by Rick Mofina
I’m with the gods now and my purpose is true.
She’d continued reading, and as the hours melted away, Veyda realized that she had undergone a metamorphosis. By the time she’d landed at Logan, she’d known two things. Number one: she was no longer Veyda Cole. She would no longer bear the name of her mother’s killer. From then on she’d honor her mother by taking her mother’s family name, Hyde. Number two: she was going to change her thesis topic from aircraft systems engineering, computational engineering, controls, communications and networks, to blaze a path far more important. One that would elevate the world.
The day after she’d landed, Veyda had met with her research advisor, who’d been aware of her family tragedy and had offered her heartfelt condolences. Veyda had brushed them aside and alerted her to her name change and that, while she was in the final stages of completing her thesis, she’d wanted to switch topics.
Veyda had intended to spike all of her research, which had involved new perspectives on transmission probability, independent Gamma random variables, innovative methods on employing the infinite-horizon LQR control in satellite systems; her new ideas on approaches on the stochastic first-order system with linear dynamics and nonlinear measurements. She would cast aside her new work on Gaussian white noise processes.
I’m going to surprise you with my new subject. It’s going to blow your mind.
Alarmed, her advisor had reminded her of procedure and rules on dissertation requirements, but Veyda had demanded the change.
For the next few weeks, she’d worked eighteen to twenty hours a day on her new thesis while her advisor, the members of her thesis committee and the graduate officer had waited with trepidation.
When Veyda finished, she’d delivered her report to her committee.
Her advisor and the committee had been concerned about her sudden switch in academic disciplines and disturbed by the subject matter and her handling of it.
Her new thesis championed the real-life application of German philosophers Hegel and Nietzsche as being critical to the betterment of mankind. Like the Russian novelist Dostoevsky, Veyda had refined their theories on the Superman to encompass “extraordinary humans.”
Veyda had argued that the extraordinary being embodied the highest passion and creativity of all humanity and would exist beyond the conventions of good and evil.
This was absolute.
She’d written that extraordinary humans possessed skills, gifts and talents that elevated them above ordinary humans. Extraordinary humans possessed the God-given duty and right to take any action, commit any crime or immoral act, without conscience or consequence because it is the extraordinary human whose achievements take civilization to unprecedented heights, lighting the way forward for all of human existence.
Less than a week after Veyda’s submission, her thesis committee had called her to a critical meeting.
Your paper sanctions bloodshed in the name of progress, articulating that if the ends are noble, the means are justified, one professor had observed. How can you possibly defend this idea?
Easily, Veyda had said. As noted in my section on use of weapons of mass destruction, Hiroshima and Nagasaki ended war, but also advanced nuclear technology for the betterment of civilization. Look at the uses in nuclear medicine, the uses in energy.
But Veyda, you applaud research conducted by the Nazis in the Second World War, another professor had said.
We cannot deny that Nazi advances in rocketry put us on the moon. In both cases, atomic weaponry and rudimentary aerospace technology, much blood was shed for what ultimately benefited mankind. Look at space travel, satellite technology, telecommunications—the benefits are endless. My work clearly demonstrates a fundamental law of nature—without pain, without blood, there is no birth, no advancement for humanity.
I have to admit your paper is not only disturbing, it’s long, rambling and in many parts incomprehensible, another professor had said.
Troubled by her thesis, Veyda’s committee had concluded that she’d experienced a breakdown stemming from her family tragedy and injuries. In their report to the graduate program chair, her thesis committee had rejected her work and recommended she seek counseling and take a sabbatical.
Veyda had done neither.
She’d quit MIT and drifted to back California, where she’d met Seth Hagen.
The only child of Silicon Valley computer scientists, he was a genius who, throughout his childhood, had been ignored by his parents. Seth had become a multimillionaire in his teens after designing cutting-edge video game programs while getting his first degree at Carnegie Mellon University. Later, he’d received his master’s degree from the University of Washington, and his PhD in computer systems from Stanford University.
But Seth had soon grown bored and had lived as a recluse until he’d met Veyda through an online comments section on an article about a NASA breakthrough. Their friendly exchanges had led to a meeting at a Starbucks in Pasadena, then subsequent meetings and walks on the beach.
Seth had been so impressed with Veyda’s “extraordinary people,” thesis, he’d deemed them fated to be together, destined to put her theory to work.
We are exceptional people, he’d said. We’re destined to advance mankind. We must expose weaknesses and failures in order to enlighten and advance understanding. We must teach people to learn from their failings in our digital age. It’s the only way to elevate human understanding.
Together they’d moved into the house Seth owned in Maryland.
It’s quiet there. We can get a lot done.
They’d begun by defeating the cybersecurity systems of banks, retailers, internet providers, broadcasters and an array of corporations. It had been fun and easy; nothing was ever traced back to them, but they’d received little recognition—no glorious headlines affirming their advancing of understanding.
That’s because no blood was shed, Veyda had said, and proposed commercial aviation as an effective target. Nothing seizes the world’s attention like an aircraft tragedy.
The bigger, the better, Seth had agreed.
So, several months ago, they’d employed their combined and formidable skills to test the safety of air travel, starting first with the New York and London planes.
If my father thought his work important enough to sacrifice my mother to it, then it’s my duty to expose the flaws of his system, no matter the cost. It must be done, for it will ultimately advance our technology.
Now, after finishing the pizza and before they resumed their research planning for further operations, Seth played a documentary on the 1977 crash at Tenerife.
As Veyda watched the flames of the tragedy, she heard her dying mother scream her name. She clenched her eyes shut and willed her memory to return her to better times when...
She’d been six and her mother had been brushing her hair, telling her that she had an exceptionally high IQ. You’re our miracle. You’re going to accomplish monumental things when you grow up, sweetie. I know it in my heart.
Thirty-One
Clear River, North Dakota
The earth had shifted under Robert Cole as he’d watched the slow-motion swan song of Shikra Flight 418.
Ice tinkled against glass as he lifted his drink.
No, stop! It won’t help. Be strong. Keep your mind clear.
He set the drink down without tasting it.
Still, the images of the crash haunted him and guilt crept into a frightened corner of his heart.
Fifteen people dead.
In the days that had followed since the Heathrow crash, he’d gone online, scrutinizing every news report he could find, examining every image, absorbing every published detail.
Speculation in the British press on the cause had ruled out a terrorist act, pointing instead to a double engine failure, even thou
gh such occurrences were rare. Some reports referred to an earlier incident—the crash landing of a Shanghai-to-London charter jetliner at Heathrow sixteen months ago. In that case, ice buildup had choked fuel flow to both engines on landing, resulting in loss of power. Dozens had been injured, but no one killed. In that incident, the route had taken the jet over mountainous regions of China and Russia, where temperatures plunged, which had caused ice to form in the fuel system. But Cole knew that ice couldn’t be a factor in the Kuwaiti flight because its path presented warmer temperatures, and fuel mixtures in the industry had been adjusted since.
The key factor in both the Kuwait flight and the EastCloud flight was that each aircraft had the same Richlon-Titan fly-by-wire system, the one he had created and helped build.
My flawed system. And now fifteen people are dead.
The Times of London had just published excerpts of transcripts from the Shikra crew, and one segment leaped from Cole’s monitor.
Copilot: “We’ve got a double engine failure! The engines have been switched off!”
Captain: “Switched off? How? We didn’t do that! Try restarting!”
There, that part.
“Switched off? How? We didn’t do that.”
Cole clicked to an earlier story from Newslead that quoted EastCloud’s Captain Raymond Matson.
“There was no clear-air turbulence and I did not disable the safety system. The aircraft suddenly rolled. For a critical time, the plane refused to respond to our commands. I don’t know what happened but I know something went wrong. This was a clear flight control computer malfunction.”
Cole dragged his hands over his face.
It was evident to him that what he had feared was now a reality, a horrible reality. He was staring at the telltale signs of the system’s vulnerability—an external breach of the system’s security system.
I have to tell them that someone is hacking into RT’s system.
Cole took in a long breath, let it out slowly, reached for his phone and called Jake Hooper at his NTSB office in Washington, DC.
“NTSB, Major Investigations Division,” the receptionist said.
“Robert Cole calling for Jake Hooper.”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Cole. We’ve passed your message to Jake.”
“I haven’t heard back, and my emails to him keep bouncing back. Could you give me a number where he can be reached?”
“No, I’m not permitted to do that. As I mentioned when you called an hour ago, and the hour before that, he’s overseas assisting on an investigation.”
“Listen, this is very important. He needs to know that there’s a security issue with the RT flight-management system.”
“I’m sure he’s aware and that the team is looking into all aspects.”
“You know that I used to participate in investigations with the NTSB.”
“Yes, we’re aware of who you are, Mr. Cole.” He thought her tone condescending and dismissive. “We no longer have you listed. That’s why your emails are rejected. As I’ve mentioned in your previous calls, you don’t have party status on any ongoing investigation, which restricts us from doing much more than relaying your message to Jake. I’m sorry.”
Cole squeezed his phone hard before hanging up.
He knew what they thought of him but he couldn’t give up. The reasons stared back at him from his laptop, picture after picture of the Heathrow tragedy—burning wreckage, anguished relatives and body bags dotting the grass near the runway.
I know what I have to do.
Cole had to go beyond alerting the NTSB to the problem. He had to give them the solution, the one he’d developed, to retrofit RT’s fleet and every aircraft with the RT flight-management system.
I know what I have to do but I don’t know if I can do it.
He felt as though an enormous weight were pushing down on him, because even if he found the solution, he’d have to adapt it to what RT had actually installed in planes now in service. Cole was unsure he had the skill, the thinking power he needed. Not after all these years. Not after what he’d become.
I have to try. If it’s the last thing I do, I have to try.
He got up, poured his drink into the kitchen sink and made himself a sandwich and black coffee. Then he showered, put on fresh clothes, grabbed his keys and got into his pickup truck. Driving across town, he sorted through his thoughts.
When he’d sold the house in California and moved to North Dakota, he’d considered destroying all of his personal records and material from his work at Richlon-Titan. But something—a distant voice, an impulse or an instinct, he’d never know—had told him to keep the material.
Cole couldn’t bear to have it with him, so he’d put it away in self-storage along with furniture, keepsakes and other items he couldn’t let go of, but couldn’t stand having with him in his small house in Clear River.
Now more than ever, he was relieved that he’d kept his RT files.
If he was going to develop a solution, he’d need to review the corrective work he’d developed for the system. He had put into storage two file cabinets jammed with manuals, schematic drawings, equations and USB flash drives, all invaluable.
Now he had a starting point.
What I don’t have is time. Who knows how much longer before we see another tragedy?
He turned onto Wagon Road at the edge of town, following it until he came to a cluster of low-rise buildings enclosed within a ten-foot-high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.
The sign at the gate read Riverwind Self-Storage.
Cole inserted his key and turned it in the entry post and the fence gate automatically opened, giving him access to the complex. He went to the structure marked Building 2 and used another key to enter.
He walked down the long, straight corridor that divided into rows of uniform storage units, each about the size of a small garage. He picked through the keys of his key ring, coming to a silver key with “108, Riverwind, Bldg 2” scrawled on a piece of paper that was taped to it.
Cole passed units 105, 106 and 107, then froze in his tracks.
The door to 108 was unlocked.
He opened it.
Everything was gone.
Thirty-Two
Manhattan, New York
Sirens howled in the twilight as Kate entered the bar where she’d arranged to meet her source.
It was seven blocks from her building in Morningside Heights, sandwiched between Aunt Dottie’s Pie Shop and Loving Care Alterations. This was a region of Harlem and the Upper West Side that locals considered an extension of Columbia University’s campus.
Kate threaded through coveys of grad students, making her way to an empty booth. The air was heavy with the smells of beer and deep-fried food. The place was dark, the floor was sticky and the walls were aging brick. Each wooden table had a flickering lamp. The menu was on the chalkboard behind the bar, above the mirror that hung between the muted flat-screen TVs, which were tuned to sports. Thankfully, the music was played at a level that invited conversation.
“I’m waiting for a friend. I’ll just have a Diet Coke,” she told her server.
Kate checked her phone for messages, then marveled at how time had flown. It’d been a year since she’d last seen Erich. Sipping her drink, she inventoried the crowd, wondering what young Erich, or “Viper,” looked like now, and, more important, if he could help her.
“Hello, Kate,” said a voice behind her.
“Erich.”
“I was in the corner when I saw you.” He slid into her booth.
The lamplight reflected his intense, deep-set eyes. His hair was cut short; he still had a stubbled goatee and a stud in his left earlobe. She detected a pleasant hint of cologne.
“What’re you, twenty-three now?” she asked.
“Twenty-four. You’re looking well, Kate.”
“Thank you. So are you. Are you still doing your top secret consulting work as one of the world’s best hackers?” She smiled.
“Cyber specialist.”
“So what was the job in New Zealand? Did you have to eliminate anyone?”
He tugged at his ear, smiling.
“Well, keeping this between friends, I was contracted to help with Stone Ghost.”
“Stone Ghost?”
“It’s a classified network that shares defense intelligence among the US, the UK, Canada, Australia and New Zealand.”
“But if it’s secret...”
“You can read a summary of Stone Ghost online.” Erich turned to the server. “I’ll have a tomato juice with ice, please.” Then to Kate: “So, how are your daughter and sister doing?”
“Both good.”
Sipping her Coke, Kate caught the reflection of a woman at the bar. She seemed to be watching them. More likely Erich. Dishwater blonde, tight T-shirt, jeans, red bag. She was older than the students, and had a hardness about her. Divorced? A cougar? A hooker, maybe?
“Kate?”
She returned her attention to Erich.
“I’ve been reading your stories on the airliners. Is there any way I can help?”
She ran down the history for him, from the beginning when she’d first heard the EastCloud crew on the newsroom scanners to her current quandary.
“I believe the cause of these two flights’ issues is linked to the email. I need help confirming it and I need help determining the source of the email.”
Kate unfolded printouts of the Zarathustra email and passed it to Erich. He studied it, rubbing his stubble thoughtfully.
“I tried to respond but got this.” She tapped her finger on the printout with the error message reading “permanent failure, unknown user” and a long string of technical text. “What d’you think?”
“Off the top, it looks basic, but smart. Your sender is likely routing the message through a multitude of places online, using layers of encryption, characteristic of an onion router. Good chance they’re using hidden servers on the Darknet.”
