Death in the Cloud

by E. J. Simon

  “They hadn’t gotten around to it, but I didn’t expect to get shot, either. But artificial intelligence is getting more advanced every day—and I’ve been able to tap into the new systems, everything on the Internet and now, even the Cloud. Not drinking doesn’t hurt, either. My mind’s pretty sharp, sharper than…before.”

  “Healthier maybe,” Michael said.

  Although the voice sounded the same, this wasn’t Alex’s typical brand of conversation. Terms like AI and the Cloud weren’t part of the old Alex’s vocabulary. This was Alex 2.0. Or was it?

  Alex continued, “But, I do miss the food, the dinners, roast beef, spaghetti and meatballs, the things you take for granted.” He sounded like his old self again.

  “I know. Growing up, our dinners around the dining room table, they were important, more than I could have imagined at the time,” Michael said, remembering years of suppers with their parents in the comfortable Queens home they’d grown up in. It was part of life he’d never forgotten as he and Samantha continued the tradition with their daughter, Sophia.

  “Yeah, I remember,” Alex said, then stopped.

  Michael knew when something was bothering his brother. He’d get that pained expression, wiping away his grin in an instant.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “People are hacking into my software,” Alex said. “Something’s going on. It’s bigger than when the so-called priest Schlegelberger hacked into your computer and found my site. Much bigger.”

  “Well, at least he’s dead. But what do you mean, much bigger?”

  “These are sophisticated hacks—or attacks—I’m not sure how to describe them. They’re not coming from some computer whiz but from…someone—no, not a solitary person…maybe an agency, a country.”

  “A country?”

  “Yeah, these are powerful probes, trying to break through—and they just keep coming, almost faster now than I can block them.”

  “What does this mean?”

  “It means it’s just a matter of time until they’re going to find our secret. They’re going to find…me, copy my software, and…from what I’ve intercepted…there’s more.”

  “More?”

  “Me, they’ll just delete, but they’ll kill you.”

  Chapter 5

  40,000 feet above western France

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just hit our cruising altitude of 40,000 feet. I’ve turned off the seatbelt light, which means you are now free to move about the cabin. However, for your own safety, please fasten it when you are seated in case we encounter any unexpected turbulence.”

  Alone in the cockpit, Captain Kruger looked out the windshield into the dark, ignoring the tray with his pre-prepared meal. He was relieved he wouldn’t need to go to the bathroom again. He didn’t fear death but he feared the dead, and so he double-checked the locks on the fortified cabin door.

  He thought about how his family, which consisted only of his elderly parents in Munich, would view him once this was over. He felt a twinge of pain, no, guilt, in the pit of his stomach. They would never understand, and the note he left for them would do little to assuage the shame that would be coming their way soon, if it hadn’t already.

  Although any word or news from the outside world had been blocked from entering the hangar, he knew that, as the pilot of the missing airliner, his past and every miscue or flaw in his life had likely already been dissected by the authorities and revealed in the press and on television. They would have seen his confidential medical records and know about the diagnosis he had concealed from the airline: a slow but sure death sentence, twenty years of American Marlboros having taken their toll. Depression, no longer held in check by the medication he dreaded, made his decision…easier. Or so he thought.

  At least he would die for a cause, for something that mattered, yet, even as he listened to them in his head, the words sounded hollow. And what about the terrified humans, passengers and crew, in the back? Were they casualties of war, of a revolution long overdue? They had looked to him as their protector, not suspecting he was the chief instrument of the hijacking and their kidnapping. Earlier, he had seen the hope in their eyes, their trust in him, as they passed the open cabin door, filing into their seats, the same ones and in same class as they had reserved on the initial flight. Everything was in order and now their captain would bring them to their destination safely.

  As he stared ahead into the blackness, he could see his face looking back, gaunt and hollow, a newspaper or CNN image, etched in contemporary history like the 9/11 hijackers. But the next generation would hail him as a hero…Wouldn’t they?

  And would God see him the same way?

  His thoughts returned to his parents…the innocent passengers and crew…the children in the rear. Things were no longer clear, except for his image, staring back at him from the dark.

  Chapter 6

  Washington, DC

  “It’s astonishing to me,” the President said, pulling his iPhone out of his suit coat pocket, “we can pinpoint a missing iPhone within ten feet or so from anywhere in the world, yet we can still find no trace of a missing airliner with hundreds of souls on board.”

  It had been two days since the French airliner had mysteriously gone off course over the Mediterranean Sea and disappeared from sight, defying the world’s exhaustive search efforts.

  “It is a mystery to me, too, Mr. President. Both our countries have citizens aboard that plane.”

  “Yes, and at least one hundred Russians, including a fierce critic of our good friend, Mr. Putin.” The President’s expression gave away his suspicion, well known among allied leaders, that the Russians were always at work advancing their expansionist agenda and eliminating their leader’s adversaries.

  “I agree, foul play is at work here,” Payard said, “but I must confess this incident may be more complicated than most. I fear dark forces, of a unique nature, are at work here and that we have not heard the last of this.”

  “Dark forces? Which ones, exactly? We have so many now.”

  Payard appeared hesitant, suddenly uneasy. “We have detected unusual messages across the Internet. Thus far, we have not discussed these discoveries with anyone outside our own security agencies. We came upon highly unusual…conversations…from our monitoring of the Vatican.”

  “The Vatican?” The President laughed, then caught himself. “You’ve been eavesdropping on the Pope?”

  “I must admit, I was somewhat surprised myself when I received an internal briefing from my security advisers. It is one of the reasons we have not disclosed this intelligence outside of France; we would prefer not to have to reveal our monitoring, so to speak, of the Holy Father. My director of security will be briefing your CIA director later today on this matter. So you know, Mr. President, this only came to my attention four months ago, after the Pope passed away…if that is the correct description.”

  “Do you suspect he didn’t die of natural causes? We had no reason to doubt the Vatican intelligence reports of food poisoning, complicated by his advanced age.”

  Payard grimaced, “The Pope was murdered. Indeed, it was food poisoning in the strictest sense of the phrase. But the poison was administered to him.”

  “My God, by whom?”

  “We believe,” Payard continued, somberly, “by his close aide, the man in charge of overseeing his personal security, a Monsignor Kurt Schlegelberger, supposedly referred to inside the Vatican as Monsignor 007.”

  “And where is this guy Schlegelberger now?”

  Payard paused, seeming to collect his thoughts or measure his words. “He is dead, also murdered. Just a few days after the Pope’s death, Schlegelberger was found in the basement storeroom of one of our hotels in Paris. His neck had been broken.”

  “And, what does this—the murder of the Pope by this man—have to do with the missing airl
iner?”

  “We believe Schlegelberger was part of a secret neo-Nazi group called The Free Forces Party. You know, Mr. President, all these neo-Nazi movements are now referred to as alt-right. And although this particular party appears to be quite small, they have people in powerful positions around the world. They are also well funded, by Nazi gold hidden after the Second World War, we believe.”

  “But what about the missing airliner? How does that fit in?”

  “We are not sure yet, except that we uncovered Internet communications—hacking perhaps—with the airliner just before it disappeared from the radar screens. We have traced those communications back to…Schlegelberger.”

  President O’Brien’s head jerked back. “Schlegelberger? But you said Schlegelberger died right after the Pope was poisoned, four months ago. The airliner disappeared two days ago. So how could he have been communicating with the airliner…months after he supposedly was dead?

  “We don’t have the answer to that yet.”

  “So, is he really dead?”

  “We believe he is. But that’s only one of the mysteries, Mr. President.”

  O’Brien’s face conveyed something between confusion and skepticism. “Okay…so what’s their goal, this Free Forces Party?” he asked, wondering how all of this could be news to him and, he assumed, the CIA.

  “Their objective, Mr. President, is to finish what Adolf Hitler began. It is to disrupt the world order and security and, in the resulting chaos, to…rule the world.”

  “And—besides the usual terrorist plots—how do they plan on doing that?”

  “We believe they will use some sort of proprietary, or as you say, breakthrough technology to initiate conflict between Russia and the West, particularly America.”

  “What do you mean, ‘proprietary technology’?”

  “This is another great mystery. And it involves one—two, actually—of your citizens. They are brothers, a Michael Nicholas who is the CEO of a financial services company, Gibraltar Financial, and his brother, Alex Nicholas.”

  “I have never heard of either of them but I’m sure our intelligence services will find them.”

  Payard hesitated again, he looked at the President, as though embarrassed. “You will have no trouble finding Michael Nicholas. He appears to lead a double life, running Gibraltar Financial—”

  “Yes, I’m vaguely familiar with the company,” O’Brien said.

  “He also secretly heads up an illegal, global loan-sharking and sports-betting operation called Tartarus. It is active not only in New York but also in Paris.”

  “Interesting,” the President said, slightly confused.

  “Yes, indeed. It gets much more interesting, Mr. President. You see, Tartarus was his brother’s business.”

  “Alex Nicholas?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Michael took over Alex’s illegal business?”

  “Precisely.”

  “So, what is Alex doing now?”

  “This is where the story takes on another very mysterious turn. We are not sure. Our security services have intercepted another series of emails—and a FaceTime type of communications—over the last several months between Alex, Michael and, even more curiously, before his murder, Monsignor Schlegelberger.”

  “This is fascinating. And where, pray tell, is Alex Nicholas now?

  “Alex Nicholas, Mr. President, has been dead for two years.”

  Chapter 7

  The pilot picked up the microphone. “This is Captain Kruger. We’re approaching the east coast of the United States. I hope your flight has been a comfortable one so far. We expect to be landing at Washington’s Reagan Airport shortly.”

  Why did he make the announcement, or even the other ones for that matter? Was he losing his mind? Was it habit, or did it help him preserve his own sense of some normalcy despite all facts to the contrary?

  This time he didn’t mention the fighter escorts that were sure to accompany them once he turned the transponder on, allowing the aircraft’s detection.

  There had been no attempts to contact him from the ground and no sign of any aircraft around him. So far, it appeared he’d been successful in evading detection. He checked the cockpit indicators for the aircraft’s precise location.

  He had deviated from commercial airliners’ usual path, instead staying away from the coast and flying farther out, over the Atlantic.

  He looked at his watch. It was not yet time to move into the traditional airline traffic path and to engage air traffic control, alerting them that an airliner, missing for days, was suddenly coming in out of the sky, only minutes from Washington yet hitherto undetected. He would respond to their queries—but he would not deviate from his course. Perhaps indecision or a delay in the approval to shoot him down would allow him to reach the White House. More likely, they would shoot his plane out of the sky, its steel and human pieces scattering on the ground to be picked over by the men in yellow jackets…unless…

  Unless he…followed their instructions, proceeding to a safe landing field, most likely an isolated, military base, away from populated areas. Then, he would be safe. He would live, at least as long as his disease allowed. He would have a wife and children of his own. Maybe he would be a hero. Or…he would be the only one they’d have to blame. Things seemed less certain now. Kruger felt…confused.

  In the coming days, weeks, and years, he knew the world would replay his conversations with the control tower—and the fighter jets that would soon approach them—over and over, his photo simultaneously appearing on television screens around the world.

  The plan was for him to continue undetected before turning the transponder on as he approached the restricted air space around Washington. That was the plan. Reality, though, began to feel different.

  He reached over and switched on the transponder.

  His headset came alive with static and voices, at first undecipherable.

  “This is Reagan Tower air traffic control, unidentified aircraft you are entering a controlled airspace. Identify yourself and state your intentions.”

  Then he listened as the tower contacted another, evidently nearby, aircraft: “United 128, this Reagan tower air traffic control. We have an unidentified aircraft on our radar close to your position. Do you have a visual of the aircraft?”

  “This is United 128, I have a visual of the aircraft at my eleven o’clock, fifteen nautical miles in front of me at 40,000 feet, heading west.”

  “United 128 what type of aircraft is it?”

  “It’s white, looks like an airliner, I can’t make out the markings but I believe it’s an Airbus 340 or 350.”

  “United 128, we will make contact and advise.” A pause. “This is Reagan tower, please identify yourself. I repeat, please identify yourself. And your intentions.”

  He thought again about his family, and then the passengers and crew in the back. He had made a terrible mistake.

  It was time for him to speak. “France Global 509. This is Captain Ernst Kruger, requesting vectors for direct approach to Reagan.”

  Other than static and the air-traffic controller and at least one other pilot talking over each other, there was silence for several seconds, then: “France Global 509, please confirm…Where the hell have you been?”

  But the connection went silent and another voice came through, as distinct and clear as if it came from inside the cabin.

  “Captain Kruger, Ernst, what are you doing? This is not the plan. You have engaged prematurely.”

  He recognized the voice with the German accent immediately but…it couldn’t be. He switched on his microphone.

  “Herr Schlegelberger?”

  Chapter 8

  Washington, DC

  Dick Dolins had rehearsed this day a thousand times but he never thought he’d see it, and especially not from the White H
ouse roof.

  As he looked out through his binoculars at the clear Washington sky, he pressed his earpiece firmly into his right ear. He’d been patched in to the JOC, the White House Joint Operations Center, listening as they tried to communicate with the incoming aircraft.

  “This is White House security. You are approaching a restricted air space. I repeat, this is the Joint Operations Center. You are entering prohibited air space. You must alter your flight plan now. Make an immediate 180. Do you read me?”

  “It’s not responding, sir,” another voice said.

  Others joined in, their voices a jumble on the staticky line.

  “The aircraft is now inside the prohibited air space.”

  “We’ve just lost radar contact, no visual either. It doesn’t make any sense. My screen’s clear.”

  “Keep trying, it’s out there.”

  Turning quickly with his binoculars, Dolins scanned the skies until…“It’s not small, it’s a large plane, an airliner,” he called out into his microphone. “I have a visual now. It’s flying low, very low…maybe ten miles out, closing in.”

  “Confirmed, it’s an airliner, sir,” another voice said. “Looks like an Airbus from our radar. It just showed up again.”

  “Where the hell are our F-16s?”

  “They’ve been scrambled and are in the air, sir.”

  “How’d this aircraft get this far? What’s going on?”

  There was no response from anyone to the question. Dolins looked through his binoculars. The aircraft was still in the distance but getting closer. He could see no other aircraft in the sky, so the airliner had an open path and was heading straight for the White House—and him. Despite the rush of adrenaline his mind wandered, would he be able to get a last message to his wife and daughters? No, there was no time. Where were the Air Force interceptors?

  He heard the JOC voice again, “I repeat. This is FAA security. You have entered prohibited air space. Identify yourself and alter your flight plan now. Do you read me?”