Razing Beijing

by Sidney Elston

  “Slick.”

  “In commercial service nowadays this data is transmitted real-time via satellite to the ground.”

  “Does this AMDAC talk to the engine computers?”

  Kerns grimaced and dug his hands into his pockets. “Not directly. Remember the FMS takes fault-monitoring data from the whole airplane and stores it in memory, including the engine faults. But it’s the engine control that diagnoses engine faults before passing them off to the FMS. So, I guess you could say the AMDAC indirectly communicates with the engine computers.”

  It wasn’t clear to McBurney whether that was a yes or a no. “But all of the systems are connected, and the AMDAC connects to the FMS.”

  “That’s right,” Kerns nodded, more confidently now.

  McBurney and Kerns both watched Sorensen type her commands into the AMDAC keyboard. Apparently over-hearing the conversation, she reached down to the second shelf of the cart—Kerns’s eyes followed her every movement—and removed a thumb drive from the computer. She turned and held it up for McBurney.

  “This contains flight profile information like you’d find in the black box,” she said, referring to the aircraft flight data recorder. “But there’s also information on every single sensor in the airplane, right down to the emergency evacuation light bulb in the aisle floor that’s burned out and in need of replacement.”

  McBurney glanced at Kerns’s foot resting on the side of the landing gear. “Tire pressure?”

  “That’s on here, too.”

  He took the familiar-looking thumb drive and turned it over in his hand, examining it. Sean was a software designer. His expertise was ensuring the control logic interfaced properly with other airplane systems...

  “Engine oil pressure?”

  “Everything in the engine,” she assured him. “All on one little memory stick.”

  He could tell that the two young people were proud of their field of endeavor. “This is truly amazing, sophisticated technology. I can’t thank you both enough.” He handed the portable flash drive back to Miss Sorensen, who leaned over to insert it back into its USB port.

  Leaving the technicians to their work, McBurney then walked toward the administration building. His head was pounding from lack of sleep; concentrating on absorbing all of the information hadn’t helped. Time for another coffee.

  An hour later McBurney was sipping his second cup of machine-brewed tea and leaning against a bank of metal cabinets inside the cavernous hangar, watching the profusion of activity while trying to find something else to investigate. His discussion with an instrumentation engineer also had been interesting, but probably off the mark. He noticed suddenly that the AMDAC cart, its long coil of cable neatly stowed on the bottom shelf, had been wheeled out of the way to the side of the hangar floor. That it sat unattended struck him as vaguely disturbing.

  McBurney turned and looked toward the rear of the hangar. There he saw Kerns sitting with Sorensen, both sipping cans of soda and deep in discussion.

  “Do you mind telling me,” McBurney said, interrupting, “if I wanted to find out more about this AMDAC system back at the plant, who would I see?”

  The two technicians looked at him curiously. “You mean, at Thanatech?” Kerns asked. “For the engine part of the system?”

  “Yes. For the engine part of the AMDAC system.”

  Sorensen and Kerns shared an unhappy look. “I’m afraid that would be difficult,” the woman informed him.

  McBurney said nothing.

  “Unfortunately, the engineer responsible for that is dead. I guess you could try his supervisor. Her name’s Emily Chang.”

  39

  THE TWO CYCLISTS PUMPED their legs and grunted as they overtook the next crest of Richardson Highway. There they paused to rest on the highway shoulder, their feet on the gravel, catching their breath. If an eco-tour was decidedly not their idea of a vacation—their packs were heavy and besides all the work, Alaska was cold for this time of the year—both agreed the terrain was spectacular. Mountainous terrain thrust upward into the bright blue sky and brisk, arctic winds swept down through Isabel Pass. They saw in the distance the elaborate system of cables suspending the Trans Alaska Pipeline high over the surging Tanana River. Not visible anywhere were signs indicating the presence of other human beings or their automobiles.

  The men dismounted and wheeled their bikes around the padlocked gate that blocked motorized vehicles from entering the service road. Further ahead they hid the bicycles behind brush; their destination was not the gate valve facility frequented by employees of the firm which serviced the ‘TAP.’ Ten minutes later they had hiked through dense pine forest and directly to the clearing surrounding the pipeline. As their first priority they determined that everything conformed to their instructions; the satellite image of the prevailing terrain, procured over the Internet by the tour outfit, had further reduced surprises.

  Mohammad Mousavi and his partner, Salman Ehteshari, quickly set about removing the implements from their packs which arrived via express delivery to their hotel in Delta Junction on the previous day. Over their heads, the four-foot diameter pipeline hung eight feet above the tundra, supported by pedestals spaced forty feet apart and anchored deep in the permafrost. The pipeline extended in both directions as far as they could see. The unmanned service facility nearby was beyond the next rise, out of sight and not a concern.

  Mousavi considered the North Slope crude oil coursing along the pipeline at the rate of some hundreds of thousands of barrels a day; the humming sound he attributed to the gas-turbine pumping station located several miles to the north. Mousavi admired the Americans for their ingenuity in erecting the 800-mile engineering feat, a vast testament to the distrust that the infidels held for the people of Islam—a physical affirmation that the policies which engendered that very distrust would continue. Well, Mousavi thought, however briefly, today our little disruption will remind them of their arrogance.

  Ehteshari removed from his backpack three two-foot lengths of shape charges, each consisting of a high-strength maraging steel channel and Composition-4 plastique explosive. Each channel had been gently curved to follow the contour of the four-foot diameter pipe, so as to properly focus the compression wave of the blast. Ehteshari waved flying insects away from his face as he laced nylon rope through the holes in both ends of the charges. Mousavi, meanwhile, packed plastique around the inch-diameter pedestal bolts supporting the base of the pipeline.

  Ehteshari hefted the first section of shape charge affectionately in his hand. He turned toward Mousavi, who had climbed onto the base of the pedestal and was now inserting a detonator into a hand-formed loaf of explosive. “About one meter from the pedestal?” Ehteshari asked his partner to confirm.

  “Yes. There, where I can reach it.”

  Looping in his hand the nylon rope attached to one of the charges, Ehteshari tossed it up and over the top of the pipeline. Standing on the base of the pedestal, Mousavi retrieved the rope from his partner and used it to carefully position the charge at the underside of the pipe where the longitudinal stress was greatest. Then he firmly tied together the ends of the rope, effecting a taut nylon band encircling the pipe for the purpose of focusing the powerful blast.

  They quickly repeated the process for the other two shape charges. Detonators were carefully inserted into all three charges in the same manner as the plastique that Mousavi had already packed around four of the pedestal bolts. Finally, they connected the detonator wires to the battery and timer. As a final precaution everything was spray painted with a battleship gray closely matching that of the pipeline; the nylon rope had already been dyed prior to shipment.

  Mousavi stood beside his partner to examine their work. Ehteshari’s expression was doubtful. “The rope will be strong enough?”

  A registered professional engineer, Mousavi had analyzed the dynamics involved. “The wall of the pipe is one centimeter thick. I estimate this will be traversed twice by the shock wave of the blast before
the rope even begins to stretch.”

  It was just before noon; they were spot-on schedule. Mousavi reached up onto the pedestal and set the timer for three A.M.

  By the time the steep pressure drop registered on computer screens in the Port of Valdez, the two eco-tourists would be comfortably reclined in their seats on their flight to Seoul.

  40

  PAUL DEVINN EASED the rented Toyota off Interstate 77 onto the exit ramp for Wells Creek, a farming community located inexplicably in the middle of the rolling flats some sixty miles south of Cleveland, Ohio. A quarter-mile beyond the center of town, such as it was, he found a sporting goods store and parked beside two other cars in the narrow front lot.

  Entering the store, Devinn removed from his pocket the list he’d prepared and went about collecting the items. Whenever buying ammunition, he made certain to select the highest competition-grade. After scanning the shelves he acquired two twenty-round boxes of precision-loaded .45 ACP caliber handgun cartridges, followed by two twenty-round boxes of 7.62 mm NATO 150 grain bullet cartridges. For the latter he specifically chose semi-jacketed boat-tails; his experience seemed to confirm the manufacturer’s claims that the chamfered rear edge of these projectiles reduced aerodynamic profile drag for greater accuracy. He included with his collected items a package of size AA alkaline batteries, in case he needed night vision equipment, deciding that he probably would.

  Devinn placed the items on the checkout counter before a short, stocky man who peered over half-spectacles and rang up the purchase. Devinn handed him his credit card.

  The man looked at the card, then back over the items. “Find everything you need today, Mr. Smith?”

  “Everything.”

  The man nodded and slid the card through the electronic reader, handed it back, and waited to confirm the transaction. “Good then,” the man said. He looked expectantly at Devinn.

  Devinn looked back blankly.

  “I’ll also need a driver’s license and NFID card.”

  “Oh.” Devinn fumbled through his wallet. “Been a while since I bought any.”

  “Doesn’t help that the Feds keep changing the law,” the man acknowledged. “Of course, they just wan’na badger me out of maintaining a license.”

  Devinn handed over his driver’s license and NFID.

  The shop owner glanced at both him and his driver’s license. Upon comparing the name and photo on the national firearm identification, it too was passed through the card reader.

  Watching from the corner of his eye, Devinn held his breath.

  In digital terms, the FBI’s Criminal Justice Information Services Division in Clarksburg, West Virginia was virtually next door. As soon as the social security number belonging to Carl Smith was submitted to this first in a series of National Instant Criminal Check computers, it was screened against a list of numbers belonging to all living U.S. citizens ever charged or convicted of violating any of the 920 statutes that comprised the federal criminal code. If this step produced a match, the number was immediately rejected and the firearm transaction prohibited—Smith’s social security number cleared this first tollgate. The electronic inquiry was directed next to a new installation belonging to the Treasury Department in Fairfax, Virginia. There a series of databases were checked in order to validate the social security number, including a screen against those belonging to people transferred abroad and/or relinquished of their citizenship, and those belonging to citizens in violation of Internal Revenue Service, interstate commerce, international tax treaty, anti-money laundering, or U.S. immigration and naturalization law. If the ‘NICS’ electronic inquiry cleared each of these tollgates, then the date, time, and merchant tax identification were permanently recorded against the social security number and the transaction affirmed. If it bounced, the transaction was prohibited in a manner similar to failure of the previous, criminal tollgate.

  The social security number for Carl Smith failed the Treasury Department screen. The Carl Smith to whom the identification number was originally assigned had been discharged from the hospital with his two loving parents, but pronounced dead thirty-nine days later of sudden infant death syndrome. Shortly after notification of his death, some forty years ago, the county coroner’s office had filed a form to redact the infant’s social security number from active status.

  Failure of this particular tollgate—by this particular applicant—triggered another, unconventional screen. This special diversion triggered an encrypted connection to one of several computers maintained for classified administrative and payroll transactions of the FBI. Smith’s social security number was screened this time against a small and specially maintained list, hidden within a small data file buried beneath an elaborately constructed maze of many dozens of files. Carl Smith’s number passed this final tollgate. The entire inquiry process had been completed in 5.5 seconds.

  In Wells Creek, Ohio, the instant background check affirmed the transaction. The register spat out the receipt. Devinn slid the cards back into his wallet. The shop owner handed him his package of supplies.

  At 9:20 that evening, Devinn parked his rental car behind the building that contained his storage garage. He keyed open the padlock, raised the metal door and stepped inside to turn on the light. Everything appeared undisturbed.

  Devinn placed his new ammo boxes and so forth inside the large storage trunk he kept in the garage. He took a moment to inventory his arms cache. Unlike the other items that were more or less available to the public, much of this was standard FBI issue and acquired for him by his handler: infra-red night vision equipment, concussion grenades, the Remington 7.62 mm SWAT sniper’s rifle, Kevlar body armor, several sets of black BDU fatigues, and his silenced semi-automatic Heckler & Koch handgun.

  Devinn closed and padlocked the door to his locker and pocketed the key. By the time the Toyota’s Bridgestones spun-up the gravel upon exiting the U-Storage it was nearly eleven o’clock.

  The drive to Emily Chang’s studio apartment took a little over thirty minutes. Unlike adjacent units, all of the lights in Chang’s apartment were out; her Toyota was nowhere in sight. Devinn had observed that Emily was a woman prone to keeping her own company; he wondered with whom she might be spending time at so late an hour. It was possible that she was working late at the Thanatech plant. He decided to drive around the neighborhood for a while and see if she came home.

  Devinn repeated his drive-by sequence several times, but at midnight her parking spot remained empty. It was clear that, tonight anyway, his options for finding Emily were few.

  Disappointed, Paul Devinn a.k.a. Carl Smith checked into a hotel in Cambridge, Ohio, some forty-minutes from the West Virginia border. It was also a place where he figured the odds of being recognized were low, particularly with the newly dark-blond coloring of his hair.

  The next morning he awoke at 8:10 and was hungry enough to eat a horse. He showered and changed into a fresh pair of khakis and a blue twill cotton shirt. Devinn stood before the mirror feeling refreshed, studying the blond hair belonging to Carl Smith; he was particularly pleased with the neatly trimmed beard that redefined his jaw line. It was difficult to know how effective either would actually be at preventing the hunter from becoming the hunted. The thick brow and deep-set brown eyes, olive complexion and lean, muscular build might be recognizable to someone like Stuart. The odds of that happening, while not zero, were probably low. Carl Smith’s smile was unmistakably his own.

  He enjoyed a breakfast of poached eggs, sliced Canadian ham, a tall stack of blueberry pancakes, and wheat toast with marmalade jam. Devinn checked out and paid cash for his room. By about 9:45, with disappointment lingering that Emily Chang hadn’t materialized, he set off southbound on Interstate 77. Soon he would be heading east, retracing precisely the route both he and Sean Thompson had followed in his previous life.

  41

  “WHY WOULD SOMEBODY want to sabotage that test flight?” McBurney stood in the blazing sun with a greasy payphone to his ear whil
e Special Agent Edward Hildebrandt pondered the question.

  “Well, first thing comes to mind is so unlikely as to be hardly worth saying. Thanatech’s not the only outfit racing to offer these fuel-efficient engines, so industrial espionage is not beyond the pale, just hard to believe—these are reputable firms. On the other hand, I’ve lived here long enough to see how the fortunes of local folk rise and fall with the winning of some big engine order. A single airline order can be worth billions—that’s with a capital B. I’d add to the short list of conspiracy theories maybe an oil company or two, maybe a disgruntled employee. I take it you found something interesting at Mojave?”

  “Maybe. Are Thanatech’s competitors domestic?”

  “One is, one isn’t.”

  McBurney let out a breath. “Your scenarios are pretty much what I came up with. Motive aside, I think I may have found a way someone might have pulled off some mischief.” McBurney relayed his discussion with the Mojave technicians, and the role that something like the AMDAC computer device would play in his theory. He finished by indicating that the technicians referred to Thompson and Chang as the relevant engineering experts.

  He heard Hildebrandt whistle annoyingly into the mouthpiece. “You think they might’ve reprogrammed something through the computer?”

  “Or they inserted a virus, but who the hell knows. Maybe some sort of an explosive device was hidden aboard and programmed to detonate. I’ll send you a copy of my notes. Now, I also went back over your report and those Aviation Weekly articles say that Thanatech was in the process of identifying changes to fix the problem that blew the engine apart, so that’s going to be key. You said you were sending a couple of suits in Richmond out to talk—”