Drone Games (27 page)

“Patricia Creed. She’s one of the NTSB’s investigators. She’s started an interrogation list and has already had some problems.”

“What problems?” Riley demanded, vaguely recalling the name.

“Some of the mechanics have a real attitude about talking to the government. They’ve got an inherent fear of having their tickets . . . er, licenses pulled. They’re afraid of being thrown in airport jail. It’s some kind of union thing.”

“You tell Ms. Creed to keep pushing. I want hard interviews with every one of the people who either touched that aircraft or were on duty at Mitchell preflight. If anyone acts suspiciously, mentions constitutional rights, or balks at questioning, I want to know. Anything else?”

“Sir, with respect to reporting hierarchy, what exactly is the FBI’s role here? I’d rather not have any conflicting orders from our side of the chain.”

Riley’s first instinct was to slam his hand on the table, but he caught himself.

“There won’t be any conflicts. I know this is new, and you may have to shift your thinking. This is, first and foremost, a national security investigation headed by the Department of Homeland Security. The FBI is taking the lead at O’Hare, and their progress will be reported to me. That goes for the NTSB too. The gentleman sitting next to me is Tom Ross, their man in charge. His findings at each of the crash sites will also become instantaneously available to this team. We’ll have centralized, accessible information—no overlap, no confrontations, and no media leaks. Everything comes through me. Let’s move to the outside perimeter. Mr. Cheng?”

A lean Chinese-American with a drawn face and a marathon runner’s physique strolled to a whiteboard. He inserted a marker into an electronic sleeve and drew out a rectangular sketch. The image was visible on a receiving board at the O’Hare site.

“Mitchell International Airport covers seven square miles. There are 274 private businesses operating on the perimeter. The investigative boundaries will start at the airport property and stretch outward one mile in all directions. Our objective is to literally flood the area with bodies and interviews.

“We have confirmed that our perpetrator was in the area when he made that the cell phone call. My people will visit every building, restaurant, gas station, office, and residence within two square miles of the originating cell tower. If our caller was sitting in a car on a side street along an airport boundary, then someone saw him.

“We have seventy-three federal agents assigned to the street. Milwaukee’s mayor has offered as many local detectives as we need to supplement the ground coverage.” Cheng sat down.

Riley nodded. “I want the local and national media to see us tripping over each other. We need to scare up some information. Okay, personnel assigned to Mitchell International are released. Let’s move on to O’Hare.”

West Baraboo, WI

AKIL PLACED his ID back in his wallet and recited a reference number to a young female clerk in a Check Advance Service Center.

“You can have a seat, sir, while I process this. How would you like the cash?”

“Hundreds and twenties, please,” Akil said, easing into a club chair. Even the interior air smelled like manure in this unremarkable Midwestern farm town of 1,400 people just south of Wisconsin Dells. He thumbed through a stack of reading materials, bypassing
People
and opting instead for a cattle disease article in
BEEF
magazine.

“You a gambler?” an elderly Native American man asked from across the lobby. He wore a bright-red, leather-fringed trapper costume and a red felt cowboy hat adorned with silver, turquoise, and bright-red feathers.

“I do my share,” Akil said. He knew that for him, gambling was strictly forbidden:

In them (wine and gambling) is great sin and their sin is greater than their benefit. (2:220)

You who have believed, intoxicants, gambling, and divining arrows are but defilement from the work of Satan, so avoid it that you may be successful. (5:90)

Akil also knew that his participation was perfectly acceptable and allowed in the course of deceiving his enemies.

“They call me Wanig-suchka, the Red Bird,” the old man said. “My ancestor was a war chief who always wore a red coat and called himself English. He was born in 1788. Ho-Chunk Casino is four miles north on County Highway BD. I give local tours, and I drive a shuttle, if you need a ride. You staying around here?”

“Nah, not today,” Akil said. “I don’t feel real lucky. Besides, I’m heading south. Gotta get back to Cincinnati by tonight.”

The old man shrugged. “Too bad. Ho-Chunk is one of six tribal casinos in Wisconsin. We are also known as the Winnebago, a Siouxspeaking tribe of Native Americans from Wisconsin, Minnesota, and parts of Iowa and Illinois. We have 2,500 slot machines now, but everything started with bingojack.”

“Bingojack?”

“That goes way back,” Red Bird said. “When it first opened, there was nothing on this land but a pole barn. Bingojack was the only game we offered. All the employees were tribal volunteers with no gaming experience. Even I was a dealer. Some of us barely knew how to read.” He laughed. “We miscounted so many hands it’s a wonder we stayed in business.”

“I’ve never heard of bingojack,” Akil said.

“Tens and face cards were white, with a pink ball in the center. That way nobody could say it was blackjack, a game prohibited by Wisconsin state law. When a player got dealt an ace and a pink ball card, someone shouted bingojack.” Red Bird waved his arms theatrically. “The rest is Indian history.”

“Is the casino crowded with the flying ban?” Akil asked.

“There could be a nuclear war and people would still come here and gamble. Las Vegas might be dying, but nobody flies to Wisconsin Dells. They all drive.

“This area is one of the most beautiful and scenic locations for Midwestern tourists to pack up their rug rats and spend a summer vacation. Where else can you find majestic views of the Wisconsin River and giant roller coasters within five square miles? The water parks here rank among the best in the country, especially the indoor ones. Our casino and hotel rival any operation anywhere.

“We may not be the Bellagio, but give us time. If we forced Donald Trump’s casinos into bankruptcy, then we’re doing something right. All the Indian revenues in the United States are more than Las Vegas and Atlantic City combined. I can remember when the Ho-Chunk Nation used to raise money selling caramel apples to tourists every night at the Indian Ceremonial Dance north of town. Not anymore. Now we own the town. Tribes all over the country lobbied state governments for the right to gamble on sacred land and provide for our people. What a crock! Hardly any of the profit goes to poor and underprivileged tribal families. It all funnels back to the original investors. And many of them already own shares in the Nevada and New Jersey operations. One of the wealthiest lives in Singapore.”

The cashier appeared at the counter window.

Akil gave Red Bird a cordial nod and strode outside to his car. He tucked the seven thousand dollars into his jean pocket along with a new prepaid cash card. The MoneyGram transaction amount was well below the ten thousand dollar limit that would alert Financial Crimes Enforcement. The drive to San Diego would take at least twenty-four hours.

—

Courtyard Marriott

TOM ROSS was curled up on a folding cot in a laundry room next to the NTSB’s communication center. A row of industrial clothes dryers gently hummed through their cycles.

Ron Hollings noticed his boss sleeping lightly and had no choice but to wake him. He knelt on the floor near the cot.

“Ross? Ian Goodman is here. We’re trying to patch in the live underwater video feed from the cockpit. It should take another twenty minutes or so, if you want to watch. It looks like it’s in decent shape.”

Ross sat up and let out a huge yawn. “Did the Fontenelle team form up yet?”

“Uh-huh. About an hour ago.”

“That was quick,” Ross said, inhaling deeply. “How many people did we have to give?”

“Just three. There was a contingency list of retirees willing to come back in an emergency.”

“Retirees?” Ross said incredulously. “Heaven help us.”

“Yeah. Nobody even knew there was such a list, but multiple airline crashes tend to gobble up resources. I guess they had to create some kind of backup plan in case of another 9/11.”

“My back is killing me,” Ross said, stretching for his toes.

Hollings shook his head. “You look awful, Tom. Why don’t you just sleep in your room? We can handle things here. Besides, it wouldn’t look real good if the media found the NTSB’s investigator-in-charge napping in the laundry.”

“Call me when that film starts. And by the way, I’m not in charge anymore,” Ross said matter-of-factly. “You are.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry and don’t ask. You probably wouldn’t believe me anyway. Suffice it to say that I’m going on a special assignment. I just need you to cover things. I have a one-on-one interview in fifteen minutes. Where’s Neela?”

“In her room with her cameraman. She’s been there all day. Tom, this is crazy. Are we really supposed to start approving news stories? We’re investigators, not editors.”

“I’ll handle that,” Ross assured.

“Fine with me. Nobody in our office has any experience with TV reporting. It’s so early in the process that we don’t even know the topic of the news story.”

Ross stood up and looked Hollings in the eyes.

“The topic is me.”

Oval Office, White House

Washington, DC

CHIEF OF STAFF Bard fingered through several folders, trying to determine which crisis to bring up first. With an ever-slanted eye on election politics, he decided on economics.

“Mr. President, six major airlines are planning a joint statement at 1:00 p.m. I’m afraid they’re going to announce a drop-dead date for a bailout. Their cash reserves are already on fire. Secretary Minka hasn’t had time to consolidate all the carrier numbers, but he did manage a rough estimate of Delta’s—one without the accounting hocus-pocus. He looked at it from a daily revenue intake of zero. From here on, it’s all about cash flow. One thing’s for sure: they’re in pre-panic denial. Delta’s VP of Finance, John Jacobs said they have six billion in cash and could survive a shutdown for two to three months, maybe longer. Minka thinks they only have three billion in cash and the rest due from receivables.”

“What about fuel savings?”

“Already factored in, as are the effects of an unprecedented layoff of nonessential employees and union workers. They can also reduce contract maintenance work, but they still owe nearly a billion a month in short-term debt payments alone. Sir, Minka believes these companies will be on life support in twenty-five to forty days.”

“What about other assets?”

“Of course that’s an option. They all have short- and long-term investments along with credit lines, but no business wants to start raiding those just to make payroll. And it gets worse. In addition to losing three billion dollars a day in revenue, initial forecasts suggest that the fear alone generated by airline terrorism could result in a forty to fifty percent decline in passengers if and when service resumes. And that decline could last for six months or more. That spells more than bankruptcy; that spells ceasing operations. I have to admit that I never realized how fragile that industry is. The unions are already planning mass protest rallies. I’m afraid this is just horrid. The airlines, hotels, restaurants, resorts, and all the travel and business-related sectors could also lose 1.1 million jobs in just two months. One year after 9/11, domestic and foreign air travel were down 15 percent and 25 percent, respectively. After just three days of shutdown, the airlines needed ten billion dollars to survive. If this thing runs for ten or even fifteen days, I’m afraid they’ll need upward of seventy to eighty billion dollars to keep operating . . . maybe more.”

“Then it’s our job to get it for them,” the president said firmly. “Andrew, please stop saying you’re afraid. We’re all afraid. It is what it is. The fabric of our very economy is unraveling before our eyes, and we’re powerless to stop it. This is a living economic and political nightmare. No—it’s more than that. It’s economic terrorism and extortion rolled into one. Whoever did this planned it beautifully. Think of it. They’ve placed the responsibility for the economic impacts right in our laps. We don’t know the terror method, and therefore we have no choice but to injure the economy. All the blame shifts to us until we figure out how it’s being perpetrated. Meanwhile, we have to be the bad guy. And we certainly can’t go to the American people with two anonymous phone calls. On the other hand, if we allow air traffic to resume, knowing that more attacks are possible, it would be criminal.” The president glanced at his flag. “One nation under God . . . one nation held hostage.”