Death in the Cloud

by E. J. Simon

  He was tempted to call the authorities, but how could he explain what was happening? Two dead men in the cloud, one of them planning world domination? It beggared the imagination. Samantha still didn’t buy into the virtual Alex, although seeing him on the computer screen months earlier had made her reconsider her position.

  His iPhone vibrated, reverberating through the bedside table. Michael picked it up and read the text notification. It was a CNN news flash: Missing mystery airliner appears over the Atlantic headed for Washington, DC. Authorities on alert for potential attack on the city. The Pentagon, Capitol and the White House are being evacuated.

  He texted Alex:

  Michael: Could the airliner be connected to Schlegelberger?

  Alex: It is. I just discovered it. I hacked into him. It’s bad.

  Michael: What’s the plane going to do?

  Alex: I can’t tell. All I know is that S’s involved. I’m trying to get in deeper into his systems but he’s set up pretty good defenses. He’s got an accomplice, some guy in Germany.

  Michael: A real person? Or…

  Alex: I’ll ignore that dig, but, yeah, some guy who I can see is having dinner at a restaurant in Germany while this thing with the plane is going down.

  Michael: What did they do with the plane for the last few days? And where are all the passengers? Why haven’t they been on their cell phones? This is so strange.

  Alex: I don’t know, the hijackers might have a cell blocker or maybe they took the phones away. It sounds like the passengers are on the plane. The pilot’s made announcements over the intercom to the passengers. I don’t think they know what is happening exactly or that they may be heading into some building.

  Michael: They have to be wondering, especially after 9/11.

  Alex: Who knows what they’ve been told or what they believe.

  Michael: But what’s S’s stake in this? Why would he do this? Can’t you stop him?

  Alex: No, at least not yet. There’s some connectivity between his software and mine but I can’t penetrate it enough to control or destroy him. I think he’s trying to do that to me but our software systems are designed to fight off and defend against these things, even, I guess, from each other. Without expert help, I can only go so far, and he’s probably ahead of me.”

  Michael: Well, we’ll find out more once we see what happens with the airliner.

  Alex: From what I’ve discovered so far, the plane is what S. referred to as the appetizer.

  Michael: What do you mean?

  Alex: He’s trying to hack into systems that go way beyond a single airliner. I think his “main course” is gonna be much worse. I found this e-mail he sent to Dietrich months ago:

  Now that I’m on the other side, I’m convinced that the internet, aided by artificial intelligence, can bring about changes so profound their only parallel is the discovery of fire.

  The computer and its interaction with the virtual world is no longer precisely constructed, its every action no longer measured for potential ramifications. The machines are running out of control. They are advancing in intelligence beyond a human or a government’s ability to control them or understand their capabilities.

  They now intuitively bypass security systems and controls. Cameras and listening devices are everywhere. Most of the billions of devices that have been connected to the internet over the past few years were done so with little concern for security. No one is responsible for securing them.

  The smell of smoke drifts out of the overheated computer rooms. The security walls are crumbling from the weight of it all. The machines are on fire. The world will soon be, too.

  Michael: Jesus, what are we going to do? I don’t even know what it means but it isn’t good.

  Alex: All I know is we’ve got to kill him before he kills us—and God knows how many other people.”

  Chapter 13

  As though looking over Kruger’s shoulder, Schlegelberger had a full view of the cockpit. For a moment, he couldn’t help but admire the sleek stage of symmetrical dials and gauges, illuminated in soft hues of green and blue. During the jet’s two days on the ground, Dietrich had his men install the necessary cameras and electronics in order to easily allow Schlegelberger to oversee and, if necessary, take control of the aircraft.

  “It’s unfortunate things have to end this way, Kruger. You could have been a useful asset for us moving forward.”

  Kruger was frantically attacking the controls and instrument panel, flicking switches. At first, he appeared to be trying to override the flight management system. The system would bring the aircraft to within a few feet of the location that had been input, in this case, remotely by Schlegelberger. Kruger kept pushing the system’s disconnect button, to no avail. He then tried to retake control using the sidestick control column on his right.

  “None of your efforts will work, Captain. There is no override on my power. I am in control. In other times, I would have offered you my prayers but I’m afraid religion is of no use to me anymore. Nor, I’m afraid, will yours be to you.

  As the plane began its final descent, and with the capital’s landmarks visible now through the cockpit windshield, Kruger appeared to be ignoring him, working every switch and device within his reach.

  “Welcome to the White House,” Schlegelberger whispered.

  Still on the roof, Dolins watched through his binoculars as the plane drew closer. He wondered what was on it besides passengers. Was this a 9/11-type attack using the airliner as a missile to kill passengers and people on the ground? That would be bad enough. But if this was the missing airliner, there had to be a reason it wasn’t simply hijacked and flown directly into a building here in DC. What had the hijackers done to the jet during those two days? Did some terrorist group finally get its hands on a nuclear device and plant it inside the plane? If so, it was already too late to avert a disaster.

  The sounds of the unsuspecting capital city below and the hiss of static were all he could hear through his earpiece. It was an incomprehensible silence considering the last exchange from the intercepting pilot. But, after several seconds, the voices came alive, the stress and tension coming through as clearly as the words.

  “Interceptor One, I need for you to execute my command, as difficult as it may—”

  “Oh my God. Shit!” the captain shrieked.

  “Captain Connor, what is it? Interceptor One do you read me?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m looking through the rest of the passenger windows, in the main cabin, sir. They’re all open…”

  “The window shades?”

  “No, their mouths. Oh God. Oh man, this is—”

  “What is it? Connors, what’s happening?”

  “They’re dead. They’re all dead, rows of them. They’re in their seats, no one’s moving, their mouths are open. It’s all dead bodies, hundreds of them, one row after another. They’re corpses.”

  Chapter 14

  Cologne, Germany

  Claus Dietrich had chosen to stay the night at the Schloss Bensberg castle, now a luxurious hotel outside of Cologne. The city had been virtually destroyed by Allied bombers in World War II. Someday soon, he would see the photographs of the great American cities, New York, Chicago, and others destroyed, just as his beloved German cites had been during the war. He fantasized a Hiroshima-like version of Manhattan, only the spires of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral still standing amid the flattened ruins.

  Tonight’s mission would be only the prelude, the first step toward the mass destruction of the United States and Russia, the two countries that destroyed his beloved Germany.

  Not in the mood for the hotel’s German signature Michelin-starred restaurant, he chose to dine in the hotel’s more casual Italian trattoria.

  In his seventies and like his uncle, Hitler’s minister of propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, Claus Dietrich was a slight man. H
e placed his mobile phone by the side of his plate, waiting for word from Schlegelberger that the airliner had reached its target.

  Dining on simple spaghetti with clams and fresh tomatoes, he thought of the beauty, the perfect symmetry of the revenge he was about to deliver. Just as the Allies had invaded Hitler’s bunker, he would invade and destroy America’s own bunker, the White House.

  His thoughts went to the vivid newspaper image of his Uncle Joseph, his burned, blackened body, his prominent and unmistakable facial features still recognizable, an arm reaching out yet frozen in death, lying just outside the entrance to Hitler’s bunker as the victorious Russian troops displayed the charred corpse for all the world to see.

  Dietrich envisioned the similarly charred figure of President O’Brien, perhaps on the South Lawn, on CNN.

  He also remembered earlier images of his uncle, his deep-set eyes, the unusual way his mouth contorted, his tongue twisted and often visible, as he spoke in front of the huge crowds, his right arm straight, thrust forward in a Nazi salute. Of all of the photos of his uncle, Dietrich cherished the one of Goebbels seated in the garden of the Carlton Hotel in Geneva, glaring darkly into the camera a moment after an aide whispered in his ear that the photographer, Alfred Eisenstaedt, was a Jew. Dietrich kept a framed version by his bed.

  As he waited for word of the airliner, his thoughts went to the next step in their mission. The destruction of the plane and the White House would set the stage for a much greater apocalypse, made possible by the technology Alex Nicholas had introduced. The same technology that had saved Schlegelberger.

  He was just beginning to feel a welcome lightness coming over him as he finished the half-bottle of dry Austrian Grüner Veltliner, when he saw the text message from Schlegelberger flash on his phone’s screen: All obstacles evaded. Victory is moments away. The gates of Hell are opening.

  Chapter 15

  “Interceptor Two, are you in position?”

  The first jet had swung away sharply from the jetliner. Now, a second F-16 approached the lumbering aircraft from behind.

  A new voice: “Yes, sir. Preparing to fire.”

  The voice interrupted, “Permission to fire.”

  Dolins watched the cloud stream tail after the release of the missile from the second F-16 as it headed straight for the airliner. He could feel his whole body tense up, anticipating the horror about to explode before him.

  “God help them,” he whispered.

  But a split second before the missile would have reached its target, it made a sharp turn away from the airliner, falling harmlessly away into the clouds.

  “Target’s got an anti-missile system, probably a laser,” a voice from the F-16 said.

  Dolins remembered a briefing, months ago about an anti-missile laser defense system being utilized by Israeli airliners. It was designed to operate autonomously, without input from the flight crew. An array of sensors detected a missile approaching the aircraft and transmitted this information to an infrared tracking camera. The system’s computer analyzed the input signals and then directed a laser at the incoming missile. The laser projected a false target into the incoming missile’s guidance system, causing it to turn away from the aircraft. The process only took two to three seconds, the system fully contained in a small box mounted on the underside of the plane’s fuselage.

  He watched as a red laser beam streamed into the sky and locked onto its target, a second missile, which also lurched away before reaching the airliner. The plane appeared unfazed, continuing on its course directly toward him.

  More F-16s were now approaching from the left. They broke formation, stalking the airliner, crossing in front of it, directly in its path, incredibly close, then almost in unison, pulling back as another missile was fired, this time from launchers on the nearby rooftops.

  “Fire…fire!”

  “Negative, sir.”

  “Negative.”

  “Negative, sir, it’s still coming,” said a voice on the ground.

  “Dolins—are you there?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s closing in.”

  He remembered a scene from a reenactment movie about 9/11, an office worker in the World Trade Center happened to look out of his big glass window moments before the giant airliner crashed into the building. The nose of the plane was almost upon him, its nose and expanse dominating his view, so close he could see the faces of the hijackers.

  “Get off the roof, get out of there, now!”

  Dolins turned and dashed for the door, knowing he wouldn’t make it in time.

  He could feel the old building tremble beneath his feet as he reached for the door. The roar of the engines filled his ears. He fought his instinct to jump through the open door and instead took one last look back at the oncoming plane. As he did, he heard an unusual whistling sound and saw the telltale trail of a missile heading for the plane. In a split second, a massive fireball erupted in front of him, blowing the airliner out of the sky.

  The missile’s explosion ruptured the cockpit, separating it from the rest of the fuselage as debris blanketed the White House roof and the entire surrounding area. Dolins was thrown to the ground. Lying on his back, an intense wave of heat passed over him and in those few seconds Dolins thought he would surely die. But the heat quickly subsided, replaced by a black cloud and a storm of objects raining down from the sky. A piece of the airliner’s landing gear and wheel came hurtling at him, missing him by inches, slamming into the roof’s solar panels and shattering one of the chimneys jutting out.

  He quickly got up on his feet, looked around the cityscape beyond the White House, the airliner’s debris peppering the surrounding area and creating pockets of smoke and fire on the rooftops of buildings and on the streets below. Even from where he stood on the roof, he could hear the screams of people and the wail of sirens coming from every direction on the streets below.

  Gasoline fumes and burning rubber filled the air. He focused now on the area around him. The White House roof was littered with fragments of the plane, torn metal, pieces of what appeared to be the plane’s interior, upholstery and plastic still burning, smoldering, pieces of luggage, some still intact, others on fire, and then the pieces…of remains, passengers who, until moments ago, had been whole.

  He turned away from them.

  But, as he did, one thing caught his eye. It looked familiar, safe, standing upright, an image he’d seen a thousand times before. Letting his defenses down, he allowed himself to move toward it, his mind needing a moment to process the image. It was…out of context, standing like a piece of a modernist sculpture he’d seen in a museum.

  It was an airline seat with its passenger still strapped in, seemingly untouched and in perfect condition, oblivious to the disaster all around him.

  Wanting to help, Dolins took several rapid steps toward the passenger. As he came closer, he saw the man, casually dressed, dark trousers and a light blue open collared shirt, his hands gripping the arm rests as though he was still waiting for what was to come, his feet on the ground, brown wing-tipped shoes still tied. His mouth was partly open but his eyes were open wide, staring straight ahead, as though frozen or in shock, eerily still.

  Having served in the Middle East, Dolins recognized the look of a dead man. He turned away and went inside.

  Chapter 16

  Washington, DC

  Hours later, back in the Oval Office after seeing Payard off, President Harry O’Brien watched as the chief of White House security, Johnny Bennett, and CIA Director Jim Goodrich, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff John Sculley, and National Security Adviser Darryl MacPherson tried to explain how a large airliner could avoid detection, evade oncoming missiles and penetrate the secure airspace perimeter around the Capitol and the White House.

  “Sir, we’ve had the benefit of only a few hours now to investigate this and make at least a cursory analysis of the w
reckage.” Bennett appeared, once again, nervous. “This plane had the shell and fittings of the original Airbus, but in the days it was missing it was significantly modified for the attack.”

  The President’s eyes narrowed. “Modified?”

  Bennett looked over at Goodrich. “Yes, sir,” Bennett he, sitting upright in his chair. “The missile-defense system was added on between its disappearance and the attack.”

  “But how did it get that far? How did it get past us and all our sophisticated radar?”

  “First, sir, the aircraft’s transponder had been disconnected. Second, our radars did show the plane. But only briefly before it disappeared in a flood of literally thousands of additional false blips that overwhelmed our systems. We were unable to pick out the airliner from all the other legitimate aircraft and false signals.”

  O’Brien looked at him, stunned. “Do we have any idea who was behind this? Have we come across this type of thing before?”

  “The answer to your first question is we do not know who did this. We have our usual suspects but no real evidence or even any claims yet from groups taking responsibility.”

  “And what about whether we’ve seen this sort of thing before?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. We’re not only familiar with this type of radar jamming, we actually created it ourselves.”

  “Of course,” said O’Brien. “How did I know that was coming?”

  “Several years ago, we commissioned a company based out of Austin that had been doing cutting-edge work for the Air Force on data mining in large-scale computer systems. We actually gave them a facility in the basement of the FAA headquarters to create and simulate exactly what was deployed here to disguise the incoming airliner. It was intended to be used by us to cripple an enemy’s air defenses in the event we needed to disguise our own attack or undercover air operations.”