by Leslie Wolfe
"How about Florida? What's the Air Force planning to do to find out what happened?"
"Regarding Florida, we have a little bit more information. We have determined that the UAV was inbound to Mackenzie Air Field. We have determined it was returning from a routine surveillance mission that was part of a joint operation with the United States Coast Guard, patrolling the territorial waters of the Gulf of Mexico coast. We have determined it was carrying surveillance equipment, not Hellfire missiles, or laser-guided bombs, or any other type of ordnance."
"When will we know what happened?"
"We are hoping that, within a few months, we will have all the answers to the questions regarding last week's tragedy in Florida."
"Thank you for your time and answers, even if they are so disappointingly limited at this time, major. We are hoping to see you back in our studios soon, bringing all the answers we are looking for."
"Thank you, Stephanie, looking forward to it."
...51
...Friday, July 2, 7:18PM
...NanoLance HQ—Main Parking Lot
...San Diego, California
Well into the evening, Alex was finally heading home. She had taken advantage of the quiet Friday afternoon before the Independence Day long weekend, to finish some work she needed to turn in the following week. That maniac, Sheppard, was expecting her plan for budget cuts by Tuesday morning. She needed the rest that was promised by this long weekend, although she felt edgy and anxious, thinking how far she still was from completing what she had come here to do.
The parking lot was almost deserted at this late hour. A few scattered cars, here and there, probably belonging to the night-shift security guards and to car-pooling employees. Upstairs, not many lights were on. NanoLance had motion-sensor lighting in the offices and hallways, so as soon as there was no activity for ten minutes or so, the lights went off.
She reached her car, got behind the wheel, and started the engine. Before pulling out of the parking space, a police car pulled in front of her, flashing red and blue lights in a blinding display. It was a Chevy Tahoe, wearing the marks of the San Diego Police Department.
"Oh, crap," she muttered, "I didn't even pull out."
Behind her, a second police car was pulling in. She felt her blood come to a freeze. This was not a routine traffic stop. She put her hands on the wheel and waited.
An office stepped out of the Chevy Tahoe in front of her, leaving those blinding lights on. He approached her car, flashlight on, and tapped on her window.
"Step out of the car, ma'am." His tone did not allow for any negotiation.
She reached for her bag, but was interrupted by an impatient bang on her window, this time with the tail end of a flashlight.
"Step out of the vehicle, right now! Leave everything there."
A second cop was approaching, this one from the car that was pulled behind her Toyota.
She stepped out, and somehow found the courage to speak.
"What is this about?" She was embarrassed at how faint and trembling her voice sounded. She became aware that she was shaking, feeling weak in the knees.
"Step over here," the first cop continued, ignoring her question.
The second cop opened her car door and flashed a light inside. Seconds later, he emerged holding a small, transparent plastic bag with white powder inside.
The first cop swiftly grabbed her arm, and she felt the coldness of handcuffs on her wrists.
"Alex Hoffmann, you are under arrest for possession of a controlled substance. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in the court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?"
This was not happening. Her mind was in a state of shock. I never had any controlled substance, she thought. That means drugs? I have no drugs.
The cop put the flashlight beam right in her face.
"Do you understand these rights?"
"Y-yes," she stuttered.
"I'll get this towed," the second cop said, pointing at her car.
She felt a firm hand guide her toward the first police car; same firm hand tilted her head to prevent her from hitting it against the doorframe, as she was placed in the back seat of the Tahoe.
The car started to roll, its blinding red and blue lights finally turned off. Alex felt the suffocating knot of fear strangling her, rendering her unable to breathe. She was scared out of her mind, couldn't focus on any rational thought, or come up with any explanation as to what was happening to her. She felt like screaming and sobbing at the same time; she somehow managed to do neither. The panic-driven weakness she was feeling was changing to full-blown shivers, making her teeth clatter. She desperately tried to figure out what to do. Yes, she thought, Tom will help me, I have to call Tom.
"Excuse me," she pleaded, "can I please make a phone call?"
"Well, pardon me if I don't stop this car right here to offer you my personal cell phone so you can make your goddamn phone call," the cop answered.
That settles it, she thought bitterly.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Will you shut up, already? Don't wanna hear it! Jesus!"
She fell silent, feeling the coldness of the air chilling her blood. Before she could stop, tears started rolling down her cheeks.
...52
...Friday, July 2, 8:21PM
...Air Force Headquarters—Office of the USAF Chief of Staff
...The Pentagon
He grabbed the remote, clicked to turn the wall-mount TV off, and slammed the remote on his desk.
"Aww . . . fuck!"
His finger pushed nervously on the intercom.
"Yes, sir?" a soft-spoken female voice answered within seconds.
"Get me Lynch and Nichols in here, on the double!"
"Yes, sir."
General Randal Hamilton II was not a patient man. Patient men rarely climb so high in the Air Force ranks, or in any ranks for that matter. Proud son of a highly decorated, three-star, Air Force general who had brought visionary innovation to air combat during the Vietnam War, Hamilton was incessantly competing with his father, long after his death. The day Hamilton had been awarded his fourth star and promoted to the office of the United Stated Air Force chief of staff was marked as a special day in his heart, one that he would commemorate with annual visits to the Arlington Cemetery. He had paid only two such commemorative visits to his father's place of eternal rest; his appointment to this office was relatively recent.
The intercom buzzed.
"They are here, sir."
"Good, send them in."
General Howard Lynch, vice chief of staff, was the first officer to walk through the open door. Following closely was Brigadier General Seth Nichols, in charge of regional affairs. They both saluted promptly.
"Sit down," Hamilton said. "It's great to have these TVs installed in our offices. Maybe by watching TV, we can find out what's going on in the goddamn Air Force!"
General Hamilton was not in a good mood. Regardless of the given situation's severity, Hamilton had gained the respect of his team by always keeping a cool head under pressure. In fact, the bigger the pressure, the cooler, more analytical and supportive the general would get.
"So I heard on the news today that the media correlates the April incident in Kandahar with the Florida incident last week," he continued. "Are we working this angle?"
"Sir, if I may," Nichols responded, "regional affairs was only looking into the Kandahar incident."
"Where are we with that one? Do we have any findings?"
"Not full findings, sir, we have partials."
Hamilton encouraged Nichols to continue.
"The drone was ours, sir. That's for sure. The Hellfire's signature was also ours. We're looking into the ground station operators and interviewing every single one of them who had anything to do with that drone. Unf
ortunately, one of the pilots is dead, so that leaves some questions unanswered."
"Dead? How?"
"His Humvee was hit by an IED on the way back from leave—little over a month ago, sir."
"Damn it. We need to keep a tight lid on this until we are ready to close the investigation. With the Florida incident, the media is going to get aggressive, questioning everyone—pilots, their families and friends—everyone they can reach."
"Yes, sir," both Nichols and Lynch responded simultaneously.
"Lynch?"
"Yes, sir."
"I want your team to work with Nichols on this correlation angle. Set up a task force. Bring analysts in, lab techs, everything you need. Is it possible that the same defect or error triggered both incidents? Compare behaviors, analyze the flight paths, all the data transferred to and from the drones in question, and let's figure out what went wrong."
"Yes, sir."
"One more thing. There will be a congressional hearing on this."
"Was it announced?" Lynch asked, turning pale.
"No, not a word yet. However, I don't think we can get away with blowing up a busload of people on American soil without having to attend a congressional hearing. Be prepared, assign the best resources you have to close these investigations as soon as you can, keep a lid on this, and give me rock-solid facts and plans for action. You know," Hamilton said after a brief pause, "Air Force chiefs of staff can be fired too."
"Yes, sir," both men acknowledged, after a brief hesitation.
"Good luck and keep me posted. Dismissed!"
...53
...Friday, July 2, 8:32PM
...San Diego Police Department—Western Division
...San Diego, California
"What do you have?" A man in his thirties, wearing civilian clothes, asked the uniformed cop who was dragging Alex by her left arm through the main doors at the police station.
"Possession. Doesn't seem to be enough of it for intent to sell, but I'll get it weighed and let you know. Looks like meth, not sure yet."
"OK, I'll take it from here." Alex's arm changed hands from the uniformed cop to the plain-clothes cop.
"I am Detective Jordan Holt, narcotics division. What's your name?"
"Alex Hoffmann," she replied, still sobbing.
"Were you read your rights?"
"Yes."
"Wait in here," Holt said, pushing her into what seemed to be an interrogation room. She sat down on one of the two beat-up chairs, facing each other at a worn-out table. Holt uncuffed her and left.
She rubbed her wrists to re-establish blood flow. The initial shock was starting to clear, while she began to comprehend what was going on with her. She had been arrested. She had been found in possession of a controlled substance. This was her new reality. It was time to deal with it.
Holt stepped back through the door, followed by an older man, dressed in a relatively worn-out suit.
"This is my partner, Lieutenant Adrian Reyes," he said, and offered the spare chair to the older man.
"All right," Reyes said in a kinder voice, "what happened?"
All of Alex's knowledge of how police procedure worked was telling her to shut up and ask for a lawyer. Not a word was to be said. Everything she could say, would, indeed, be used against her in a court of law, just as Miranda warned. Nevertheless, all that theory wasn't worth much under pressure, when all she wanted was for someone to believe her.
"I don't know," she started saying. "I honestly don't," she insisted, when she saw the two detectives exchange disappointed, rolling-eye glances. She was going to be the "I don't know" cliché . . . how boring. "I was leaving work, and I got pulled over. I actually was stopped before I started," she threw out in a frenzy, not making much sense.
"Slow down," Reyes said. "Who gave you the meth?"
"That's the thing, I don't know. Really, I don't. I don't know where it came from, I hadn't seen it until the police officer took it out of my car, and I have never touched drugs in my life."
"Have you touched this particular packet?"
"No, not at all," she continued to plead.
"So, you're absolutely sure you haven't touched this bag of drugs?" She nodded energetically. "All right," he continued, "are you using any drugs?"
"No, never," she said.
"Not even smoke a joint now and then? To take the edge off?"
"No, never."
"How about prescription drugs, such as Valium, or Xanax, or Oxycodone?"
"No, I'm not taking anything. You can test me, and you'll see I'm not lying."
"We will," Reyes said, leaving the room.
Minutes later, a technician was fingerprinting her, using dated technology involving an inked roller, to stain the tips of her fingers, and a fingerprint 10-print card. He manipulated her fingers gently, yet impersonally. One of the most traumatic events in her life meant absolutely nothing to this man.
When he was done, she was escorted to a small lab at the back of the station for the drug test. This area was up-to-date in technology, as the young lab technician immediately explained.
"The urine drug test is almost instantaneous and gives us information about trace amounts of many recreational substances in your system. Sign here, please," he said, offering her a release form where she signed in confirmation that she was aware of how the drug test process was being handled. "As the urine is collected in this small plastic jar, these side strips, covered with chemical reactives, will turn color if your urine contains the residue of the specific drugs they indicate. For example, if this particular stripe colors green, you're positive for heroin. These five strips at the end are measuring the physical characteristics of the urine, indicating if you attempt to tamper with the test, by taking a diuretic, to dilute the drug concentration in your urine. Ready?"
She nodded. This was going to be easy. She would pee in the cup, the test would come back negative, and then they would apologize and release her. By tomorrow morning, all this would be just a bad memory.
"You have to take your jacket off and leave the restroom door open. We have to make sure you're not tampering with the test. Please don't flush before handing me the urine."
Silently, she went in, wiped the soiled toilet seat with some toilet paper, and sat on it. Urinating came easily, after so much stress. She handed the cup to the lab technician, and washed her hands.
"We have to wait for a minute or so," the tech said, rolling the filled cup on its side, so that urine would come in contact with all the reactive strips. He peeled off a piece of adhesive from the side of the cup and picked up the phone.
"We're done here. She's positive for meth."
Alex felt a kick to her stomach.
"No, no, that can't be true! I swear to you I have never touched any drugs, please test me again," she pleaded, sobbing hard.
Detective Holt came through the door.
"You almost had us fooled, you know."
"You have to believe me, please, I am not taking any drugs! Test me again, do a lie detector test, do whatever, but please believe me!"
"Chemistry never lies, missy, this is it. You have methamphetamine in your system. Regardless of how it got there, right now it doesn't make you look good at all. Let's go."
"Where are you taking me?"
"We're going to book you, do some paperwork, and prepare your arraignment."
Holt led her to the same interview room she had occupied before. Another young technician came to take her clothing in a paper bag, offering her a jumpsuit instead. The jumpsuit stank of chemical cleaners, and was stiff and rough to the touch. Initially repelled by the smell, Alex realized that the smell of disinfecting chemicals was, in fact, a guarantee that these suits were cleaned before being handed over from one prisoner to the next.
Prisoner! The word resonated in her brain. She decided to finally apply the wisdom she had deliberately ignored until now. She knocked on the mirrored window. Holt opened the door.
"I'd like to have a lawyer
present, please, and I'd like to make my phone call now."
Holt disappeared, and soon reappeared with a cordless phone. She looked at the time—almost 10:00PM. She dialed Tom's home number.
"Hello?" His warm voice brought back tears to her eyes.
"Tom? Hi, it's me, Alex."
"Hi, what's up?" He sounded a bit worried.
"I don't know how to say this . . . I was arrested for drug possession tonight, I'm at San Diego Police, West," she said, between uncontrollable sobs.
"Arrested?" Tom repeated in disbelief.
"I never took any drugs . . . but they tested me and found me positive for meth."
"Oh," Tom said, in a visibly colder voice.
"Please help me get out of here," Alex pleaded, her eyes flooded in tears.
"Oh, Alex, drugs were never part of the deal, you know. I'm afraid you're on your own. When it comes to drugs, well, for me they're a game changer. Once you've taken that path, well, there's no real turning back."
"No, you've got to believe me, I never took any drugs!"
"Alex, please, calm down. If you're indeed innocent, this situation will resolve on its own. If that's the case, get back in touch with me later, so we can resume our work together. I'm sorry, but that's all I can do," Tom said, then hung up.
She crouched on the floor, hugging her knees, and sobbing hard. She was all alone again, and the nightmare was there to stay.
...54
...Saturday, July 3, 1:15AM
...San Diego Police Department—Western Division
...San Diego, California
The aroma of fresh baked donuts and hot coffee made Detective Holt stop typing.
"Finally," he said, thankfully reaching for the treats handed to him by his partner.
"You're welcome," Reyes said, taking a mouthful out of a glazed Krispy Kreme. "What are you entertaining yourself with?"
"Just paperwork on the Hoffmann broad. I want to have her booked before the shift is over. It's quiet around here for a Fourth of July weekend."
"Not so fast, hot shot," Reyes said, leaning against Holt's desk. "So, your mind is made up, she should be arraigned?"