say, but didn’t. “It will go down. No evidence. Just a sudden disappearance
in mid-Pacific. Terrorists. A bomb. Structural failure. We’d be off the hook. The Navy—”
“No!” Hennings shouted, pounding his fist on the console. “It’s insane. Criminal. We’ve got to help them. They could still
be alive. They’ve probably sent out distress signals. More than just the three of us know. Everyone knows.” Hennings pointed
to the radio equipment. “They must have sent an SOS.”
“That’s not true, Admiral.” The conversation between them had taken on the atmosphere of a debate, and James Sloan was not
unhappy about that. He had hardly expected to reach an agreement with Hennings without some sort of fight. Hennings was still
talking and deliberating, and that was a good sign. Now all Sloan had to do was find the right words.
“We monitor both international emergency channels on these two sets,” Sloan said, pointing to two radio receivers at the top
of the console. “There’s been nothing from them. You’ve heard that for yourself. Our shipboard communications center, down
in CIC on the 0-1 level, would instantly get any word of a problem from ships or planes anywhere near here. We even get the
routine stuff. Things like ships with minor leaks and aircraft with minor equipment difficulties. There’s no way that a distress
message was sent from that aircraft without our CIC getting involved in it. The CIC duty officer would immediately call me
if he had gotten something.”
“But what about the people?” Hennings said. “We just can’t assume that they’re dead.”
“Matos reported that he saw no activity. There was no one in the cockpit. He can get within fifty feet of that aircraft. If
there’s no one visible, it’s because they’re dead. Slumped in their seats.”
“Well . . . Idon’t know,” Hennings said. What Sloan said seemed to make sense, although he wondered for an instant if the
Commander was being completely honest. Hennings wanted to do what was best for the Navy. The accident was a monumental tragedy.
But, as Sloan pointed out, nothing could change that. Nothing could erase the errors, oversights, and coincidences to bring
those people back. Disgracing the Navy was the last thing he wanted to do. Hennings’s friends in the Pentagon would be exposed.
He knew that they were vulnerable, since the testing had not been authorized. He realized that he, too, was in an impossible
position if the truth became known. The faces of his old friends in the Pentagon flashed through his mind.
Protect the Navy. Protect the living
, Hennings thought.
“Admiral,” Sloan said, sensing that Hennings could now be pushed to the conclusion he had steered him toward, “I understand
your reservations. Your points are valid. I want to check them out. I’ll call down to CIC to be sure that no emergency message
was sent by the Straton. Then we’ll get Matos to take another look. A close look. If he reports that there’s no one alive,
then we know what we need to do.”
As Sloan reached across the desk for the direct telephone to CIC, he kept his eyes riveted on Hennings. Sloan was playing
the percentages. He wanted to cement the retired Admiral into the conspiracy. He needed him. The odds were low that Matos
would be able to see any life aboard the Straton transport.
Hennings stood rigidly, every muscle of his body tensed. He watched as Sloan held the telephone. His eyes wandered to the
digital clock. Half a minute ran off while his mind stayed as blank as the
Nimitz
’s gray walls. Hennings turned to Sloan. Everything seemed to be in a state of suspended animation, waiting for him. Finally,
with a nearly imperceptible motion, retired Rear Admiral Randolf Hennings nodded his head.
The young girl clung to John Berry as he stood in the aisle of the forward cabin of the stricken airliner. The din from the
Straton’s engines and the noise of air
in mid-Pacific. Terrorists. A bomb. Structural failure. We’d be off the hook. The Navy—”
“No!” Hennings shouted, pounding his fist on the console. “It’s insane. Criminal. We’ve got to help them. They could still
be alive. They’ve probably sent out distress signals. More than just the three of us know. Everyone knows.” Hennings pointed
to the radio equipment. “They must have sent an SOS.”
“That’s not true, Admiral.” The conversation between them had taken on the atmosphere of a debate, and James Sloan was not
unhappy about that. He had hardly expected to reach an agreement with Hennings without some sort of fight. Hennings was still
talking and deliberating, and that was a good sign. Now all Sloan had to do was find the right words.
“We monitor both international emergency channels on these two sets,” Sloan said, pointing to two radio receivers at the top
of the console. “There’s been nothing from them. You’ve heard that for yourself. Our shipboard communications center, down
in CIC on the 0-1 level, would instantly get any word of a problem from ships or planes anywhere near here. We even get the
routine stuff. Things like ships with minor leaks and aircraft with minor equipment difficulties. There’s no way that a distress
message was sent from that aircraft without our CIC getting involved in it. The CIC duty officer would immediately call me
if he had gotten something.”
“But what about the people?” Hennings said. “We just can’t assume that they’re dead.”
“Matos reported that he saw no activity. There was no one in the cockpit. He can get within fifty feet of that aircraft. If
there’s no one visible, it’s because they’re dead. Slumped in their seats.”
“Well . . . Idon’t know,” Hennings said. What Sloan said seemed to make sense, although he wondered for an instant if the
Commander was being completely honest. Hennings wanted to do what was best for the Navy. The accident was a monumental tragedy.
But, as Sloan pointed out, nothing could change that. Nothing could erase the errors, oversights, and coincidences to bring
those people back. Disgracing the Navy was the last thing he wanted to do. Hennings’s friends in the Pentagon would be exposed.
He knew that they were vulnerable, since the testing had not been authorized. He realized that he, too, was in an impossible
position if the truth became known. The faces of his old friends in the Pentagon flashed through his mind.
Protect the Navy. Protect the living
, Hennings thought.
“Admiral,” Sloan said, sensing that Hennings could now be pushed to the conclusion he had steered him toward, “I understand
your reservations. Your points are valid. I want to check them out. I’ll call down to CIC to be sure that no emergency message
was sent by the Straton. Then we’ll get Matos to take another look. A close look. If he reports that there’s no one alive,
then we know what we need to do.”
As Sloan reached across the desk for the direct telephone to CIC, he kept his eyes riveted on Hennings. Sloan was playing
the percentages. He wanted to cement the retired Admiral into the conspiracy. He needed him. The odds were low that Matos
would be able to see any life aboard the Straton transport.
Hennings stood rigidly, every muscle of his body tensed. He watched as Sloan held the telephone. His eyes wandered to the
digital clock. Half a minute ran off while his mind stayed as blank as the
Nimitz
’s gray walls. Hennings turned to Sloan. Everything seemed to be in a state of suspended animation, waiting for him. Finally,
with a nearly imperceptible motion, retired Rear Admiral Randolf Hennings nodded his head.
The young girl clung to John Berry as he stood in the aisle of the forward cabin of the stricken airliner. The din from the
Straton’s engines and the noise of air
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