Bog stares up at the web of interconnecting steel struts that supports the peaked glass roof of SFO’s main terminal. Through the glass he can see San Francisco’s sky trail wisps of white cloud across its blue canvas. The glass roof reminds him of the panels of glass in a neighborhood greenhouse that open to catch the rain, but the SFO roof panels don’t open. Instead, they shelter a bored public.
Waiting, killing time, Bog studies the elaborate structure, looking for the logic in its design, as he stands among a forest of stanchions, all of them belted together to create a series of innumerable snaking lines, at San Francisco International Airport Terminal Two, surrounded by dozens of other travelers, all patiently waiting to check in to their departing flights. Dressed in a leather jacket, a logo embossed t-shirt and some comfortable blue jeans, he debates the whole jacket thing. It really is too warm, but if he takes it off that’s just one more thing to keep track of before getting on the plane. He had run around his place packing in a hurry, sweating by the time a cab arrived, and he hadn’t quite cooled off yet.
Through the glass portions of the roof, Bog can see the sleek, cylindrical traffic control tower. It looms over the terminal building, reflecting sunlight, forcing him to squint as he looks at it. He notices the area above ticketing has sky lights shaped like the bottoms of immense canoes, that the building’s front wall of glass is several stories tall, and that the words San Francisco International are reversed from inside the terminal. The back wall is a cliff of high offices behind red panels sporting long narrow windows. The ticket counters line up in rows arranged opposite each other, separated by an expanse of shining tile floors and winding, sequestered queues.
An older couple is near Bog. They watch a news channel on an e-pad. He can hear the audio and so can several others. People crane their necks to see the news images on the small screeen.
Bog has the best view and can see the crawl on the bottom of the screen. It declares: Airstop over Western Seaboard.
The announcer, a young woman, is discussing this with an aviation expert, a middle aged man in a suit and tie shown in split screen. On one side of the screen there is a continuous shot of the sky. Presumably something is being sought in the vast ocean of blue, but whatever it is, it can’t be readily seen.
Bog concludes that they must be looking for a drone, a rogue drone. Until it can be located he and his fellow passengers are going to have to wait it out at the gate. The penetration of US airspace is rare, but nowhere near as rare as it once was. To hijack a drone and remotely operate it against its masters has become the ultimate hacktivist challenge. But such operations can still be tracked and there will be no effort spared. The drone will meet its fate and be blown to bits over a non-residential area.
The news seems to be spreading to everybody in line. Though strangers until this moment, everyone is suddenly engaged in conversation, asking each other how long they think the delay will be. No one knows, but everyone enjoys speculating.
Bog finally reaches the counter and the reservation agent.
“There will be a slight delay, but your flight will be leaving as soon as possible,” the agent says buoyantly from behind her blue blazer.
“As soon as it’s safe you mean?” he queries.
“Uh, as soon as possible, sir,” she reiterates, the buoyancy gone.
Bog lets it go, checks his large bag, gets his seat assignment and begins the trek to the gate. He thinks about his friends.
Gilly and Sofie have taken a cruise. Artie has returned to Jaipur. Ethan has disappeared to a friend’s place in Monterey. Asobi has gone to Osaka to her parents. Kina has holed up deep in the library, only to rarely return to her room. All the friends are connected by encryption and Bog’s limits on their communication.
Whoever is out there in the ether, and that is a big universe of possibilities, would be looking for Zak’s friends soon enough. Getting out of the country might not remain an option for long. Artie and Asobi had managed to fly out, but he knew he couldn’t wait any longer.
As he arrives at the departure gate, Bog takes comfort in the knowledge that extremist groups have not been able to take out a commercial flight with a hacked drone more than once, and never yet in the Western Hemisphere.
Chapter 38
On Fire Page 37