Fly by Wire: A Novel (7 page)

^{"You're not one of those pilots who hates flying in back, are you?"}

^{"Doesn't bother me a bit."}

^{"The first officer I'm dating doesn't like it. I guess it's a control thing," she said.}

^{On hearing those words, Davis fumbled his thoughts. "Yeah, I guess," he managed.}

^{The young woman smiled her pert company smile, went back to her deliveries.}

^{A control thing.
The words pinged between his ears. It was the last thing Diane had ever said to him, the ending volley of a silly spat they'd had, delivered as she was heading out the door. It was funny how memories worked. The good ones -- and there were a lot when it came to Diane -- were there if you went looking for them. But the bad came looking for you. They popped up in your dreams, whispered in your ear, drifted on a familiar scent. All it took was the slightest odd association. And there wasn't a damn thing you could do.}

^{Davis pushed it all away, tried to settle in for the ten-hour crossing. He was familiar with riding in coach on long flights -- you got to know the people around you. But here in first class it seemed different. There was more space. With a quick look around, Davis decided that might not be such a bad thing. An older woman across the aisle, dripping with diamonds and accessories, sat sipping champagne from a fluted glass. He had watched her slam down two before they'd even left the ground. One more, he figured, add in the cabin altitude, and she'd be out for the count.}

^{In front of her, a middle-aged guy with slicked black hair kicked off his boat shoes and propped his bare feet on the table he'd be eating from in a few hours. Ahead of him was an angry-faced kid dressed like a rapper. He had a gold chain around his neck that would have anchored a trawler, and hanging from that was a gold bucket that reminded Davis of the things priests swung around to disperse incense. And he was already standing, even though the fasten seat belt sign was on. He was an idiot.}

^{Davis didn't like it up here. Didn't like being pampered. Jen would have loved it, though. He wished this assignment had come in the summer when he could have brought her. Davis felt for the cell phone in his pocket. They'd made him shut it off before getting airborne, which bothered him. He knew the thing would be useless while they crossed the pond, but it was his umbilical, his only link to Jen. Since Diane's death, his life had revolved completely around his daughter, a wobbling existence driven by the inertia of school dances, meet-your-teacher nights and swim meets. Not that he minded -- it was a good whirlwind. And so blasting off to Europe seemed wrong. It was too damned far away.}

^{The cabin lights went dim. Davis figured the flight attendants were trying to lull everyone to sleep. He looked out the window and saw a moonlit night sky. Soft white reflections played on a scalloped cloud deck below, a subtle image of the moon echoing upward from a smooth lake. It was a pretty night, the same kind of night Captain Earl Moore and First Officer Melinda Hendricks had certainly seen a thousand times.}

^{Davis settled into his seat, pressed the recline button until he was almost lying flat. It was comfortable, and if a career in the military had taught him anything it was that you slept when you could.}

^{As he began to drift off, he thought about what Dr. Black had told him. Did Earl Moore really have a run-in with the police last week? Maybe he'd gotten in trouble. Maybe he'd been pulled over after downing a couple of beers,
didn't
get a DUI, and went to Dr. Black to scare himself straight. It was a convenient theory -- and probably not much more. Right now, there were a lot of possibilities.}

^{Then Davis remembered the photo of the crash site he'd seen in Sparky s office. The debris had been strewn over a very large area, at least a mile. Which didn't fit. The airplane had fallen over six miles in two minutes. On a trajectory like that, it should have gone straight in and made a hole like a meteor crater. He'd seen it before. Deep impact, the densest parts burying themselves in fifty feet of earth. But that hadn't happened to World Express 801. It had been really moving, but the impact was low angle.}

^{Once again, a lot of possibilities.}

^{CHAPTEK SIX}

^{Beaumont, Texas}

^{The black-clad figure was quick, skirting around the flood of a streetlight and edging up to a chain-link fence.}

^{The fence marked the property line of the sole manufacturing site of Colson Industries. By Texas standards, it was a modest operation, one acre of land with a single large building situated at the center. Around the outside of the place, stacked against corrugated sidewalls, was a sea of pipes, casings, scaffolding, and machinery. Some of the equipment was nicely organized, while other parts lay in haphazard piles, discarded in the course of day-to-day operations and waiting for the annual scrap heap collection. The whole collection suffered from varying degrees of oxidation, the depth of red and brown measuring the length of time each component had been surrendered to the elements.}

^{At two in the morning, the workers had long gone home. The man in black had been watching for two weeks, and so he knew there was no night shift. He had expected a longer window for his surveillance, at least another week. But the orders from Damascus had come early -- tonight would be the beginning.}

^{The lone night watchman was a man in his sixties. His presence, according to Caliph, was not intended to repel invasion, but a mere ploy by the owners to gain more favorable insurance premiums. There was little of true value in the place -- lathes, casting dies, heavy machinery. Colson Industries' very specialized product weighed in at over nine tons per unit, so no common thief was going to break down a door and drag one off.}

^{The man in black moved, pulling along a heavy canvas bag. His name was Moustafa, and until recently he would have been described as an unemployed Palestinian accountant. Four years out of Hebron University, his prospects had turned increasingly bleak. It was one thing for a country to educate a million doctors, lawyers, and professionals. Quite another to create a society, an economy that could put them to good use. Unemployed and frustrated, Moustafa, like so many of his friends, had heard the calling and turned to his faith. Turned hard.}

^{Moustafa was glad he had encountered no one on the streets because his English was miserable. Since arriving in America two weeks ago, he had remained secluded in a safe house run by a Saudi, a student at one of the local colleges. Moustafa had only ventured from the house late at night in order to study his two targets. Other than that, he prayed, read the Koran, and watched the decadence of American television. And yesterday he had made his martyr's video. This night, in fact, would not be his time of glory. If everything went as planned, he would survive. But Moustafa's appointment with destiny was near.}

^{At a shadowed section offence he brought his first tool to bear, a pair of heavy cable cutters. As he worked, Moustafa eyed the razor wire woven along the top of the barrier, twelve feet over his head. A dramatic selling point for the traders of security fence, he supposed, but quite useless. Like so much here, it was only for show. He made quick work of the fence, and once inside Moustafa pulled his heavy bag through the gap. He then pulled the silenced 9mm Beretta from his pocket. The gun felt awkward, unfamiliar in his hand. He was not an expert in handling weapons, yet Moustafa knew he did not need to be -- the guard carried only a radio.}

^{He pulled his heavy satchel to a spot outside the building's delivery entrance and left it there. Next to a pair of loading bays was a simple entry door. The guard had passed through earlier--he circled the grounds once or twice each night, always ending back at the front entrance where his podium, comfortable chair, and television were situated.
Americans and their television
, Moustafa thought.}

^{The rear door was unlocked and Moustafa eased inside. As had been the case each night, certain lights inside the building were left on -- not the full array, but enough to allow the guard to see clearly. Confirming that the man was not in sight, Moustafa pulled the heavy bag in behind him and closed the door. Leaving the bag, he began to move cautiously toward the front of the building. He saw machinery everywhere, a terrific assortment of metal pipes, hardware, and sheet metal. The smell of machine oil was thick. Moustafa did not know exactly how this place related to the strength of America. He could only trust in Caliph's vision. And in the blessed will of Allah.}

^{The first thing that drew Moustafa's attention was not a sight, but a sound -- the television. He heard thumping music and a woman's voice shouting strident commands. Moustafa raised his gun. As he rounded a huge wooden crate he saw the guard slumped in his chair. Moustafa's finger trembled on the trigger, but then, against the racket of the television, he heard the most amazing thing. Snoring. The guard was sound asleep.
Allah is indeed merciful.}

^{The man's back was to him, and as Moustafa closed in he saw the television. A group of women, wearing almost no clothing, were dancing in a line, gyrating to the beat of techno music. The women were very healthy, their tanned loins and large breasts straining against skintight coverings. A telephone number was posted at the bottom of the screen. For a moment, Moustafa found he was transfixed, staring at the crazy women. But then he tore his eyes free. Such a strange challenge, a strange temptation. He would not fall prey.}

^{Moustafa stepped softly toward the guard. He slowly arced his arm upward and aimed at the center of the gray-haired mass only a meter away.
Phht.
The gun kicked back in Moustafa's hand. He saw the gray head shudder from the bullet's impact. Then the guard slumped and Moustafa saw a hole where the bullet had hit its mark. Blood and tissue had sprayed beyond, splattering across the glowing image of dancing whores. How appropriate. Moustafa raised his arm again. Caliphs instructions were clear -- always make sure.
Phht.}

^{Finished with the guard, Moustafa noticed a small security monitor that alternated views of the place from different cameras. There was also a telephone on a pedestal and a few buttons that might have been alarms. This too had been addressed in his orders. Leave it. It was too complex to deal with properly. And if the next part was done well, none of it would be of any use. Caliph had considered everything. Which was why he had so frustrated the Americans. Why he had become a legend.}

^{Moustafa retrieved his satchel and went to stand in the middle of the place. He took a few moments to study things in the half light of the cavernous building, sorting through by the guidelines he had been given. Then he went to work.}

^{Moustafa identified two fifty-five gallon drums marked diesel, and another marked waste oil. He found some empty cardboard boxes, a few pieces of upholstered furniture, and stacked these around the drums. He also found an assortment of small cans that contained -- if the labels could be trusted -- paints, solvents, acid, and machine oil. These went on top of the drums. He then found a hammer and used the claw end to breach each drum at the midpoint of height.}

^{Fuel spilled out over the floor, the acrid stink tearing at Moustafa's nasal passages. He found a clean rag and held it over his nose and mouth. Next, he took the three packages from his satchel. He knew nothing of the formula that had been used, but Moustafa immediately recognized a smell similar to that of fireworks. The bundles were tightly wrapped in plastic, the simple fuses exposed. He placed them with care, one near each drum.}

^{Moustafa stepped back and evaluated his work. As he did, his senses were keen for any disturbances outside. He heard nothing worrisome. As he reached into his pocket for one of the two butane lighters, sweat dripped into his eyes despite the cool air. He flicked the lighter and a flame sparked obediently to life. But then Moustafa snuffed it and cursed under his breath. He had nearly forgotten the last step.}

^{He pocketed the lighter and looked straight up. In most buildings, dealing with the sprinklers might pose a problem -- the spray heads were obvious enough, but pipes were often hidden, concealed above painted drywall or a lattice of Styrofoam ceiling panels. Here, however, in a factory setting, all Moustafa had to do was track the lines visually. He followed a series of painted metal pipes through joints and connections, searching for the main line. He felt like he was surveying some massive circulatory system, and in a sense he was -- in the event of a fire, these were the arteries that would carry the building s emergency lifeblood.}

^{It took only two minutes. A larger section of pipe led down along one wall and into the concrete slab. There, just above ground level, was a simple valve with a circular handle. It was even labeled for his convenience: emergency sprinkler shutoff.
Like turning off a garden hose
, he thought. Moustafa turned the valve full clockwise until it stopped. He considered using the hammer to break the pipe above the valve, but Moustafa decided against it, reasoning that he didn't want the water already overhead in the system lines to flood down across the floor. It seemed logical enough.}