Drone Games (22 page)

“Yes.”

“Why would anyone call you?”

“They didn’t. I work for WITI Channel 6 News here in Milwaukee. We operate a crime tip line that anyone may call to leave messages on. It’s available 24/7.”

“We’re confirming the call timing,” Riley added.

“Who else has access to the messages on this tip line?” Harrington asked Griffin.

“Our voice and data support people at the station, but usually it’s just me.”

“Very well,” Harrington said calmly. “Walter, I want you to contact Mitchell’s departure control. I want two independent statements on the exact time that aircraft left the ground.”

“We already have that,” Riley spoke up.

“Re-verify it,” Harrington shot back. “It was probably a cell phone, so let’s get a trace started with AT&T’s mobile switch people. If memory serves, that area has two wireless switches, a primary in the suburb of New Berlin and a backup on Milwaukee’s north side. I want the subscriber identity and the origination and termination time slots confirmed. We should be able to compare them with the tower log.”

“Sir, that’s in progress too,” Riley gently informed him.

“We need to play your message for Mr. Harrington,” Ford said to Griffin.

She dialed the number. It played out on a second speaker.

There was extended silence.

“Has anyone else heard this?” Harrington’s voice finally spoke.

“Just this room,” Ford answered.

“Walter, pick up, please.”

Griffin quietly rose from her seat and headed for the door.

An agent casually blocked her path.

“I’d like to take my medication and make a phone call,” Griffin said to Riley. “Is that all right?”

“I’m afraid it’s not,” he said without looking up. “Please sit down. We need to sort some things out.”

She glanced around the room. “You can’t keep this quiet. That message belongs to a private business—a news business. That’s why we exist. A terrorist blew up that plane. People have a right to know that the whole airline industry could very well be under attack. I need to call my station. This is the biggest news story we’ve ever had—the biggest
anyone’s
ever had. I don’t understand.”

“Ma’am, calm down. Let us try and confirm the facts,” Riley said. “We don’t need to start shouting anything about the airline industry being under attack. And we certainly don’t want to take away anyone’s rights.”

“May I at least use the bathroom?”

“I’m sorry. Of course.” Riley nodded at a female agent. He leaned over the table and took Griffin’s phone—an indication that he was serious. She didn’t protest.

Another agent entered the room and handed Ford two pieces of paper.

“The official departure was logged at 6:01 a.m. Two minutes after the phone warning. And it was a mobile call. AT&T said it originated from a US Cellular tower at 5970 South Howell Avenue. That’s on the south end of the airport. He was right there.”

“Or very close,” Riley muttered. “They’re still in love with cell phones. After the Pakistanis tracked Khalid Sheik Mohammed to his safe house in Karachi, we all thought they stopped.”

“Terrorists aren’t stupid,” Rand said. “They all know about cell phone tracing via SIM cards and won’t fall into that trap again. They never stopped using cell phones at all; they’ve simply switched to disposables—throwaways. Probably a TRAC phone, prepaid and bought right off the shelf just about anywhere. No ID or credit card required. They’ll use it once and then toss it. It’s impossible to track or trace. We can fix a general radius from where a call originates, but it’s wide and limited. It’s a shame that disposables don’t have GPS tracking ability, or we could narrow the owner’s location down to feet.”

Only if the owner is dumb enough to hang onto it
, Riley thought to himself, slightly miffed that Rand beat him to the explanation. He rose from the table and pulled Ross into an adjoining suite. He closed the door.

“All right, who is this reporter and what is she to you?”

“This is nuts, Jack,” Ross said defensively.

“This is way beyond nuts, pal. How well do you know her?”

“I swear we just met.”

“Do you know that she’s a constitutional time bomb? I’m talking unprecedented. She’s a material witness with the ability to panic the country. All she needs to do is pick up the phone and boom—this story becomes world headlines. And I’m not sure we can legally stop it.”

“You think she’d do that?”

“In a heartbeat. Some members of our beloved free press don’t care about keeping information secret even if it aids our enemies. I don’t care if we have to take that bandage off her head and wrap it across her mouth—I will not allow her to do that. The press isn’t tipping our hand. Not this time.”

“I disagree,” Ross said firmly. “She’s not that way. I’ll talk to her.”

Riley scoffed out loud. “Man, are you a dreamer. You just admitted that you don’t even know her. Trust me. She’s using you for one thing. Breaking news.”

Ross massaged his chin. “So what are you going to do?”

“What are
we
going to do?” Riley corrected as he glanced at his watch. “I need to get back to Washington. I’ve got a fair idea where my boss will want this to go.”

“A big, white house on Pennsylvania Avenue?”

“A big, white house.” Riley motioned to a table in the corner of the room. “Have a seat, Mr. NTSB. As far as our little constitutional problem goes, there might be an alternative. I hope you’re up for a special assignment. It’s an extraordinary proposition, but these are extraordinary circumstances. I think it’ll buy us some time.”

McLean, VA

5:25 a.m.

SECRETARY OF Homeland Security Samuel Bridge was a fifty-five-year-old veteran of war, politics, and, for a brief period, acting. A three-term ex-governor of Wisconsin, Bridge was a tall, square-shouldered man with a linebacker’s physique. He had an angry face like that of a freight train’s engine, which left his younger staff in a constant state of timidity and his older staff in a constant state of laughter at the younger staff.

Retired from politics, Bridge had been living in western Wisconsin on the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River when the president proposed the DHS cabinet nomination. Bridge accepted under the condition that the administration let him secure the US-Canadian border. As a governor, he had championed the issue for years, but other than modest increases in state funding, little was ever done. In his final term, reports had surfaced about comments he allegedly made about becoming more of a friend to Wisconsin’s Chippewa Tribe on the state’s largest reservation at Lac du Flambeau. Something about sitting down with them “Indian-style,” a gambling compact in one hand and a whiskey bottle in the other. He vehemently denied the allegations but chose not to seek re-election.

An avid Harley-Davidson fan, Bridge was in his driveway just about to leave on a week-long fund-raising ride in support of the Wounded Warrior Project.

“Sir, it’s Jack Riley,” an aide announced, handing Bridge a phone. “He’s airborne en route to Reagan National. He says it’s urgent.”

Seated in full leather garb on his touring FLHR Road King, Bridge pulled off one glove and unsnapped his helmet. He still bristled at the thought of private aircraft being allowed into DC’s airspace, even with a special transponder code and constant FAA radio contact.

“Mr. Secretary, it appears that we have a specific and credible terror threat,” Riley’s voice announced. “We just confirmed it.”

“Confirmed how?” Bridge asked sternly.

“Someone called the news media and advised them of the crash two minutes before it happened. A warning like that suggests it was premeditated. Probably an onboard explosive,” he theorized. “It appears to be a deliberate action.”

Bridge immediately suspected in-flight explosion tactics similar to those planned by twenty-one London terrorists. Then he considered something even more sinister: Flight 587, which had mysteriously crashed in Queens, New York, sixty days after 9/11. The investigation suggested a combination of pilot error and vortex wind from another jet, but he wasn’t convinced.

“Did you say someone advised the media?” Bridge asked. “On board how and where?”

“We’re not certain, sir. Luggage, in-flight assembly, suicide . . . it’s too early to tell.”

“Jack, we can’t move on guesses,” the Secretary warned unnecessarily. “If you’re telling me we’ve got a shoe or underwear bomber situation that’s actually worked, then I’m going to personally find Darryl Nadler and serve up his head on a dinner plate.” Nadler headed the TSA’s Office of Security Operations, the group in charge of cargo and passenger screening procedures at all US airports. “What’s your ETA?”

“Half an hour.”

“Step on it,” Bridge ordered. “I’m sending a car.”

Riley clicked off.
Step on what?
he wondered. The G-1159’s speed was already pushing 480 mph.

Bridge handed the phone to an aide. He checked his watch. “Get me Andrew Bard.” He swung his leg over the Harley and walked it back to the garage, slamming his helmet onto the seat.

The aide returned the phone. “Sir, Chief of Staff Bard.”

Bridge removed his other glove. “Andy, I’ve just been informed that the Milwaukee incident was premeditated. I’ll need to speak to the president. I’m alerting OCP.”

The Homeland Security Office of Operations Coordination and Planning was responsible for monitoring the daily security of the United States. It coordinated activities with governors, Homeland Security Advisors, law enforcement partners, and critical infrastructure operators in all fifty states and more than fifty major urban areas nationwide.

It was the information and decision-making nerve center that was missing during 9/11, and now it was the nation’s best entity to respond to a homeland terror threat.

—

Courtyard Marriott

TOM ROSS approached a female FBI agent seated outside a room at the end of the hotel corridor.

“How is she?”

“She’s stopped throwing things, but I don’t think she’s very happy,” the agent answered. “We disconnected the room phone.”

Ross gently tapped on the door, then opened it.

Griffin was sitting in a chair with her knees propped up to her chin. She was wrapped in a blanket and staring at the floor.

“Neela, it’s me,” Ross announced apologetically. “Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?” she snapped.

He put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it away.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

Griffin gave a disgusted look and eyed Ross up and down suspiciously.

Ross blushed violently. “I mean . . . are you tired?”

“Just how many rooms do you people have in this place? The whole floor? What’s next, a strip search?”

“Neela, what would you say if I asked you to become part of this investigation—an actual insider working hand-in-hand with the FBI and me? You get exclusive rights to the story and can report on anything you witness as long as it doesn’t compromise the crash investigation or national security. Other than some minor screening before it’s released to the public, you’ll have complete freedom.”

Griffin raised one eyebrow. “Why would you and that Ford guy even consider allowing a news reporter to—what if I say no?”

Ross sat on the bed and folded his hands between his legs. “Neela, this is serious. You need to know that the FBI is looking at this from different perspectives. I want to be sure that you don’t get into—”

She flung off the blanket and stood up. “Into what? What exactly are you trying to say? I didn’t do anything wrong here. What perspectives?”

“The Patriot Act. Specifically, sections 212 and 213. They deal with electronic and voice mail communications. You need to know that Fox’s
Crime Tip Line
has already been seized and is being monitored. No one has access. You can’t reveal anything to anyone, not even to your station. If you do, you could be detained indefinitely as a material witness. I don’t want anything like that to happen.”

She tried to process what she just heard.

“Are you telling me that I’m some kind of hotel detainee?”

“No, you’re not any kind of detainee. But I did tell Jack . . . er, Mr. Riley, that I would talk to you and that you’d listen. Neela, I think I must be crazy for even saying this. I don’t know anything about you other than I like you and I hoped that you and I might get to know each other socially. I think this whole thing is unfortunate. I just don’t want you to get in trouble.”

She wanted to believe him, but she sensed a red flag. It was her own defense mechanism, and warning that led to a decision to either trust someone and pursue a potential relationship, or end it.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Your cooperation.”

She stared at him perceptively and then reached into her purse for her notepad.

“You’re not a very good liar, Tom Ross. But that’s a plus with me. You want my silence, and you probably want me to stay where you can keep an eye on me.”

“Just until we can get ahead of this thing. You need to act as if nothing unusual has happened. File your crash story normally and inform your station’s management that you’ve asked for and received permission to become part of our team as an embedded reporter, just like those who travel with the military during combat.”