the normal channels, even on the patch. The chance that a flight would have altered its course during the
short time he was without a clear channel was minuscule. Less than minuscule. Yet it
happened,
Sloan thought. He managed to dispel the miscalculation with a simple shrug of his shoulders, then returned his attentions
to Hennings. “How that aircraft got there is beyond me. I guess our luck was super-bad.”
“Our luck?” Hennings said. “What the hell’s the matter with you? What about that airliner? It’s got people aboard. Women and
children.” The old man’s face was red and his hands trembled. The volume of his voice filled the room and made it seem smaller
than it was. Hennings had the sudden disquieting sensation of being closed in. The smallness of the electronics room had trapped
him, and he desperately wanted to go above-decks.
James Sloan sat motionless. He continued to wear the same ambiguous expression. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s a tragedy.
But it’s not our
fault.
” Sloan stopped speaking for a moment to let his words sink in. He took another deep drag on his cigarette. He knew that
it was his fault, at least partially. But that was beside the point.
Hennings looked down at Sloan in disbelief. “Are you somehow suggesting that we pretend this never happened?” He was beginning
to wonder if Sloan was insane. For a person to even entertain such wild notions seemed evidence enough of insanity. “We’ve
got to help those people.”
Sloan leaned closer to Hennings. “That’s the point, Admiral. There are no people.”
A dead quiet hung between the two men. Numbers paraded by on the digital clock, but time stood still. Finally, the Admiral
shook his head. He did not understand. “But it’s an airliner,” he said. “Trans-United. It’s got to have passengers. It must
have a crew.”
“No, Admiral. Not anymore.” Sloan was choosing his words carefully. “The impact of the missile punctured two holes in their
pressurized shell. At sixty-two thousand feet, they couldn’t survive. They’re dead, Admiral. All dead.”
Sloan sat back and watched as the words registered on the old man. Sloan had known, as soon as he had begun to think clearly
again, that the hole made by the Phoenix missile would make the aircraft decompress. A decompression at 62,000 feet would
be fatal.
Hennings’s expression had changed. Shock had been replaced by pain. “Dead? Are you sure?” he asked.
“Certainly.” Sloan waved his hand in a gesture of finality. But he knew that there was still a measure of technical doubt.
If he let those doubts surface, they would erode his resolve and eat away at the basics of his plan. He knew that Hennings
would need an excuse to go along with a cover-up. He figured that the old man
wanted
an excuse. Sloan would be happy to provide one. More than likely, everyone aboard that airliner was already dead—or soon
would be. The harm had already been done. It was now a matter of saving himself. And the mission. And, of course, the reputation
of the Navy, which needed all the help it could get these days.
Sloan leaned closer to Hennings. “I know that Matos won’t say anything. He’s in this with us. We do no good by turning ourselves
in. This was an accident. If the truth came out, the entire Navy would suffer.”
Sloan cleared his throat. He took a few seconds to gauge how Hennings was reacting. So far, Sloan still had him. Hennings
had nodded in agreement. The good of the Navy was his soft spot. It was worth remembering. Sloan might need to play on it
again, now that he was coming to the sensitive part.
“Our best bet,” he continued, “is to have Matos put his second missile into the . . . target. It’s being flown by its autopilot.
At close range, he could direct his missile toward the Straton’s cockpit. It would wipe out the ship’s controls.” The coup
de grâce to the back of the neck, he wanted to
short time he was without a clear channel was minuscule. Less than minuscule. Yet it
happened,
Sloan thought. He managed to dispel the miscalculation with a simple shrug of his shoulders, then returned his attentions
to Hennings. “How that aircraft got there is beyond me. I guess our luck was super-bad.”
“Our luck?” Hennings said. “What the hell’s the matter with you? What about that airliner? It’s got people aboard. Women and
children.” The old man’s face was red and his hands trembled. The volume of his voice filled the room and made it seem smaller
than it was. Hennings had the sudden disquieting sensation of being closed in. The smallness of the electronics room had trapped
him, and he desperately wanted to go above-decks.
James Sloan sat motionless. He continued to wear the same ambiguous expression. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s a tragedy.
But it’s not our
fault.
” Sloan stopped speaking for a moment to let his words sink in. He took another deep drag on his cigarette. He knew that
it was his fault, at least partially. But that was beside the point.
Hennings looked down at Sloan in disbelief. “Are you somehow suggesting that we pretend this never happened?” He was beginning
to wonder if Sloan was insane. For a person to even entertain such wild notions seemed evidence enough of insanity. “We’ve
got to help those people.”
Sloan leaned closer to Hennings. “That’s the point, Admiral. There are no people.”
A dead quiet hung between the two men. Numbers paraded by on the digital clock, but time stood still. Finally, the Admiral
shook his head. He did not understand. “But it’s an airliner,” he said. “Trans-United. It’s got to have passengers. It must
have a crew.”
“No, Admiral. Not anymore.” Sloan was choosing his words carefully. “The impact of the missile punctured two holes in their
pressurized shell. At sixty-two thousand feet, they couldn’t survive. They’re dead, Admiral. All dead.”
Sloan sat back and watched as the words registered on the old man. Sloan had known, as soon as he had begun to think clearly
again, that the hole made by the Phoenix missile would make the aircraft decompress. A decompression at 62,000 feet would
be fatal.
Hennings’s expression had changed. Shock had been replaced by pain. “Dead? Are you sure?” he asked.
“Certainly.” Sloan waved his hand in a gesture of finality. But he knew that there was still a measure of technical doubt.
If he let those doubts surface, they would erode his resolve and eat away at the basics of his plan. He knew that Hennings
would need an excuse to go along with a cover-up. He figured that the old man
wanted
an excuse. Sloan would be happy to provide one. More than likely, everyone aboard that airliner was already dead—or soon
would be. The harm had already been done. It was now a matter of saving himself. And the mission. And, of course, the reputation
of the Navy, which needed all the help it could get these days.
Sloan leaned closer to Hennings. “I know that Matos won’t say anything. He’s in this with us. We do no good by turning ourselves
in. This was an accident. If the truth came out, the entire Navy would suffer.”
Sloan cleared his throat. He took a few seconds to gauge how Hennings was reacting. So far, Sloan still had him. Hennings
had nodded in agreement. The good of the Navy was his soft spot. It was worth remembering. Sloan might need to play on it
again, now that he was coming to the sensitive part.
“Our best bet,” he continued, “is to have Matos put his second missile into the . . . target. It’s being flown by its autopilot.
At close range, he could direct his missile toward the Straton’s cockpit. It would wipe out the ship’s controls.” The coup
de grâce to the back of the neck, he wanted to
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