He needed some time with a computer. The PDA in his briefcase didn’t have a floppy drive.
Rusty left the museum and took a cab to George Washington University. The computers in the main reading room of the university’s library were for researching the electronic card catalogue, but several had floppy drives. Rusty found the most remote unit and pulled the disk from his pocket, inserting it into the machine. He bypassed the normal blocks and directed the computer to read the files on the floppy one by one.
The program he’d embedded in the conference room computers was exceedingly simple: Anything the computer was told to erase would first be copied to a specific compressed file, the one he had triggered and downloaded remotely from his office before leaving.
The resulting file on the floppy disk consisted of page after page of discarded data, and Rusty began paging through it.
First he found most of the night’s compiled message traffic concerning the desert location for Flight 66, and it was a familiar litany. Some pages he’d written himself.
Then a copy of the flight plan from Iceland to Mauritania appeared. Rusty hadn’t been aware that anyone had pulled it into the conference room computers.
Suddenly the Cairo message appeared on the screen, the one he’d first reported.
Oh, okay. That’s a copy, he thought.
He reread the message. Something was wrong. It seemed different. He called up the next page and found another version, and then another, before realizing he was looking at the remains of a file someone had used to compose the message in the first place.
So it was written in the same room I was using! Son of a bitch!
Just as he had suspected, the message warning of terrorist moves against Flight 66 had originated at Langley. This was the proof—the smoking gun.
But why?
Did someone just suspect terrorist activity, or had the CIA’s agents in Cairo actually picked up solid intelligence regarding Flight 66? There still wasn’t a clue.
There were more pages, and he kept running them across the screen. A benign memo regarding the Air Force task force headed for the desert, an analysis of political stability in North Africa, a weather report for Iceland, and …
Rusty stopped cold and stared at the screen. A message in fragments, and apparently in Arabic! There were numbers that appeared to be a range of times and dates, and several strings of numbers with no explanation.
With one exception.
In the middle of the alphabet soup of computer-generated Arabic symbols and slashes was the very same sequence of a letter and two numbers he had seen on his PDA screen within the past hour: QNFLT66.
He thought about the northern African area where they were sending the 747. The aircraft would pass over and near quite a few Islamic countries. If this was a message to one of them, the use of Arabic would be understandable.
But had someone sat right next to him during the night composing a message in Arabic on an adjacent CIA computer?
Rusty studied the time sequences within the Arabic message again. Whatever was being discussed concerned a range of time between 2220 and 2235 Zulu, a shortened reference to Universal Coordinated Time. And, in the very last line of the Arabic message, there was a digital reference only a pilot or controller would understand: 3A/3966. Probably the four-digit code that Flight 66 should be transmitting through mode 3A of its radar transponder, Rusty concluded. The small “black box” found on almost every modern aircraft enhanced the radar image of the aircraft on air traffic control radars along with transmitting altitude and identification information. But such information would be useful only to someone who had the equipment to read the code on a radar screen, such as a fighter aircraft.
That fifteen-minute window and Flight 66. What is that, an arrival time in Mauritania, maybe?
That was probably it.
He paged through to the last entry. More routine items. Nothing even remotely sensitive. Only the strange fragmented message in Arabic referring to Flight 66.
Rusty triggered a printout of the first two of the three Arabic pages and stuffed the resulting copies in his briefcase. He retrieved the disk, then began walking toward the exit.
Suddenly he felt a burning desire to see a world atlas. He retraced his steps and found the reference section.
The northwest coast of Africa loomed before him in a depiction that also showed Iceland to the north. He ran a rough approximation of the course Flight 66 would follow, then pulled out the handheld computer and composed a quick question for Sherry, hoping she was in a position to answer.
What was actual departure time and new ETA for FLT66?
The reply came back within five minutes:
Departed 1711Z. ETA 2356Z.
Rusty leaned forward and did some impassioned scribbling on a piece of paper. For 2220 Zulu to be an original ETA for Flight 66, it would have been scheduled to leave Keflavík at 1530 Zulu, or 10:30 A.M. in Washington.
But the earliest planned departure time from Iceland Rusty had seen had been 12 noon in Washington, or 1700 Zulu!
He sat back, thoroughly confused. With the departure time of 1711Z, a 2220Z arrival time would put Flight 66 where?
He toyed with the math a few minutes based on the normal cruise speed for a 747-400.
At 2220Z they would be approximately two hundred miles north-north-west of the African coast and over the Atlantic Ocean.
He looked closely at the latitude and longitude lines on the map and wrote down the approximate spot: thirty-one degrees, thirty minutes north latitude, thirteen degrees, zero minutes west longitude. Or, if entered in a navigation computer, N3130W013.
“Oh Lord!” Rusty said out loud as he pulled the printout from his briefcase and hastily ran his finger down the page looking for the two strings of numbers buried within the Arabic characters, and finding them at last: “313324” and “0132410.”
Quantum’s flight plan was on the disk!
He ran back to the computer and reloaded the disk, ignoring the increasingly curious stare of a librarian. It took several minutes to find the flight plan and page through its details. There were various latitude and longitude fixes at various points as the flight progressed southward, but five navigational points from the destination, he found what he was looking for:
N3133.24 W01324.10
Rusty realized his heart was pounding. A CIA source had informed someone in Arabic exactly when Flight 66 would be over a certain point several hundred miles short of land.
Why? Air defense notification of the inbound flight so a nearby nation wouldn’t get excited?
There were more formal ways to accomplish that, however, such as direct teletypes between air traffic control facilities. That’s what international flight clearances were for.
He looked again at the flight plan. There was always an indication when a navigational fix served as an entry point for some nation’s airspace.
There was nothing listed. As far as he could tell, it was an arbitrary point in space.
Why? Why would it be of interest to anyone?
Rusty terminated the computer program again and stowed the disk and the printout. The urge to send a flurry of speculation to Sherry on the PDA was strong, but he didn’t want to push his luck. Someone could be looking over her shoulder too. For that matter, she could be playing him for a fool.
A sudden chill ran up his back as he considered the possibility that Sherry was the enemy.
He shook his head to expunge the thought. It was Sherry who had warned him to get out of the apartment just in time, and besides, without her he was completely adrift.
He picked up his briefcase and left the library, walking eastbound in deep thought. The Blazer was within walking distance, and he vaguely realized he’d set an automatic course in that direction: eastbound toward the White House on Pennsylvania, then north on 19th.
What have I got here? They’re panicked because I have the Arabic message, right? That’s the only strange thing on that disk. That mea
ns the message was either nefarious, or they think I’ll misinterpret it. I know the Cairo warning message was written at Langley. And I know someone’s sent, in Arabic, a location and time that could be used to locate Flight 66 over the Atlantic. What I don’t know is WHY!
The words of the Cairo warning message ran through his mind again undoubtedly referring to Aqbah: “A Shiite terrorist organization may be attempting to secure a military strike aircraft and armament suitable for reaching eastern Mauritania in the western Sahara.”
Rusty felt his face grow cold.
Could someone inside the CIA be helping Aqbah?
ABOARD FLIGHT 66, 7:45 P.M. (1845Z)
As Quantum 66 passed a point over the Atlantic some eight hundred miles south of Iceland, the Reverend Garson Wilson stood in the rear of the 747 surveying his fellow passengers and arrived at a profound conclusion:
I’m going to die!
Twenty minutes earlier, with darkness outside and many of the passengers sleeping, Wilson had reached the end of his tolerance with just sitting. He left his seat with a vague idea of heading for a restroom, but the stench of the overburdened toilets hit him with more nauseating effect than the old “two-holer” outhouses of his youth on a hot day. Holding his breath long enough to survive the experience, he exited as fast as humanly possible.
Wilson had wandered the cabin then, nodding at the occasional upturned eyes, especially if they seemed to recognize him and had any latent respect for him. Several people wanted to talk, but he put them off with “perhaps later.”
I’m too preoccupied with my own worries, he’d told himself. I wouldn’t be a fitting counselor right now.
But the guilt was piling up. He was a minister, after all. He was supposed to be selfless. He was supposed to be willing to spend his last efforts on earth comforting people spiritually. And what had he done so far? Helped get a young mother killed. Everyone on the airplane knew he had urged her to run through the door.
And he knew he’d been too much of a coward to follow her.
All Garson Wilson could feel inside was fear—a gnawing, cold, living thing squirming around, making the thought of helping anyone else seem ridiculous. Fear of the virus. Fear of losing respect.
And fear of dying.
The cabin was a mess and that, too, was depressing. The flight attendants had been trying to pick up trash, but with people sprawled in all directions trying to sleep, the debris of papers and cups and blankets on the floor was becoming alarming—and depressing.
“Appearance, sir,” Roger, his secretary, had reminded him before Lisa Erickson’s death. “You have an image that’s very important to your ability to do God’s work. That image lets people trust you. You must control your temper, and your fears.”
“Fears?” he had sneered at Roger in a barely contained whisper. “Where do you get off, young man, accusing me of being fearful?”
Roger had sighed and looked him in the eye. “Sir, frankly, if you’re not fearful, you’re an idiot, and I could never believe that of you. It’s okay to admit being normal to your aide, but you can’t show emotional extremes to your flock. That’s all I’m saying.”
Garson Wilson had snorted and scowled.
“When I took this job,” Roger had reminded him, “you told me that one of my key duties was to help you maintain your image in stressful times.”
I have struggled to maintain “the image,” Wilson thought. I am struggling.
But he was losing the battle. Garson Wilson the man—the terrified actor who played the role of Garson Wilson, America’s premier evangelist—was losing it.
Wilson began walking forward toward the front of the aircraft, stepping carefully over the legs of sleeping passengers thrust into the aisle.
The radio interview had changed everything.
Roger had performed whatever electronic magic was required to forward calls to their seats on the airplane by satellite phone, and a California radio talk show host had called, wanting a live interview.
Broadcasting is my life, Wilson had thought. Can’t hurt!
The host did a breathless introduction about Wilson’s background and the incredible prowess of any radio talk show staff that could find such a great man in the middle of a great crisis.
“How are you feeling, Reverend?” the host asked at last.
“Well, I think we’re all a little tired. It was a long, dismal wait in Iceland for the authorities to release us to fly to a safer location. But the Lord’s looking after us.”
“Reverend, you’re known throughout the world for providing hope and preaching salvation. And I’m sure you’ve counseled many a dying person, right?”
“I have, yes. It’s never easy to leave this world for the next. People need help to understand.”
“I know. But now that you’re in that position yourself, how are you handling it?”
Wilson paused and thought through the question again.
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking, Bill,” he said. He was pretty sure the host’s name was Bill. He couldn’t remember the name or location of the station.
“What I mean, Reverend, is that you and all those other people are sitting up there with less than, what, thirty hours to live. The world has rejected you. We’re all in a state of shock back here, but the truth is, they’re sending you to the largest desert on earth to die. So I, for one, want to provide you an opportunity to say whatever you want to say, but I also think our listeners would like to know how someone of your stature faces his own death.”
Sheer panic gripped Wilson. Where was the host getting such twisted information?
Back in Southern California at the radio station, the talk show host pulled a folder of clippings across the desk and flipped it open with a frown. The latest wire copy he remembered scanning before the show wasn’t there, but he was sure it had said the autopsy was positive for the virus. He nodded to his producer and tried to prompt the guest again.
“Reverend?”
Wilson sighed audibly. The question had shaken him, and he mustn’t show it.
“I’m sorry, Bill,” he began confidently, “but I don’t think you’re getting the right information. There are rumors out there, we know, that have implied that we’re in great danger, but our crew has assured everyone that this is a false alarm.”
“Reverend, I’m really sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but I’ve got to tell you that the wire services are now saying an autopsy’s been completed, and there you are, still headed for Africa.”
An autopsy had come out positive for the virus? No one had mentioned that from the cockpit.
The host’s voice was in his ear again.
“Reverend? Is anyone sick up there yet?”
“No!” Wilson heard himself snap. He forced himself to calm down, and continued. “No, Bill, no one’s sick, and until at least one person comes down with something, I think it’s premature to go writing us off.”
“Well, sir, let me ask you this way. If someone does get sick and it is confirmed, how will you handle that?”
“Handle … the fact that the virus is on board?” he asked.
“Yes. The fact that it’s completely fatal.”
Wilson felt his head spinning. They were dealing with just a virus, right?
“What do you mean, ‘completely fatal,’ Bill? This is just a particularly nasty influenza virus, or something similar.”
“Ah … well, Reverend, the airline may have told you that, but the rest of the world is hearing that this is a dread killer germ. Some sort of doomsday virus, and there’s some speculation that it’s the work of an Arab terrorist organization.”
“Well,” Wilson said, “I, ah, think we have to regard all that as, ah, rumors, you know? But if for some reason the Lord decides that this is our time, then we’ll simply have to accept the Lord’s will.”
Wilson struggled through the rest of the interview, trying to stay professional and calm, describing the passengers as stoic and religious
and prayerful. Was he conducting prayer services? Certainly, he said, for those who were saved, or wanted to be. He was a preacher, after all. He would preach.
But throughout, the host’s words kept ringing in his ears: “completely fatal … the airline may have told you … dread killer germ … Arab terrorist organization …”
Wilson had replaced the receiver with a shaking hand and sat for a second in shocked silence before bounding out of his seat in need of escape. He thought of thundering up to the flight deck to question the captain, but somehow it seemed futile. The captain was trapped too.
There was no escape, and now he was wandering the cabin in shock.
Wilson realized he had walked all the way back up to the first class cabin. There was a little girl of perhaps seven or eight curled up in the recliner seat that had been his. Her blanket had fallen to the floor, and he could see she was cold by the way she had her arms wrapped tightly around her chest.
Wilson thought about his own daughter, Melissa. Melissa the rebel, whom he hardly knew. Melissa, who had grown up without her father while he sallied back and forth to save souls and build an empire. What was she now, twenty-six? It was shameful that he had to struggle to remember. At the age of eight there had been such promise in her eyes. But he’d never had time. He’d lost those years.
And now there would be no more time to make it right.
The little girl reminded him of Melissa at that age.
Wilson knelt down with a tear forming in his eye and quietly replaced the blanket over the sleeping child, tucking it gently around her shoulders, struck by a sudden realization:
This little girl, too, was going to die.
TWENTY
WASHINGTON, D.C.—SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23—3 P.M. (2000Z)
Rusty was halfway back to Dupont Circle when he remembered the autopsy. The team he’d helped dispatch to Iceland should have sent a preliminary report by now. Everything that was happening looped back to the same question, but he seemed to be the only one interested: Was Professor Ernest Helms really killed by the dread virus accidentally uncorked in Bavaria, or not?
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