Free Fall

by Rick Mofina

  “This will guarantee our success, babe,” he said before he zipped the key into a pocket of his carrying case.

  Their return flight had been delayed, and they’d found a quiet corner in which to work. Seth was studying commercial air routes when Veyda nudged him to look at the TV suspended from the ceiling. It was tuned to CTNB’s Beyond the Headlines with Reese Baker.

  “Look, it’s our reporter.” Veyda moved closer to the TV, but kept her distance from other people. “This could be it. Kate Page could make the revelation now, live on network news.”

  Seth joined Veyda in watching, and the show began with footage of the Shikra and EastCloud incidents, after which Reese Baker introduced the subject and her panelists.

  So this is Kate Page, Veyda thought. She’s pretty and she seems intelligent. She’d better do what’s expected of her.

  Veyda and Seth focused on the panelists as they debated airline security, betraying a rudimentary understanding of what was and wasn’t reality.

  They know so little.

  The minutes rolled by and Veyda’s frustration evolved into anger.

  When? When is she going to announce it? We selected her.

  It soon became clear that Kate Page had missed every opportunity to acknowledge Zarathustra’s triumphant work.

  Look at her, prattling on. Why does she refuse to recognize our achievements in the name of Zarathustra? We selected her. We communicated with her specifically because she was the best reporter. We handed her the story of a lifetime. Now she’s hogging the glory for herself.

  Then Kate Page made her closing remarks.

  “While there are many conspiracy theories, claims and debates, there has yet to be a single confirmed case of a commercial aircraft being cyber hacked.”

  Zarathustra! Zarathustra! We gave you confirmation! Veyda gritted her teeth. “This is insulting!”

  Seth hushed her.

  “Who does she think she is, Seth? She’s done nothing extraordinary. We selected her to be part of history.”

  He took her back to the corner out of earshot of other passengers.

  “She’s nothing more than a lower-caste human,” Veyda said. “Straight out of Brave New World. A lowly Gamma girl. Who does she think she is? Does she know how dangerous it is to defy us?”

  Veyda burned to take action against Kate Page. Seth began working on his laptop, digging fast into her life, softly reciting to Veyda Kate Page’s address, her Social Security number, her height, weight, her income, her shoe size, and he went on.

  “I’ll find out whatever you want,” he said.

  “Good. She needs to be taught a lesson. She needs to be punished!”

  Thirty-Eight

  Clear River, North Dakota

  Scotch, bourbon and then Canadian whiskey gurgled down Robert Cole’s kitchen drain as he emptied bottle after bottle.

  Pungent alcoholic waves wafted from the sink, filling his nostrils. He licked his dry lips, contending with the powerful urge to keep one bottle.

  Just one, a voice called from his well of sorrow. One. Please.

  No, get rid of them all. It has to be done.

  He needed a clear, strong mind because he had to do more than alert the NTSB to the fatal flaw of Richlon-Titan’s system, and more than just providing them with the solution. Cole’s supreme challenge would be convincing them that he was sober and sane enough to be believed.

  And I’ve got to do this before more people are killed.

  After he took the bottles to the trash outside his house, he made scrambled eggs, shaved and showered. Needles of hot water pricked his skin and his thoughts pulled him back across a wasteland of pain to his work on the system before the crash that took Elizabeth from him.

  We’d discovered the vulnerability in RT’s fly-by-wire system and we developed a solution. They rejected our findings, retested and said the existing system was secure. But did they make any changes to the system that I’m not aware of?

  That was the critical question.

  He dressed then stood in his dining room surveying the files he’d recovered from the second-hand dealer in Bismarck, relieved that he’d plucked them from destruction. He had folders with printed data, manuals, schematic drawings, equations and flash drives. He’d worked late the night before, painstakingly organizing the material by subject into neat stacks.

  Bittersweet memories washed over him when he discovered that some of Elizabeth’s and Veyda’s papers, books and pictures had gotten mixed up with his work. There was one of him holding Veyda when she was three weeks old, another of him helping Veyda learn to ride a bike, and another of her with her first car. Cole missed them both, ached for them both.

  Where are you, Veyda? Is it too late to repair our lives?

  He didn’t have time to dwell on the answers. He shifted his focus to the task before him. He read the reports arising from the Manila security conference and the claim that cyber infiltration of the Aircraft Communications Addressing and Reporting System and the Automatic Dependent Surveillance-Broadcast System was possible, affording a hacker the capability to land, or crash, any plane in flight.

  Official aviation bodies around the world had dismissed the claim as only a theoretical possibility but it had prompted Cole’s team to review RT’s system. That’s when they’d discovered an unsecured back door at a connection between the aircraft’s computing systems. It was vulnerable to attack. A skilled hacker could gain access to critical flight systems.

  Cole spread a number of schematic drawings on the large table in the dining room. Here was his proposed remedy, the one he’d submitted that had been rejected. They’d said his analysis had been incorrect, that they’d retested the system in Europe.

  But they’d been wrong.

  He consulted a pile of reports concerning the European tests. Cole knew that they were inaccurate, that the results couldn’t be trusted. He knew the issue for RT, especially Hub Wolfeson, was money. The retrofit needed to make the system secure would cost nine million dollars per aircraft. Wolfeson didn’t think the risk was worth the expenditure and had persuaded the board to support him.

  Cole studied other reports that a colleague at RT had sent him in the weeks after Elizabeth was killed.

  “Cole—for when you’re in shape to care. These are the changes Wolfeson approved. They cost nothing and they’re a quick fix that fails to rectify the situation,” read the note affixed to the reports.

  Cole had never read the reports or looked at the schematic drawings showing the changes. He placed the drawings on the table and pored over them. As time passed, realization dawned on him. The system had been altered. It remained vulnerable but it also meant the solution he’d originally designed was now ineffective.

  I have to design an entirely new solution.

  A knot tightened in his gut. He’d have to do it without the help of his team, without the airline’s resources.

  I’m completely alone.

  Cole stared at the schematics, seeing challenges at every turn.

  The difficulties began swirling before him on the table.

  This is too much for me.

  Overwhelmed, he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, feeling a craving coming to life like a wild force awakening in a cage, thrashing, roaring, demanding to be satisfied.

  The hangar. There’s still a few bottles of bourbon at the hangar. I could drive out there and... No!

  Cole gripped his head with his hands.

  Images of Shikra Airlines Flight 418 burning at Heathrow, of screaming passengers tossed about EastCloud Flight 4990, streaked through his brain.

  I’ve got to do this before it happens again!

  Thirty-Nine

  Manhattan, New York

  “There she is, crackerjack investigat
ive reporter and celebrity panelist!”

  Mark Reston, Kate’s newsroom neighbor, ducked when she threw a crumpled news release at him as she settled in at her desk.

  “Knock it off, Reston.”

  “Seriously, you done us proud there, Ms. Kate. I’m sure you riled up the crazies who’ll want some of your stardust.”

  “Leave me alone—” her keyboard clicked “—I’ve got work to do.”

  “I’m grabbing a coffee.” He stood. “Want one?”

  “Sure, if you’re buying.”

  Kate shook her head at Reston and at the whole CTNB thing. My teacher said she saw you on TV, Mom, Grace had said at breakfast that morning. So did my friends at work, Vanessa had added, forcing Kate to acknowledge the reach network news still held in the digital age.

  After scanning the competition online, Kate determined that no one had hit on any new developments with the London or New York incidents. She was annoyed that no new leads had emerged for her in the wake of her CTNB panel—other than messages from friends and former colleagues across the country and around the globe who’d seen it.

  Kate checked her public email box for the address tag that was affixed at the end of the story she wrote. The email count following the show was one hundred and ten. Thankfully, much of the spam had been filtered but, as usual, the crazies and idiots had weighed in.

  “Nice job yesterday on the show.” Chuck stopped at her desk.

  “Thanks.”

  “It went well. You got anything new in the way of a concrete lead?”

  She shook her head. When her phone rang, she looked at Chuck.

  “Go ahead, take it. We’ll talk some more later,” he said, leaving her to answer her call. The number was blocked.

  “Newslead, Kate Page.”

  “Hi, it’s Erich.”

  “Hey, what’s up? Got anything?”

  “Not at the moment, but I wanted you to know that your TV panel has generated some chatter on the Darknet.”

  “Really? What kind of chatter?”

  “Let’s call it freestyle debate on myths, conspiratorial beliefs and the president’s statement.”

  “Sounds weird.”

  “Listen, Kate, I’ve got to leave the country again. But I’ve reached out to a guy I know who may be intimate with some classified initiatives in this area.”

  “Really? What’s his code name?”

  “Very funny. This guy’s extremely sensitive about the press, but I’ve urged him to talk to you and he’ll deny knowing me. That’s our thing.”

  “I’ll take any help I can get.”

  “I gotta go.”

  After hanging up, Kate found herself gazing across the newsroom at the empty workstation where Sloane F. Parkman used to sit.

  “Chuck sure is cleaning house.” Reston placed a coffee on Kate’s desk.

  “Thanks. Yeah, well, Sloane was no great loss.”

  “You heard the latest on Reeka?”

  “That she’s taking time off.”

  “Word is she’s been told not to come back.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I heard they’re working out terms of her departure and keeping it low-key. I’m telling you, little by little, step by step, Chuck Laneer is restoring the integrity of this place.”

  Reston’s phone rang and he answered with “Be right there.”

  “Gotta go,” he said to Kate.

  “Thanks for the coffee.”

  It didn’t take long before Kate had disposed of half the emails in her inbox. She’d flagged two to consider later. Before resuming, she reached for her coffee and locked onto the subject line of one email:

  YOU FAILED ZARATHUSTRA—A TOLL WILL BE EXACTED

  She opened it and read:

  We offered you a place in history. We selected you because we regarded only you and your work worthy of the honor. We chose you to announce our triumph with Flight 4990 but you failed. The cost was 15 innocents from Flight 418. Then you insulted our victory with your televised lies. Why did you deny that we have taken control of the skies? Why did you lie? Like Peter’s denial of Christ, it was preordained. We warn you now to tell the ordinary masses that we are extraordinary people destined to soon achieve a monumental victory on a colossal scale, the likes of which the world has never seen. We will take civilization to unprecedented heights, lighting the way forward for all of human existence. We are Zarathustra, Lord of the Heavens.

  Kate felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she read the postscript:

  Do not doubt the seriousness of our intentions. We know you live with your daughter and sister in Morningside Heights.

  Forty

  Manhattan, New York

  They know where we live!

  Fear raged through Kate like a wildfire as seconds ticked down and buildings rushed by her cab’s window.

  Frantic, she’d shown Zarathustra’s new threat to Chuck. He’d tried to calm her, and he’d made calls, but Kate hadn’t waited. She’d torn out of the building, flagged a taxi and demanded the driver get her uptown to Grace’s school on 115th Street as fast as possible.

  Now, as her cab zigzagged through traffic, Kate made her second call to Grace’s school.

  “As I’ve said, Ms. Page, we’ve sent an assistant to Mrs. Blake’s class. I assure you that we have nothing unusual to report. Your daughter’s fine.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be there to pick her up shortly.”

  “Is there something we need to be aware of, Ms. Page?”

  Kate didn’t want to alarm the entire school.

  “No, I’m sorry. A family emergency’s come up.”

  Catching her breath, Kate ended the call then pressed the number for Big Tony DiRenaldo’s Grill, the diner where Vanessa worked. Kate needed to hear her sister’s voice. Needed to know she was safe. The sounds of cutlery and dishes clanking amid the din of conversations spilled into the phone before Vanessa came to the phone.

  “Are you okay?” Kate asked.

  “Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay? What’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get to the diner with Grace.”

  “You’re coming here with Grace? Kate, what’s going on?”

  “I’ll explain it all when I see you.”

  Kate had to think, had to keep calm. Yes, she’d already been followed by a private investigator. That was one thing, but she’d handled that.

  Or had she?

  Then there was her feeling that someone had been in her hotel room while she’d been in London.

  Could the Zarathustra messages be related? The emails are the bigger issue, a greater unknown. If it’s all real, if Zarathustra has the ability to crash jetliners, then imagine what they could do to us.

  Her mind swirled with scenarios and sweat trickled down her back as the cab halted at Grace’s school. Kate told the driver to wait. Her hands trembled as she waited at the school office where a staff member eyed Kate closely over her bifocals.

  “Is everything all right, Ms. Page?”

  “Yes, a family matter.” Kate turned when Grace arrived.

  “Hi, Mom. What’s wrong? Why’re you here? Am I in trouble?”

  “No, no, sweetie. I just need to have you with me for the day.” Kate took her hand and then, for the benefit of the staff member, said, “I’ll have you back in school tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Big Tony DiRenaldo’s Grill was on 130th Street.

  Again, Kate told the driver to wait knowing she was facing a huge cab fare. The diner was busy, and it took a minute before Vanessa saw them. She led them to a booth and gave Grace a glass of chocolate milk, her favorite.

  Kate took Vanessa aside, so Grace couldn’t hear.
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  “What’s going on, Kate?”

  Kate pulled the printed email from her bag. Vanessa read it quickly.

  “This isn’t good, Kate.”

  “I know.”

  “You told me this story was giving you problems. Now someone is trying to scare you.”

  “I want you to know because I don’t want to take any risks, okay?”

  “I get that, but after all we’ve been through, you know that we don’t scare easily. I don’t like this. It makes me nervous, but I’m not going to let this idiot control my life.”

  “Yes, but we’re not taking chances. I want you to text me all the time, where you’re going and when you get there. Be vigilant, be careful, okay?”

  Vanessa touched the back of her hand to her moist brow as a bell rang.

  “Vanessa!” a man dressed in white called through the small opening to the kitchen after setting two plates on the shelf. “Pick up!”

  “Okay?” Kate repeated.

  “Okay. I gotta work.”

  Kate sat down with Grace, who was blowing chocolaty bubbles through her straw just as Kate’s phone rang.

  “It’s Chuck. We need you back in the newsroom.”

  Forty-One

  Manhattan, New York

  The air held traces of men’s cologne in the glass-walled boardroom at Newslead’s headquarters, where Kate joined Chuck Laneer, Graham Lincoln and five other people.

  “Everyone, this is Kate Page,” Chuck said. “Kate, I believe you know Nick Varner with the FBI from some of your previous stories. With him, also from the FBI, is Leonard Brock.”

  Nick and Brock, an older balding man, nodded, then Kate turned to the two men in rumpled jackets who sat across the table.

  “We also have detectives Karl Steiger and Ted Malone of the NYPD.”

  Both men wore grim faces. The woman near them wore a dark blazer.

  “And we have Helen Swayne, with our legal team.”

  Swayne opened her leather-bound notebook, clicked her pen and gave Kate a professional smile. Kate looked beyond the glass at the newsroom, where she’d left Grace at the copy editor’s empty desk. She was doing her homework on her tablet.