by David Poyer
Obviously the Irish diplomat had passed her the approach in the hope of at least getting the opposing sides talking. Which might be good.
But she, Blair, wasn’t about to open an email exchange with the Chinese, in any way, shape, or form. The draconian penalties of the Defense of Freedom Act aside, both the Chinese and the Russians had doxed Allied cable and email exchanges … hacked and then altered them, then released them on WikiLeaks and alt–fake news sites: all part of a separate propaganda war that took place in another sphere than the real war, but that many overseas (and some in the U.S., too) took for gospel.
Play in tar, and some will always stick.
On the other hand, if someone in the other side’s command structure was actually reaching out, looking for a way to end hostilities short of mutual catastrophe, shouldn’t she pursue it? Szerenci wanted war to the knife, total carnage. Judging by some of the national security adviser’s remarks, he seemed to regard a nuclear exchange with optimism. But she’d read about the German generals’ attempts to reach out to the Allies, both in 1939 and later, as the war turned dark for the Axis. Both times the Allies had looked away, or treated the feelers with such suspicion they’d never yielded any benefit.
Resulting, perhaps, in millions of unnecessary deaths.
If Zhang’s generals were getting disenchanted, the way Saddam’s generals had, she couldn’t ignore this.
There was only one thing to do. It was risky. But it was the only way she could both pursue this outstretched hand, and defuse any suspicion of treachery on her part.
Setting up the notebook, she logged on to the hotel’s Wi-Fi. These days the internet went up and down like a carousel horse, but at the moment, she had bars.
But she hesitated, fingers poised trembling above the keys.
Nothing online was safe. Never type anything you didn’t want read. Even her DoD quasi-quantum scrambler might theoretically be penetrated, given enough computing power. Which Jade Emperor seemed to have.
And not only that. What if she did message Szerenci? He’d be mistrustful. Would grill her. Grow angry she hadn’t reported the approach in Dublin. Grow suspicious of her? Perfectly possible, given their history. And if she asked, Should I respond? He’d just say, Have to get back to you on that. Leaving her in exactly the same place, but degrading their working relationship.
Could she bypass him? Take it to Ricardo Vincenzo? The JCS chair seemed less eager to prosecute this war to the bitter end. Maybe, more open to a negotiated solution. If one was possible.
She slowly lowered her poised hands. Then after a moment, closed the notebook.
No. She had to tell Szerenci.
But it would be better to do so face-to-face.
* * *
THE next morning, 0400. Stumbling around, groggy. Never having been a morning person. Throwing things together, only slightly fortified by bitter brew from the room’s coffeemaker, so acidic it almost made her throw up. She grabbed a Danish in the lobby as she whisked past, toward the car waiting outside.
The roads were empty, and not just because of the early hour. Fuel rationing kept most people home, or close to work. From a devolving-to-1957 economy, the United States was now regressing toward 1912. Some in the rural areas were hitching horses to trailers, reinventing the pony cart.
This war had to end. Soon, or both Asia and North America would suffer for generations.
The Air Force plant shared with a regional airport. The plant side was busy; the civilian side, deserted. The car stopped at a two-engine business jet. Two others, men who’d attended the briefings with her, were waiting to board. She nodded to the Air Force general who’d asked about the Trugon reconnaissance positioning the day before, and a scientist who consulted for Lockheed. A Jeep Wrangler was parked a few yards away, and a pair of paunchy and graying “M&Ms”—Mobilized Militia—with red-white-blue armbands and hunting rifles stood between a fuel truck and the air terminal.
A pilot in uniform came back from examining the forward landing gear, saluted the general, nodded to her, and ushered them aboard. Her roll-on bumped painfully against her bad hip as she maneuvered it into an overhead bin. She sank gratefully into a seat, snapped on a reading light, and flipped her notebook open.
“This is your pilot speaking. Madam Undersecretary, General, Dr. Pirrell, welcome to the U.S. Air Force, 89th Squadron, out of Joint Base Andrews, from Pasadena to Joint Base Andrews.”
The engines spooled upward. The wheels bumped over seams in the concrete. Then she was pressed back in her seat. Out of habit, she glanced at her watch. 0537.
They hurtled, climbing. Outside her window, the city’s gridded streets so queerly resembled the 3-D microcircuits she’d been shown in briefing after briefing it gave rise to uneasy musings. Which one truly held more intelligence? And how easily a single nuclear airburst could erase the millions spread helplessly below. The city scrolled aft, replaced by blue tormented mountains, glazed here and there with what looked like late snow, though that was hard to believe, warm as Pasadena had been.
An hour droned past. Each time she glanced out, the landscape below looked drier and more mountainous. They must be over Arizona. Cowboy country. She opened her notebook, and was soon deep into a report on the effectiveness of six hundred Israeli top-attack fire-and-forget antitank weapons that had been placed in the hands of the Vietnamese People’s Army.
* * *
WHEN it happened she felt nothing. Or perhaps the tiniest jolt, a slight bump of turbulence. No shock wave, and no blow to the airframe. But after several seconds they started a gentle bank, pressing her against the side of the seat. Her glass walked toward the edge of her tray. She grabbed, but too late; it tipped, spilling soda over her stocking, and bounced away. “Crap,” she muttered, mopping with a napkin.
“Can I help you with that?” said the general. She accepted his napkin as well.
The plane steadied on what seemed to be a new course.
The general was frowning. He seemed to be listening to something she couldn’t hear, like a dog picking up a silent whistle. After a moment he unbuckled and went forward. Tapped at the bulkhead door. It opened, and he slipped inside.
“This is the pilot … a little glitch up here. Autopilot disengaged for a sec. Regaining control now.”
She called up another document and began reading.
* * *
SOME minutes later the general came back. He settled into his seat again. “Problem up front?” she muttered, still absorbed in a report on influenza viruses.
“Glitch in the autopilot, like he said. A transient.”
“Serious?”
“Not really. No.”
But when she glanced out, noting the position of the sun again, something didn’t seem right. “Uh … weren’t we headed east?”
The general frowned. “Should be.”
“I agree. Yet Mr. Sun says we aren’t.”
He peered out, brow furrowed. “Damn. Good eye, ma’am.”
“Call me Blair, please.”
“Rick Ackert. Air Force Strategic Development Planning & Experimentation Office, out of Wright-Pat.” They shook hands. “Excuse me, I’ll go see what’s happening.”
This time he was gone longer. Blair glanced across the aisle at the scientist. He seemed to be sleeping, head back, eyes closed.
When she looked out again they were still headed north. A worm writhed under the surface of her calm.
Ackert came back looking worried. He stood in the aisle, gripping a seat back. “Uh, guys?” The other passenger looked up. “Got a problem up forward. As the undersecretary noted, we’re off course. Thought at first we had a missed input in our flight computers. However, our navigation systems are involved too.”
The civilian said, “An EMP pulse?”
“Um, considered that, Dr. Pirrell, but rejected it. A strong EMP shock would do more damage. Not just the computers but the electrical system … popping circuit breakers, frying our other electronics.”
“Solar activity? Lightning?”
“Solar might cause radio interference, but not loss of control. And it’s pretty dramatic, when you’re struck by lightning. We’d know that. The charge is conducted through the exterior skin and exits. Usually leaves a burn hole.”
Blair stirred in her seat. “Loss of control? What exactly is happening, Rick?”
“Well … to be perfectly frank … we don’t seem to be flying the aircraft anymore.”
She and the scientist exchanged glances. “How about manual control?” Pirrell asked.
Ackert glanced toward the cockpit, as if longing to be back there, but turned to face them again. “Navigation and autoflight computers help the pilots fly. With the older models, pilots make direct inputs to the flight surfaces—the ailerons, elevators, rudder. Worst that can happen then is hydraulic failure, losing the amplification of the control inputs.”
She nodded. “And?”
“But with newer aircraft, like this”—he glanced forward again—“they’re fly-by-wire. The pilots input commands to a computer, which then moves the control surfaces. We fly it, but indirectly.”
“Then it could be EMP,” Pirrell insisted.
“Again, we didn’t see any evidence.” Ackert scowled. “And, actually, everything seems to be running perfectly. Except that the nav system says we’re going east, while the autoflight computer’s taking us north.”
“Reboot the autopilot,” Pirrell suggested.
“Getting ready to try that,” the general said, but his lips tightened after he said it.
“What’s your data source?” Pirrell asked.
“Our databases? Uh, well, our nav computers are periodically, routinely, reloaded with updated data as that information changes.”
“How often?”
“Usually on a bimonthly schedule.”
“When was it done last?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, could be corrupted. I could see that.”
“Corrupted, how?” Blair put in.
“Reloading the flight logic computer with a rogue program. One that allows the autoflight to take over and fly a preprogrammed route.”
“So, essentially, we’ve been hijacked?” Blair said. “Like 9/11? Only without a live terrorist in the cockpit?”
Neither man disagreed. She rubbed suddenly damp palms on her skirt. She’d been in the South Tower that day. Had watched the first airliner approach, then plunge into the World Trade Center, shooting bodies and flame out the other side. Had been burned and broken, as the South Tower too was hit and collapsed. Had nearly died.
She carried the scars to this day. Burn-scars, her shattered hip, her ear … She forced words past something hard in her throat. “And where’s it taking us?”
“Nav still shows our final destination as Andrews. As per the original flight plan.”
The cabin audio clicked on. “This is your pilot. General Ackert is explaining the situation to you. There’s no need to feel anxious. We’re initiating a reboot of the flight system. May be some turbulence. But after that, we’ll regain control. Please make sure your seat restraints are fastened, and secure any drinks or loose objects about the cabin.”
She was already belted in, but tightened the restraints. Then looked anxiously out the window. At green-and-brown mountains, veined by rivers, far below.
“Coming up on reboot … now.”
A jolt. The nose rotated slightly, then settled back down.
With a shudder, something clunked above her. The sound was succeeded by a faint whistle. Her ears popped. Then again, more forcefully.
A bit of gas wormed out before she could stop it. A barely audible fart. Neither man seemed to notice, though, and she almost giggled. Actually she felt quite euphoric now. What had she been so worried about? Silly to think anything could go wrong.
When she lifted her hand, her fingernails looked odd. Darker at their root. She frowned. When she glanced up, the atmosphere in the cabin seemed to have gone misty. Foggy.
A compartment popped open above her. An orange plastic mask jangled on a transparent coil. But her vision was blurring. Still feeling happy, she groped for the mask. It evaded her hand as the aircraft sideslipped. Ha-ha. Like her cat Jimbo chasing the spot from his laser mouse.
She finally got hold of it, still chuckling, and clumsily strapped it on. The euphoria disappeared instantly, leaving her terrified. Her vision cleared, though her heart was still doing fast laps and she was hiccuping, close to puking. She twisted in the seat. Ackert, his own mask already on, was fitting one to the scientist, whose face was going blue.… “Rick. Rick! What’s happened?”
“This is your pilot … just experienced decompression at altitude. Please don masks. And stay in your seats, firmly belted in.”
“That shouldn’t have happened,” the general muttered. He looked apprehensive. “We need to descend below ten thousand. Cabin oxygen only lasts for fifteen minutes.”
“Or what?” Though she was pretty sure she knew.
He looked grim. “Hypoxia. You start losing higher brain functions. Reasoning. Eventually, brain death. If they can’t repressurize.”
“Which is under the plane’s control, right? So you’re basically saying it’s trying to kill us?”
He looked away, taking several deep breaths. Then heaved himself up, removed his mask, and went forward again.
She hesitated, then unbuckled and leaned across the aisle. The plastic tube reached just far enough for her to make sure Pirrell’s mask was sealed, that he was getting oxygen. His skin was shading toward pink from the near blue of moments ago, but he still didn’t respond to a yell, or even a sharp pinch.
The plane jolted. She floated up off her feet, then crashed down again. She hauled herself quickly down beside the civilian, and belted in again.
She was trying her cell, but of course without success, when Ackert returned. “The reboot didn’t help. It’s something in the software.”
“A Trojan horse? A back door?”
He reattached his mask. “Whoever put it there, it’s deep in the basic software. Even after the reboot, we go back to the same course.”
“Do we know where?”
“Jack plotted it on a lap board. We’re headed toward Albuquerque.” He hesitated. “About a hundred miles off our flight path.”
“Albuquerque,” she echoed. “Sandia?”
“Or Los Alamos.” He nodded. “Sandia makes the guidance chips, actuators, for the new strategic missiles. Los Alamos assembles the warheads on the mesa. Even if that’s it, we won’t know which is the actual target until the last couple of minutes out.”
By which time it would be too late to do anything to save either themselves, or whoever was at the intended point of impact. She tried to put her own danger out of her mind. “We have to warn them. We declared an emergency, right?”
“No can do. Remember, we don’t have air traffic control anymore. ATC lost their radar at the beginning of the war.”
“But if this is a zero day virus … more planes may be headed for the same target. Or others. A mass attack. We have to get someone to … to shoot them down.”
“I hope it won’t come to that,” Ackert said grimly. “But—”
“But if it does, they have to be warned. Somehow.” She tapped her phone again, but again got no signal. “Is there any way to—”
“Jack’s trying to raise someone on the emergency transmitter. So far, no joy.”
The airframe juddered as if tormented by parasites. Probably the pilot was trying to take back control. Something whined from aft. But the nose always swung back to the same heading, a compass needle inexorably returning to its predetermined goal.
She couldn’t believe how quickly a routine flight had turned them into unwilling suicide bombers. Imprisoned in an out-of-control weapon, bound for its own destruction—and theirs. On one level, she had to admire it. The plan was masterful. Someone, whether Chinese, Russian, or an internal turncoat, had filt
ered or dodged level after level of security and protection and buried the programming—most likely during a routine update. Penetrated the Air Force’s systems and the builder’s, without setting off any alarms.
Until the plane was in the air, in range of its intended target.
Incredibly clever, and chillingly inhuman.
The question was: who?
Maybe … Jade Emperor?
Oxygen still hissed into her mask, but for how long? She took a deep breath, then regretted it. How many more minutes of conscious life did she own? “We have to end this flight, Rick. Before we pass out. Crash it, if we have to. Like the passengers did on United 93, at Shanksville.”
Ackert rolled his eyes. “We’ve discussed that in the cockpit. Believe me. Unfortunately, we don’t have control of any of the automatic systems. Just lucky the oxygen sensor for the masks was hardwired, or we’d be dead already. Jack’s trying to dump fuel. If he can do that, at least we won’t reach the target. Maybe we can regain control at a lower altitude.”
But he didn’t sound hopeful. And that solution, even to her, didn’t sound very likely. Whoever had designed this virus had anticipated how they would react, and forestalled it.
Beside her in the seat, the civilian twitched. His eyelids fluttered, then flew open. He flailed about. A fist caught her on the eyebrow. Ackert bent over him, pinning his arms and shouting in a high, strange-sounding voice. The cabin pressure was still dropping. But when she looked out the window, the ground was closer, more imminent. Shouldn’t the air be growing thicker as they descended?
The general patted her shoulder. “Stay with him, okay? I’m going to see if I can help out somehow.”
“What else can I do? Look, do we even have parachutes?” Even as she asked, she saw the answer in his averted gaze. A shake of his head confirmed it.
“What’s goin’ on? A hijacking?” Pirrell muttered woozily.
“Sort of,” she told him. “But the pilots have it under control.”
No good would come of his freaking out, even if these were the last seconds of their lives.
* * *
