Razing Beijing

by Sidney Elston

  Devinn could see as well as feel through his back and his arms that the boat was gradually filling with water. For a fleeting moment of terror, he imagined that he, too, might actually drown. The Coleman cooler secured loosely inside the boat with a bungee cord bobbed in the water sloshing around his feet. It would probably contribute flotation, not that it really mattered. The bow and seats consisted of watertight enclosures for that very purpose.

  Beneath the moonlit overcast he saw the distinguishing formation of rocks. He had chosen his landing site well, several hundred yards ahead of the bow pointing into the nor’easter’s teeth.

  Minutes later the pounding waves diminished as he entered the lee of the eastern shore. Devinn paused in order to toss his fly casting outfit overboard. Only a dozen more yards or so...

  Devinn drove the rowboat up onto the rocks as far as he could. He removed the oars from their locks where they might otherwise snag on the bottom, stepped into the shin-deep water, reached down and overturned the boat. A shove with one of the oars drove it away from the shoreline where the wind would finish his work. Probably a lakeside resident would find it adrift. They would certainly consider it crazy, perhaps suicidal, that anyone dare confront a storm in such a craft. The empty bottle of Smirnoff and two ripening walleye inside the cooler would shed some light on the tragedy.

  Devinn slid back the sleeve of his parka; his wristwatch read 12:05 in the morning. Higher than predicted winds had slowed his progress, but he now had a solid five hours of darkness.

  Fifty yards into the forest, concealed within a grove of spruce trees, Devinn used a flashlight to find the object shrouded beneath the plastic tarpaulin. He knelt to roll the stone from each corner and pulled back the tarp to expose his remaining link to civilization, a Suzuki Enduro. The motorcycle was one of his father’s many insulting appeasements, an old birthday gift, pawned off in an embarrassing effort to bridge the crevasse with his son.

  Devinn smiled faintly as he rolled up the tarp into a neat bundle and, using a bungee, lashed it to the seat. He spent a moment double-checking that his hiker’s pack was snugly attached; nothing appeared loose enough to become caught in the spokes. He straddled the bike and removed the hand-held Garmin from inside his parka. With satellites fully acquired, the GPS directed him on the northeast heading that would lead him toward the nearest outpost, a logging village twenty-three-point-three miles away, two miles or so from which he would find a suitable spot to hide the Suzuki. Shortly after sunrise, a tired and wet American hiker would stagger into the outpost and ask for his Sierra Club contact, the pilot whom he had already hired to fly his alias back to the States.

  First, he had to weather a night in the wild. Devinn stood on the starter pedal and lunged downward. The engine purred to life on the very first kick.

  38

  Wednesday, June 3

  MCBURNEY RESTED HIS CHIN in his hand as he stared bleary-eyed at the columns of numbers on the projection screen. His sleep-deprived mind drifted off, the budget accountant’s monologue a continuous murmur of babble. He still thought that a teleconference was the more logical alternative to the largely irrelevant and wasteful administrative exercise underway. But Director Burns had been adamant.

  FBI Agent Hildebrandt had been a good enough sport to rush him last evening to the Cleveland airport—McBurney booked himself on the last flight of the day to LAX—only for the airline to post an hour and forty-minute delay. He missed his connection in Salt Lake. He was ultimately forced to jog through the Los Angeles airport in order to join his Asia-based staff for the detestable meeting. A direct flight might have gotten him there on time, but he had no choice other than to book the cheapest fare as stipulated by their travel and living budget.

  McBurney heard the accountant say, “One obvious place to cut is East Asia Division’s T&L. It’s the largest of all in the director’s budget...”

  A knock at the door preceded a security guard poking his head inside the conference room: telephone call for Samuel McBurney. “You can take it outside.”

  McBurney snatched the telephone from the wall booth in the lobby. “This is McBurney.”

  “Sam, this is Ed Hildebrandt. Are we alright to talk?”

  “The line’s not secure, if it matters.” Recalling Hildebrandt’s less than collegial parting words, he said, “I take it you tend not to hold grudges.”

  “For what? Swingin’ through town and fuckin’ up my investigation? Just have your folks help our legal attaché run a pre-naturalization check on Emily Chang. We’ll call it even.”

  “Consider it done. What’ve you got?”

  “Phone records from the subpoena for both Thompson and Chang. They were on my desk when I returned last night.”

  “Ed, you caught me in the middle of a meeting. Can you give me the punch-line?”

  “There’s an unusual link between the two, actually three sets of records if you include Sean Thompson’s cell phone. Both Thompson and Chang made numerous calls to an unlisted number in Richmond, Virginia. Turns out to be their previous manager, a wealthy bigwig who got the boot recently from Thanatech and who lives outside Richmond. His slate appears to be clean, so far.”

  “I don’t see anything compelling in calling their old boss,” McBurney observed. “Maybe he’s still interested in their work. Maybe they want him to get them a job wherever it is he now works.”

  “I’ve asked Richmond to send somebody out to question him about it. What is compelling about these calls is the timing. The frequency of calls placed by Thompson to this guy uh, this guy Stuart, occurred during the last few nights he was alive and from his home, mind you. More compelling yet is that the very last phone number dialed from his cellular phone belongs to Stuart. The time stamp falls within the coroner’s range for the time of his murder. We’ve asked the phone company to investigate which cell—”

  “You’re sending somebody to meet with this guy?”

  “As we speak.”

  McBurney absorbed the implication of a curious link between Thompson, his murder, Chang, and this Stuart. The phone records certainly reinforced the appearance of impropriety whereby a Chinese naturalized citizen, who possibly laundered money, had also turned up in a homicide investigation.

  “You there, Sam?”

  “Interesting.”

  “I’d say this tilts things in the direction of a possible conspiracy to commit espionage. There’s credible suspicion of ‘making common cause with the enemy,’ or whatever it is you need. I know how mindful of obeying the law you CIA are.”

  “My task force status already covers me for domestic investigation.”

  “I know. We’ll come back to that. Another question I have is what role and how much of this information did that hidden recording device yield, and to whom.”

  “That you may never know. You say this Thanatech airplane crash took place in Mojave?”

  “Mojave, California is about a ninety-minute drive from Los Angeles.”

  McBurney glanced at the closed door to the conference room. “Do you think you could get me into that place for a little walk around?”

  He heard Hildebrandt chuckle.

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  “Thanatech Service Operation has your name on their visitor list. They expect you any time within the next two days.”

  MCBURNEY GULPED DOWN the last of his afternoon coffee. Steadying his eyes on the road, he tossed the paper cup onto the passenger floor beside two others, then fumbled with the onboard GPS presently tracing his progress along Highway 14 in southern California. He confirmed his location when the car streaked by a weather-beaten road sign with letters barely legible, ‘Wel ome to Mojave - Home f The V yager.’ Beside a vast array of wind-turbine generators someone had posted a billboard which read, ‘OPEC GO POUND SAND.’ McBurney eased the Ford down to the posted limit of forty miles-per-hour.

  A short distance ahead he saw a small billboard at the access road to the municipal airport. McBurney slowed the car to a st
op and scanned the directory of businesses located there and found the name he was looking for, ‘Thanatech Aviation Service Operation - Hangar 103.’

  McBurney drove along Belshaw Street past a series of Quonset huts and finally to the PASO security shack. He had to sign himself in, and the guard handed him a visitor’s tag and a parking pass to place behind the windshield before waving him through. Thanatech’s aviation operation consisted of one large aircraft hangar and what appeared to be several administration buildings, all situated along a taxiway that paralleled the runway of Mojave’s municipal airport.

  Given the economic climate, McBurney was surprised to find the place bustling with activity. Several dozen men and women in orange overalls pushed carts and carried equipment back and forth between the hangar and a large passenger jet not unlike the one he had taken to LAX. He had always been fascinated by airplanes but understood little of how they worked. He could not recall ever being able to walk up close to such a big jet. No one seemed to mind him standing there, in fact it looked like anyone could walk up from anywhere on the airport.

  There seemed to be a lot going on at the tail end of the jet. He decided to start there.

  Walking past the airplane’s nose he noticed the word ‘Experimental’ highlighted in bold black letters below the cockpit windscreen. At the tail end of the plane, one of the engines had been detached from the fuselage and was now supported by a mobile crane and hydraulic lift. Several technicians descended the ladder from the lift’s platform while two others surveyed the area beneath; it seemed they were preparing to lower the platform, with the removed engine, to the ground. Mindful to stay out of their way, McBurney walked up and stood several yards from the lift.

  He interrupted a technician walking by with a coil of chrome tubing slung over his shoulder. “What’s with the jet motor?” He jutted his chin toward the lift.

  The technician, a slender man about forty with a mat of curly red hair, looked at the Thanatech visitor tag McBurney had clipped to his shirt. “We’re preparing the aircraft to flight test a new type of engine,” he answered politely. “We’ll mount the new one in place of the one being removed, that’s all.”

  “I knew that,” McBurney said, shaking his head. “I’m terribly sorry about what happened out here. It must have been extremely difficult.”

  The man nodded grimly. “Still is.”

  McBurney glanced around, expecting to see the new engine waiting on a pallet. On the side of the fuselage was the bare pylon to which the engine would be attached, various metal tubes and bundles of multi-colored wire protruding out of it. He jabbed a thumb toward the plane. “When do you install the new one?”

  “In three weeks they’ll ship us the new propfan. We could fly in another six weeks if things go according to schedule. There’ll be a lot of instrumentation to close and if I were to guess, the operations crew will have us turn the wrenches a little more slowly this time around.”

  McBurney said with obvious disappointment, “Oh.” It would have been a bonus to actually witness a flight test before going home tomorrow. Realistically, they probably would have asked all the visitors to leave. The technician was glancing anxiously past his shoulder. McBurney wrestled over the right inquiry to make. He thought: Emily Chang.

  McBurney guided the man by the elbow a few yards away in order to be more easily heard. “I was wondering if you could help me. You can probably tell I don’t know much about aviation.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Actually, an acquaintance of mine back in Cleveland knows a lot of the Thanatech engineers. I was out here on business and he got me approved for a visitor’s pass. Can you steer me toward someone who knows about the computers they use on this airplane?”

  “Sure.” The technician nodded toward the hangar. “Why don’t you try to find Tommy Kerns. He’s our resident geek—there he is now. See the guy with the hair, walking beside the gal wheeling the cart toward the front of the aircraft? He’ll tell you everything you’d like to know. And then some, probably.”

  McBurney thanked the man, who strode off briskly toward the hangar. He approached the technician named Kerns and the woman with him as they positioned the cart beside the forward landing gear. “Excuse me.”

  The two technicians turned as he strolled up.

  “I see you’re both busy. I asked to speak to the resident computer expert and you’re who they sent me to.” He introduced himself. “I promise not to take more than a few minutes of your time. All I’m looking for is a general description of the computer system used in an aircraft like this.”

  Kerns appeared to be in his mid-thirties, bushy dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard rimming his cheeks. He looked at McBurney uncertainly.

  McBurney said, “I’m visiting today on behalf of the federal government.”

  “Huh. So, you must be familiar with computers. Have you got any kind of a technical background?”

  “Not...really. Actually, my background is in operations.” He beamed a smile. “But I’m pretty fast on technical things.”

  Kerns pointed overhead. “This aircraft is an old predecessor to the MD-83. It’ll be Thanatech’s first test aircraft that’s fully fly-by-wire, which means that instead of hydraulic lines and cables transmitting the pilot’s control movements to the various control surfaces—wing flaps, ailerons, the rudder and so forth—a flight deck computer will interpret his commands and transmit them electronically to actuators located at each control surface.”

  McBurney thoughtfully nodded. He padded his coat pockets and removed a notepad and pen. “I better take some of this down.”

  Kerns went on to explain that there were three on-board flight deck computers, collectively referred to as the Flight Management System or FMS. Three provided redundancies, while each were also programmed to perform their own unique function, including fly-by-wire as well as navigation, cabin environment, power plant and fuel system management.

  Kerns further explained that in their drive to reduce costs, the airlines had succeeded in their push for the industry to adopt as its standard the two-pilot cockpit; for years now all new aircraft excluded the former position of flight engineer. Consequently, one of the main functions of the FMS was what the industry referred to as ‘fault monitoring’ in order to help ease pilot workload. Electronic warning signals received by the FMS from sensors throughout the airplane were analyzed and categorized according to level of criticality. “The flight engineer used to do all that,” said Kerns. “Now, if the computer deems a certain ‘fault’ non-critical, like a clogged toilet unit, or even a faulty sensor as is often the case, the ‘fault’ indication is directed to memory for ground maintenance action. That prevents unnecessary distraction for the flight crew.” Kerns frowned. “This too much detail?”

  “It’s fine.” McBurney gestured with his hands. “I can distill it all down if I have to.” It was in fact a lot to absorb, McBurney realized as he flipped to the next blank page in his spiral notepad, not knowing how or if he was going to use any of it. He suspected much of Kern’s elaboration had more to do with impressing his female associate. McBurney wished Hildebrandt had taken better notes during Chang’s interrogation. What was it she had said, something about a digital computer controlling the parameters of an engine...?

  “I’m sorry, I am a little confused. Do these faults you describe include problems in the engines?”

  “Actually, each engine has its own computer, and they perform a similar fault-monitoring task as the FMS but limited to the engine system. They then communicate their results, if you will, to the FMS. In many respects that’s a bigger and more complicated job than the aircraft computers perform in the flight deck. The engines are a lot more complicated than wing flaps and toilets.”

  “Do these...what are they, digital computers?”

  “We call them the engine control unit, ECU for short.”

  “Besides monitoring faults, I presume these digital ECU’s also control the engine parameters, as opp
osed to the FMS, which separately controls the fly-by-wire stuff?”

  Kerns turned to Sorensen. “I say we hire this guy.”

  McBurney replied, “Would I get to wear orange? Kidding. So...”

  “So yeah, the ECU takes a simple thrust command from the pilot, through the FMS, and adjusts the dozens of engine parameters necessary at any given instant to deliver that thrust.” Kerns glanced briefly at Sorensen. “If you want to know more detail about the engine control, you might want to speak to one of the control system design engineers.”

  McBurney raised his eyebrows. “Are any of them here?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad,” McBurney said, his momentary panic subsiding. All he needed was to run into Emily Chang. He actually found this more interesting than expected. Discussion was finally heading in a direction that sounded as though it might include Chang and Thompson’s job responsibilities. “So, the FMS computers talk to the engine computers...” He remembered something Chang had said: Sean was a software designer. His expertise was ensuring the engine control logic interfaced properly with other airplane systems.

  “What’s she doing?” McBurney asked, referring to Sorensen as she attached an electronics cable to a receptacle inside the well of the forward landing gear.

  “She’s hooking up the AMDAC.”

  McBurney looked at him and shrugged.

  “ ‘Automated Maintenance Data Accumulation Computer,’ ” Kerns explained. “Before and after each flight we use it to retrieve all the maintenance data from the airplane’s on-board computer files, like information stored within the FMS fault-monitoring logic. You can also download flight profile information, all of the measured hydraulic, electrical, cabin environmental, uh, control surface actuation, engine condition, and so on. Maintenance crews use it to identify what service needs to be done.”