Fly by Wire (2010)

by Larsen, Ward

  Sorensen drew a deep breath, looked down intensely at the table -- if she'd been drinking tea, he might have thought she was trying to read the leaves in her cup. Davis dropped the deformed spoon on the table. It clattered when it hit, and a few other patrons looked their way.

  "What gave it away?" she asked.

  "A few minutes ago, when I took that message. You asked me if my daughter was driving me crazy."

  "And--"

  "And I never said I had a daughter." He held up the wedding band he still wore. "You should have deduced I was talking about my wife. But then -- you already know my wife is dead."

  The silence was extended. No more pert expression or snappy comebacks. "Jammer, look--"

  He raised an index finger to cut her off, then deliberately moved his hands to grip the cloth at the sides of the table -- as if at any moment he might turn the whole thing over. His voice fell low and ominous. "Who the hell are you?"

  Sorensen bit her bottom lip. "I'm sorry," she said. "I should have been upfront with you."

  "Upfront about what?"

  Her next words were quiet, yet distinct. As if she didn't want to say it twice. "I work for the CIA."

  "CIA? As in Central Intelligence Agency?"

  She nodded once. "Jammer, we need your help."

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  "And here I thought I was doing great with you," Davis said, his eyes boring into her. "What the hell does the CIA need me for?"

  "Its a long story. I--"

  "Wait a minute!" he interrupted. "Larry Green, my boss back at the NTSB, said the director had requested me by name for this assignment. Did the CIA put me on this investigation?"

  There was no shake of the head, no quizzical expression. "Honestly, I don't know anything about that. I was only told that you might be able to help. I know you're a top-notch investigator, Jammer. You speak French. And you were a career military officer."

  "Which means what? That I'll follow orders? If that's what you think, your file on me isn't very complete. I'm a known troublemaker. My performance reports from the Air Force are riddled with words like 'headstrong' and 'uncompromising.' I don't like bullshit. Right now I'm trying to think of one good reason why I shouldn't dump this whole carnival and go home!"

  Sorensen kept to her hushed tone. "I'm here to monitor the investigation, but I need help. I'm walking into a minefield and I need you to guide me through."

  "How? By stepping on them? Since when do spooks get involved in aircraft accidents?" Davis considered the question himself. Then it hit him. "Wait a minute. Are you suggesting that a terrorist act brought this airplane down?"

  "We have no direct evidence of that," she said. "But the agency has been watching CargoAir for some time."

  "CargoAir? Why?"

  Sorensen explained that the CIA had been monitoring CargoAir for months. The big consortium had a heavy dose of financing and ownership from countries not completely trusted by America. Then she produced a photograph from her handbag and laid it on the white tablecloth. Clearly she'd been anticipating this little confessional. The image was of a man and woman sitting at a cafe table.

  "You probably don't know either of these people," she said.

  Davis looked at the picture, shook his head.

  "The guy's name is Luca Medved, he's a Russian national. And he's also the chairman of the board of CargoAir."

  "Okay, I'll bite. Who's she?"

  "Her name is Fatima Adara."

  "Never heard of her."

  "Not many people have. But we've definitely linked her to the most wanted man in the Western world -- the terrorist known as Caliph."

  "Caliph?"

  "You've heard of him?"

  "Sure, everybody has. But isn't he in Iraq?"

  "He started there. But lately we've been finding his fingerprints all over the world." Sorensen was getting back in stride, confidence returning to her voice.

  Davis looked closer at the photograph. Grainy as it was, he could tell the woman wasn't much of a looker.

  Sorensen said, "Fatima Adara is his messenger, the only one as far as we can tell."

  "So what does this have to do with me, with this investigation? You can't think CargoAir is tied up with Caliph."

  "We don't like what we've been finding out about CargoAir. The company has been around for five years, yet the organization and financing are very unusual. Most of its backing comes from oil-rich states, and the management team has been pretty darn elusive for a publicly traded corporation. In certain ways, it almost functions like a shell company."

  Davis argued, "Rumor has it they make a pretty good airplane. It's been certified by the FAA and Europe's EASA, no easy hurdle. Over a hundred C-500s are flying, and this crash is the first real problem."

  "Yes, but we see it as an opportunity."

  "An opportunity for what?"

  "To get inside the company, get a good look. This crash forces their hand -- CargoAir will have to let the investigators in, let them see everything."

  Davis sat back in his chair. "So this isn't about finding a cause for the crash of World Express 801. It's about spying on CargoAir, looking for links to Caliph. You think the company might be funneling money to suspicious local groups or carrying a few of the wrong people on the payroll. Maybe they're even providing material help to terrorist cells. Operating with suppliers in so many countries, they must send and receive a lot of hardware. Lots of crates and boxes, stuff that probably gets minimal inspection."

  She nodded. "You're a quick study, Jammer. We don't know the exact form, but yes, something like that."

  Davis locked his gaze appraisingly on a woman he had liked ten minutes ago. She cocked her head and a wave of blonde hair slid over one shoulder. Her eyes were blue, open and clear. Too clear for such jaded work. And they pleaded for help. Davis looked hard for something else. Guile, flecks of dishonesty. It just wasn't there.

  "Jammer, the CIA is scouring Europe and the Middle East for this guy. We're stretched thin, and I'm in way over my head here."

  "Somehow I doubt that."

  She implored, "We could work together on this."

  "That's one more person than I'm used to dealing with."

  Sorensen seemed to make a decision. Her tenor changed to one of pure business. "All right. I wasn't truthful with you. I'm sorry, Jammer. You go your own way. But I have to ask one favor."

  Davis raised an eyebrow, inviting her to continue.

  "I'll never get through this if I don't have some credibility, some idea of what to do. I need to know the basics. Meet me at the accident site and show me what to look for, explain how this investigation is going to run."

  He deadpanned, "So you want a -- crash course?"

  "Yes," she volleyed back, no trace of humor.

  He looked at his watch. "All right. Its eight twenty. Meet me at the site this afternoon. One o'clock sharp."

  "Deal," she said.

  "Oh -- and I want something from you."

  She hesitated. "All right. If I can."

  "I met a guy yesterday, Dr. Ibrahim Jaber. He's the lead engineer at CargoAir, in charge of the C-500 program. I want to know all about him."

  "What makes you think I can--"

  " You," he said, cutting her off, "are the CIA. That's what you guys do, right? Find out about people?"

  Sorensen frowned.

  He said, "Besides, Jaber is a big wheel at CargoAir. If you people are really targeting that company, chances are you have a lot on him already."

  "You think he's involved?"

  "I don't know. I just want to know who I'm dealing with -- besides Langley. Once I know the teams, then I'll choose sides."

  "Just like on the playground."

  Davis didn't answer, and they stared at one another. Sorensen's displeasure shone through. Davis had been here less than twenty-four hours and he was already catching spears. Which put him about a day ahead of schedule.

  It was Sorensen who broke it off. She drained her cup, threw a
few bills on the table, and walked off in a huff. She moved fast, like she had things to do. Phone calls to make. Davis knew she was pissed, and in a way he was glad. He didn't like people who just rolled over and took what came in life. She was saying, If you won't help me, then to hell with you. I'll do it on my own.

  He watched her leave. Her slacks had a nice fit around her hips and waist, and she got the same looks every slim, pretty blonde got when she walked through a public room. Davis forced his eyes elsewhere.

  They went naturally to a television mounted over the bar on the far side of the room. The volume had been muted, but the flat screen flickered with life. This, he knew, was an essential human impulse, a proven quirk of the species. Bright lights, movement -- that's where the eye was naturally drawn. Light, color, and motion were integral to the design of aircraft flight decks. Green lights were good. Amber lights not good. Red lights bad. Flashing red lights -- real bad. In the last few moments of his life, Earl Moore had probably been looking at a Christmas tree. At least, Davis hoped that was the case.

  A scrolling red banner ran beneath the news commentator on TV. Breaking news. Davis thought, Isn't all news breaking? That's why it's -- he dropped the line of thought. On the television screen he saw an industrial area on fire, a nighttime shot taken from what had to be a helicopter's perspective. Dancing orange flames licked at pipes and machinery, and smoke intermittently blotted out the lights of emergency vehicles. He wondered briefly what it was all about, but then decided he had enough fires of his own to put out.

  Davis signed his check and headed for the field.

  When Sorensen got back to her room, she threw her purse on the bed and booted up her computer. She sat behind the tiny hotel desk and tapped her nails impatiently on imitation hardwood. She was still ticked.

  When the screen came up, Sorensen fed in her password and checked her mail. It was a secure system, a satellite feed -- she'd had to move the desk near a window to get a good uplink. It wasn't the picture most people had when they thought about spy work, shoving around furniture to get good uplinks, but this was reality. There was still an occasional smoky room, a dark alley now and again. But the most useful information almost always came from file downloads, not fat men in white suits.

  She found one message from Langley. It was wordy, full of dubious speculation, but had one recurrent theme -- find Caliph. She read through once and filed it away. Her nails were still tapping. He had really gotten to her. She'd expected certain things about Jammer Davis. Some of them had held. Others felt wrong. Sorensen called up the saved file labeled frank davis.

  She had read it once yesterday, and figured she'd known what to expect. Her favorite part was where they listed "Jammer" as an alias. Davis had gone into the Marine Corps right after high school, served one stint, then taken an appointment to the United States Air Force Academy. After graduating, he'd spent sixteen years on active duty flying fighters. He'd retired at the rank of major, then hired on with the NTSB.

  On paper, he was straightforward, even a cliche. She reread the part where Davis had gotten into trouble during his last Air Force assignment-- he'd punched a hole in the officer's club wall with his fist. The first time she'd read it, Sorensen remembered thinking, And that's all I need to know about Jammer Davis. Now she wondered.

  At the end of the file was a section labeled personal. His wife had died in a car crash almost two years ago. One daughter. And Jammer Davis played rugby. No surprise there. He was built for it. Who digs this stuff up? she wondered. Sorensen stared at the word personal and decided it was rubbish. You couldn't get to know somebody this way. She had gone in expecting a Neanderthal, but come out with something else. Something she couldn't quite peg.

  There was a picture in the file, an official portrait from somebody's archives. Again, the real thing was different. It was a classically handsome face in structure, square and angular, but rich with life's trials. Tousled brown hair, slightly crooked nose, a smattering of small scars -- a face that would look right at home with a butterfly bandage or two. The voice had been deep and loud, made for barking orders at Academy underclassmen. But it wasn't dim or brutish. There was an intelligence about Davis -- an intelligence he'd be happy to bash you over the head with.

  Sorensen's fingers moved up from the desk and momentarily stroked the keyboard. The machine's thought bubble asked, are you sure you want to delete this file? She moved the cursor over the yes option, paused for just a moment. Then she tapped down.

  The machine whirred faintly as it digested her command. Sorensen navigated elsewhere and typed in her request:

  .

  NEED ALL AVAILABLE INFORMATION

  ON EGYPTIAN NATIONAL DR. IBRAHIM

  JABER--EMPLOYED AS EXECUTIVE WITH

  CARGOAIR CORPORATION --HIGHEST

  PRIORITY

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  The White House Situation Room was living up to its moniker. There was indeed a situation.

  The president had been awakened at two-thirty in the morning, as soon as word of the third refinery disaster registered at the FBI's Strategic Information and Operations Center, the country's one-stop repository for bad news. Given that the attacks came within minutes of one another, the tsunami hit shortly thereafter.

  Twenty-one attacks, clearly synchronized, had occurred on oil refineries across America. Details were still filtering in, but the newest reports were little more than battle damage assessments -- casualty counts, fire containment estimates, and bulletins detailing a handful of small-scale evacuations that had been ordered for hazardous material contamination.

  The atmosphere in the Situation Room was chaotic. The National Security Council had been called into emergency session. Staffers came and went in a constant flow, delivering spectacular details of the attacks. The reactions in the room were a predictable mix -- shock, outrage, calls for defensive action. The offense would come later. High on one wall, an array of televisions showed the major news networks. The volumes were muted, but each screen blazed with rotating video clips of smoking wreckage. CNN had a running casualty graph. The present score: twenty-one dead, forty injured. The televisions, in fact, were for more than visual affirmation of the scope of the strikes -- if anything further happened, this was where the national command structure would likely see it first.

  President Truett Townsend was trying to make sense of a Department of Homeland Security report in front of him. It was a load of bureaucratic gibberish explaining the legal ramifications of raising the national threat level. The noise in the room was deafening, and he had difficulty concentrating.

  "Mr. President--"

  Townsend looked up to see his chief of staff, Martin Spector. "Martin, this is chaos."

  "I realize that, sir, but this is the first crisis of our administration. In light of that, your address to the nation is critical. I have the first draft of your speech." He slid a six-page document in front of Townsend. "You're scheduled to come on at eight a. M. eastern. That's just over an hour from now. You'll have to edit--"

  "Not now!" Townsend shoved the draft aside. He looked up to see no fewer than thirty people. Half were yelling into cell phones, and the rest were arguing. This was not going well. He'd had all he could take. Townsend stood and yelled at the top of his lungs, "Enough!"

  It did the job.

  The room went silent and everyone fell still -- Townsend thought they looked like a bunch of kids playing freeze tag. He pointed distinctly to the ones he wanted. "Martin. DNI. CIA. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Homeland Security. Everybody else, out!"

  The room parted, rearranged before him, and Truett Townsend took his seat at the head of the conference table. His five advisors followed suit without asking. It didn't show often, but Truett Townsend had a temper, and nobody wanted to be on the wrong side of it.

  "All right, everyone," the president said slowly, consciously trying to lighten his tone, "let's establish our priorities. Homeland Security, give me your best overview. How were these attack
s undertaken?"

  A beleaguered director of Homeland Security said, "It seems to have been a painfully simple operation, sir. Some of these refineries had a respectable level of physical security -- motion sensors, vehicle barriers, low-light cameras. I expect we'll find that most of the security operation centers recognized the perimeter breach. Unfortunately, we are talking about tremendous facilities. The response times simply weren't fast enough. For the suicide bombers, once they'd breached a simple chain-link fence, all they were looking at was a hundred-yard dash with all the explosives they could carry. Twenty, thirty seconds. Maybe a minute at a few of the biggest targets."