Chapter 13

 

 

Thomas Mahoney snapped an order to the young sailor who stood at the state-of-the-art control console of the 420-foot Coast Guard cutter, and the sleek vessel began a slow turn, just as it had a few miles before. He let his gray, sun-bleached eyes trace the water’s surface. He saw nothing new, and his frustration increased.

“Is it just me, or is something out of whack?” his executive officer, Ray Seager, asked.

Mahoney thought for a moment, wondering if he had detected something wrong with the ship, something that had slipped by him. The diesel-electric propulsion system seemed normal. If anything was wrong with the thirty-thousand-horsepower engines, his crew would notify him immediately. Then he caught his XO’s meaning.

“You mean the missing plane?” Mahoney said.

“Exactly. It doesn’t seem right.”

It doesn’t seem right, Mahoney thought. They had received word of a missing C-5 overdue at McMurdo Station. The Healy, an icebreaker and scientific platform, was pressed into search duty. It made sense. No one knew the cold waters better than an icebreaker captain and his crew. This was Mahoney’s second year as CO, and although far from home, he loved the duty. Most days the powerful ship cleared channels for supply ships or aided researchers in scientific exploration. Cutting through ten-foot-thick sea ice was a combination of skill, experience, and brute force. The captain and thirty-one-member crew provided the former, the Healy’s mass and engines provided the rest.

“What’s bothering you, Commander?” Mahoney asked. Off the bridge he would have referred to his XO and longtime friend by first name, but never in front of other crewmen.

“Everything, Captain.” Mahoney was taller than Seager by two inches and weighed a good fifteen pounds more. Those pounds wanted to settle just above his belt, which annoyed him. “We’ve been at this for ten hours now and have found nothing, not a single piece of wreckage, not the tiniest pool of fuel or oil on the surface. I don’t think she’s out here.”

“Neither do I,” Mahoney admitted. “It would take the world’s worst pilot to overshoot McMurdo and fall into the sea without a distress signal or radio communication.”

“I suppose it could have been mechanical failure,” Seager said.

“What kind of mechanical failure could cause an aircraft to fly past its intended landing area and drop into the sea? The crew would have be asleep at the wheel. And weather isn’t a consideration. The sky was clear and the katabatic didn’t hit the coast until the craft had been overdue by two hours. I agree, something isn’t right.”

“So what do we do?”

“We follow our orders, Commander,” Mahoney said with crisp, military diction. “We search until we’re told to stop.”

 

The Sachs Engineering building rose from the concrete and asphalt of downtown Seattle like a stately redwood, reflecting the late afternoon sunshine back to the cloud-adorned blue sky. Below Henry Sachs’s twelfth-story office’s window, commuters clogged the narrow streets. It made no difference to Henry; he wasn’t planning on returning home until just before bedtime. With his wife Anna visiting her sister in Florida, there was little need to rush home. Instead, he settled in his large leather chair.

Henry Sachs was not given to ornamentation or fine art. A simple metal desk in a quiet room was all he needed to lose himself in his work. His office, however, was far from Spartan. Rich red-oak paneling covered the walls, leather chairs and a sofa marked off a casual meeting area, and halogen ceiling lights bathed the umber carpet in the purest white light. Paintings hung proudly from walls, displaying projects his firm had erected over the years—at least the ones that carried no top-secret classification.

He sat behind a desk made of quilted maple. The desk was his pride and joy. Not because it was one of a kind but because of the artist who made it—his son, Perry. In fact, Perry was responsible for the whole office. Henry had been overseas for extended business and when he returned, he found his office made over in Architectural Digest–fashion. “Happy birthday,” Perry had said. The thought still brought tears of joy to Henry’s eyes, tears he was quick to hide from others.

On Henry’s desk were several file folders, a thin computer monitor and keyboard, and a family picture. He picked up the picture and studied it. The photo had been taken at a local restaurant, where Perry had taken Henry and Anna to celebrate forty years of marriage.

On the glass pane that protected the picture, Henry saw the pale reflection of his face. He had grown older. He acknowledged the fact, but he refused to allow it any seat in his mind. The reflection that stared back was of a man with white hair combed back in easy waves, a deeply tanned face, and a mouth comfortable with smiling. Just beyond the glass was the picture of his wife—dark hair, dancing blue eyes, a petite nose, and lips parted to reveal a row of white teeth. She was stunning when he met her, and she still made his heart leap when he looked at her.

He missed his wife.

He missed Perry, too. His son’s image, a younger version of himself dressed in black coat over gray shirt and tan pants, gave Henry pause. He was proud of his son in more ways than he could count, but seeing his picture filled him with concern. It was a nebulous sensation that something was wrong. He had the vague feeling that Perry was in danger. There were no facts to justify the fear, but it was there nonetheless.

The phone rang, startling Henry.

He answered. He listened. He began to pray.

“When?” he asked the caller. “That was almost a full day ago . . . You’ll keep me advised? Good. Thank you for calling.”

Henry Sachs hung up the phone and wondered what to do next. Ironically, the call had come from Seattle, from the Coast Guard base. The base commander had taken it upon himself to notify Henry of the downed plane. He knew Perry was scheduled to stay on the project site for several more weeks. He felt some comfort in that. What brought him no comfort was what he had to do next—phone six now-bereaved families.