Free Fall (23 page)

Fifty-One

Hyattsville, Maryland

V
eyda's monitor came alive with a blizzard of tiny animated planes representing the nearly six thousand commercial flights moving over the continental United States at this moment.

Look at them. Throngs of ordinary people speeding to their destinations.

She studied the living, breathing activity with the fascination of a self-appointed god looking over a thriving anthill. She was proud of the work she and Seth had done.

Now it's time we enlighten the world
.

Veyda clicked and her monitor changed to show activity by specific airline. Another click and the screen showed flights in and out of specific airports and hubs. She sampled them, clicking on Atlanta, then Albuquerque, then Boston, Chicago, Dallas, Fargo, Houston, Jacksonville, Kansas City, Minneapolis, Omaha, Phoenix, Pittsburgh, Raleigh, San Diego and so on.

She clicked again and she saw flights by aircraft make and model. Another click showed all traffic over each state. Another showed specific routes. Another click showed control towers across the United States. Then she clicked on radar approach facilities, then traffic control centers.

“It's a technological wonder—a beautiful, powerful tool, Seth!”

“We're set,” he said, placing luggage at the front door. “Just have to lock on to the selection, employ our software, enter our codes and we're good.” He surveyed the equipment on his worktable, deciding on which laptops he needed to take with them.

At her desk, Veyda leaned forward, staring deep into her monitor and thinking.

What about Kate Page?

Veyda hadn't landed on the punishment she wanted to administer to that insolent, insufferable Gamma girl.

We haven't seen any new stories. What's up with her?

Veyda's keyboard clicked and she browsed Kate Page's private information through the path Seth had created. Nothing new jumped out at Veyda until...

Wait...what's this? I don't believe it!

“Seth, come here and look at this!” Veyda tapped her monitor. “Look!”

Seth drew his face to the screen.

“Damn, she's just boarded a flight to Los Angeles. Wow!” he said.

“Can we adjust things to capitalize on it?”

“Let me see.”

Seth moved to his desk and began working, clicking on graphs, charts and maps, making calculations while Veyda studied the new information. Kate Page had a round-trip flight from Kennedy to LAX.

Why's she going to California? What's that girl up to? Is she on to something? Working something with the FBI? It doesn't matter. We're too far advanced to be stopped. If anything, this is a gift, a golden opportunity
.

“Okay, done,” Seth said.

“So we can do it?”

“Yes, it was easy. We just need to fine-tune the coding, but it also means we're changing our plans.”

“Great.”

“We've got a little over two hours. Are you done packing?”

“Almost.”

A chime notification sounded on one of Seth's laptops.

“What's that?” Veyda asked.

“I set up a notification alert for anything that comes up online with your name or my name.”

Seth clicked on a new video posted online.

“Oh, no,” he said.

“What is it?”

Seth moved so Veyda could meet the face of her father, Robert Cole. Seth looked at her. She blinked as her face tightened with anger.

“Play it,” she said.

Her father's head and shoulders appeared and tears filled his eyes as he pleaded.

“Veyda, sweetheart, this is your father. Whatever you're doing or thinking of doing, please stop. We have to talk. I'm begging you. I want to help you, and me, too. You know how to reach me. You will always be my daughter and I will always be your father. I love you. Please call me. Please, Veyda.”

For the last fifteen seconds the video showed a montage of photos: Veyda, the toddler, asleep on her father's chest at his desk; Veyda and her dad with her first two-wheeler; Veyda with her parents at the beach.

Then the video froze.

Nothing in the video identified the family name—but it wouldn't take long before someone somewhere zeroed in on it.

Veyda stared at the image, not moving. Her nostrils flared, her breathing deepening as emotion raged through her.

“Veyda?” Seth asked. “Are you going to be okay?”

Beyond Seth's worktable the large TV screen continued playing footage of the Heathrow crash and the EastCloud cabin video. The churning of passengers triggered Veyda's memory of the car accident that had killed her mother...

Oh my God, Mom, the winters in Cambridge are absolutely cruel...

Then their car was airborne... They were rolling... The screams... Glass shattering, metal crunching... Rolling...rolling... Her mother was pinned under the car...

Her father was shouting...
Elizabeth!

Her mother screaming her name...
Veyda!

Mom!
She was crawling to them...blood webbing her face...
Mom!
Sirens...shouting...a helicopter...everything turning black...

“Veyda?” Seth was concerned.

Veyda was transfixed by her father's video, staring at the monitor as she spoke to it.

“I have a right. What he did. What he took from me. I have a right.”

“Are you sure you're okay? We have to get going to catch our flight.”

Another chime sounded on Seth's laptop, followed by a second.

“People are tweeting links to the video, Veyda. This one says, ‘Hope this sad dad finds his daughter.'”

Veyda's face hardened.

“I am not his daughter and he is not my father. My parents are dead to me. You know what to do, Seth. Do it. Then shut it all down and pack it up. I'll be ready in five minutes.”

Fifty-Two

Linthicum, Maryland

D
own a labyrinth of corridors within the secured confines of the Defense Cyber Crime Center, Keith Dorling pursued his prey.

For the past few days he'd been struggling to identify the source of the potential threat arising from the Zarathustra emails.

The sophistication and artistry employed by the sender to cloak and preserve their anonymity was astounding. Dorling had followed the mazelike trail to servers around the globe.

His pulse raced when the path took a troubling turn to the Shanghai headquarters of the Chinese military's infamous Unit 68416. Dorling had feared the sender would be linked to signals intelligence, that the origin was a hostile action by a foreign government.

But he kept digging and soon he'd discovered China was merely a decoy; the trail bounced off satellites to domains used to control malware in Iran and the United Arab Emirates.

Now he saw that the sender had become complacent.

Didn't think anyone would last this long on your tail, did you?

His target's attempt to keep their identity secret had unraveled. After the trail left Dubai, Dorling tracked it with ease to Libya, then Bermuda, and finally...

“Bingo!”

He reached for his phone and called FBI Special Agent Ron Sanchez with the Joint Terrorism Task Force, who answered on the first ring.

“Sanchez?”

“Ron, Dorling at DC3. I've got Zarathustra and an IP address. It's here in the US. You better move fast to get warrants.”

Fifty-Three

California

T
he words “Kate Page, Newslead” were printed in block letters on the paper sign held by the giant waiting for Kate in Arrivals at LAX.

“I'm Kate.” She looked up.

“Devon Hill, Newslead shooter.” He reached out to greet her.

Holy cow, Kate thought, as her hand disappeared in his, Chuck hadn't been kidding when he'd promised someone protective for the job from the LA bureau. Devon had to be six foot seven, with a muscular build.

“Let me take your bag, Kate. My car's this way.”

Devon's car was a Jeep Liberty and he navigated it expertly through the airport chaos. While driving they made small talk about her smooth flight and California's weather until they stopped at the Holiday Inn where Kate had a reservation.

Devon waited in the lobby as she checked in and freshened up. She'd slept a bit on the plane and wanted to take advantage of the three-hour time difference and get to work.

“Good to go,” she said, and they immediately headed out to meet her source, who lived in San Dimas.

“It's going to take us about fifty minutes or so,” Devon said as they traveled east on the 105. “You sure you're up for this? I read all your stuff after Chuck Laneer assigned me to this job.”

“Yeah, why?”

“Chuck told me that you've had some strange experiences and that your guy could be critical, or he could be a dangerous nutcase.”

“We've come too far on this story. We've got to chase down this lead.”

Devon nodded.

“So how'd you get stuck with me? Why do you think Chuck picked you for this assignment, Devon?”

He shrugged, smiling.

“My talent, or my size.” He released a deep chuckle. “I was a second-team defensive tackle in college. But pro ball wasn't in the cards. Besides, I didn't like the concussion issues. So I followed my passion, photography. I worked on a few papers, like the
LA Times
, before I joined Newslead. Was a Pulitzer finalist for pictures of the wildfires up in Calaveras County.”

“Sounds like Chuck picked you for your talent.”

Devon smiled. As they left the 105 to go north on the 605, traffic was heavy, but it was moving. Eventually they got on the westbound 10 at West Covina, then north on State Route 57 to San Dimas, a small, pretty city, snuggled along the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains.

“It used to be famous for oranges and lemons. Now the locals are big on horses. It's also a very white town—” Devon grinned “—according to the Census Bureau. I did a quality-of-life feature for the
Times
here.”

They left the freeway for the Arrow Highway. Following his GPS, Devon made a number of turns until they were on a street that paralleled West Railway. It was a sleepy corner of San Dimas. He slowed to check address numbers along a stretch of modest, neat-as-a-pin houses with well-kept yards shaded by sycamore and oak trees. California fan palms towered over neighboring streets.

“Here we go,” Kate said.

They stopped in front of number 213.

Paint blistered and peeled on the picket fence bordering the yard. The fence leaned inward and outward in places where pickets were missing. The garden beds were overrun with weeds that had trapped faded flyers and discarded fast-food take-out bags. Shutters were closed in all the windows. The sedan in the driveway was rusted and filthy. The rear was crumpled and the cracked right taillight was secured with duct tape.

“You sure this is your guy?” Devon asked.

“Well, according to the records check I did, the property belongs to Mavis Carlson, aged seventy-eight.”

“She's your source?”

“No, it's a guy using the name ‘Malcolm Grady.'” Kate checked her phone and the information. “This is the address he gave me and I told him I'd be here today.”

Kate began typing on her phone.

“I'll send a message to let New York know where we are. Chuck's orders.” Then she and Devon approached the side entrance of the house. It had a flimsy door; the top half was screen mesh and the way the sun hit it, Kate couldn't see inside.

She pressed her face to it, peering into the darkness.

She froze when they heard the soft electronic whizzing of a security camera that was tilted at them above the door. The lens turned to focus.

Kate knocked on the screen door.

“Hello, Malcolm! Malcolm Grady! It's Kate Page with Newslead!”

A few seconds of silence passed before a man's voice from the darkness said, “You were supposed to come alone.”

“I never said that, Malcolm. The man with me is Devon Hill. He's a Newslead photographer. A reporter and photographer always travel together on significant assignments like this one. It's our policy.”

“But I specifically said no names, which means no pictures. You assured me that you protect sources.”

“I know, but we can talk about that once you let us in and let me assess the documents on Project Overlord that you promised. If you're changing your mind, or if this is some sort of hoax, I'll fly back to New York.”

Silence followed.

“What's it going to be?” Kate asked. “I kept up my end of the bargain. I came here on faith that you were the real deal.”

Nothing. More time passed and nothing.

“Was it all just talk or are you the real deal, Malcolm?”

Several seconds passed before a man appeared at the door. He appeared to be in his late thirties. His curly hair shot, Medusa-like, from the sides of his balding head. He had a scraggly five-day beard, and his paunch strained his faded T-shirt, which bore stains and E=mc2 across his chest. He wore khaki shorts and sandals.

The hinge creaked as he opened the door.

“May I see your identification, please?”

After Kate and Devon held up their Newslead photo IDs, he nodded.

“Okay, come in,” he said. “Don't mind the dark. My mother's sensitive to the light. She's ill, asleep in her room.”

The air smelled of muscle ointment, baby powder and onions. They passed through the kitchen, where empty pizza boxes were stacked neatly in the corner. Plates, utensils, glasses and mugs had dried on the dish rack near the sink.

“This way.” Malcolm led them into a living room, which was cluttered with a walker, a wheelchair and medical oxygen tanks. A flat-screen TV topped a shelf in front of two sofa chairs. A large desk with a computer filled one side of the room, and the other side held two large metal file cabinets and a credenza overflowing with files. Next to it was a bookcase, stuffed and overflowing with books stacked upon books.

Malcolm sat in the leather high-back chair behind his desk. Devon sat in a sofa chair, and Kate took another small cushioned chair near the desk and surveyed the bookcase. She saw books about conspiracies regarding Roswell, the Kennedy assassination, 9/11, and several titles questioning the lunar landing. When she spotted a ball cap lined with tinfoil she had to force herself not to groan.

Oh my God, he's a lunatic!

Kate turned and saw that Malcolm had seen what she was looking at.

“I know what you're thinking,” he said.

“No,” Kate said, “I just—”

“Your face doesn't lie, Ms. Page.”

“Forgive me, I just—”

“It's understandable, given my appearance, and the fact I'm living here, taking care of my ailing mother. I'm sure I fit the stereotype of a nut, by your definition.”

“I'm sorry, Malcolm. I mean, the hat and the books...”

He arranged the files on his desk.

“I have worked from time to time as a private subcontractor on classified government projects to help pay the bills. I'm not a nut job. I have a master's degree in astrophysics. I don't adhere to conspiracy theories, I debunk them. Much like you, I adhere to facts and use them to convey the truth. I lead a small group of investigators and we have a website.”

“I apologize. On the phone you'd called yourself an underground activist.”

“That's right. We blow away myths and conspiracy theories with the goal of letting the public know the truth about what governments are up to.”

“Are those files—” Kate indicated the desk “—Overlord files?”

“They are. First, a primer. Yes, as your story correctly notes, shortly after 9/11, the president promised technology to land troubled planes safely by remote control.”

“And some airlines got patents for it?”

“Back things up. With Overlord, the government worked with defense and airline experts to develop the technology known as the Unhindered Autopilot System.”

“Right, so what happened?”

“Well most people know that variations of the technology exist. Drones can be operated remotely. Test flights in rocketry can be detonated remotely over the ocean. We've even seen the remote-control flight of jetliners by safety experts testing them for crash landings and other research.”

“So where does Overlord come into the picture?”

“It was developed and was set to be applied but a number of issues arose. You touched on them when you were on CTNB. Some experts were skeptical about how well it would work. Pilots were concerned, security officials were concerned, so it was never ever applied.”

“Then what? I know much of this.”

“Well, there were reports. A number of top secret reports that showed Overlord was flawed, that it was susceptible to outside attack, raising the real possibility of remote-control hijackings of commercial passenger jets.”

“Do you have copies of those reports?”

“I do. However, more recently, there have been rumors and theories flying around the contractor community about Overlord. Consequently, copies of classified documents have been coming to me from my sources.”

“What sort of rumors?”

“Well, first there was the fear that Overlord technology had been leaked, and had made its way to North Korea, which might work in concert with Middle East extremist groups to hijack and destroy airliners.”

“Damn,” Devon said.

“We've found nothing to substantiate that, and trust me, we looked hard into that one. But as we did, another new thread emerged. Turns out one of the experts who'd worked on Overlord was an engineer with Richlon-Titan who pioneered the fly-by-wire system used in its aircraft and airliners around the world.”

“The London and New York planes had RT systems.”

“Correct. According to the rumors, this engineer had issues with the vulnerability of RT's systems. He had a profound disagreement with his corporation just before he suffered a terrible personal tragedy where his wife was killed, resulting in him having a breakdown, losing his position and dropping out of sight. We think he's the primary suspect for what's happened, that maybe he's acting on a vendetta.”

“If that's the case, why not inform the FBI?”

“I told you, some of my documentation is classified. I could face charges for simply possessing it.”

“What are your facts?” Kate asked.

“We're still working on them, but I can show you this.”

“Munro!” A faint woman's voice called, interrupting. “I'm thirsty.”

“Coming, Mother!” He looked at Kate. “I expect you did your homework on our address and know our family name is Carlson. Excuse me.” He went to the kitchen, and Kate heard him fill a glass and take it to another room, where he murmured soothing words before returning. “Now, here.” He positioned a number of files on the desk for Kate to look at.

Kate moved closer to see.

“Here you have a list of names of experts who worked on Overlord. Don't ask how I got these records. And here are a number of photos of the various teams, including the man I noted from Richlon-Titan.”

“Who is he?”

He tapped a finger on the man identified as Robert Cole.

“This man, Robert Cole—he's one of the world's leading experts on flight systems. If I were looking into what happened to the New York and London planes, I'd consider Robert Cole a suspect.”