Skyhook (28 page)

ike an AWACS?”

“Yeah, or those F-15s you were mentioning. I’ve got the restricted area figured out on my GPS screen. I thought we’d drag the eastern side of it before the light fades and see if there’s any surface traffic.”

“How close can we get to the crash site?”

“Within two miles. It’s strange, April. The surface area the Coast Guard has declared restricted to boat traffic does not correspond with the military operations area for air traffic, except over the crash site. But there’s something else I didn’t tell you. Tonight, that military airspace is from the surface up to thirty thousand feet.”

“Okay.”

“On Monday evening, when your folks were coming through, it was from five thousand to thirty thousand feet, and if I’m calculating correctly, they flew right under it. You know what that suggests to me?”

“I think so,” April answered. “It means that between Monday and now, something has changed and they now want all the airspace.”

“And what may have caused that change is your folks flying legally right underneath their Monday-night block. The change suggests that something happened, and since we know the Albatross crashed in that airspace, it’s a pretty good bet that that’s it.”

“The connection, in other words?”

“Yes. I don’t know how. I mean, did they clip something, or did they have a mechanical failure? Either way it’s coincidental, but provocative.”

They flew in silence for nearly ten minutes as April let herself marvel at the verdant beauty of the forests lining the inlet on either

side almost down to the water. The beaches were rocky and narrow here, with occasional sandy patches, but just as often a small slope or cliff marked the point where land and sea met.

“Scott, look out there at eleven o’clock.” She pointed to the looming shape of a large surface vessel on the horizon ahead.

He nodded. “It’s an inbound supertanker. See how high he’s riding? He’s empty, coming in from California.”

The sun was riding low on the southwestern horizon as Scott studied the GPS screen. “The crash coordinates are just ahead, April, about five miles. The MOA starts three miles ahead. I’m going to turn and parallel it by a mile to make sure anyone watching doesn’t misinterpret what we’re doing.”

“So what are we doing?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Beats me. I … let’s just loiter out here and see if we can see anything unusual.”

“Scott, do you have a raft aboard?”

“You mean a survival raft? No.”

“Could you carry one?”

“Yeah, but, April, this is a flying boat, remember?”

“I’m not talking about safety. I’m talking about landing, inflating a radar-invisible rubber raft, maybe with a small motor, and putting over to the site with the camera, recorder, and battery and stuff.”

Scott was silent for a few seconds. “We could do that. I don’t see why not, but it would have to be at night, and I can’t risk landing us out here in open water at night.”

“How about landing at dusk safely out of the restricted area, tying up somewhere, and going in after dark?”

“We’d need exposure suits.”

“Jim has those. He told me.”

“Okay. We might just have time—”

“Not tonight. I’m thinking tomorrow. I want to be completely prepared.”

“Okay.”

She turned and looked at him until he met her gaze. “Everything

rides on getting those shots on tape, and I think my friend Gracie, the lawyer, would tell you that I’ll need your testimony to validate what I see, what’s on the tape, and the fact that whatever we get will not have been electronically altered. That okay?”

“You mean, in court?”

“Yeah. Problem?”

He shook his head. “Oh, no.”

She grabbed his arm suddenly, her right hand pointing ahead.

“What’s that, Scott? That ship.”

“More of a boat. Hold on.” He altered course to the north slightly to get a better viewing angle.

“What is it?”

“That’s a Navy ship. I don’t recognize her, but she’s a fleet support or supply vessel of some sort. Don’t often see one like that up here. See the odd angles on the superstructure on the stern? I’m not sure what that’s for.”

“She’s westbound.”

He nodded. “Yes. And on a course that, if I’m reading this right, had to have passed directly over the crash site.”

This is the test director. We’re go for engaging, Sage Ten.

Systems report?”

“Sage Ten flight deck is a go,” the chief test pilot’s voice replied from the Gulfstream.

“Sage Ten, Test One is go as well,” Ben Cole answered.

“Very well,” the test director continued, “then Test One is cleared to engage.”

Ben acknowledged the clearance and placed his index finger over the appropriate button, hesitating for a few seconds as he ran back through all the parameters. They were at twenty-two thousand feet, steady on a heading of 135 degrees magnetic in reasonably smooth air. Pressing the button should cause no sensation at all, just the display of streaming data from the AWACS as the pilot in the remote cockpit aboard the AWACS took over the controls.

“Engaging,” Ben said, feeling the tiny feedback click of the button as the computer screen changed to reflect the remote engagement. “System engaged and locked,” he continued.

“Crown is affirmative on the lock. We have control.”

Ben realized he’d been holding his breath and permitted himself to exhale and sit back slightly in his seat in the familiar environment of the Gulfstream’s otherwise deserted cabin.

Straight and level. Good!

On an intellectual level, he’d expected nothing less after hours of checking and rechecking to make sure no strange commands had been embedded in the Boomerang master code.

“So far, so good,” Ben said into the headset, aware that the comment would be considered nonprofessional by the hardcore test engineers.

The screen was changing suddenly, the list of streaming data locks staying the same, but the control inputs moving as the Gulfstream began banking left.

“Are you commanding a bank to the left?” Ben asked, the immediate anxiety in his voice all too apparent.

There was a small chuckle embedded in the rapid reply from the AWACS remote pilot. “Roger. That’s just me playing with the controls. Coming left twenty degrees and a thirty-degree bank, then I’ll come back to the right before getting into the systems checks.”

Ben willed himself to relax and look around. He massaged his neck muscles and realized they were as tight as steel bands, a direct reflection of the tension. He wondered if the Gulfstream pilots were feeling the same anxiety. If so, they’d never admit it, Ben knew. It was against the pilot code, and especially true of test pilots, though he’d observed the inherent discomfort of the pilots in giving up control to a mechanism or a remote pilot not under their command.

“Coming back to the right now,” the remote pilot was saying, his voice cheerful as he watched his “instruments” on the mock control panel with heading, altitude, and airspeed readings coming back up live from the Gulfstream.

The thought that this test flight was unfolding correctly and safely had been merely a wish a few minutes back. They had already passed the critical point in time when the computer had suddenly started diving them in the Monday night test flight. All systems seemed to

be operating normally, which meant perhaps thirty minutes of flight maneuvers before they could go home and Uniwave could collect its life-giving green government check.

The problem of who sabotaged the program Monday night was still with them, of course.

“Okay, starting down the flight control list now with the speed brakes.”

A wave of warm feelings for Schroedinger and innate happiness that he would, in fact, be seeing him again filled Ben at the same moment another more sinister connection came together in his memory. He ripped his attention back to the moment, searching for whatever that connection had been.

Wait … something the AWACS pilot just said …

His seat began falling gently out from under him as his stomach got lighter, and Ben diverted his eyes to the altitude readout.

“Whoa! Gentle on the sudden descent there, Crown,” the Gulf stream pilot said.

“What descent… wait. Sage Ten, have you seized control?”

“Negative, Crown. We’re showing you still locked. Don’t tell me this is happening again?”

The figures on Ben’s computer screen confirmed the sequence, the converted business jet now moving vertically toward the terrain below and out of twenty-three thousand at a rate of first two thousand, then three thousand feet per minute downward.

“Oh, shit!” the remote pilot said. “Yes, Sage, it does appear to be happening again. I’m commanding a climb and you’re not following.”

“Are you showing the telemetry link still locked?” the Gulfstream pilot asked.

“Yes.”

“We’re descending now through flight level two-zero-zero, and I’m not going to wait very long this time before I pull the plug.

Ben? Are you on?”

“Yes. All indications are contrary to what’s happening, except that

I see the altitude loss. How low should we let her go before we disconnect?”

“This is the test director. We’re disconnecting all the telemetry links now.”

The descent was continuing. Ben watched the figures, hoping for a flattening, but they were falling through seventeen thousand now, with no change in deck angle.

“This is Ben … ah, Test One. You guys up there physically locked out again?”

“Yes. Should we use the new T-handle?”

“Stand by on that. Crown? Test One. Have you disconnected?”

“Affirmative, Sage Ten. We physically shut off the transmitters.”

“Problem is here again. Okay. I’m beginning electronic disconnect now.”

“No change, Ben,” the pilot announced.

“Roger … going to secondary method.”

“Still nothing. We’re coming through fifteen thousand.”

“I’m shutting down the computer like last time,” Ben said, reaching for the power switches and watching the information on his screen collapse to a point of light, then nothing.

But they were still descending.

“Pilot, Test One. Are you free?”

“No. Have you shut down?”

“Yes. Pull the T-handle.”

A long silence followed as the descent continued. Through the windows, Ben could see the last vestige of daylight on the western horizon lighting up the exposed sides of the Alaskan terrain to the left, painting a warm reddish light on the mountains and ridges that were simultaneously coming up toward them.

“Go ahead with the T-handle,” Ben said again.

“The damn thing didn’t work!” the pilot said, more tension in his voice now than five days before. “Ben? I can’t believe we’re here again and out of options. How about you?”

The same wave of confusion and uncertainty that had overwhelmed

him Monday evening washed over him again, but this time he pushed through it immediately and mashed the interphone button.

“The computer’s completely off. I do not understand this! There’s no telemetry, there’s no computer, the T-handle doesn’t work, and you can’t override the controls, right?”

“That’s right. We’re fighting several hundred pounds of force in either direction, and the trim won’t budge. We’re coming through eight thousand feet.

Let’s just hope this thing wants to level at fifty feet again.”

“What happened when you pulled the T-handle?” Ben replied.

“It came out about three inches, I felt it tugging on something, then nothing else changed.”

“I’m turning the computer back on.”

“Just do something, Ben!” the pilot said. “This is ridiculous!

Passing four thousand feet.”

They’ve succeeded after all! Ben thought, taking a split second to be angry with himself for not seeing that any test flight would be suicidal until they caught whoever was responsible.

“Through two thousand!” the pilot was saying, his voice tense.

The computer was just beginning the reboot process, and it was clear it wouldn’t be on-line fast enough, even if he could think what to do.

“Two thousand nine hundred, Ben! It’s now or never!”

“I’m … rebooting … but somehow I don’t think that’s the problem.” /

What was the atmospheric pressure setting on Monday? Oh, yeah.

Two nine-four-two. What is it tonight?

He pulled a notepad to him, the figures leaping off the page: 30.10!

He jabbed at the interphone button. “RESET A A

Y! DON’T ASK WHY! DO IT!”

UIDGEON N8771B IN F

IGHT, OUER THE GU

flSKR

Scott had given a wide berth of at least a mile to the Navy support ship April had spotted as they climbed to two thousand feet to remain well clear of the restricted area. The ship was miles behind them now, and the sun was just about to drop below the horizon, making forward visibility difficult. Scott spotted the reflection of a high-flying aircraft ahead and pointed it out.

“Probably a big military jet like a KC-135 or a KC-10, and probably above twenty-five thousand.”

“He’s in the restricted area? The MOA?”

Scott nodded, his eyes on the metal underbelly of the distant aircraft as it caught the long-wave rays of sunlight and glowed bright for a moment in the purplish sky.

“Wow,” April exclaimed. “That’s beautiful!”

“Sure is. Amazing what you see from cockpits, especially at night. I’ve got a friend who flies for Alaska Airlines who made two circles one night in a 737 on the way to Fairbanks from Anchorage because the northern lights were so incredibly bright and beautiful. All the passengers were gasping! He even got video, and the passengers gave him a standing ovation when they parked.”

“How’d the airline respond?”

“They loved it,” Scott chuckled.

Another airborne metallic body caught the sunlight, blinking on and off again just as April looked in that direction.

“Sage Ten, Crown. Traffic twelve o’clock, southwest-bound, altitude showing as two thousand feet.”