Lockout

by John J. Nance

  “Indeed,” Jerry said.

  “Please keep me informed,” Lavi added, before turning back toward the cabin.

  “Jesus Christ!” Tom Wilson said almost under his breath, unaware of the religious irony of his words.

  Jerry glanced back toward the cockpit door to confirm they were now alone as Jerry shook his head.

  “Well, that was embarrassing … not recognizing a VIP,” Jerry said.

  “What was disturbing to me, Jerry,” Dan began, “… is that he’s either got ice water in his veins, or he’s actually okay with this. Maybe … maybe it provides another diplomatic challenge, I don’t know, but …”

  “If we do end up aiming for Tehran, should we take him up on his offer and have him communicate with the Iranians?” Breem asked.

  Dan shook his head aggressively. “Absolutely not! Guys, if we let Moishe Lavi speak for us,” Dan replied, “… we sign our death warrants.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  NSA, Ft. Meade, Maryland (7:30 p.m. EST / 0030 Zulu)

  “Gotcha!”

  The latitude and longitude figures Jenny Reynolds had finally distilled from working through a hunch were in bold now on the screen, but she pulled out a notepad and wrote them down just in case the fruit of her labors should suddenly disappear. Jenny glanced at the piece of paper and folded it, stuffing it in her purse as she glanced at the time. Eight minutes since Seth had called and ordered her to go home, this time without even a hint of humor or friendliness.

  “Why, Seth?” she’d asked, “I don’t understand. You told me it was okay to stay and work.”

  “And now I’m telling you it isn’t. Get your stuff and go home. Leave the building. Now. You understand that’s not a request; it’s an order.”

  “Do you have to sound so mean?”

  “I’m not being mean. There are things we just can’t discuss on the phone. I’m not mad at you, there’s just a … change in plans. Trust me, Jenny. Go home. Call no one. I’m going to call security in a while to make sure you’re out, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She’d punched the phone off in a mix of anger and hurt and apprehension, and turned back to the computer determined to finish her search.

  It had turned out to be far easier than she’d expected, tracing the so-called “mother burst,” and now she found herself torn between wanting to superimpose the lat/long coordinates on a map or run for the door. The coordinates might just be able to shed light on the mystery of who and why strange programming signals had been sent in the blind and apparently accepted by an airborne airliner.

  The blinking symbol signifying a news bulletin appeared on the left side of her screen and she clicked on it as she stood and gathered her iPad and purse. Several new paragraphs about the hijacking came into view, and she skimmed them, sitting back down in her chair to focus on the verbiage. The fact that Pangia Flight 10 was headed in the wrong direction was old news, but the information that the pilots couldn’t disconnect the autoflight system was something entirely new. How on earth … oh my God, that’s what the answering burst was all about. It disconnected them!

  A noise in a far corner of the cavernous room made her jump slightly, and she hurried to collapse and save the lat/long page information to a secure drive before standing up to look around. There were always a few other analysts working away into the evening in their various corners of “cube-ville,” but she could see no one, and even her last foray to the coffee machine had turned up no fellow late-nighters. That, in itself, was a bit unnerving.

  The noise reached her again, this time like metal on metal at a distance, and an old feeling of impending terror that she had worked so hard to keep at bay began to settle around her shoulders like a dark cloak. Lifelong experience with anxiety attacks had taught her the symptoms all too well: tightening stomach, sudden sweat, a creepy feeling of coldness and impending attack, hands shaking, and a cascade of thoughts accelerating into a blind panic which would only intensify if she did nothing but sit still and try to reason with herself.

  Jenny leaped to her feet and headed for the door, forcing a look over her shoulder to verify that no one was behind her. There were, of course, only imaginary footsteps following in her mind, spurring her to run. But even though she knew there was nothing really closing on her from behind, her imagination propelled her as she shoved through the double doors and slammed into the chest of a very large uniformed guard.

  “Oh!” Jenny staggered back, eyes wide, breathing hard, as the guard caught her elbow to steady her.

  “Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t see you coming out of there. You okay?”

  “Ah … yes. Yes, I’m … you just startled me. I didn’t mean to …”

  “It’s cool! I’m still standing. Were you leaving for the night?”

  “What?” She looked closer at the man, his large dark face beaming a sympathetic smile as he released her elbow. He towered over her, maybe six feet four, a wall of uniform.

  “I just asked if you were leaving for the night?”

  “Oh! Yes, I was. I am.” Jenny shook her head and took a deep breath, her hand up in a stop gesture. “I’m sorry to sound flaky, it’s just … I don’t work nights much and this place gets spooky.”

  The requisite exit search and clearance procedures at the NSA’s entrance hall behind her, another guard waived her out of the parking lot and she checked the address she’d preloaded on her iPhone before merging into traffic southbound, then just as quickly pulled to the shoulder and braked to a halt.

  The need to know where those “mother burst” coordinates were on the face of the planet was suddenly irresistible, and she pulled out her iPad and triggered a map program, entering the lat/long coordinates before pushing the button.

  The center of the satellite map picture suddenly coalesced on a series of buildings set in a sea of parking lots. The image looked vaguely familiar, and she zoomed the picture, noting the expected satellite antenna farm on the roof before zooming back out and looking at the adjacent map in increasing disbelief.

  No, that’s not possible! I hit the wrong button.

  She re-checked the coordinates on her slip of paper against what she’d entered. They matched perfectly. There was a highway running adjacent to the building complex with the number “295” showing on the map adjacent to the target, and she looked up and out of her windshield now into real life to see the very same number on a highway sign no more than twenty feet away.

  Her eyes went back to the screen, the recognition now inescapable: If the mother transmission had come from those coordinates, they had come directly from the heart of the National Security Agency complex at Fort Meade.

  Her building.

  Right under her nose.

  Oh dear God! No wonder Seth wanted me out of there! We ARE involved!

  The steady stream of traffic whizzing by mere feet from the side of her little Prius came into focus, and she clicked off the iPad now and eased herself back into traffic, mind whirling, hands shaking.

  Somewhere half a world away from her, there was an out of control airliner plowing through the night with what had to be frightened people aboard, and the radioed order that apparently triggered the whole impending disaster had come from her building!

  She thought of the exit process minutes before as she left the building and the guard’s careful examination of her purse for flash drives or any other storage medium. Thanks to that traitor Snowden such a search was now routine. The presence of a simple scribbled note in her purse shouldn’t have alerted him, but with her fears rising exponentially, she wondered now whether taking even that information out of the building was a violation. Would there be a security team even now coming after her? Surely, she wasn’t supposed to know that the originating programming signal she’d discovered so many hours ago—the same one that had apparently caused an airliner to change course—came from their own building. How could she erase what she knew? It would be like un-ringing a bell.

  Oh God, what
do I do now? Who do I tell? I have to tell someone.

  The electronic warble of her smart phone caused her to almost lose control of the car, and she struggled to stay on the road while fumbling for the instrument. There was a strange phone number on the screen. She knew not to answer it, but the longing for deliverance won out, and her finger found the green button.

  “Jenny Reynolds?” a male voice asked. It was somehow familiar, but she was far too scared to coalesce the memory.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Will Bronson. You remember? From this afternoon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you, Jenny?”

  “I’m …”

  “Are you still at work?”

  “No. In my car.” And scared to death, she wanted to add.

  “Good. Were you going home?”

  Why would he want to know that? she wondered, trying desperately to stay ahead of the conversation but losing the battle to sheer panic.

  “Jenny?”

  “Uh … yes … no … I was, I was going to go drop in on my boss, at his home. He’s over by …”

  “Don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Jenny, I would like you to change course and meet me. Tell me approximately where you are, and I’ll arrange a place to meet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because …” he hesitated. “Because I want to take you out tonight, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  As much as she wanted that to be true, she knew it was a dodge for anyone eavesdropping, and she had barely a split-second to decide whether to trust him.

  A split-second was all she needed.

  “Okay. You won’t have to take no. I’d … like to see you, too. I’m just a mile south of my building on the Parkway, heading south.”

  “Take Greenbelt Road exit west. You know the Beltway Plaza Mall?’

  “Yes.”

  “Pull up in front of JCPenney and turn on your four-way flashers. You’re in a red Prius, right?”

  “Yes, but how did you …”

  “I’ll find you. Don’t call anyone.”

  “Will?”

  “Yes?”

  “How … how do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t. I’ll need to prove it. Dinner and a movie, to start with?”

  “Okay. Wait, to start with …?”

  “See you in ten.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Aboard Pangia 10 (0030 Zulu)

  Dan Horneman took a deep breath as he finished buttoning up the heavy coat he’d borrowed. He was standing beside the offending metal cabinet in the electronics bay beneath the cockpit of Flight 10. The thing was still booby-trapped with electrical power, but as long as he was careful, his plan might work.

  He turned toward the forward hatch leading back to the cockpit and nodded to Carol, who was watching carefully, deep concern etching her almost flawless face.

  There was no way to reach over the top of the thing without all but bear hugging the metallic side. Provided the voltage within wasn’t too great, all the layers he was wearing should prevent electrical arcing, he thought. The previous shock was enough for one lifetime, but he had been skin to metal with the thing while grounding himself with his other hand to close a circuit that could have killed him.

  Not this time.

  Slowly feeling his way along through thick leather gloves, Dan followed his memory until his index finger settled into the hole. It took a bit of twisting and pushing to force his glove-clad finger in deep enough to touch the top of the metal plunger, but at last he could feel it, and after checking to make sure his face wasn’t touching skin to metal, he shoved the plunger down hard, feeling nothing yield. He shoved harder, his finger protesting in pain, knowing that before he’d been hit by a bolt of electricity before reaching the release point.

  If there was a release point.

  Dan withdrew his finger and pulled his hand and arm away, thinking through what he’d felt. There was a plunger, but unless it was a dummy set up just to suck in and shock an intruder, there had to be a release mechanism inside.

  Once more he took his flashlight and poked around every part of the cabinet he could reach or see, wondering if he could have missed another hole or hatch or panel somewhere. But he found nothing.

  Okay, I’m just not pushing it down far enough.

  He needed a small wooden stick, but finding wooden sticks in a jet at 38,000 feet was ridiculously unlikely.

  Dan stepped away from contact with the cabinet and pulled off his glove, fishing in his uniform pocket for the clippers. Small, metallic, and just slim enough, it might work, he thought. Once again he donned the glove and maneuvered himself into position, carefully inserting the body of the nail clipper into the hole and feeling it align with the sides, the cutting head settling squarely on the plunger. Slowly, gingerly, he moved the tip of his index finger to the more narrow back end of the clipper and pushed steadily, feeling the plunger descend, keeping the small tool aligned with his index finger until it was in almost to the limit.

  The “click” of the internal locking cam releasing was felt more than heard, but suddenly the top of the cabinet rotated toward him.

  He grabbed each end and lifted the entire side off its lower channel moving it far enough aft to expose more than half of the electronic nightmare within.

  There in the middle was a large warning placard in red block letters:

  WARNING! THE CONTENTS OF THIS VAULT ARE PROTECTED BY HIGH VOLTAGE ELECTRICAL CURRENT THREE TIMES THE MINIMUM SUFFICIENT TO KILL A HUMAN. DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, TOUCH OR OTHERWISE ATTEMPT TO MANIPULATE OR INTERACT WITH ANYTHING INSIDE WITHOUT FOLLOWING DEACTIVATION PROCEDURES.

  There was an ordinary keypad to the right of the sign, with keys large enough to be pushed by a gloved hand, but there was no indication of the code.

  What in hell IS this thing? Dan thought, already knowing the most important part of the answer: It was obviously what had disconnected their entire cockpit and locked them out of the basic ability to fly the jet. Whatever it was supposed to accomplish strategically, tactically it was controlling the show, and that had to end.

  Dan ran his eyes carefully up and down the racks of electronics, finding no switches large or small and only a few blinking LED lights. No other placards or identification plates adorned any of the equipment, and all of it was packed in so tightly that there seemed no way to reach around behind any of the boxes.

  Jesus, where do I start?

  He could hear Carol’s voice calling to him, and he turned toward the hatch, flashing her a thumbs-up. She nodded and smiled and withdrew her head undoubtedly to report to Jerry that he was in, but in to what? The more Dan examined the contents of the cabinet, the more his stomach knotted. Whoever had installed the infernal thing had no intention of bluffing. Even if he could work with the thick gloves, there were no wing nuts on any of the boxes that might free them up and allow them to be pulled out, and if the system was wired to resist interference, it might even fry the electronic engine controls and flight computers, leaving them with a dead and falling airframe.

  He allowed himself a few seconds of horror, imagining what kind of death that would be, helplessly watching your plane and passengers fall to destruction while you flailed at dead, useless controls, unable to do anything. His mind flashed back to the gut-wrenching story of the Germanwings crash, and his own unbearable rage thinking about the terrorized captain of that flight, locked out of his own cockpit and pounding helplessly on the door as his suicidal copilot descended into the Alps.

  To a lesser extent, Dan was fighting that same kind of rage and frustration, and he forced himself to slow his breathing and concentrate. He had a bit more than three hours, and he had to believe that anything that could be engineered into place could probably be reverse engineered. If only it wasn’t booby-trapped.

  He slid down to the floor alongside the thing, watching it for a minute, letting his subconscious have a crack at his feelings
, which were running amok.

  The wave of hopelessness washed over him again, but for some reason he felt himself swim through it, rejecting its nihilistic conclusions. After all, an hour ago they weren’t even aware there was an offending cabinet full of control-stealing electronics. Now he was staring it in the teeth.

  Wait a minute!

  The new thought came unbidden, but the recognition was powerful and it caused a sharp intake of breath and a surge of hope at the same time. Dan sat up a bit straighter and followed the logic trail.

  People don’t put warnings on invulnerable things! If it was impervious to disconnection, there would be no placard.

  He could see the wires going in and could trace at least some of them to racks outside the cabinet that he could reach and wouldn’t shock him. If he could find the right wires, the right controls, and figure out which of the boxes inside the cabinet were connected to which ones on the outside, he had a chance.

  No. No, it’s more than that! he thought, eyes widening. There is a key here, and something that they were afraid would be discovered. Something that CAN be discovered. It’s a freaking Easter egg hunt.

  In other words, it wasn’t “if,” it was “how.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Beltway Plaza Mall, Greenbelt, Maryland (8:00 p.m. EST / 0100 Zulu)

  “I’ve got you in sight, Jen. Take the first parking place and lock it up.”

  She had to admit, Will Bronson’s voice was reassuring, not that she had the slightest idea what was happening, or whether she was falling into a trap like some silly little girl with daddy issues doomed by her own search for paternal protection. She had promised herself that she would never, ever be that girl.