The following ultra-high-resolution images were obtained from Chinese military satellites codenamed Mìmì 117, 48, and 59C. The first video is of Area Pi, beginning at 0847.11.13 MDT on the day of the crash. In the interests of the board’s time I have speeded the frame rate. You will clearly see an aerial object being launched from a specialized vehicle on the runway rail. The object gains speed and altitude very quickly.
[Video. 30 sec]
The Condor was lost to radar at approximately 1002.29. The following video shows two helicopters scrambled from Area Pi at 1005.17. At 1009.16 a large desert-capable vehicle also leaves the site. All are heading into the Bleacher.
[Video. 2.25 min]
The next footage from Mìmì 59C shows a helicopter landed in the desert and several personnel recovering a dark object, loading it into the cargo bay, and the aircraft taking off. Again, it is speeded up for your convenience.
[Video. 1.45 min]
Further surveillance confirms that this helicopter returned to Area Pi. We can surmise that a non-standard transponder was activated remotely to expedite this location and recovery operation.
We return to the initial fact that no drone wreckage was found by the investigating team. The member to your left, Mr Chairman, who appears to be tirelessly texting below the bench, is strongly of the view that this fact constitutes evidence that no drone exists. On the contrary, what we see is that this fact is explained by, and indeed is evidence for, drone wreckage having been clandestinely located and removed from the Bleacher before the safety board team could find it. And, as even the member to your left must concede, if there was drone wreckage, there was a drone.
[Excision 2. Appendix A]
Members of the board: as promised, I have now dealt with the three original facts, transponder, radar and wreckage. The facts support the first proposition that the Condor crash was caused by collision with an illegally launched drone.
I would now like to move your attention to Area Pi. We have examined this site from space-based reconnaissance. The next feasible method is via electronic penetration. I will present two lines of evidence, the first related to financials and the second to that operation’s ordering system, which is conducted through secure email channels.
In the course of a separate investigation originating in Australia, I discovered a financial connection between outgoings at Area Pi and a shell company called Camelline Shipping which, though incorporated in the state of Arizona, has all its financial operations centred in Chicago. It is part of a vast underworld of shell and sleeping-partner companies that are used to conceal and illicitly transfer monies across states and across national borders. Camelline Shipping is the covert parent entity to a worldwide seaboard casino enterprise trading under the public names of Winnings, Sea Dice and Neptune’s Treasure.
[Loud murmuring in court. Chair calls Order]
Camelline Shipping is itself a subsidiary of a Chicago-based company called Unit Circle Fiduciary. I emphasize the name. Unit Circle Fiduciary seems to operate as a private bank, and is the centre of the whole web of secret companies to which I have alluded. Only one entity sits above Unit Circle, and I will return to that fact in a moment. It will not surprise members of the board to learn that there is an intimate connection, other than the mentioned geometric one, between Unit Circle and Area Pi. All financial transactions related to Area Pi are conducted through the Chicago entities via Camelline. These include payments for materials and labour costs arising from activities at Area Pi.
I have stressed the significance of the foreign material found on the Condor wreckage. Analysis of this material informs us that it belongs to a class of very advanced radar-absorbing alloys that can be applied as a surface skin to aircraft. The frontier science in this research area is focusing on graphene laminations sandwiched between alloy layers. In the United States at present, there is only one specialist company that can supply lambda-graphene in commercial quantities. If you would look again at your screens, I am showing you a requisition sent from Area Pi to Camelline Shipping for the purchase of a large quantity of lambda-graphene from that specialist company. Note that the reference line carries the term Project Sunblock, which is the codename of the technology development happening at Area Pi.
Mr Chairman. There remains a link of practical reasoning to close, which I will now do. It will be apparent to members of the board that the exact location of the drone crash and recovery site is available to us from the satellite surveillance. Yesterday, the Dante sheriff’s department conducted a physical search of that location, and returned with a metal strip that I now show the board.
[Dr Worse holds up evidence bag]
The surface coating on this specimen will be analysed and the results made available to the board. Pending that, you must judge for yourselves the likelihood that its composition will prove to be that of Sunblock, and identical to the contaminant material found on the Condor.
Returning to the communication between Area Pi and Camelline, I will now scroll down your screen page to display the identity of the executive who authorized the aforementioned graphene requisition. As I do so, I can inform you that the single entity that sits above, controls, and is the beneficial owner of Unit Circle Fiduciary is the corporation known to you as Mortiss Brothers, and the name and signature appearing on the communication before you are those of William R Mortiss, the gentleman, Mr Chairman, to your left.
That, members of the board, concludes my submission.
[Uproar in court. Chair inaudible]
[Chair (using Bench microphone)] Order. Order. Bailiffs, attend. Thank you, Dr Worse. Bailiff, detain Mr William Mortiss. Dr Worse, please remain contactable through the sheriff’s office. Deputies, assist the bailiffs. Order. Order. This hearing is adjourned.]
[Increased uproar. Public pushing forward to Bench. Turmoil in court. This stenographer unable to continue recording due to crowd surging toward bench and buffe—
[Loud clamour. Voice content uninterpretable. Recording discontinued.]
In consideration of national security, Worse presented his evidence without reference to the key element in Sunblock composition, namely terencium, nor detail of the photochemical–electric mechanism of radar energy absorption.
27 INCIDENT AT BAKEHOUSE
Two blocks west of the BHEH is the Old Town, a small section of historical Dante preserved, restored, or rebuilt as a tourist precinct. The original Judgment Daily office is now a museum where visitors are treated to a demonstration of the hand-cranked press; in exchange for five dollars, they leave with a wet-inked page of news from the 1870s. Along from the museum, the Old Courthouse is used for various City Hall purposes, committee meetings, public exhibitions, and occasionally as a theatre. It was this facility that was made available to the safety board for the day’s hearing on the Condor crash.
Across Main Street from the court building is the Bakehouse Tavern, reputably located on the site of the fabled Worse bakery of 1877. The actual building is set well back, having a spacious outdoor dining area furnished with bar tables, service trolleys and cactus pots. The forecourt is raised slightly above street level and is edged by a reproduction duckboard. This section of Main Street, decorated with scattered straw bales, is closed to private vehicles.
Twice daily in season, two old nags are roused from sleep in a stable behind the museum for their roles in a dramatized re-enactment (‘accurate in every historical detail’) of the ‘Incident at Bakehouse’. Historical detail, it must be assumed, excludes blank rounds and headset microphones, but those looking on from the outdoor tavern invariably love it. They aren’t aware that Rigo is a washed-up Hollywood stuntman whose single lifetime skill is falling off a horse backwards, or that he spends the four hours between performances three-quarters getting drunk and a quarter getting sober. Nor do they mind that his nag Twicing has grown too tired to bother rearing up with a theatrical whinny of pretend terror.
In many ways, that gunfight of 1877 has come to symbolize Dante�
��s sense of itself. Though a modern and increasingly cosmopolitan small city, it often identifies as a frontier town, where the fight of the good with the bad is played out on the street. The immortal presence of their ‘Sheriff Worse’ from the town’s foundation to the present day connects the city to its roots, to timeless ideals of the good, the rule of law, and civilization.
Not that the Bakehouse Tavern epitomizes civilization. The house whisky label is Head Shot and burgers come in the varieties of Sheriff, Preacher, Mongrel Killer, and so on. Their sponsorship of the street fight is surely calculated to fill their tables with drinking, spending tourists rather than serve in teaching history. Nevertheless, it is difficult to be a visitor to Dante and not find oneself seated at the tavern ordering bootleg liquor and (depending on one’s mood) a Mortician with fries and Hot Lead sauce from the Pay or Die menu.
Thomas met Worse and Walter Reckles in the BHEH lobby, and together they walked down Silver Street into the old Main Street precinct. The last performance was long over and the crowds were thinning. Later toward evening, the numbers would pick up again as shoppers were replaced by diners.
The left side of the tavern façade was dominated by a large mural depicting the gunfight, showing Keff slumped forward on his mount and Rigo exploding backwards off his. It was painted on glass, actually mirror panels, each about a metre square. Worse counted them: four down and eight across. The wait staff were dressed in Old West costume, and carried wireless order and payment devices in imitation gun holsters at their sides.
Thomas chose a table near the back, close to the mirror. Worse positioned himself so he didn’t have to look at it. Reckles sat down and stared at Worse.
‘Why are you looking at me like that, Walter?’ said Worse.
‘I just want to thank you, thank you for what you did. You kind of saved my reputation, saved the Condor safety record, found an explanation for everything, proved the truth, and dropped the bad guys in, all in one day.’
‘Your testimony was important. And Tom here, and Nicholas; everyone helped.’
‘Yeah, I know. Of course. But that satellite imagery, that was the killer evidence. Area Pi should be swarming with FBI people by now.’
‘I hope so,’ said Worse.
‘I can tell you it is,’ said Thomas, who had been speaking on his mobile. ‘They’ve flown in a 7T7-load of agents plus state troopers to secure the perimeter.’
They ordered lemon sodas, one of the few items unspoilt by renaming. Reckles drank his quickly and excused himself, thanking them both again. He needed to walk back to the hotel, collect his bag, and catch a flight home.
‘The Mortiss lot must hate all this history on exhibition,’ said Worse after Reckles had left, gesturing at the mural.
‘They sure do. They’ve tried to close it down more than once, but lose on free speech grounds as well as the popular vote. It’s part of the Dante psyche.’
‘I can see that,’ said Worse. ‘They won’t have enjoyed their time in court today, either.’
‘Yeah. They’ll be spitting barbed wire tonight,’ said Thomas.
‘That’s not necessarily a good state of affairs. The family finances will be crushed but the vendetta temperature will go off the scale. Directed at me, mostly.’
‘We’re family,’ said Thomas. ‘Say, you don’t by any chance have a Prussica that I can look at, do you? I’ve never seen one.’
‘Aren’t they illegal here?’
‘Yeah, they are. Not so much under the table, off the record though. Between cousins. Just wondered.’
Worse smiled. He reached inside his jacket as he leaned over, removed the Totengräber, and passed it butt first under the table to Thomas.
‘Keep it low,’ he said.
Thomas took the pistol and bent his head down to study it. ‘Beautiful. I wish I could try it on the range. How did you get it in?’
‘Victor has special relationships all over. He looks after me.’
‘I’d like to meet Victor one day. Here.’
Thomas passed the pistol back under the table. With several customers around, it was easier for Worse to slip it unseen into his trouser belt for the moment. He would transfer it to the shoulder holster when his situation was less exposed.
‘Say, Richard, I was thinking you should have a bit of local authority in reserve. Just in case. Legalize the concealed weapon too.’
Thomas took a tin star from his pocket, reached across the table, and pinned it on Worse’s jacket lapel.
‘Raise your right hand and repeat after me.’
Worse followed the ceremonials. He was thinking of the look on Victor’s face when he told him he’d joined a police force.
‘Congratulations, Senior Deputy Sheriff Worse. You are continuing a great family tradition. We’ll fix the paperwork tomorrow.’ Thomas smiled. ‘Excuse me.’ He took a brief call on his mobile. ‘I have to leave you. I’m sorry, Richard. The Feds need adult backup at Area Pi. They always have trouble dealing with bad language and sulking stares. I’ll see you in the morning.’
He left some notes on the table.
‘Are you staying to eat here?’
‘How could I resist the Hot Lead sauce?’ said Worse.
Two hours later, Worse was still sitting there. His meal had been served, and largely returned. Other diners had come and gone, and few tables now had customers. Main Street, crowded earlier, was almost deserted, and the lights were out in the museum and old courthouse opposite.
He had been reflecting on the day’s developments. The events in Dante would likely see Mortiss Bros badly damaged and the family’s influence, if not its entire wealth, compromised. That wasn’t to say the vendetta would finish. There was every reason to expect that it might intensify, but at least there would be fewer funds and resources to direct toward it. Much depended on what happened to Regan. If control were wrenched back from her and more moderate, enlightened family members again ruled the company, the feud might dissipate into what it should be, an historical curiosity.
It was Thursday evening, 10.00 pm, and Worse was missing Sigrid. He called her. It was lunchtime Friday in Perth.
‘Richard. I was wondering how it was all going over there,’ she said. ‘What’s the news?’
‘Good. The hearing’s been adjourned while the FBI clean up that Area Pi operation. I expect they’ll take apart the Chicago financial centre as well. Thomas says the casino licences will be withdrawn on a fit and proper test. It’s all collapsing around them as we speak, apparently.’
‘Are you safe, Richard?’
‘Yes. I’m fine. I’m sitting in a sort of Wild-West time capsule in the centre of Dante. You would hate it. They’re obsessed with that gunfight I told you about. There are giant murals and re-enactments and God knows what souvenirs. To give you an idea, this café is proud to serve Cordite Bleu cuisine.’
Worse was suddenly distracted, by a familiar but unwelcome sound.
‘Hold on, Sigrid.’
He watched as the Seneca sped along Main Street, dispersing alarmed pedestrians. At the front of the tavern it burned rubber, swerving to mount the duckboard via a wheelchair ramp, pushing plastic tables and chairs aside. It came to a stop, facing Worse, eight metres away. Astride it, wearing leather but no helmet, stood Regan Mortiss.
‘Worse!’ she shouted. ‘You son-of-a-bitch, you’re going to die.’
She was pointing a long-barrelled pistol at him, aimed with two hands.
‘Sorry, Sigrid. Something’s happened. Hold on.’
He slowly placed his phone on the table. Other customers hurried from the premises. The only waiter on the forecourt fled into the building.
‘On your feet, fucker. I want to see you fall the whole damn way to hell.’
‘Regan. Wait. You’re upset.’
Worse released the safety on the Totengräber, and stood up. His jacket was unbuttoned but he held it closed with his left hand, covering the weapon.
‘I’m upset because I didn’t go to the
end of the earth and kill you myself.’
‘I can understand that. Those three were useless.’ He added lightly, ‘So, are you here to buy some bread? A twicing, will it be?’
Worse was slowly moving sideways, positioning himself in front of the mural. Regan would be looking at Worse, as well as seeing his back in the mirror, plus herself, her bike light, and a few witless onlookers collecting on the street behind her. Reflections were distracting. Reflections were noise. They meddled with focus and aperture. She might have a vision problem. It was a matter of milliseconds but it was tactical asymmetry.
Regan ignored the provocation.
‘One was a Mortiss, you bastard. My half brother.’
‘Ben Jay? You sent a boy to do women’s work? Listen, Regan. You need help. I know some good people. There’s a therapist on my cell phone right now. You could talk to her. Tell her about your childhood. Tell her about your father. What did happen to your father, Regan?’
‘Fuck you.’
She gave a slight toss of her head and sneered.
‘Well, look at that. You’ve got yourself a cheap, useless ornament. You know that tin star’s a shooting target to every self-respecting Mortiss?’
Worse was watching Regan’s pistol. She was impressively steady, but as they spoke she had let it drop a few degrees. He knew that before she made the shot she would raise the barrel level to chest. There would also be a subtle aiming-tilt of her head. They would be the signals.
‘And I’m going to kill you, son-of-a-bitch. You’re going to drop right where great-uncle Rigo was murdered in cold blood by the bastard baker Worse.’
‘There are witnesses, Regan. You can’t buy them all off.’
‘I don’t need to buy them off. I only need to frighten half a jury.’
Worse changed the pace of the talk.
‘You know, Regan. I was thinking before you arrived how nice it would be to have company. Come over and join me. I’ll order dinner. Then we could discuss your problems. I can help.’
‘You’ve eaten your last meal, Worse.’
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