Turbulence

by Nance, John J. ;

  David chuckled. “Okay. I get the point.”

  “But you were going to tell me why you’re here.” Blaylock opened a valve and drew a cup of black coffee from the machine as David briefed him on the task force he’d led at FAA and the intelligence community’s concerns about terrorist manipulation of disgruntled passengers. By the time he’d finished, his host had placed a gigantic cup of incredibly good coffee under his nose, pulled on a Hawaiian print shirt, and settled on a stool on the opposite side of the counter.

  “That’s it?” John Blaylock asked.

  “Pretty much,” David replied. “Is there a magic answer?”

  Blaylock snorted. “I don’t even have a magic question.”

  “Personally,” David prompted, “I can’t see how the airborne Trojan Horse threat even relates to air rage.”

  “It doesn’t,” Blaylock responded. “Which is why they’re concerned.”

  “Sorry?” David replied.

  John Blaylock put down his cup and gestured grandly to the ceiling. “It’s the conservation-of-paranoia principle. I assume you’ve not heard of it.”

  “No.”

  “Probably because I just made it up. Seriously, when the intelligence community finds two problems like this that don’t connect? All their basic conspiracy sensitivities are jammed into high gear, their analytical juices start boiling, and they begin looking for a way to affirmatively answer the question ‘Is that what they want us to think?’ Especially when we’re fighting a war.”

  “The ‘they’ being an unnamed, and unidentified …”

  “Right. Shadowy force of enemy conspirators staying one step ahead of us.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Of course not. Most of my career has been devoted to coming back from some far-flung place, waltzing into the Pentagon or Langley, and reporting that the dark, pivotal, revolution-planning summit of drug chiefs in Colombia they’d whipped into a top-secret hurricane of alerts and probabilities had, in fact, been nothing more than one of the cartel members throwing a garden party for an old buddy from Lima. You know, Langley is racing to the White House for strike authorization and these guys are just tossing down tequila by the pool.”

  “That’s what you did?”

  “Yeah, I drank some tequila, but I didn’t swallow. No, what I did was just amble around on layovers acting like a dumb-fool American with too much time on his hands getting to know the natives in their quaint and colorful costumes. Amazing what you hear when you listen. Provided you buy the cerveza … the beer … smile, and belch on cue.”

  “So, using your ‘conservation-of-paranoia principle,’ you see a connection here?”

  John Blaylock squinted at him. “You’re wondering if there’s a connection between this thoroughly laudatory tendency of outraged passengers to want to pound the excrement out of airlines that still give hideous service and our blood enemies, the terror mongers who want to create a plot of empty real estate stretching from La Jolla to Kennebunkport that glows in the dark without benefit of electricity.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Disappear in a nuclear cloud. The U.S.”

  “Oh. Yeah, something like that.”

  “No. Not a planned connection.”

  “Which leaves open …”

  Blaylock screwed his face into a squint and held his hand to his forehead. “Well, duh, let me see now. Could it be an unplanned connection?”

  “Okay, obvious answer.” David raised the palm of his hand. “Look, what do you see as a possible connection between the dissimilar dots in this murky picture?”

  “A smokescreen. Let’s say you’re the replacement head terrorist and you’re determined that your selected deity, Beelzebub, wants two hundred and eighty million Americans killed. You’ve got a big problem, because any operation you start is probably going to leak to the Americans through a thousand different channels and your hired rats brigade will end up caught or killed. The Americans are driving you nuts, in fact, because they’ve become so irritated over you blowing big holes in the sides of their Navy ships and supporting groups that use airliners to destroy American buildings and citizens that now they’ve gone and declared war and seem to know precisely what you’re planning and where. While they’re watching you that closely and chasing your trained rats all over the globe, you can’t really move. So what do you do?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You plan to go after a lightly defended target, and then you sit tight, do nothing, and wait for your bastardized substitute for Allah to give you a diversion big enough to take everyone’s attention away just long enough to slip through their security net.”

  “I’m not following this.”

  “You wait for something to happen newsworthy enough to obscure your preparations for the attack. While they’re hysterical about happenstance B, which you did nothing to create even though they think you did, you launch plan A.”

  “And … an incident of passenger anger aboard a commercial aircraft could be what you’re calling happenstance B. But how? Most air rage incidents just shake up the crew and lead to an emergency landing and arrests.”

  “You’re examining the molecular structure of the bark and forgetting the forest.”

  “So, what’s the forest?”

  “Would you like some breakfast? Eggs, fried pig, that sort of thing?”

  “Ah, sure.”

  “Scrambled, fried, boiled?”

  “Scrambled. And … do you have a rest room?”

  “Two of them. Use the small one there to your right.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Your cell phone is buzzing,” Blaylock said.

  David looked at his belt and unclipped the phone, punching a button to stop the alert. “Just a voice mail.” He placed it on the counter and slipped into the bathroom.

  When David returned, John Blaylock had already begun to assemble the necessary ingredients in an effortless display, breaking eggs in a bowl and discarding the shells with one hand as he talked. “You, yourself, just testified yesterday that if the causes of passenger fury weren’t addressed, someday something far worse was going to happen.”

  “How did you …?”

  “Little thing called C-Span.”

  “Oh. Of course. Lucky you happened to see it.”

  David saw a brief smile cross John Blaylock’s face as he glanced up, then back at the food before continuing. “The more I think about this, the more I think what DIA and CIA are worried about isn’t what I was saying a minute ago. I mean, they are worried about unplanned diversionary incidents, but I’ll bet you they’re really about half panicked with this airborne Trojan Horse possibility. After the WTC attacks, an off-course mosquito gets their attention, and we’re still flying fighter cover over DC. Naturally they’re paranoid, but as the old phrase goes, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean the bad guys aren’t out to get you.”

  “I hear that.”

  “They don’t know how a Trojan Horse might be coming, but they’re convinced it is. They’ve probably received one or more alerts from operatives in the field. So they’re jumping on everything and trying to figure out anything and everything that could lead to such a nightmare. I can speculate on all this openly for the moment since I don’t have any immediate classified information on it. Just instinct and experience.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s what they do.”

  “And that’s your world?”

  Blaylock looked up and smiled. “Not really. I just spent a lot of years helping to keep the paranoia under control. You know, stand up at the appropriate moment, clear my throat loudly, and point out that the king is apparently naked as a jaybird.” He turned several sizzling strips of thick, smoked bacon, dropped bread into a toaster, and poured the eggs into a buttered skillet before continuing. “One thing you need to keep in mind is the Intelligence community’s equivalent of the uncertainty principle as reduced by Murphy’s Law.”

  “And, let me guess. You�
��re going tell me about this in detail, right?” David asked, feigning worry.

  “Of course. The principle is simple: No matter how wild a theory is, what actually happens will be even more off-the-wall, unpredictable, unlikely, or improbable.”

  John Blaylock finished cooking the eggs and smoothly parceled them onto each plate, adding the bacon and toast before placing the plate in front of him.

  “Impressive. My compliments to the chef.”

  “The chef thanks you, and accepts cash or gold bullion. A little chablis, perhaps? I keep a case in the wine cellar.”

  “You have a cellar in here?”

  “No. But it sounds wonderfully pretentious, doesn’t it? Like sniffing a plastic cork. Actually, my wine cellar is one of the lockers outside. I’ve even got some screw-top wines in there, vintage”—he looked at his wristwatch—“four-thirty.”

  “No, but thanks. This is great.”

  There was a soft noise of a door opening to his left, and David looked over in time to see a raven-haired young woman with nothing on but a sleepy expression appear in the opening, rubbing her eye with one hand and holding the door with the other.

  “Good morning, beautiful!” John Blaylock said, as if this was a daily occurrence.

  “Mornin’, John,” she purred.

  “Meet a fellow colonel, babe. David, this is Jill. Jill this is David.”

  Jill stopped rubbing her eye and looked slowly down at herself, as if only then fully registering the fact that she was nude. She looked up at David with a slightly embarrassed smile and nibbled a fingernail.

  “Oh,” she said quietly, waving at him with her fingers before disappearing back into the bedroom and quietly pulling the door closed.

  “So,” John Blaylock continued without missing a beat, “what else can I help you with?”

  David inclined his head toward the bedroom. “Unless she has a sister in there, a cold shower will do fine.”

  “No sister. But you’re welcome to jump in the bay. It’s cold enough.”

  “May I ask how old you are, Colonel?”

  “I could say ‘old enough.’”

  “But that would be corny, and …”

  “Yeah, I’d never use such a line. I’m sixty-four, going on twenty-nine, and before you ask, son, I’ll tell you the secret is nothing more than how you treat a lady.”

  “Right.”

  “You look stunned.”

  “Ah … forgive me for asking, but shouldn’t you be sitting on the top of a mountain somewhere in Tibet teaching this to the world?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  IN FLIGHT,

  ABOARD MERIDIAN FLIGHT SIX

  3:01 P.M. Local

  Judy Jackson wiped a bead of perspiration from her forehead. The temperature in the 747’s cabin was far too hot, and she’d already asked the copilot to cool it down. The passenger complaints didn’t impress her, but they were increasing.

  “See that little eyeball thingy over your head, sir?” she’d asked the latest malcontent. “Why do you suppose we put those in here? Gee, let me see,” she said, rolling her eyes to the ceiling and planting her index finger in her cheek as if trying to think deeply. “Oh, maybe to cool off passengers.” She rotated the vent to the on position and focused it in the man’s face with a smile. “See? Problem solved.”

  Now, however, it was Judy Jackson herself who was uncomfortable, and she pulled the interphone from its cradle to order the copilot to cool it down.

  That mission complete, Judy moved to the privacy curtain separating the business and first-class cabins from coach and carefully pulled open a small peephole. As many as thirty or forty passengers were standing and milling around, none of them wearing smiles. She could see two of her flight attendants, Cindy and Elle, moving among them with drinks and smiles, but it was obvious the level of discontent was still high from the delay at Heathrow and the interference of the doctor in first class.

  She felt a shudder of revulsion at the thought of having to deal with a cabinful of whining passengers. They were getting the tickets for next to nothing these days yet they always wanted more, and she was sick of them.

  And this bunch was going to require heavy-handed control.

  Two men, both dressed casually, spotted her standing at the head of coach and moved in her direction. Judy started to retreat behind the curtain, but changed her mind. They looked angry, but they couldn’t be any more angry than she was about the unruly behavior of this motley collection of passengers.

  “Are you the chief flight attendant?” one of the men began.

  “I’m the lead flight attendant, yes.” She pointed to the ceiling. “Did you men happen to observe that little seat-belt sign, and the fact that it was on?”

  “Yeah, whatever,” the second one said. “Look, lady, we’ve complained at least three times to your crew that it was too hot in here, and my wife’s getting sick back there.”

  “Already taken care of, sir. Now both of you get back to your seats.”

  The two men exchanged glances.

  “Did you two hear me? The seat-belt sign is on. Get in your seats.”

  “You know,” the larger of the two men said, “I’ve just about had it with your snotty attitude.”

  She moved to within an inch of his face. “And I’ve just about had it with passengers violating federal law by refusing to follow my orders. GET … IN … YOUR … SEAT … NOW!”

  “Come on, Jim,” the second man said, pulling his friend away from the confrontation by his sleeve.

  “You’ve bought yourself a huge complaint, woman,” the man said, his face crimson.

  “Spell my name right, if you can, man!” Judy snapped, reaching simultaneously for the PA handset and punching it on.

  Okay, people, this is your lead flight attendant. Listen up. For those of you who are pretending not to notice the seat-belt sign or understand what it means, let me make it simple for you. It means get yourself in a seat and buckle up this instant. I know some of you think it’s your birthright to whine and complain about everything, but this group has gotten to the point of ridiculousness. We ARE cooling the cabin down, so I don’t want to hear another word about that. We ARE taking you to destination, so the subject of delays in London is closed. We ARE going to serve you a meal in a little while, PROVIDED I don’t hear any more whining from anyone. And, you know, I couldn’t care less what complaints you want to write when you’re off this airplane, but in the meantime, I see anyone else standing in the aisle without my specific permission and I’ll have you arrested and charged and prosecuted for interfering with a crew member when we reach Cape Town, and you won’t like their jails. Now, you boys in front here, SIT DOWN! NOW!

  A small chorus of catcalls and angry retorts rang through the coach cabin and Judy started to ignore them, but most of the passengers were complying and she was on a roll. She pointed to a younger man on his feet booing several rows away.

  All right, smart ass, you in seat … twenty-six-F … I’ve got your name on my seating chart and you can consider yourself under arrest. And you in the red shirt? You’ve got three seconds to sit down and shut up. I’m serious, people. I’m not going to tolerate a riot.

  Judy lowered the handset as she watched the remaining passengers slowly sit down, as many as a dozen in the aisles melting away until she could see a man in the next cabin waiting to return to his seat. He looked up at her, and even across the seventy or eighty feet between them she could see that same face—her father’s face.

  Judy felt a buzz of adrenaline. She replaced the handset and walked rapidly down the aisle, ignoring the hostile stares and muttered comments. She hurried through the divider between the second and third coach compartments and began scanning the faces in the section where he’d disappeared. Her father had been dead for a decade, and there were no names on the manifest remotely similar to his, so the man she was looking for couldn’t be some long-lost uncle.

  She remembered seeing the face through the boarding loung
e window back in London, and realized she’d forgotten to search him out. This was obviously the same man, but where?

  Judy stopped midway through the section, her eyes landing on the owner of the face, which up close looked somehow different.

  “Excuse me, sir, could I ask your name?” Judy said, leaning over two other passengers who were glaring at her, their jaws set in anger.

  The man looked up. “I thought you knew who everyone was?”

  “I … yes, but what’s your name?”

  “None of your damn business!” the man snapped. “And before you give your little ‘I’m going to arrest you’ speech, you should know I’m a retired state police officer from Maryland.”

  “Okay, but please, I need to know if we’re related.”

  The man stared at her in disbelief. “What?”

  The fact that dozens of passengers were staring openly now grabbed her attention, and a small wave of self-consciousness flowed over her.

  “You look like … a relative of mine.”

  “God forbid,” he said, his words acidic. “But what’s your maiden name?”

  “Jackson.”

  “No relation, thank God.”

  “Is your family from New Jersey?”

  The man rose from his seat, his hand on the seat back ahead of him. “I’ve got a dozen witnesses to the fact that you’re harassing me, young woman. Leave me alone or I’ll have you charged!”

  Judy searched for an answer but could think of nothing to say. They had to be related. That was her father’s face, as much as she’d hated him.

  She backed away and turned, trying not to show the confusion she felt as she retreated up the aisle with his seat number playing in her mind.

  Thirty-eight-B … thirty-eight-B …”

  She would look up the name. It had to be Jackson.

  In the cockpit, the coastline of North Africa had come into view minutes before, swimming out of the indeterminate blue-gray haze of the horizon ahead and coalescing into a sharp dividing line between the blue of the Mediterranean and the tan-colored coastline, with the great, trackless wastes of the Sahara beyond.