Fly by Wire (2010)

by Larsen, Ward

  "Yes," she said, "most of them. There is a secondary bay, but it can only be accessed on the ground from an exterior door near the nose-wheel well."

  Davis stood staring at the door, eyeing it like he might want a look. Instead, he said, "Dr. Ibrahim Jaber is the chief CargoAir representative for our investigation. Does he work directly for you, Miss Scharner?"

  "Yes, he does. Dr. Jaber heads the C-500 design team."

  "Do you know him well?"

  Scharner hesitated. "I'm not sure any of us here at headquarters would go that far. Dr. Jaber is an intensely private man. He keeps himself to himself. But I can certainly vouch for his work -- it is first rate."

  "That's good," Davis said. Then a vision came to mind, Jaber with his tired posture and skin the color of clay. "Can you tell me one thing is he ill?"

  "111?"

  Davis said nothing more, only pinned his eyes to Scharner s.

  "Yes," she relented, "I have had the same thoughts. Dr. Jaber has told me he's been feeling unwell for some time, but that it is nothing serious. It seems not to affect his work, so I take him at his word."

  Davis caught a subtle shrug from Sorensen that echoed his own instinct. Let it go.

  Scharner moved toward the short metal ladder at the forward edge of the cargo area. She said, "Would you like a tour of the flight deck?"

  Davis grabbed the metal handhold and smiled broadly. "Yeah, I think we would."

  Five steps later they found themselves on the flight deck.

  It was spacious compared to some Davis had seen. Two comfortable-looking seats for the pilots, wide with a downy covering, and behind each an equally plush jumpseat mounted in tandem for observers. The forward panel was a sea of color, glass panel multifunction displays and instruments glowing with the essentials of flight lines, symbols, a spray of alphanumeric gibberish. Every inch of space above, below, and to the sides of the crew stations had been used, plugged with control heads and switches. To a layperson it would seem overwhelming, almost haphazard. But to Davis' eye it was something else -- at first glance, well organized and purposeful.

  The empty captain's seat called to him. He pointed and said, "Do you mind?"

  Scharner said, "Not at all. Perhaps your partner will take the first officer's seat."

  Sorensen shot him a glance. Was she wondering if she should? Or had it been that word? Partner.

  Davis said, "Go ahead."

  Sorensen took the right-hand crew station. Davis got comfortable in the left seat. It was roomy compared to an F-16. And also like an F-16, there was a joystick, but in the wrong hand, his left. A look at the instrument panel put him on more familiar ground. Basic attitude, airspeed, altitude, and compass. The usual information. It wasn't presented in the traditional T arrangement of round dials, but a more modern variant of vertical tape scales. Accurate and easier to comprehend -- at least that's what the human factors Ph. D. S would tell you. To Davis it was all just one big video game.

  Sorensen said, "It smells like a new car."

  "This is a cargo airplane, Honeywell, so it can't be from the rows of leather seats. More likely toxic fumes from some kind of adhesive they've used."

  She looked at him sourly. "Are you always such a positive person?"

  "Without fail." He turned to Scharner and asked, "Is everything powered up?"

  "Yes. The navigation platforms are aligned. Start the engines and she would be ready to fly."

  "Assuming someone opened the hangar door," Davis quipped.

  Scharner laughed. "Yes, that would be required."

  Davis looked overhead. He saw switches involving flight controls, electrics, and hydraulics. He asked, "Would you do me a favor?"

  "Of course," Scharner said.

  "Let's turn down all the lights -- the overheads, the worklight. I want it to look just like it would in flight, at night."

  The technician turned a half-dozen knobs and the cockpit got darker. But there was still one problem. Davis gave a sideways nod out the front window where the hangar lights still blazed.

  "The hangar lights?" Scharner queried, the first tinge of annoyance coloring her tone.

  "All of them. Please."

  "I'll have to do it myself."

  Davis smiled.

  Scharner relented.

  "All right," she said, pointing out the window. "I will be on that scaffolding, near the exit door. Flash the dome light when you want me to turn everything back on."

  She left Davis and Sorensen alone.

  "What are you up to?" Sorensen asked.

  It had been in the back of his mind ever since he'd heard it on the voice tape. Click, click. "I'm trying to simulate the last two hundred fifty milliseconds before we lost the voice recorder."

  "Two hundred fifty milliseconds?"

  "In the middle of the dive, right before we lost the recorder, there was a very distinct sound. I think it was two switches being actuated. You see, the voice recorder has a built-in capacitor that functions like a tiny battery. When it loses power, the recorder will still operate for a quarter of a second."

  "And that's significant?"

  "Very. I think it recorded the sound of the very switches that were used to shut it down."

  Sorensen seemed to get it. She tilted her head back and scanned the overhead panel. "Now if we only knew which ones. There must be a hundred buttons and knobs."

  "Sure. But only a few would have the desired effect."

  The lights in the hangar suddenly went dark, and the instruments in front of them dimmed, adapting automatically to the lower level of light outside. Even so, the glowing displays seemed bright in contrast to the newfound darkness all around. Davis put his head back and closed his eyes. He put himself in an airplane that was diving severely, headed for an uncomfortable meeting with some picturesque French countryside.

  What did you do, Earl? What would I do?

  The solution that came to mind was fundamental. Every type of airplane had slight variances in design, but there were certain absolutes. Davis opened his eyes, looked up -- and there they were. It all made perfect sense. Just as Earl Moore would have done, Davis reached up fast, slapped back two plastic safety guards and actuated the switches.

  Click-click.

  Everything went black.

  Chapter THIRTY-THREE

  "Jammer!"

  Sorensen s voice came sharp through the pitch darkness. The tone didn't carry fear. It asked, What the hell are you doing?

  "Hang on," he said, "I'm counting." His fingers were still on the two switches. They had to be or he might not find them again in the dark -- probably just what Earl Moore had done. Seven, eight, nine --

  "Now!" Davis said.

  Two more clicks and the lights came back on. He looked over the displays in front of him. The primary flight instruments came right back. Elsewhere there were a few flags, some amber warnings, but these systems soon righted themselves. After twenty seconds, the only thing amiss was the ship's clock in one corner, flashing 12:00 like a cheap alarm clock after a thunderstorm.

  He said, "That's it! That's what happened!"

  Sorensen blinked as her eyes adjusted. She looked at the labels on the switches, trying to understand. "B-A-T? You turned off the batteries?"

  "I turned off everything. On the C-500 these two battery switches control electrical power to all the busses. Turn them off, and virtually everything shuts down."

  Sorensen remarked, "And you're saying the captain did that?"

  "Yes. Only he did it while they were screaming at the ground at nearly the speed of sound."

  "Jeez. That would have taken some pretty big--well, you know."

  "Yeah. But I don't think he was finding a lot of alternatives at the time." Davis cycled the overhead dome light on and off twice. The fluorescent hangar lights outside staggered back to life. "And if you ask me, there's only one reason he'd do something so drastic."

  "I can't imagine."

  "I think Earl Moore was holding a joystick in his
hand that wasn't responding. I don't think he had any control whatsoever over that airplane."

  The drive back to Lyon passed quickly. Davis thought out loud, bouncing ideas off Sorensen while she drove.

  Before leaving the factory, he had asked Scharner for an aircraft systems manual. In the Air Force, they called it a Dash-1, and the C-500's was a four-inch-thick doorstop. It described, from an operator's viewpoint, every system on the aircraft. Electric, hydraulic, fuel, air conditioning. While Sorensen drove, Davis pored over the sections labeled "Flight Controls" and "Automatic Flight." He studied diagrams and control law and flow charts. He was sure that Earl Moore had cut off all power because he'd lost control of World Express 801. And the shallow dive angle at impact proved that he had almost figured things out in time to save the airplane.

  Almost.

  By the time they turned into the parking lot at Building Sixty-two, Davis was in a slow burn. He closed the flight manual as Sorensen pulled into a parking spot. The sun had set, and darkness blotted the nearby buildings to mere silhouettes. With the Fiat's engine off, cold began to seep in. He felt it pulling from the window, drifting over his feet. Davis made no attempt to move. He knew he had to be calm, had to think about his approach.

  He had already called ahead. Bastien was here, working late. He hadn't sounded thrilled about a meeting and was even more reluctant when Davis told him to make it alone. So Davis had insisted. And the investigator-in-charge had agreed.

  Sorensen said, "Refresh me, Jammer. Why are we here?"

  "To have a word with Monsieur Bastien."

  "So you're convinced that we're dealing with a problem in the flight control software?"

  "It's the only thing that makes sense."

  "And you're going to tell him what you discovered at the factory about turning off the battery switches?"

  "I'm going to tell him a lot of things."

  Davis fell silent. He watched the headlights on a nearby street flow in steady circulation. He watched airplanes take off and land from the runway in the distance, their blinking beacons and intense landing lights guiding them through darkness. In his mind, Davis added things up. It was a lot of math, and in the middle of it all he felt a hand on his arm. He looked over and saw Sorensen trying to read him.

  "Are you okay?" she asked. "No."

  "Don't do anything silly, Jammer. Can you imagine what would happen if you got kicked off this investigation?"

  "I'd go home and see my daughter. That's what would happen." He saw the seriousness of her expression. "Look, Honeywell, don't worry. Bastien is due some pain, and I'm looking forward to delivering it. But I won't do anything that will involve his dentist, if that's what you're thinking."

  She looked relieved. "Can I?"

  He grinned. Which was probably what she was after.

  "So am I invited to this meeting?"

  He almost said no. Davis hadn't been counting on it. But then he had second thoughts. "Yes. I would like you to come."

  "Because?"

  "When your weapons are dull, Honeywell, strike thine enemy with greater force and repetition."

  She took a stab. "Sun Tzu? The Art of War?"

  He shook his head. "Jammer Davis. The game of rugby."

  Darlene Graham walked into the Oval Office as a shell-shocked director of Homeland Security was walking out.

  President Townsend was standing, looking beleaguered himself.

  "We've found something, Mr. President."

  Townsend seemed not to hear. He said, "The lines at gas stations are getting huge. People are panicking, filling up milk jugs and water bottles. What the hell good is a ration plan if there's nothing left to ration?"

  "Dr. Coyle said to expect a short period of widespread unavailability. The supply system will gradually catch up once rationing has begun."

  "Twenty gallons a week," the president said, "for each licensed driver. That's what the secretary of energy has come up with. But it's only preliminary. I think it might go lower. We'll need to make adjustments for people who use their cars for work. Taxi drivers, Meals-on-Wheels. How the hell--"

  "Mr. President," Graham interrupted loudly.

  Townsend's attention came full. "Sorry, Darlene. This is a little overwhelming. Thank God I've got three and a half years until reelection. What is it?"

  "We have something on Caliph, sir."

  This got his attention. "Something?"

  "Early this morning a package was dropped at our embassy in Geneva. It was sent by someone who claims to know Caliph's whereabouts."

  "I'd reckon a lot of people say they know where he is. We've slapped a pretty hefty reward on his head."

  "Yes, and that was clearly the motivation in this case."

  The president bit. "Okay. What makes you think this one is on the up-and-up?"

  Graham said, "You've been briefed on our DNA identification program, right? The one for high-value targets?"

  The politician in Townsend winced at the word "targets." But he was aware of it. "I believe it's a CIA program."

  "Yes, for big-name terrorists. We try to track down family members, the closer in the bloodline the better, and take samples for analysis. Clans in the Middle East tend to be big, so we can usually find somebody who will either take a bribe for a mouth swab or just plain doesn't like their violent uncle. Once we have a sample, we keep it on file. That way, if we ever get a bead on the target and strike, we have a quick and sure way to identify remains and confirm the kill."

  "Okay," the president said, "so you're saying we have a sample on Caliph?"

  Graham nodded.

  "And what happened in Geneva? Did somebody send a piece of him to our Swiss Embassy?"

  "Maybe."

  Townsend's eyes narrowed. He'd meant it as a joke. "You can't be serious."

  "We got a vial of blood that we're currently analyzing. It takes time. But there was also a copy of a report from a very reputable German laboratory. It showed the DNA profile of a second sample. This test was performed over a year ago, and we've already confirmed its authenticity with the lab. The data matches their records precisely."

  "And?"

  "The test results from last year are almost certainly Caliph. We should have results on the new blood sample in a day or so -- like I said, it takes time."

  "But what you have today is a lab report that matches Caliph and a random blood sample. That's a little thin to get excited about, Darlene."

  "I know, I know. It could just be a lab tech trying to make a quick buck. But we haven't had many breaks in our search for Caliph. We're following it up."

  "All right," the president agreed. "And what does that involve?"

  "Whoever gave us this sample has asked for a meeting in Geneva."

  "When?"

  Graham looked at her watch. "In about six minutes."

  Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Hans Sprecht was not nervous. In truth, the idea of meeting clandestinely with someone from the CIA had grown on him. It was exciting, even dramatic. And in any event, he felt far more comfortable dealing with American intelligence agents than his increasingly nefarious patients.

  He walked along the quai Gustave Ador, a busy thoroughfare that snaked through the central city and fronted Lake Geneva. Cars whisked by as cars did in Switzerland, in an organized, quick flow. As he neared the rendezvous point, Sprecht's attention was drawn to a small bird darting in and out of the street. The creature was trying to get hold of something in the road, perhaps a small insect. Yet each passing car proved a foil, the bird forced to flutter away at the last second. He thought, You risk a lot for a meal, my friend. Sprecht kept going, not wanting to know the outcome.

  It was a terrifically cold day, soon to become an even colder evening. The air retained a dry, almost brittle quality, and the other people Sprecht saw were not near the park, but rather across the street, well-wrapped and scooting toward the warmth of cars, homes, and shops. That being the case, he had no troubl
e finding his contact.

  As instructed, he was waiting near a quaint river ferry that was stilled for the season on a solidly frozen Rhone River. Also as instructed, he wore a brown scarf, a theatrical touch Sprecht had not been able to resist at the time, but something he now regretted as amateurish. The man was rather short and heavyset, which seemed a disappointment. But then Sprecht chided himself for such a meandering thought. It was crucial that he stay focused on the only thing that mattered -- the deal, reaching acceptable terms and conditions.