“Too heavy a sea for survivors?”
“Roger.” Matos glanced down but could see only the thunderstorms he had just risen out of. He turned to the blue sky ahead. When the F-18 continued climbing, he thought about James Sloan. Matos had heard a tone of triumph in Sloan’s voice. Not for the first time, he wondered if the Commander was sane. It occurred to him that even the first navigation error that had started this nightmare might not have been his own fault. He thanked God that he had not fired his second missile into the Straton. At the worst, he was guilty of criminal negligence. He could live with that. But he was not guilty of murder.
“I say again-too heavy for survivors?”
“That’s correct, Homeplate. The seas are too heavy for survivors,” Matos transmitted, reinforcing his lie. But he, too, was relieved. So relieved that tears came to his eyes and he took a deep breath to control his voice. “The Straton is nosing down,” he added as he kept his eyes fixed to the distant horizon.
“Roger.”
Matos leveled the fighter at 36,000 feet. The storms were far astern and below him, and the warm afternoon sun bathed his face. He looked down at the weather below him. Rising from the top of the large mass were the distinctive anvil-shaped clouds that made the cloud layer easily recognizable as thunderstorms. It was, thought Matos, almost as though God made them that way, in the beginning, so that one day man would recognize that he was approaching the forge and the blast furnace of the heavens.
“We’re down to four hundred feet,” Matos lied.
The thought that he should go to Captain Diehl crossed his mind. He had to confess, not so much for his own soul but more importantly so that Commander Sloan would be put away where he could do no more harm. “We are down to two hundred feet. The rain is lighter. Visibility improved. The seas are very high. The Straton is nearly in. Nearly in. Stand by.” Matos closed his eyes tightly. It was madness. He tried to forget that his playacting was a duplication of what was happening to that airliner. He could see it in his mind’s eye very clearly now, hitting the towering water-
“Matos! Matos! Is it in? Is it in?”
Matos took a deep breath. “Yes.” He put a heavy tone in his voice and noticed that it was not all an act. “Yes. It’s in. Much of it… broke apart in the ditching… The seas are too rough… Most of it has already sunk… Only the tail… part of one wing remains above the surface. No possible survivors.”
“Roger. Circle for a while to be sure.”
“Roger.”
“What is your fuel status?”
Sloan’s question jolted him. He had forgotten to monitor his fuel status for more than an hour. He’d heard stories of pilots in combat doing that under stress. He didn’t have to look at his gauges to reply, “Critical.” He glanced at the gauges. His climb to 35,000 feet had been a foolish indulgence. “I’m down to forty-five minutes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Maybe less. Where is that tanker?”
“Close. Heading westbound from Whidbey Island. Their last position was four hundred miles from your current position. He’ll be closer now. Are you looking for survivors?”
“Yes. But my fuel is critical. No survivors.”
“Roger. Okay, okay, begin your climb and steer a heading of zero-seven-five to expedite the intercept.”
“Roger.” Without hesitation, Matos turned his F-18 to the easterly heading. He was now pointed into the worst part of the thunderstorms, the part that towered high above his present altitude. “Homeplate, there’s a lot of severe weather out here. The new heading is taking me further into it.” As much as he wanted to find the tanker, he wanted nothing to do with that line of storms.
“Navy three-four-seven, this is Rear Admiral Hennings. Commander Sloan is on the phone with the tanker. These are your instructions-the tanker is cruising at thirty-one thousand feet, so you might as well get to that altitude to meet it. The weather should be better at that altitude than down lower.”
“Yes, sir.” Although Sloan had mentioned the Admiral earlier, Matos had no idea who Admiral Hennings was. But the voice was reassuring. Any vague misgiving that Matos had concerning Commander Sloan’s intentions was put to rest. He pictured the electronics room crowded with officers and men, all trying to get him home. He looked out of his windshield. He was already above most of the weather at 35,000 feet. Now he had to descend slightly to meet the tanker. “The climb has taken-is taking-a great deal of fuel. I’m really low, sir.”
The Admiral’s voice came back, gentle, fatherly. “Take it easy, Peter. The tanker is cruising at five hundred knots. He’ll be on station within twenty-five minutes. A few minutes for the fuel hook-up and you’ll be heading back. Here’s Commander Sloan.”
Sloan’s voice filled Matos’s earphones. “It’s important to stay calm, Peter. Practice fuel-conservation techniques. Keep us filled in.”
Matos pictured himself flaming out just before he reached the tanker. He was glad that Sloan was so calm. It wasn’t Sloan’s ass. “Roger. Can you arrange air-sea rescue just in case?”
“Roger that,” said Sloan. “Way ahead of you. Some of the air-and-sea rescue for the Straton is closing in on your area, including F-18s from the Nimitz. Plenty of help out there, but don’t think about that now. High-tail it to thirty-one thousand and call me when you’re leveled out.”
“Roger. What’s the frequency of the rendezvous?”
There was a long silence in his earphones. Matos was about to call again when Sloan’s voice came on. “I’m speaking to the tanker on a frequency that is not available on your set. I just requested that they put one of their radios on your channel. They have a voice scrambler set to yours, so leave yours on. Give them a call now. Their call sign is Cherokee 22.”
“Roger. Break. Cherokee 22, this is Navy three-four-seven. How do you read me? Over.”
Matos waited in the silent cockpit, then transmitted again. “Cherokee 22, Cherokee 22, Navy three-four-seven, how do you read?” He waited, but there was no answer. “Homeplate, Cherokee 22 does not respond.”
“I can’t read them on your channel either. Stand by.” After a few seconds, Sloan’s voice came back. “They are having radio problems on most of their command channels. But I hear them fine on their administrative channel, which is patched into my interphone. We can work around their problem. I’ll relay messages between you. But they’re homing in on your channel with a radio navigation homing device and, of course, they’ll have you solidly on radar soon. In the meantime, you have to leave your radio set to this channel. Their homing equipment and radar will lead them in.”
“Roger.”
“And leave your voice scrambler on, too. Try to call them every five minutes. They’ll be on voice scramble. If they hear you, they will tell me. Then you can go back to regular communications directly with them.”
“Roger.” Matos slid his transmitter override button to the continuous position. As long as he was transmitting a signal he knew he could not receive any messages, and hearing any voice, even Sloan’s, would have been reassuring. But the first priority was the tanker.
Matos turned on his radar. He watched the tube as it glowed luminescent green. He adjusted the knobs and looked for the tanker, which should have been on the outer edge of his range by now. Not only did he not see the tanker within the 500-mile limit of his scope, but he saw no other aircraft either. He spoke into his open radio. “Homeplate. Where the hell are all the aircraft that are supposed to be out here? I don’t see the tanker on a bearing of zero-seven-five, and I don’t see anyone else.” He released his transmit override and waited for the reply.
Sloan’s voice came back quickly. “Matos, the tanker sees you. The rescue aircraft in your area see you. Your radar has been the problem from the beginning when… I can’t say anything of a confidential nature any longer. Other aircraft are on this frequency now, and we have to maintain the security of this test. Be careful of what you say from now on. Resume your continuous radio signal and keep working your radar. You’ll rendezvous with the tanker shortly.”