Fly by Wire: A Novel (14 page)

^"Jammer?"

^{He turned and saw Sorensen.}

^{"What was that all about?" she asked.}

^{Davis turned back and stared at the fountain. Four cherubs were pissing in all directions. He said, "Bastien just told the world what caused the crash of World Express 801." "What?"}

^{"He accused Captain Earl Moore of committing suicide."}

^{Chapter ELEVEN}

^{"SilkAir Flight 185," Davis said, "December 1997"}

^{They had found a bench on one side of the courtyard. Stone steps, wet and mildewed, connected to the main path. Cigarette butts littered the ground around the bench, and a nearby trash can was full of old newspapers and take-out coffee cups rimmed with lipstick. Sorensen sat very still, listening intently.}

^{"It was a Boeing 737, just over a hundred people on board. Without warning, it fell straight out of a blue sky and crashed into the Musi River in Sumatra. You've never heard of it?"}

^{"No," she said, then added, "that was a little before my time in the business."}

^{"It was overseas, the kind of thing that usually starts out on page eight in our newspapers. After two days, it probably disappeared completely. The investigation took three years. In the end, the Indonesian authorities claimed the evidence was inconclusive -- no cause could be determined. But our own NTSB was very involved from the beginning."}

^{"And they thought differently?"}

^{Davis nodded. "They had a strong case. Just before the airplane went into its dive, the voice and data recorders stopped streaming data. Evidence suggested that at least one recorder had been disabled by pulling a circuit breaker."}

^{"Exactly what Bastien just said happened here."}

^{"Yes. But in the SilkAir case, the captain of the flight did have some serious issues. He'd recently been disciplined by management. He was in a big financial hole and had just bought a life insurance policy." Davis paused. "And years before, during his time in the Indonesian Air Force, he had lost four squadron buddies in an accident-- all on one day. The very same calendar day that SilkAir 185 went down."}

^{She said, "So that crash really
was
suicide?"}

^{He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. "Very possibly. But who can say for sure? Who can look into a dead mans soul?"}

^{"Could this accident be the same?"}

^{Davis thought about what he'd seen in the field, what he'd seen in Earl Moore's apartment. "Right now there are a hundred possible causes," he said, his evasion clear.}

^{"But why would Bastien even bring this up?"}

^{"A very good question."}

^{"It sounds so ..." Sorensen struggled for the word, "I don't know -- alarmist."}

^{"Alarmist? Hell, everyone involved in this investigation is alarmist. They all want to find the secret to the crash -- but only as long as it points blame away from their own organization and toward somebody else. This whole thing is a bunch of goddamn government and corporate Boy Scouts trying to earn their whistle-blower badges." Davis paused, dug his heel into a loose stone and pried it from the mud. "Blaming a dead pilot is the easy way out. To some degree it happens in every investigation, but you're usually talking about bad decisions, maybe carelessness."}

^{"And sometimes it's true," she suggested.}

^{"Yes, sometimes it is." He jerked a thumb hard toward the main building. "But what was implied in there, an intentional act -- that's way out of bounds for this stage of an inquiry. Not to mention the
way
Bastien did it. There is one inviolate rule for investigators. Whatever you say, you say it in private. Especially if you're the guy running the show. You don't just toss a grenade in the outhouse like that and run."}

^{Sorensen looked away. She said, "That's a great visual, Jammer."}

^{Finally starting to cool, he shrugged. "I'm a visual guy."}

^{"So what now?"}

^{As Davis turned the same question, he looked up at a darkening sky, hard gray against the fading day. In the official terminology of aviation weather reports, it would have been given the code X -- sky obscured. It meant there was no ceiling, no definable level where the clear air ended and the clouds began. In strict reporting terms, it was central to that weather observation no pilot ever wanted to see. Weather, ceiling 0, obscured, visibility 0, fog. WOXOF. When you saw that, you weren't going anywhere.}

^{Davis checked his watch. There was less than an hour of daylight left. He looked at her and said, "Now? Now we get to work."}

^.

^{Port Arthur, Texas}

^{Moustafa sat very still in the driver's seat of his rented car.}

^{No more than a hundred meters in front of him was a huge industrial complex. Unlike his haphazard destruction of the place owned by Colson Industries, this target would be addressed very specifically. Of course, he did not really think of it as a target. For Moustafa it was a destination. His final point of passage from this world.}

^{It was 1:57 in the morning, or at least that was what the green lights on the dashboard displayed. The numbers glowed incredibly bright, one of so many gadgets on this massive car. Moustafa had asked for the largest rental available, and the American clerk had not disappointed, offering up a behemoth. How fitting, he thought.}

^{He tried not to look at the car's clock, knowing it better to use the wristwatch he had so carefully synchronized before leaving the safe house. It was quite impossible. The green numbers were surreal, almost like his own personal line of communication with Allah.}

^1:58.

^{Moustafa took a deep breath to calm his nerves. This was not an easy thing. The others at the safe house had told him he would feel a sense of calm, an overwhelming tranquility as he undertook his fate. Of course, none of them had fulfilled their own destinies. Then Moustafa remembered the words of Caliph, received only yesterday in a personal e-mail --
Every faith has its soldiers. The victorious are those with the greatest conviction.}

^{He picked out an aim point on the fence, stared at his objective just beyond. There were no guards in sight. Moustafa knew there were typically twelve on duty. If this was Cairo, he might have been tempted to bribe one or two ahead of time, try to arrange their absence. But Caliph had warned against this. Things were different here. And if all went as planned, the guards would be helpless anyway.}

^{He turned his thoughts to his family, envisioned how proud his mother would be. She would weep, of course, but she would understand. Moustafa's mother and sister would watch his video, and on seeing it pray for Allah's mercy, pray for His guidance. They would be alone now, but Caliph had promised to care for them. Caliph had given his solemn word.}

^1:59.

^{He started the car and gripped the steering wheel firmly. Moustafa felt a tear run down his cheek, but he wiped it away with a sleeve. /
weep for joy
, he told himself,
I weep for the glory I will now bestow upon Allah.
This gave him strength. His grip on the wheel might have cracked it.}

^2:00.

^{Moustafa stomped on the accelerator and the big car lunged forward. Building speed rapidly, it hit the curb and careened upward. Moustafa was thrown out of his seat, his head striking the ceiling, as two tons of metal ricocheted airborne and smashed through the perimeter fence. There was a terrible grating noise, metal on metal, as the car lurched out of control and slid sideways. With a jolting crunch, everything came to a stop.}

^{Moustafa moved his hands, moved his feet to scramble out the door. His balance suffered under the heavy backpack and he stumbled to the ground. For a moment he lost his bearings -- the car had kicked up a massive cloud of dust, something he had not anticipated. But then Moustafa spotted his target looming high, fifty meters away. It was an ordinary thing, a rectangular iron box the size of a small delivery truck. Bathed in the yellow sulfur glow, it seemed insignificant against the towering array of stacks and pipes and holding tanks. Yet Moustafa knew the importance it held.}

^{He scrambled to his feet and ran, felt glory surging through his body. Someone in the distance shouted. It meant nothing. With only meters to go, Moustafa's destiny was all but complete.}

^{He heard the noise first, a thumping pulse like a massive heartbeat -- which it very nearly was. Next he felt the heat, radiating strong and constant, increasing as he closed in. An arm's length away, Moustafa stopped, turned and positioned his backpack firmly against the rectangular side. The heat was very strong now, and searing waves blistered his exposed skin. Moustafa welcomed the pain, imagining it to be the warmth of heaven, the embrace of an eternal sun. His hands fumbled to find the trigger taped to his chest.}

^{Allah Ahkbar!"}

^{The primary explosion had the desired effect. A shaped charge blew a tremendous hole in the containment wall and superheated crude oil burst in all directions. Heating elements fractured, and another blast fueled by natural gas sent shrapnel into adjacent pipelines and equipment. This secondary blast was even more spectacular than the first, as separated butane, naphtha, and jet fuel exploded, the only limitation being the speed at which air could rush inward from the perimeter to feed the conflagration. Nearby holding tanks were breeched and a slurry of volatile chemicals erupted into the chaos, adding a toxic element to compound the disaster.}

^{In the control room at one corner of the facility, the three engineers tasked to operate the place faced an array of warnings. They barely noticed, having already been distracted by the initial explosion that peppered the walls of their small building with fiery debris. This was all the warning they needed. The men set off their alarms and ran.}

^{Inside fifteen minutes, over an acre of the RNP Number 2 oil refinery in Port Arthur, Texas, was glowing like a massive torch.}

^{Chapter TWELVE}

^{It was called L'Hotel Continental Lyon. A mile from Building Sixty-two, it had been virtually taken over by the investigation s contingent. Davis thought it was a nice enough place, comfortable but not self-absorbed with the likes of high thread-count Egyptian sheets or matching terrycloth bathrobes. His room was on the third floor, with a tree-scraping view of the Lyon airport in the distance.}

^{His first real night's sleep had gone well, his body now fully adapted to the time shift. Davis hit the restaurant for breakfast at eight. He occupied half a table for two, ordered eggs, toast, and coffee. Service was fast, and he polished off the meal before tipping the coffeepot. It was good stuff, better than what he brewed at home. Not that that was saying much. Halfway through the first cup, he spotted Sorensen.}

^{She was smartly dressed in slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. She looked fresh, well rested. But then, women like Sorensen always did. She was attractive -- not like a fashion model, but in a more basic sense. Sorensen could wake up first thing in the morning, run a quick hand through her hair, and she'd be nice to look at.}

^{She smiled on making eye contact, and Davis nodded her over.}

^{"Buy a girl a drink?" she asked, pointing to the spare coffee cup.}

^{"You bet, Honeywell. Have a seat." Davis did the honors.}

^{"Honeywell? Is that my new call sign?"}

^{"I like it."}

^{She let it go, and asked, "Did you sleep well?"}

^{"Always do."}

^{"That's the sign of a clear conscience."}

^{"Or no conscience at all."}

^{Sorensen smiled a morning smile, bright and cheerful. The waiter came and she ordered fruit and a pastry. As soon as he was gone, she went to her handbag and pulled out a rolled-up newspaper. She set it on the table and pointed to the headline.}

^{Davis ignored the print, found himself looking at her finger. It was long and slender. No fake nails or stylish colors. Just a basic manicure, maybe a coat of clear. A woman who kept herself up, but didn't have time for the works.}