitation, no instinct for survival, it accelerated headlong into its prey, consigning it, and itself, into oblivion.
A middle-aged man sitting in aisle 15, seat A, glanced out the window. He noticed a silvery spot at least a mile away. He blinked. The spot was now as large as a basketball and a few inches outside the window. Before his brain could transmit even the most primitive response of ducking or screaming, the silver orb was through the window, taking a section of the fuselage and his head and torso with it. The Phoenix plowed across the remaining two seats in the section, B and C, disintegrating the passenger’s wife and mother. It crossed the aisle to the middle section, pushing some of its grisly harvest with it, and swept away the four center seats, D, E, F, and G, and the passengers in them, then crossed the starboard aisle. It then pushed seats H, J, and K, with three more passengers, through the fuselage and, along with other collected debris, out into the void.
Everything in the Phoenix’s path, its wake, and a yard on either side of it, was pulverized by the high-speed disintegration of the fuselage wall. Seats and people were turned into unrecognizable forms and their high-speed disintegration in turn reduced people and objects near them to smashed and torn remnants of what they had been. With no warhead on the missile there was, of course, no explosion—but the impact forces had the same effect on everything in its path.
The deceleration had caused the Phoenix to begin to tumble as it reached the third gang of seats. Its tail rose up and it hit the starboard sidewall broadside, cutting, as it exited, an elongated swath nearly eight feet high and six feet across. It tumbled out into space, dragging more metal and flesh with it. Its energies spent, the Phoenix continued for only a short distance before it faltered and fell, end over end, twelve miles down into the Pacific Ocean.
The first sound that John Berry heard was an indistinct noise, as if a high shelf stacked with rolls of sheet metal had been knocked over. He felt the aircraft bump slightly. Before he could even raise his head from the basin, he heard a rushing noise, a roar, that sound
ed like someone had opened the window of a speeding subway train. He straightened up quickly and froze for a second until his senses could take in all the stimuli. The flight was steady, the water was still running in the tap, the lights were on, and the rushing sound was lower now. Everything seemed nearly normal, but something—his pilot’s instincts—told him he was flying in a dying aircraft.
Outside, in the cabin, the enormous quantity of internal pressurized air began to exit through the gaping holes in the Straton’s fuselage. All the small, loose objects onboard—glasses, trays, hats, papers, briefcases—were immediately propelled through the cabin, and were either wedged behind something stationary or sucked out the holes.
The passengers sat quietly for a long second, completely unable to comprehend what had just happened. There was no point of reference in their minds for it. The normal reactions of screaming, quickened heartbeat, adrenaline flow, fight or flight, were absent. They reacted with only silence and stillness amid the noises of rushing air.
Like a growing tidal wave, the escaping air was gathering momentum.
A baby was sucked out of its uncomprehending mother’s arms and hurled along over the heads of the passengers and out the starboard hole and into the nothingness of space.
Someone screamed.
Three unaccompanied children, a boy and two girls, in seats H, J, and K, aisle 13, near the starboard hole, had not fastened their seat belts and were picked up by the howling wind and sucked out, screeching with terror.
Everyone was screaming now as the sights and sounds around them began to register on their consciousness.
A teenaged girl in aisle 18, seat D, near the port-side aisle, her seat dislocated by the original impact, suddenly found herself gripping her seat track on the floor, her overturned seat still strapped to her body. The seat belt failed and the seat shot down the aisle. She lost her grip and was dragged down the aisle by an invisible and extreme force. Her long blonde hair was pulled taut and her skirt and blouse were stripped from her body. Her eyes were filled with horror as she continued to fight against the unseen thing that wanted to take her. She dug her nails into the carpet as the racing air pulled her toward the yawning hole that led outside.