Death in the Cloud

by E. J. Simon

  Dolins heard another voice cutting in, “France Global 509, this is tower, on Guard frequency. Please confirm…Where the hell have you been?…How many persons do you have on board?”

  “Jesus, it’s the missing airliner,” Dolins whispered. Clearly, this was no accident.

  “Intercepts are on the way, estimated time to contact, three minutes.”

  “It’ll be too late. We’ll need to use the Stingers.”

  The JOC voice spoke, “Is anyone getting a response from the aircraft?”

  “Negative.”

  “Where’s the President?” Dolins said, speaking into the microphone on his lapel.

  A new voice answered, “In the Oval Office, sir.”

  This time Dolins shouted into his microphone, “Get the President down to the secure bunker, now.”

  Without warning, the door to the Oval Office swung open, startling the President. This was no time to be interrupted; no one should have come in for at least half an hour.

  But O’Brien instantly read the distressed look on the face of the head of White House security, Johnny Bennett, who’d burst through, followed closely by Jim Goodrich, the director of the CIA.

  “We’re under attack,” Bennett said. “We need to get downstairs—both of you—now.”

  The President’s mind flashed back to the images of a frozen George Bush at the moment an aide whispered into his ear about the second 9/11 airliner crashing into the World Trade Center. He rose up, quickly gestured with his arm to President Payard, and they both moved through the door and to the waiting entourage of nervous Secret Service agents.

  “Run—we need to run, sir, quickly,” the agent said. Another agent gestured to Payard, signaling him to come.

  “Where’s the attack, exactly?” the President said, grabbing President Payard’s arm as they both hurried to follow.

  “It’s right here, sir. It’s an aircraft heading directly for the White House. It will hit us in two minutes.”

  “An aircraft?” he echoed.

  The agent looked back at him, his eyes betraying his fear, “An airliner, sir.”

  Jim Goodrich, too, was trying to stay calm as he raced behind Bennett and ushered the President and Payard into the elevator.

  It was a thirty-second ride to the underground bunker and operations center. “What the hell’s going on?” President O’Brien said. “What happened exactly?”

  “The missing France Global airliner just appeared over the Atlantic, out of nowhere, and it’s asking for clearance to Reagan but we think it’s headed for us. Air traffic control is telling us it suddenly showed up on ATC radar after the pilot—who has identified himself as the same one who was in charge of the original flight—apparently switched on the transponder.”

  O’Brien tried to process Goodrich’s news. “Where have they been? The airliner, I mean. It’s been, what, two days? What about the passengers? Are they on board?”

  “We’re still trying to get answers, sir. In the meantime, the Air Force has dispatched F-16s. They’ll have a visual on the aircraft any second now. These are all questions we’ll be asking as our jets intercept.”

  As the steel elevator doors opened, the president leaned closer to Goodrich and whispered, “What the hell else is on that plane?” An airliner was bad enough; a bomb on board an airliner would be even worse. The doors to the operations center conference room opened. By O’Brien’s watch, it had taken ninety seconds to get there.

  As they entered, Goodrich glanced down at his secure cell phone. “The pilot just confirmed there are two hundred and forty people on board.”

  Chapter 9

  Uzes, France

  Traveling through the south of France, Michael and Samantha had just arrived at their hotel, L’Artemise, in the ancient town of Uzes. Samantha was fluent in French, which was fortunate since Michael had buried several French instructors at home in the States. Despite years of lessons, he had only a rough comprehension and a basic ability to speak the language. But combined with Samantha’s fluency, his effort, regardless of how butchered, to speak and understand the language gained him a relatively positive reception in most of his French encounters.

  Samantha was already at the pool, leaving Michael alone in their room overlooking the plush gardens of the seventeenth-century inn, once the grand home of an archbishop, now redesigned as a stylish luxury chateau with six guest rooms, each featuring exposed beams, stone walls, and contemporary art.

  Sitting on the comfortable white linen upholstered chair, a glass of local chilled rosé by his side, he opened his laptop and clicked on Alex’s icon.

  “Schlegelberger’s back,” Alex said.

  “He’s dead. I know that better than anyone. There’s no way he ever walked out of that hotel in Paris; he had to have gone straight to the morgue.”

  Alex laughed. “Yeah, just like I never walked out of the restaurant in Queens. I went straight to the morgue, too.”

  “What are you saying? That he’s in the cloud like you?”

  “Exactly, Sherlock. He got his hands on my software before he died. I think when he hacked into my account, he found out the identity of the AI geeks I’d hired.”

  “I’m trying to understand all this…Does it mean, since he’s got the software, that he can somehow destroy you?”

  “I don’t know what he can do. I know it’s not good. Like me, he’s probably trying to figure out how much power he has. I don’t care about all this power shit for myself—but he does.”

  “Could he be the one you said was hacking you? The one you thought was an organization or government?”

  “It’s possible, but it still looks more like it’s bigger than one person…even a dead one like Schlegelberger. Could be someone else discovered one or both of us and is trying to figure out what we’re all about, what’s going on. Eventually the NSA or the Russian or Chinese equivalents of it has got to stumble onto of us. That’s when the fun will really begin.”

  Michael paused to let it register. “So, that means—”

  “What it means,” Alex looked straight back at Michael, wide-eyed, “is there’s two of us.”

  Just as it was beginning to sink in, Michael noticed a flickering on the screen.

  “I think I’m losing you,” Michael said. “Sometimes the Wi-Fi’s weak here in this part of France.”

  He heard Alex’s voice but couldn’t make out what he was saying, and then it sounded like a jumble of static and then…another voice, throaty and guttural, someone who’d smoked for too long.

  “Alex, are you there?” Michael said. “Is someone else…?”

  And then he heard the voice again. He recognized the German accent. It was Schlegelberger.

  “Well, what have we here?” Schlegelberger said. “You don’t mind if I join your little chat, do you?”

  Michael’s computer screen was restored, the images and sound as clear as ever. The screen split into two images: on the left was Alex, exactly like before. On the right, was Monsignor Schlegelberger, dressed in his black clerical top and white collar. He looked as Michael remembered him: a wiry older man with white hair and dark circles under his eyes.

  “There’s nothing more pathetic than a dead priest,” Alex said.

  Schlegelberger shrugged. “My neck appears to have healed well enough.”

  It was Michael who had broken Schlegelberger’s neck in the basement of the Hotel Lutetia that night in Paris. Schlegelberger had been desperate to get his hands on Michael’s computer, but Michael, with the unexpected but welcome appearance of Sindy Steele, was able to overpower the priest while Steele put her stiletto into the hit man who had been about to murder him. What neither Michael nor Schlegelberger knew at the time, however, was that Schlegelberger had already been duplicated onto AI software after he found—and murdered—the computer duo Alex had employed to make the AI brea
kthrough.

  Now, Schlegelberger was back.

  “It’s a shame you won’t join me in my endeavor. We could be powerful together.”

  Alex’s eyes narrowed, his forehead furrowed. “Are you fuckin’ nuts? All I want is to figure out how to get a good meal again and maybe who’s going to win the Super Bowl. I have no idea what the hell you want out of life, or death, or whatever the hell this is.”

  “What do you want?” Michael asked the priest. “And what do you want with us?”

  “It’s simple, Michael. I want you both to cease to exist, to disappear, forever.”

  “What difference does it make to you, especially now?”

  “Now? You don’t understand, do you? My life hasn’t ended, as you can plainly see. In fact, it’s only beginning. Soon you will see what I am capable of.” He moved as if to check his watch. “Very soon, in fact.”

  “Well, I hate to tie you up with so much going on,” Alex said.

  “Unlike you, I am using my powers to achieve something worthwhile, not to try to fill my stomach or anticipate a soccer match.”

  “It’s football, not soccer. Google it,” Alex said.

  “You are a fool, Alex. Before the day is over, you will see how small you are and how easily expendable you and your brother are. Today is simply the appetizer. Unfortunately, you will miss the main course.”

  Chapter 10

  40,000 feet above the Atlantic off the Virginia coast

  The voice echoed through Captain Kruger’s earphones.

  “Herr Schlegelberger? I…thought you were…dead?”

  “Evidently not, my friend. You are deviating from our plan. Reset your autopilot back to the coordinates for the White House, immediately.”

  Kruger was confused. Schlegelberger had been found dead in that Paris hotel. Dietrich was the new leader.

  “What about Herr Dietrich? Where is he?”

  “Dietrich is awaiting word from me of your mission. Let’s not disappoint him. Cut off your transponder, stop all communications with the ground, and resume your course toward the target.”

  Kruger was paralyzed. His fingers reached for the autopilot control, which he’d changed to the airport coordinates. Voices were coming through his earphones again, “France Global 509, this is on GUARD frequency, we have you on radar, please respond…”

  Then Schlegelberger’s voice again, “Ernst, plug back in the coordinates of the White House.”

  He ignored him, pulling his hand back from the autopilot control.

  “Tower, this is France Global 509, we need your assistance—” But as he spoke into the microphone he no longer heard the unmistakable static that accompanied his back and forth with the US authorities, only a hollow echo. He’d been cut off. He tried again, “This is France Global 509, I repeat, this is France Global 509, come in Tower…Request coordinates to land directly at any secure airfield.”

  But it was no use, his mike and earphones were dead. He looked at the display: the destination coordinates were changing in front of his eyes. He recognized the new one, it was the same one he’d just replaced with Reagan Airport. He was heading once again for the White House.

  He pulled up slightly on the plane’s sidestick control, expecting the plane to pitch up, but nothing happened. He tried other controls, and then attempted to manually turn off the autopilot, but, once again, the plane didn’t respond. Instead, it appeared the aircraft was being controlled from somewhere else, by someone else. He flicked one switch after another, but the aircraft carried on its way, banking slightly left, in defiance of Kruger’s efforts.

  His earphones came to life again but instead of the crackle of voices from nearby planes and the tower, this time he heard one voice, loud and clear. It was Schlegelberger again, as though he sat in the empty copilot’s seat right next to him.

  “I’m in control now. It will be over soon.”

  Chapter 11

  Washington, DC

  President O’Brien had first seen the secret Armageddon-proof bunker shortly before his inauguration.

  Although there were no windows to the outside world, the world outside appeared around them on wall-sized video monitors displaying maps, images of the White House, seemingly every national monument, Air Force base, airport, missile installation, and 7-Eleven in the country.

  O’Brien, like several presidents before him, knew they’d be safe here—even if the monitors went black. And, just in case, there was always a big supply of the favorite beverage of whoever was in power in the fridge. For O’Brien, it meant a year’s supply of Maker’s Mark bourbon.

  The President and his men filed inside, taking their seats. Seated around the long rectangular wood conference table were the key members of the President’s staff and uniformed military aides, all hurriedly swept from their desks inside the White House and herded into the secure bunker.

  Seated directly across the table from the President, and perhaps the most ill at ease person in the room—other than President Payard—was Johnny Bennett, who appeared to have just concluded a conversation on one of the series of telephones placed around the table. As he hung up the phone, he looked at the President.

  “Sir, we are going to shoot it down,” Bennett said, loudly enough for the entire room to hear. “God bless those on board.”

  Dick Dolins’s grip would have crushed the high-powered binoculars had they been made of a softer steel. While he watched the airliner approach, he listened through his earpiece as multiple voices, static, and the clicking on and off of the participants’ microphones set the backdrop of what he knew was a looming disaster.

  “What’s the ETA?”

  “Minutes, three, at the most.”

  “What?”

  “Sir, it has accelerated and is on a direct path to the White House.”

  “Are the Stingers ready?”

  The White House was surrounded by several portable, shoulder-mounted Stinger anti-aircraft surface-to-air missiles hard-mounted and hidden on the roofs of surrounding buildings up and down Pennsylvania Avenue. It was meant as a last resort or to fight off rogue aircraft and, most recently, drones. Dolins could imagine men dropping their cups of coffee and scurrying to arm and prepare them.

  “Location North, ready, sir.”

  “West, yes, sir.”

  “East, ready, sir.”

  “South, ready, sir.”

  But Dolins had a growing sense that they wouldn’t be necessary as, in the distance at the periphery of his binoculars sight lines, he saw the F-16s from nearby Andrews Air Force Base had arrived. Trailing behind them were two Homeland Security helicopters armed with .50 caliber machine guns.

  Suddenly the sky lit up as a series of flares and laser lights surrounded the airliner in an illuminated fog and strobe-light show. It was the protocol designed by NORAD to occur moments before they shot an intruder down.

  Dolins listened as the communications continued.

  “What’s the ETA? I repeat, give me the ETA.”

  “Two minutes, maybe less.”

  “How the fuck did he get through our radar?”

  “Interceptor One ready, sir.” Dolins watched as one of the F-16s caught up with the plane, appearing to pull up alongside it. The chatter increased, intensifying as NORAD, JADOC, the FAA, the Secret Service, and the other overlapping agencies responsible for the security of the airspace above the capital. Things were happening so quickly, he wasn’t sure who was speaking to whom, at least until the first F-16 pilot broke into the conversation.

  “Where is the President?” a voice said.

  “He’s secure,” another responded, “all personnel have been evacuated.”

  Except one, Dolins thought to himself, wondering what his own protocol would be.

  “This is Interceptor One, in position, prepared to engage, sir.”

 
“This is NORAD Commander Connors. Shoot it down.”

  “Interceptor One, sir, I have a visual. It’s a commercial airliner. Please confirm instructions.”

  “Instructions confirmed, shoot it down Interceptor One.

  “But, sir—”

  “Shoot it down, now. Do you read? Shoot it down.”

  “Acknowledge, sir. Affirmative.”

  Dolins wasn’t sure how many seconds passed, but there was no more chatter and only silence from the F-16 pilot. Had he been disconnected from the exchange?

  Finally, the pilot responded, and Dolins couldn’t believe the words coming through his earpiece.

  “I can’t, sir.”

  “Interceptor One, this is an order. Shoot it down, now. What do you mean, you can’t? Shoot it out of the goddamned sky, now!”

  “Sir, this is Interceptor One. I have a visual on the aircraft, it’s a passenger airliner. I can see faces in the windows.”

  “Interceptor One, I repeat, fire.

  “Sir, this is Interceptor One, I have a close visual on the aircraft, it’s a passenger airliner. I can see the passenger’s faces in the windows. They’re looking at me.”

  Chapter 12

  Michael tried to take a nap. The flight from New York to Nice and the six-hour time difference had taken its toll. But he couldn’t get the image of Schlegelberger out of his mind, or Alex’s chilling words: There’s two of us.

  Michael sensed that Alex simply wanted to continue to live his life as though he was alive. If he could, he’d leave everyone alone except maybe for some good-looking women on the Internet and maybe try to have sex with his ex-wife, Donna. To the rest of the world, Alex was, as he had been in life, harmless. But what was Schlegelberger’s purpose? What was he trying to do—besides eliminate Michael and his brother? Was Alex a potential obstacle to whatever he had in mind? Schlegelberger was evil in life; now, with his virtual powers and access to everything in the ether, he’d be up to something horrific.