Free Fall

by Rick Mofina

  Devon pushed his Jeep hard westbound on the 210 Freeway. During the one-hour drive, the agency also sent Kate court records concerning Robert Cole’s vehicular manslaughter case in the death of his wife, Elizabeth, and injury of his daughter, Veyda.

  Veyda. That’s the person the man in the video is addressing. So that’s got to be Cole in the video. What’s Veyda’s role here?

  Kate resumed studying the case.

  “This is so tragic,” she said to Devon while reading the documents as greater LA flowed by.

  The Cole residence was in Burbank’s Hillside District, on a tranquil street. It was of mixed style, a ranch bungalow with a touch of Spanish influence—a low, broad house with stucco walls and a red-tiled roof.

  A man in his late twenties came to the door.

  “Kate Page, from New York. We’re looking for Mr. Robert Cole or his daughter, Veyda.”

  The man shook his head.

  “Nobody here by that name, sorry.” He scratched his head. “Wait. I think that’s who used to own this house before my mom and dad bought it.”

  “Did Mr. Cole leave a forwarding address?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Could we talk to your parents?”

  “They’re in Europe on vacation.”

  “Could you send them a text?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “It’s an urgent business matter and we need to reach Mr. Cole.”

  The man pulled his phone from his back pocket and typed.

  “I think they’re in Dublin. Not sure what time it is there.” After sending the message, he looked closer at Kate and Devon. “Who’re you with?”

  “Newslead, the newswire service. We’d like to reach Mr. Cole confidentially. It’s very important.”

  “This has got nothing to do with my folks, right?”

  “Just Mr. Cole.”

  A chime sounded on the man’s phone and he read the message.

  “Dad says he doesn’t have an address but thinks that Cole moved to Idaho or Wyoming, some place like that. Maybe even Canada. Sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  Kate and Devon tried a few other neighboring doors but it was futile. No one knew where Robert Cole had moved to.

  “Let’s try Richlon-Titan.”

  * * *

  Richlon-Titan’s world headquarters was in a ten-story glass building. Its dark blue mirrored windows reflected palms and the blue California sky.

  “Kate Page, from Newslead.” She placed her card on the reception desk. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Hub Wolfeson on an urgent matter.”

  The receptionist’s eyebrows rose a bit.

  “Mr. Wolfeson? Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but he should know who I am and it’s urgent. Tell him it concerns Robert Cole, Overlord, and the recent aircraft incidents in London and New York involving RT systems.”

  The receptionist jotted a few notes. “Please, have a seat.”

  Kate joined Devon at a marbled wall of water. Next to it were huge portraits of RT airliners. Two minutes became five, then fifteen.

  Kate tapped her notebook on her leg.

  Wolfeson should indeed be familiar with her name, given all the crap with his nephew, Sloane F. Parkman. She hoped her unannounced visit made him nervous. Heels clicked on the polished floor and she turned.

  “Ms. Page?”

  A woman about Kate’s age in a power suit and flawless makeup arrived.

  “Shannon Bree, executive director of public affairs.” She had an Australian accent. She didn’t extend her hand. She was using both hands to hold a single piece of folded paper. “I’m afraid Mr. Wolfeson is unavailable. He’s in Vienna.”

  “Well, I have questions on a number of urgent matters.”

  “Yes, we’re quite aware of your reporting and I’m afraid given the circumstances of the ongoing investigations we can’t comment. We do express our condolences to the families involved and we underscore that we’re cooperating fully with officials in the United States and the UK. The safety of the flying public is our paramount concern.”

  “I have questions about Robert Cole and Overlord.”

  “Yes, but for privacy reasons we cannot comment on former employees or their past activities. I’m sure you understand. It’s all here in our formal statement for you.” Bree handed Kate the paper on RT letterhead, which echoed what she’d said. Then she offered a gleaming, officious smile.

  * * *

  “You made our cutoff by a whisker,” the Fed-Ex agent said after accepting Kate’s packages for Washington and New York.

  After she’d shipped the documents, Devon dropped her at the hotel, where Kate kept working. She called Chuck and vented her frustration over not finding Robert Cole or confirming much more on Overlord.

  “Did Tim or Hugh have any luck?”

  “Not much. But don’t worry about it. The trip’s paid off,” Chuck said. “We have a good foundation. You can pick it up when you get back to New York tomorrow.”

  Kate then called home and spoke with Grace, Vanessa and Nancy. Hearing their voices lifted her spirits. Afterward she took a hot shower then pored over the Project Overlord records. Much of it was technical.

  Kate shifted her focus to read Robert Cole’s court records on her phone, this time more carefully. Dear Lord, this is so tragic. After absorbing the details on Elizabeth Cole’s death, Kate had to struggle to shove away the images of her own tragic car crash. She forced herself to keep reading. She paused when she came to sections concerning Robert Cole’s daughter, Veyda, to replay her father’s video plea, then resumed studying the records. Veyda was a doctoral candidate at MIT where she was working on aircraft systems engineering.

  Veyda was following in her dad’s footsteps. She’d know where her father was; maybe she’d know about Overlord, too. But Robert Cole’s words from the video echoed in her mind: Whatever you’re doing or thinking of doing, please stop... I’m begging you... Kate went online to try to find an email or some way to reach Veyda Cole.

  No luck.

  The sun was still high but Kate was exhausted as she continued her research. Looking again at the images of the Heathrow tragedy and the cabin video of the EastCloud flight, she was overwhelmed by the magnitude and horror of what had happened, and what was at stake.

  Is Robert Cole Zarathustra? Or maybe his daughter is? They’d have the skills to attempt to interfere with the flights. If that’s the case, then don’t I have a duty to alert authorities to look at Robert Cole as their person of interest? Wasn’t that the point of my last major story? But it’s not my job to inform police.

  Anguished by indecision, Kate raised her face to the ceiling.

  What if something happened? What if another plane crashed? How could I live with myself?

  She reached for her phone and called Nick Varner, hoping and praying she could talk to him. One ring and the line was answered.

  “Varner.”

  “Nick, it’s Kate Page.”

  “Hey, I really can’t talk right now.”

  “I’ve got something important to tell you but you have to swear no one will know this came from me.”

  “What is it?”

  “Swear to me, Nick.”

  “This isn’t a good time.”

  “Swear, Nick.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your person of interest may be a former Richlon-Titan engineer with expertise on flight-management systems. He may have suffered some sort of breakdown and could be exacting revenge.”

  Varner said nothing.

  “His name is Robert Cole. He used to live in Burbank, the Hillside District.” Kate recited the address. “But he’s moved. And he’s posted a troubling video plea to his daughter, Veyda. This
could be significant.”

  Varner said nothing, which Kate took as unusual. Shouldn’t he be asking me to tell him more about the Coles? Varner’s silence meant something was up.

  “Nick, I’m violating my own ethical code to help you.”

  Silence. Kate looked at her phone, then pressed it back to her ear.

  “Nick, are you there?”

  “We’re on the same track.”

  “You know about Cole?”

  “We’re on the same track and things are unfolding.”

  Kate sat straighter.

  “Unfolding? What do you mean? Nick, where are you? What’s going on?”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Nick!”

  Fifty-Five

  Clear River, North Dakota

  After ending his call with Kate Page, Nick Varner continued looking through his high-powered binoculars at the house at the far end of the sealed residential block.

  Robert Cole’s home.

  Varner reinserted his earpiece to resume listening to the whispered transmissions of FBI SWAT team members who’d taken up concealed positions near the house. He was shielded by parked emergency vehicles some one hundred yards away, where he was watching the operation.

  Deputies from Bowman and Adams counties had already quietly evacuated all residents from neighboring homes that were in the line of fire and choked off all traffic at both ends of the quiet street.

  So far, there was no movement or activity reported by SWAT members closest to Cole’s building.

  The task force cyber experts had traced the sender of the Zarathustra emails to a physical internet protocol address registered to Robert Cole of Clear River, North Dakota.

  Investigators had immediately worked full-bore, putting in long hours without stopping. Further rapid investigation and expedited warrants revealed that Cole was a former engineer with Richlon-Titan who’d helped design its fly-by-wire system. Assistance from Homeland Security confirmed that Robert Cole was a member of the secret team that had worked on Project Overlord, the abandoned program designed to develop the technology known as the Unhindered Autopilot System, which would allow planes hijacked in-flight to be landed safely by remote control.

  Robert Cole possessed the expertise to remotely threaten aircraft.

  Varner had to give Kate Page credit. Once again she’d proven why he considered her one of the best journalists in the country. The information she’d obtained was solid.

  The FBI’s swift investigation of Richlon-Titan officials by agents from the bureau’s Los Angeles division—and with support from the LA County Sheriff—showed that Cole’s employment had been terminated after he’d become unstable following a traffic accident in which his wife was killed. There were indications that Cole harbored a grudge against RT over a disagreement on the flight-management system and that he blamed RT for his wife’s death.

  Varner agreed that the facts pointed to Robert Cole as their suspect.

  The FBI had acted fast, securing arrest and search warrants for Robert Cole. They’d assembled a large operation, drawing on FBI agents from Williston, Minot and Bismarck. They were supported by FBI SWAT teams from the Salt Lake City and Minneapolis divisions.

  The FBI had control of the inner perimeter. They were backed by tactical teams from across North Dakota who held positions at the outer perimeter, where Varner and other task force members waited.

  Moments ago, another FBI team had moved on the hangar where Cole worked.

  No one had been there.

  Technicians from North Dakota’s Bureau of Criminal Investigation Division were processing the hangar for evidence, but nothing significant had emerged so far.

  The radio crackled with a dispatch from the command post.

  “Heads up. Everyone’s now in position,” the team leader whispered.

  “Hold,” the commander said.

  Varner dragged the back of his hand across his mouth as he watched through his binoculars.

  “Holding,” the team leader responded.

  Several tense moments passed, the silence broken by birdsong and the barking of a dog in the distance.

  Then...

  “Tighten your position!”

  Heavily armed tactical members rushed from their covers with weapons drawn, moving quietly from behind trees, parked cars and house corners. One sniper was flat on his stomach on the roof of the house next door, his rifle scope trained on a bedroom window. Another sharpshooter used the hood of an SUV to take a line on a living room window.

  Team members crept up to the house, taking positions at the front and rear. They were poised for a no-knock forced rapid entry.

  “We’re set,” the team leader reported to the command post.

  The SWAT commander nodded and used a megaphone to order Robert Cole to exit the house using the front door with his hands raised, palms showing, and surrender to the FBI.

  He repeated the order for two solid minutes.

  No one answered.

  The commander then green-lighted his squad.

  “Go!”

  Seconds later the pop-pop and shattering glass sounds of tear gas canisters being fired echoed down the street. White clouds billowed from the main floor, followed by the deafening crack-crack and lightning flashes of stun grenades.

  The SWAT team smashed through the front and rear doors.

  Their helmet lights raked the acrid fog as they swept the living room and the kitchen. Then they stormed down the hallway then upstairs. Bedroom number one: empty. Bedroom number two: empty. The bathroom was empty. Closets: empty. The ceiling, floors and walls were tapped for body mass.

  Empty.

  On the main floor, team members completed the same inspection of all rooms and potential hiding places. The house was inspected three times before it was cleared and declared safe.

  Once the air cleared, Varner was allowed into the scene in advance of the evidence response team.

  He’d slipped on shoe covers, pulled on gloves, then stepped inside, coughing at the biting, ammonia-like traces of the tear gas. First, he moved from room to room, taking stock of Cole’s home. It was plain, orderly and clean, except for the dining room.

  What happened here? Looks like a couple of file cabinets exploded.

  Layers of papers, files, reports, manuals and schematic drawings blanketed the table and the desk next to it.

  Varner studied the material.

  All of it related to Richlon-Titan’s fly-by-wire system.

  Varner picked up printouts of Kate Page’s stories.

  Paragraphs were highlighted, including excerpts of the Zarathustra email.

  Varner swallowed hard.

  We’ve got to find Robert Cole, now!

  Then his eyes narrowed on a manuscript and the title page.

  The author was Veyda Hyde.

  Varner turned the cover to the first page with a gloved finger. At the top was a reference to Friedrich Nietzsche and Zarathustra. Varner blinked and flipped back to the title page.

  Veyda Hyde.

  Who’s that?

  Fifty-Six

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Rachel Rinchley twisted and untwisted the strap of her briefcase as she rode the T from MIT to the downtown City Hall stop.

  Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this.

  She questioned herself repeatedly while standing across the street from the nine-story, crescent-shaped complex known as Center Plaza.

  No, I have to tell them. They have to know.

  Rachel entered One Center Plaza, passed through security, clipped on her visitor badge and went to the sixth floor, the location of the FBI’s Boston Field Office.

  She waited in the reception area unti
l the agent she’d spoken with earlier on the phone, Kay Howard, came out and took her to a quiet office.

  “We appreciate your coming downtown, Ms. Rinchley. What’s the important information you wanted to share with the FBI?”

  Rachel withdrew her copy of Veyda Hyde’s troubling doctoral paper, passed it to Agent Howard, then proceeded to tell her why she was convinced that Veyda was the author of the Zarathustra emails.

  “She’s brilliant,” Rachel began. “She used to be known as Veyda Cole, and she was originally researching aircraft systems engineering, computational engineering, controls, communications and networks, until her mother was killed...”

  Fifty-Seven

  Ottawa, Canada

  In downtown Ottawa Tucker Ollenck rubbed his reddened eyes.

  He hadn’t slept since he’d read the news story online about the FBI’s search for the people behind the Zarathustra emails in connection with that plane crash in London.

  He knew exactly who that was. Problem was, he wasn’t sure if he should alert the FBI.

  He went to the window of his fifteenth-floor office in the Canadian capital, where he worked with a global IT firm, and stared at the Peace Tower for an answer to his dilemma. After a long, troubled moment, he returned to his desk, went to the FBI’s website for the New York Field Office.

  He scrawled the number on yellow note paper.

  He rolled down his sleeves, slid on his jacket and told the office manager that he was taking an early lunch.

  Tucker walked east across the Mackenzie King Bridge, over the canal to the Rideau Centre, the major downtown mall. He bought a disposable phone and a prepaid card. Then he went back outside to the bridge, and while gazing upon the canal toward the castle-like spires of the Chateau Laurier Hotel, he made an anonymous call to the FBI in New York.

  After a few general questions he was put on hold.

  Several moments passed, and he was connected.

  “FBI, Agent Brock.”

  “Sir, I’ve got information about your search for Zarathustra.”

  “Go ahead.”