She adjusted the headset connected to her cell phone. “Jeff? Hey, JEFFY? Yeah, sorry to yell. Look, I understand the problem. I’ll be in at six in the morning and we can hash it out then, if that’s okay with—”
The other lawyer began again, but she was ready for him.
“JEFF! FIRE! EARTHQUAKE! BAGELS!”
“Wha … what?”
“Just checking your hearing. Don’t you ever breathe between sentences? I couldn’t get an edge in wordwise.”
“Yeah, so I’ve been told,” he replied.
“Tomorrow, Jeff. Give it a rest for tonight.”
She waited for acknowledgment of the ungodly report time before ringing off and extricating herself from her gleaming sports car.
The ’Vette had been her first big indulgence after landing the job with Janssen and Pruzan. A $105,000 starting salary made it more than possible. She’d always wanted a Corvette. “Tom Cruise and me!” she’d told April countless times since the movie Top Gun had become her favorite rental.
“We both feel the need for speed.”
“Gracie, he rode a motorcycle in Top Gun.”
“Doesn’t matter. It went fast, like a ’Vette.”
“Look, Corvettes are, what, fifty thousand?”
“New, yes. I’m talking a pre-loved ’Vette,” Gracie had explained, sounding hurt. “This baby’s six thousand, one owner, perfect silver paint … and all mine.”
“What do you mean, ‘all mine’?” April had asked.
“I already wrote the check. I knew you’d approve.”
That was a year before, and her only regret in the intervening year was having too little free time to drive it—plus the two-hundred-dollar speeding fine she’d earned by blowing past a Washington state trooper at somewhere over 110 miles per hour.
“He actually asked me for my pilot’s license,” Gracie had laughed when telling April the next day.
“Oh, no. You didn’t?”
“Of course I did! I pulled out my private pilot’s license and handed it to him. Your dad would have been proud.”
“I’m surprised you’re not calling from the county jail.”
“He actually started laughing.”
“But he still wrote the ticket.”
“Yeah, and I batted my eyes and thought sexy and everything, just like you taught me, Rosen. I keep telling you, it doesn’t work with me.”
“That’s because you keep talking. It wrecks the mood.”
Gracie chuckled at the memory as she pulled her briefcase from the front seat, closed the door, and paused to rub a smudge off the window before heading for the boat she called home.
The Corvette had elicited enough of a yelp from April, but Gracie’s maverick decision to buy and live on an expensive yacht north of the downtown Seattle area had stunned her whole extended family.
“Is it safe to do that?” April had asked.
“It’s safe, and it’s calming, and I’ve got earnest money on a ten-year-old fifty-eight-footer with a great master bedroom, salon, galley, and everything for about the price of your Vancouver condo.”
Gracie paused now at the entrance to her slip, admiring the lines of her ship, as she liked to call it. It was a fifty-eight-foot Carver, moored stern-in to the dock.
She closed the gate behind her and walked the twenty yards to her floating home, unlocked the door and tossed her briefcase onto a chair before putting her headset back in place to call April. She punched in April’s cell number, rolling over the details of their last conversation. That had been hours before, and while Arlie and Rachel were obviously doing fine physically, the news that NTSB and FAA representatives had shown up for an interview had worried her for the past two hours—and the silence from Anchorage wasn’t helping.
“Hello?”
“Where are you, Rosencrantz?” Gracie asked.
“Just leaving the hospital. I was going to call you, Gracie,” April said. “I think we’ve got a problem.” Her voice was tense as she related the details of the contentious interview and the attack by the FAA inspector—as well as Arlie Rosen’s angry response.
“You’re kidding? Our captain came unglued?” Gracie asked in alarm.
“Completely. Name calling and all. If the FAA man wasn’t already intending to cause trouble—and he obviously was—he’ll be hell for leather to do so now. He came in with a chip on his shoulder.”
“Okay, I need to find an air-law specialist, and fast. Someone with experience defending pilots from the FAA.”
“Gracie, you think this is going to come back to bite Dad?”
“Well, you tell me. Did the FAA guy mention alcoholism?”
“Yes.”
“Did he accuse the captain of flying drunk, and say he was going to recommend what they call ‘certificate action’?”
“Yes. In so many words. He didn’t say ‘certificate action,’ but he meant it.”
“Then we’ve got a big, thumping, hairy problem. How are they otherwise?”
“In a bit of a daze. I don’t think it’s hit Dad yet that his baby’s lost. He loved that Albatross so much.”
“That may be the least of his problems.”
“He’s going to want to find a way to salvage her, but when an airplane’s been immersed in salt water—”
“April, I need you to focus now. Tell me as much as you can remember about the details of that interview, and exactly what the captain told those guys.”
“I’ll e-mail it to you in a few minutes.”
“What, your notes?”
“No. I recorded the whole thing digitally, and as soon as I get to the hotel—I’ve booked a room at the Anchorage Hilton—I’ll e-mail it to you. I loaded the program on your laptop when I bought this recorder last month.”
“Oh. I forgot. Cool. But, you mean you can e-mail it directly from the recorder itself?”
“No. I’ll use my laptop.”
“Your laptop? You have your laptop in Anchorage?”
“Of course.”
“You mean you took the time to grab your computer along with your girl kit when you left Vancouver?”
“Gracie, that’s what I grab before I pack the girl—” She stopped abruptly. “Why am I repeating that? You know I hate that phrase, ‘girl kit.’ It’s just stuff to make me feel good and look good.”
“Yeah, I know. So, how long will your folks be staying in the hospital?”
“Overnight, at least.”
“Okay, now, how are you doing?”
April sighed audibly. “Oh, I’m close to tears of mixed relief and grief. Thank God they’re okay, but who needs this, y’know? Lose the airplane, get the FAA after you … not a fun thing.”
“Can you take a few days off to get them back home to Sequim?”
“Yes, but I’ve got ships coming in I have to meet in two days. Dean will be here in the morning. You’re going to look for a lawyer?”
“Aside from the one I’m looking at in the mirror? Yes. In the morning, first thing. Is it okay if I call the captain and Rachel? Are they up to it?”
“They’d love to hear from their terminally cynical surrogate daughter.” April gave her the bedside number. “Gracie, Dad wasn’t drinking. You know that, right?”
“I’d stake my life on it.”
“Those were pretty ugly accusations.”
“Hang in there and have faith, April. Really. We’ll get it fixed, you and me.”
“Think so?”
“Hey, that’s what kids are for.”
TEN
TUESDAY, DAY 2 UNIWAVE FIELD OFFICES ELMENDORF AFB, ALASKA AROUND 8 P.M.
The computer screensaver appearance of Lisa Cole was momentarily unnerving. The emotions instantly triggered in Ben Cole by his deceased wife’s beautiful face bordered on the uncontrollable, which was why he normally approached the act of looking at her picture with great care and preparation.
But suddenly Lisa’s image was there on the screen, his favorite shot of her, hair blowing happily in the stiff wind of
the Pali, the historic pass in the saddle of Oahu’s volcanic ridgeline separating Honolulu from the Kailua area on the northeast shore. That had been a wonderful day, he recalled, and she’d delighted in having the forty-knot wind threatening to scandalize him by billowing her skirt to indiscreet places as he tried to take her picture. She’d loved the resulting shot. Her “Marilyn” imitation, she’d called it.
His mind started down the same, dark path, reliving the news two years before that his beautiful wife had been broadsided in traffic and killed by a drunk driver. Ben forced himself back to the question of how her picture had suddenly appeared.
And just as quickly he realized the mistake, if it was a mistake. He’d inadvertently triggered a long-dormant little program he’d created—a “macro” in geek-speak, he used to say—that randomly looked for pictures on his hard drive and displayed them without warning as the screensaver of the day.
“Keeps you from downloading porn, I promise you that!” he’d joked with the other engineers.
Somehow he’d reactivated the program, and the first shot it found was Lisa’s.
He left her image on the screen, taking a bit of comfort in the idea that in a strange way she was watching over him, and he could certainly use the support.
Ben sat back and debated the merits of making a new pot of coffee or continuing to work. The welcome cancellation of the scheduled meeting with General MacAdams had helped defuse a little of the killing pressure they were under, but when word came that MacAdams had slipped the final test another twenty-four hours—giving them two whole days to find the problem—he’d sent his exhausted software team home for a much-needed rest.
“Are you coming, too, Ben?” one of them had asked.
“Yeah. Absolutely,” he’d fibbed. “Be right behind you.”
He had little choice but to stay and work into the night. Taking top secret work home in any form was a massive violation with potential jail time attached.
Ben stood and moved to study the half dozen electrical relays his team had hastily wired together in imitation of the prototype system in the Gulfstream. He checked the connections, then moved to an adjacent computer that had an exact copy of the program that had almost killed him the night before. Ben entered the “start” command from memory, watching the various messages on the screen reporting the progress of the program as it went through the sequence of closing the relays to physically take control, exactly as it would happen in the real airplane.
There were a series of snapping sounds, and Ben nodded to himself after glancing toward the table.
Okay, that’s right, he thought. He entered a new series of commands, and still more clicking and snapping resulted, again precisely in accordance with the way the program was supposed to work.
All right. Let’s see if you can obey the command to sit and roll over, he thought, loosing another string of keyboard commands. The appropriate response after a few seconds would be the snapping of four relays indicating the system had let go of the flight controls.
Instead, the lights in the lab went out.
What the hell? Ben thought. The computers were still running on backup power, but all of the overhead lights and individual workstation lamps had gone dark, and there had been no snapping noises.
Ben grabbed a small flashlight and moved to the relay table, confirming that they had not released.
The room lights go out but the relays won’t let go? This makes no sense.
There was a noise at the door to the lab and he looked up, trying to make out who was standing in the darkness of the doorway.
“Hello?”
“Ben, go home,” Lindsey White’s voice said.
“Lindsey! I’ve just had a partial power failure in here.”
She was moving toward him, carefully negotiating the spaces between the desks and workstations until she was standing next to him. There was a sudden burst of light as she triggered a large flashlight beam directed upward at her face, like a camper in a tent telling ghost stories.
“Go ho-o-ome, Doc-tor Cole!” she said, adopting a comically spooky voice.
“Okay, Lindsey,” he chuckled.
“Here thar be software beasties!” She snapped the light off, chuckling as well, her normal voice returning. “And circuit breakers for the ceiling lights.”
“You did that?”
She nodded, and he could see her smiling in the dim light. “Yep. If I can’t get you out of here one way, I’ll do it another. Go home and get some sleep.”
“Scared the heck out of me, Lindsey. I was just running a system test.”
“Well, if I have your word that you’ll get out of here in the next ten minutes, I’ll give you your one-hundred-ten-volt alternating current back to play with.”
“Spoken like a true electrical engineer.”
“I love it when you talk dirty,” she said, moving back toward the door. “Seriously, Ben.”
“Okay. Promise.”
“Good. We’ve got two days and a new T-handle. Good night.”
“Good night, Lindsey,” he said, thankful she hadn’t asked for a progress report.
The lights came back on and Ben moved to the test computer screen to reset the program, remembering the absence of snapping noises.
Wait a minute, he thought. They never disconnected. The program has paused with the problem clearly apparent.
His excitement was mounting by the moment. If he could freeze the program with specific knowledge of which line of code had caused the program to freeze and be unresponsive, and copy it precisely that way, he could zero in on the problem within an hour or two.
He stood back from the table, his heart beating faster as he considered the options. He knew Lindsey was serious. Undoubtedly she would check back with security inside an hour to make sure he’d processed out.
But he couldn’t leave the search until morning. A thousand things could happen to the uncounted electrons zapping around the interior of the computer’s silicon memory. The key to the solution was in his hands, and he had to act now.
Ben pulled out a notepad and scribbled down the computer commands that would copy precisely what he needed from the stopped prototype program. He double-checked it to make sure there was nothing apparent that might crash the program or garble the files, then triggered the process.
The sound of hard drives whirring to life reached his ears as he monitored the information on the screen. The download continued for two very long minutes before the final confirmation blinked on-screen. Ben transferred the downloaded files to a CD and sat down at his computer desk in deep thought. It would be professional suicide to leave the building with the CD or any computer-storage medium. But Ben had always known about an uncovered hole in the system. He’d monitored it carefully to prevent anyone else from finding or using it, but there was a way to get the master hard drive to send anything to one particular serial port on one solitary computer in the lab. He pulled out his cell phone now and looked at it, trying to recall whether its “system” might be actively intercepted by counterintelligence security apparatus.
No, he concluded. Highly unlikely.
He pulled out a cable from his briefcase and connected it first to the serial port of the computer, then to the bottom of his cell phone, dialing the special number to his home desktop computer. He entered the appropriate commands until he had a clear channel to a restricted area of his hard drive’s memory, and triggered the transfer. He sat in rising apprehension as the computer began the process of sending the top secret program digitally over his cell phone to his personal machine at home.
“Dr. Cole?” a male voice asked without warning.
A cold fear gripped him as he jumped involuntarily. “What? Who’s that?”
The voice had come from the doorway, and Ben looked up to see a security guard he knew strolling in, immediately destroying his glib confidence that he was doing something no one could detect. Ben was sure sweat was visible on his forehead. He tried not to swallow or
sound as guilty as he felt.
“Ms. White asked me to come make sure you kept your word and went home, Doctor,” the guard said with a grin.
Ben sighed audibly. “You scared me, Jerry!”
“Sorry about that. You do look a bit shaken.”
“I thought I was alone.”
“Nope. You got us rent-a-cops here, too.”
“Give me a second and I’ll be ready,” Ben said, deftly cancelling the return message on the computer screen that the upload was complete. He secured and shut down the computers one by one, feeling a predictable pang as he dumped Lisa’s image before grabbing his overstuffed briefcase and turning toward the guard with a smile.
“Okay. That’s it.”
“Haven’t you forgotten something, Doc?” the man said, an expression on his face Ben instantly read as accusatory.
“I … I don’t think so.”
The guard walked toward the computer Ben had used for the download and picked up the cell phone. The download modem cord dangled from the bottom.
“Well, well, well. What have we here?”
A wave of nausea consumed him as he watched the guard hold out the cell phone with the cord still attached and shake his head in smiling disapproval, like a cat playing with his doomed mouse.
“I … ah …” Ben began.
“It’s one thing to get the battery all charged up, but if you forget to take it home, you still can’t use it,” the guard said with a smile. “It’s always the obvious things that get you engineering types.”
Ben took the phone from his hand and quickly disconnected the download cord, stuffing them both in his briefcase. “You’re so right, Jerry. Thanks! I was expecting an important call in a little while and I didn’t want my battery to die in the middle of talking to her. You know.”
The guard put a fatherly hand on his shoulder, guiding him to the door.
“Ms. White’s instructions were specific. Remove Dr. Cole’s fatigued body from the premises no matter how much he protests. I always follow a lady’s requests. Well, almost always.”
Ben swiped his badge at the security entrance and cleared his handprint and retinal scans before waving goodbye to Jerry and climbing into his car, the guard’s words echoing in his head. It’s always the obvious things that get you, Jerry had said.
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