Drone Games (29 page)

She smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry, but someone called me earlier. I’ve been invited to do something special.”

Ross’s heart sank. “Special?”

“Uh-huh. The Fox News Channel. The cable people in New York,” she clarified. “I think they’re going to offer me a position.”

“That’s wonderful,” Ross offered weakly. He was comforted by the suitor’s name but not the location.

“I have to drive out there, but I’ll take a rain check on dinner, okay? I promise I will when I get back if you let me listen to that CVR.”

Ross cocked his head suspiciously. His phone buzzed again.

ROSS HURRIED downstairs to an NTSB staffing room.

Ron Hollings was talking with Ian Goodman from the Association of Retired Aviation Professionals. On the surface, such a meeting would seem like an unholy alliance based on the grief Goodman had caused the NTSB and the FBI on prior investigations—namely his theory that a SAM-6 missile brought down the infamous TWA Flight 800. But Ross didn’t care. Goodman was an expert in jet armaments, including handheld surface-to-air weaponry.

Hollings turned off the room lights and clicked on a TV monitor.

The video showed an FBI diver descending into Lake Michigan just two hours earlier. Armed with a JW Fishers DHC-1 handheld camera, the diver straightened a tangle in his one-hundred-foot cable and drifted down forty feet, to the right side of the Delta fuselage. As with all underwater filming, the light conditions tended to filter out yellow and red, thus giving images a bluish-green tint. The lake’s maximum visibility at that depth was less than twenty feet.

The camera revealed that the main wreckage was contained within one square mile. The diver fanned his spotlight and caught the silvery flash of a Coho salmon cruising past, following the oxygen-rich layer of the lake’s thermocline. He concentrated the light beam at a large piece of wreckage in the distance. The cockpit was on its side.

Incredibly, there didn’t seem to be much damage until the diver spotted a black, starlike streak. He swam closer and ran his hand along the exposed edge of a large gaping hole where the nose landing gear used to be. He panned up to the roof.

“Pause it right there,” Goodman requested. “I think I’m wasting your time, gentlemen. This was definitely caused by an explosion, but based on the apparent direction of the blast, I think it came from inside the plane. There’s not a single impact point or trauma anywhere else. It’s all on the bottom side of the hull at the gear.”

“Is there any possibility that internal sparking ignited the fuel?” Hollings wondered.

Goodman crossed his arms defensively and shook his head. “You and your sparking. Is that all the NTSB ever thinks about? Let me be frank: there’s no way. Jet fuel vapors are not explosive until the temperature reaches 185 degrees. Even then, it’s not enough for a violent explosion. And really, Ron, this plane was full of fuel. Certainly, anything set off inside the wiring or air conditioning compartments or even the center tank would have taken out that entire section, but it’s all still there. And you can unequivocally rule out a missile.”

“How so?” Ross asked

“A blind man could see it in a minute,” Goodman said confidently. “First, the roof. A missile would’ve blown right through the cockpit, windshield and all. There’s simply too much of it intact.

“Second, stingers—the most common weapon to use here—are heat seekers. Not super-efficient, but enough to do the job, especially at low altitudes, slow target speeds, and
defined heat sources—
and that’s the clincher. There’s no heat anywhere near the point of impact, and this jet certainly wasn’t taking any evasive maneuvers. Besides, witnesses would have seen a vertical smoke trail from ten miles away. Gentlemen, you’ve got a real problem on your hands. It almost seems as though something was
placed
in there.”

“Placed there?” Ross asked.

“I bet the physics would support it,” Goodman said.

“Inside the cockpit?”

Goodman shrugged. “It’s as good a place as any to start investigating. If I were you, I’d tell your FBI friends to take a hard look at two groups of people in particular.”

“Who?” Ross asked.

“The flight crew and the mechanics.”

—

US No-Fly Zone, Day 3

Nevada desert

Thursday, May 21

AKIL WAS westbound on Interstate 15. He lowered his eyes and squinted into his dashboard at the Camry’s odometer. He’d recently had it repaired, but it was stuck again.

In daylight, the Nevada desert was hauntingly colorful. The sun had nearly disappeared below the horizon, and the scenery reminded him of Al Khadra, Saudi Arabia. The desert east of Mecca also radiated black from the rocks that littered the landscape. They were rocks with imprints of strange fossilized animals. On their first pilgrimage, his father told him that the desert was once an ocean, but some animals had lost faith so Allah dried the water and turned them into stone. His father said that would happen to anyone who lost faith.

Akil noticed the distant glow of Las Vegas. He would stop there for the night.

—

O’Hare Aerospace Center

SCHILLER PARK, IL

ROSIE BURKE locked the wheel brake lever of her cleaning cart and then pressed numbers on Suite 200 West’s door keypad. She paused at the signage and the letters
LLC
.
Probably some legal mumbo-jumbo
, she thought.

“Not that one,” a supervisor shouted from the other end of the corridor. “Computer Doctors never signed up for cleaning.”

She glanced around the room briefly, curious at the fact that there was nothing there. Nothing on the desk—no computers, no pictures, no papers, no sign of use or occupancy at all. Just a vase of wilted flowers and an empty office that someone rented for the next twelve months.

She closed the door and moved on.

Courtyard Marriott

Milwaukee, WI

Friday, May 22

JACK RILEY paced the floor in his command center office, cell phone at his ear, impatiently waiting for his home answering machine to beep. His daughter had recorded the announcement and was into long-winded greetings. She’d make an excellent lawyer.

Agent Cheng appeared in the doorway.

Riley waved him in.

“Kissi, it’s me. I’ll try and sneak away tomorrow afternoon. I should be home around four. Call if you can. Love you.”

Cheng smiled. “If I don’t call mine every day, I catch heat too.”

“Kissi is short for Bhekisisa,” Riley said, feeling the need to explain. “I can deal with heat. Once, I was gone for five days and never called. When I got home, our horse stable population had increased by two occupants, and our savings had decreased by $18,000.”

Cheng approached the wall behind Riley’s desk.

“So this is the famous ocean picture I’ve heard about. Looks like someone’s reflection in the water. Is it you?”

“Look closer,” Riley said, printing an email message. “Below the surface.”

Cheng stared deeper. “Oh, it’s a fish. Wow, it’s a huge fish. His mouth looks big enough to swallow someone’s head.”

“Someday it’ll be the other way around, pal,” Riley said. “How’s the investigation?”

“Progressing.”

“Anything strong?”

“No. One of the Milwaukee detectives reported that there was a death at a local bar on the north side of the airport on Layton Avenue. It happened just before the Delta departure.”

“What kind of death?” Riley asked, his interest piqued.

“Don’t know the details other than it was apparently a male with a heart condition,” Cheng answered. “I only saw a summary report. I’m heading over there myself to follow up. It’s an American Legion Post.”

“Does Mitchell International record its departure gates?”

“Every one. So does O’Hare. Inside and out.”

“Tell Mr. Cortez that I want all videos of Flight 771 the whole time it was parked,” Riley ordered, “from the security checkpoints to the ramps. I expect them in one hour.”

“What is it, Jack?” Cheng wondered.

“NTSB thinks someone might have placed an explosive device inside the cockpit, in a box or some type of container that wouldn’t arouse any suspicion—something that had the ability to force an explosion downward. We need to check it out.”

“That’s interesting,” Cheng commented.

“No, it’s not. It’s scary.”

“Why is that?”

“Read Cortez’s status.” Riley reached for the printer tray and gave the document to Cheng. “A Delta gate agent said she saw the captain carry a metal container on board. She said it looked like a kid’s lunch box.”

—

US No-Fly Zone, Day 4

Port of Las Palmas, Gran Canaria Island

Canary Islands (Spain)

“ENTER.” PROFESSOR Faiz Al-Aran acknowledged the knock on the door of his Q5 luxury suite on board the Cunard Line’s flagship, the
Queen Mary 2
. The ship was docked just one hundred miles off the African coast.

He closed his laptop and rose from a desk that was positioned between two balcony doors. He’d chosen not to use the room’s desktop PC because the ship’s IT staff monitored the network, and any emails with system, server, or transmission failures would appear in paper copy outside his cabin door.

A steward appeared with a food service cart.

“I’m terribly sorry about the regulations, sir,” the man apologized in a stout British accent. “We’ve slid into port so quickly I’m afraid the luncheon grill had to be turned down. We couldn’t manage your pancakes. We did find a bit more fruit. We know how you enjoy the papaya.”

“Thank you, Kerry,” Al-Aran replied, peeking under one of five silver-capped lids. “What is the weather forecast?”

“Oh, I suspect another day of sun as usual. The Canaries are known for it. Will there be anything else?”

“I was thinking of sport fishing—something large and aggressive.”

“Very good, sir. I know an Australian gent who runs a reliable business out on Lanzarote. He charters the Ana Segundo, a deep boat sixteen meters long and four or five wide. He rents a variety of smaller craft too. He’s a gruff little chap but he’s honest and very knowledgeable. He’ll put you on tuna, marlin, wahoo, and several species of shark. Mako, blue, and hammerheads rule these waters. The locals say you can’t even dangle your legs overboard. We’ll be pulling in there tomorrow, so you’ll have a good ten to twelve hours free. It’s on the north end of the big island near Orzola. I’ll send someone ’round with a map.”

Kerry nodded graciously and closed the door.

Al-Aran returned to his laptop.

PartyLuvr30308:
Greetings from the Atlantic. It looks like I’ll be able to fish for a trophy after all. I’ve always wanted to catch a shark.

Toothdoc2b:
I’m glad to hear that you’re enjoying your cruise. Tell me more.

PartyLuvr30308:
Big time! Stayed out late last night. So much so that I haven’t paid much attention to world events. In fact, I’ve never even picked up a newspaper. Too busy enjoying the ocean views. Of course, we’ve all heard about the airlines.

Toothdoc2b:
It’s a mess. Seems everyone here is upset. A real pain to deal with.

PartyLuvr30308:
Any idea on when things might get back to normal?

Toothdoc2b:
I don’t think anyone knows.

PartyLuvr30308:
Too bad. Any upcoming vacation plans?

Toothdoc2b:
Think I’ll check out California. Maybe LA, San Diego, or even San Fran. I hear the food is great.

PartyLuvr30308:
San Diego is really nice. The weather should be warm and dry this time of year, if you can handle it. Take care.

Toothdoc2b:
I can and I will.

—

AKIL LOGGED off and drew open the window curtains. At 3:00 a.m. it was still eighty-seven degrees in Las Vegas. The Strip had been deserted all evening: the flight ban had definitely made an impact. Akil noticed something on the room table. Gaudy red with metallic gold lettering, a business card advertised a variety of female escorts.

Akil tore the card in half and opened his Qur’an.

—

US No-Fly Zone, Day 5

Saturday, May 23

Bellevue, NE

THE AIRLINE crash had been both a human and an environmental disaster. Rival groups argued about which was worse. A quiet and peaceful respite threatened by suburban growth, the Fontenelle Forest Nature Center was a two-thousand-acre oasis of forest, prairie, and wetlands. A peaceful home for contented wildlife and lush, varied vegetation, the preserve was dually referred to as a very rare ecosystem and the largest deciduous forest in Nebraska.