by Tom Wheeler
41
Crossing Qatar
September 8
Mesaieed, Qatar
Rihanna lifted off from her hiding spot behind the abandoned building at an obscure airstrip just outside of Mesaieed, Qatar, at nightfall. She was keenly aware of the impossibility of flying 4,000 miles to France as a wanted woman in a stolen helicopter, but believed General Troy would be true to his or her word, despite the mystery of Troy’s identity and the fact that she knew she was taking a gamble trusting the person.
Besides, things were different now for Rihanna. Even the pain that came from her shoulder and ribs couldn’t steal the peace she felt in her soul. That, combined with the serenity of night flying with the lullaby buzz that came from her engines and the chuf of the rotor blade hitting air and the red glow of her dash, created an almost perfect ambiance. Only a strong, good-looking man that she adored and who adored her would make it perfect.
Her thoughts moved to Mason Thomas. “Like that would ever happen,” she said rhetorically. She visualized his eyes, considered his wit, his kindness, and—what most impressed her—his faith. He’d had a confidence in the midst of death that she wasn’t used to seeing in most of the sane men she knew. The oxymoron caused her to snicker.
She was jarred out of her daydream by a plethora of lights in the distance. A moment later, the horizon was filled with various colored lights located on the giant buildings making up Doha, Qatar, one of the most modern cities in the world. She was 20 miles out, her right hand holding the stick firmly, although sweat began accumulating on her palms as the airport approached.
“Hamad, alduwaliat, EuroHelo 785Alpha talab taelimat alhubut,” Rihanna greeted the flight controller in Arabic, asking for landing instructions. She steadied her left hand on the cyclic, her GPS locked on the airport.
“EuroHelo 785Alpha, stand by,” came the reply as Rihanna’s heart raced.
A moment passed.
“You are cleared to proceed for a straight-in approach on Runway 9-Right.”
“Roger that, Hamad, straight-in on Runway 9-Right,” she said with relief, since the Air Defense Identification Zone hadn’t shot her down as an unidentified flying aircraft. She took a deep breath and then reminded herself that a dispute between Bahrain, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and the UAE was part of the reason she could land without concern. Qatar had reformed its visa rules to allow anyone with a current driver’s license or identification into its borders without trudging through red tape, since the country needed to increase tourism. Rihanna had filed a flight plan from Riyadh, saying she’d attended the Neonatology Society Conference at the InterContinental on King Saud Road. That allowed her to land without concern, or as much concern, since she hadn’t really attended the conference.
She continued her descent, looking at the various colored lights that illuminated the runway and taxiways surrounding the airport. She approached the red parallel lights that changed to white as she neared the landing strip, the comforting chuf sound interrupted by the chopping of her blades as she maneuvered the giant bird from the sky like a pro.
“Matār Hamad al-Duwalī, helo 785Alpha, you are cleared to taxi to Terminal Alpha, gate 15.”
“Roger, 785,” she repeated.
“Helo 785Alpha, upon arrival, taxi to Terminal Alpha, sit tight. You will be met by customs.”
“Roger,” Rihanna said as she watched the runway pass underneath her. She brought the huge helo to a hover over the runway.
She took a deep breath, reminding herself to show her French passport identifying her as Émilie du Châtelet instead of Rihanna Zeva.
“Helo 785Alpha?” asked the control tower, since Rihanna hadn’t clarified that she knew the gate she was to taxi toward.
“Roger, Terminal Alpha. Gate 15.”
“We have you as a helo. You look fixed-wing,” said the tower, obviously able to see her.
“It’s a Eurocopter X3; a fast helo, sir,” she said.
“I can see your rotor now. Roger that, helo 785. That’s some machine.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, taxiing toward Terminal A, which was in the direction of the tower. Hearing someone comment on her helo made her nervous. This was one of the only times she thanked God Ahmadi had kept the helo hush-hush instead of bragging about the wonder craft, although she was aware General Troy knew she was flying the bird. Upon arrival at Terminal A, she lowered the aircraft to the ground, where she cut off her engines. She took a deep breath, unbuckled her seat belt, took off her headset, moved her hands over her short hair, and then crouched in the cockpit, awaiting customs.
Moments later a knock came from outside her cabin. She opened the door, seeing a man dressed in uniform with “Customs” visibly marked on his pocket.
“Mrhbana bikum fi duhan, qatr. hal tafadal allughat al’iinjliziat ‘am alearabia?” asked the security agent, boarding the chopper.
“English,” said Rihanna, a.k.a. Émilie du Châtelet. “Ou Français, ma preference,” she said, making her name more believable, since the slight slant of her eyes didn’t look French.
“I don’t speak French. Never seen one of these,” he said, referring to the helo. “Although I’ve heard of them. What’s cruising speed?” he asked, looking at the white leather seats with red trim.
“Two hundred fifty knots,” she said, taking the form from his hand.
“Ma fi tariqa!” he responded with a surprised look.
“Way,” Rihanna said, calmly staring at the form. She glanced up, thankful he was so distracted by the chopper. She cleared her throat. He looked at her.
“Ah, you need to fill that out. Can I see some identification?” he asked handing her a form, now focused on the reason he was in her bird.
She handed him her French ID. He accepted it.
“Émilie du Châtelet?” he asked, and she nodded. “Where are you headed?”
“Paris,” she replied, pronouncing it the French way, as she moved her hair back with her right hand.
“Where are you coming from?”
“Saudi Arabia. It’s in my flight plan,” she said warmly.
“Where in Saudi Arabia?” he asked, ignoring her.
“Riyadh. I attended the Neonatology Society Conference,” she said confidently.
“I don’t remember your helicopter on the flight to Saudi Arabia.”
Rihanna didn’t flinch.
“You’re a busy airport. I’m sure you can’t keep a handle on all of the aircraft, although I suppose you would have remembered me,” she said, smiling.
“Are you a doctor?”
“P.A.”
“How does a physician’s assistant learn to fly an aircraft like this, let alone have access to one?”
“I served in the Armée de l’Air. My father is General Louis Florent du Châtelet. He wants me home,” she said without flinching. “Would you like to call him?”
“When was the conference?” he asked, writing things down as Rihanna spoke. Rihanna was not expecting a barrage of questions, but she had learned long ago how to control her nerves. She had to keep in mind the flight restrictions after the nuke so she didn’t say something that showed she was lying. She had to guess, remembering that air traffic controllers worked eight-hour shifts and normally kept the same shift for a week, which was likely the same for a customs agent. She pulled out a flight book and looked through it as if she had recorded her comings and goings, while the customs agent briefly searched the cabin, looking through her bags.
“Three days ago, 10 a.m. Out at 11,” she said, making sure he couldn’t see the blank page she was looking at. “I stayed at the InterContinental on King Saud Road,” she continued as her heart skipped a beat, wondering if she had hidden her gold mine well enough in her bags.
“Do you have anything to declare, Miss . . . ?”
“Châtelet. Émilie du Châtelet.”
“As soon as you finish filling out that form, you can be on your way. What about fuel?”
“Yes, I need 500 gallons. Here you go,” Rihanna said, handing back the form. “Mind if I go inside the terminal? I need to fill this thermos with coffee,” she said, smiling and holding up a large container.
“Of course. Stay the night. Why the hurry?” he asked with a quizzical look.
“I have a long flight, as you can imagine. Besides, I enjoy flying at night. It’s more peaceful.”
“One moment. Halu yatatalab 500 ghalwn fi ‘asrae waqt mumkin,” the man said into his radio, looking Rihanna in the eyes as he spoke.
“Hadir. fa altariq,” a voice replied.
“The fuel is—”
“On its way. I heard,” interrupted Rihanna as the man stared at her with a fixed gaze until she became uneasy. Then he scanned the interior of the cockpit once again.
“France? That is a long way,” he said as he looked her in the eye. “Again, welcome to Doha. Enjoy your stay,” he said, giving Rihanna a final glance.
Rihanna watched the man duck out the door. She felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment. She had just entered her first country without getting shot or arrested. She called that a victory.
42
A Girl’s Best Friend
Airport
Doha, Qatar
Rihanna proceeded to the terminal, stopping just long enough to get her bearings as people of various nationalities emerged from the gates. They streamed past her in droves, toting their bags wrapped around their shoulders or following close behind on wheels. She saw a sign for WHSmith, her first stop. An elderly woman with gray bangs protruding from a black hijab rang up her first-aid supplies, ibuprofen, Imodium, and assorted female essentials. Rihanna then made her way to Hermès Paris, where a heavy-set man eyed her as she picked up a few fashion accessories that would allow her to blend in at her final destination. Next, she headed for the food court, where she grabbed a bag of croissants at Camden Food Co. and a pizza from Negroni’s.
She sat down at a small table to eat and review her flight plan. She pulled out her map and spread it on the table while looking right and left to ensure nobody was watching. She saw that the next stop on her journey was a small and discreet airport in Baghdad. That meant traversing Kuwait at an extremely low altitude, since they put radar on mountains, and filled most of the holes in their system with other sophisticated devices, even though pilots as skilled as Rihanna still secretly traversed the area. She inhaled a slice of pizza.
What worried her as much as her stop in Baghdad was traveling another 1,000 miles to Ankara, Turkey’s cosmopolitan capital, since the Syrians might shoot her down before she arrived. Rihanna wiped her hands on a napkin and picked up another slice of floppy and delicious pizza. She took a large bite. Looking back at her map, she saw that Sofia, Bulgaria, then Zagreb, Croatia, would be the next stops on the journey, and finally Paris in less than three days.
After confirming her travel plans and eating half a pizza, she gathered her things and casually headed back to the helicopter. Moments later, she was on the tarmac inhaling jet fuel, a smell she had come to appreciate, since flying was one of her favorite pastimes.
“Pardon, Madame Châtelet!” said the same customs agent who had been on her helicopter, approaching her in haste on the tarmac as she arrived at her chopper door.
“Madame!” yelled the agent, as two more agents began running toward her. She quickly opened the door of the helicopter without acting hurried. But inside her body, her heart raced as her mind contemplated her next move. She set her pizza and shopping bags on the seat, then placed her hand on the small box, well hidden above the cockpit in a compartment designed for an aviator survival kit, that held her pistol. She pushed up on the door, which disconnected the latch, allowing her to grab her weapon and shoot this man before he figured out what hit him, if necessary.
“What is it?” she asked, turning to the agent, her hand on the compartment as she sat in her chopper, her heart racing.
“There was no Émilie du Châtelet registered at the Neonatology Society Conference. Please step out of the helicopter,” he said, out of breath, his hand on his sidearm. Rihanna’s heart was now pounding, but her expression didn’t change.
“I was a speaker, sir. I wouldn’t have been registered. Can I show you my tag?” she offered as the other agents waited a good distance behind the chopper.
“Where is it?” he asked as she considered her next move. It was either shoot him or bribe him. She chose the latter.
“Please come aboard,” she invited, snapping the secret compartment door closed as he stepped into the backseat. Rihanna’s mind raced, her instincts taking over as she took her hand off the small compartment, looked into her bag, and pulled out a smaller bag.
“I have orders to . . . ,” he said as she pulled out three diamonds, “detain you . . .”
“Yes, I see,” said Rihanna, interrupting. “Here is proof I was a speaker at the conference,” she said, handing him the diamonds, his eyes gleaming. “You should find my credentials in order,” she said, ensuring that the man could accept the bribe even if someone was listening to their conversation, not that she knew if anyone was. The customs agent’s gleam narrowed. He glanced around to ensure nobody was watching. Then he gazed at the diamonds now in his hands. He held up one of the sparkling gems, examining it in the light. He stared at Rihanna as if sizing her up. Then he looked back at the diamonds.
“I can assure you that badge is authentic,” she said as the agent appeared to be deciding what to do. “My company does business with the Blue Nile,” she said, referring to the type of diamond.
The agent didn’t move. Again he looked at Rihanna, then at the diamonds. “Have you ever seen such a marvelous helicopter? It would be difficult for me to have access to such an extraordinary machine if I were not who I say I am, wouldn’t it?” she asked.
“So you traveled in from the UAE?” he asked.
Rihanna hesitated.
“You were not listed as having traveled through Qatar,” he added.
“Ah, right, my mistake,” said Rihanna.
The man nodded. “Did your audience listen to your advice?” he asked, expressionless.
“The jury is still out on that, sir,” she said, nervously returning the man’s gaze.
“I am sure they listened,” he said, taking the other two diamonds and stuffing them into his uniform pocket, “as you’re a professional, someone with many talents. You will be on your way now?”
“Yes, sir,” said Rihanna.
“Do you have plans to return anytime soon?”
“No, sir,” she said.
“I’m sorry to hear that. But thank you for stopping in Qatar, Ms. Châtelet. Sorry for the confusion. I will be sure to straighten out our misunderstanding. Good luck on your journey.”
“And you on yours,” she answered as the agent moved to the exit and down the ladder, waving the other agents back to the airport. He would likely share her story with his own boss just as she had told it to him, without reference to the $75,000 bribe of diamonds. Rihanna took a deep breath, shutting her eyes.
“Diamonds aren’t just a girl’s best friend,” she said after a brief pause, winding up her engines as her heart rate settled. She hit the appropriate buttons on the instrument panel and started the props, which began to whine as the sound of the rotors slapping the air got louder and louder. A moment later, she lifted the chopper off the ground, and within a minute was heading northwest in a blur that left her weary and anxious, but in some mysterious way, content.
43
Welcome to NASA
Monday, September 9
Cape Canaveral, Florida
As the sun was beginning to lighten the horizon, I quickly showered and dressed. Then I headed to my car on a clear, 70-ish-degree morning,
inhaling a breath of sea air. I noticed the shades of red, orange and pink that had filled the morning sky before heading down A1A to the Starbucks. A white chocolate mocha wasn’t the greatest substitute for my usual vanilla protein shake breakfast, but it did the trick. It woke me up, just as General Crane had said. I left the room, wondering why I had to have vivid dreams so frequently. I rarely got a full night’s rest. Sadly, I was irritable, the curse of dreams. I was also anxious.
I strode a few steps out of the building, heading to my car, forgetting my dream. After tossing my backpack into the passenger’s seat, I carefully placed my drink in the perfectly sized container in the console, which spilled anyway, then plopped myself comfortably into the leather seat of my SUV and hit the button that started the engine.
Twenty minutes later, after I intersected with numerous putzers driving below the speed limit, I reached the first checkpoint. As soon as I stopped at the gate, a German shepherd sniffed my car while a fit security guard wearing a 9mm pistol asked me for my ID. I watched as he checked it against the staff list. After he let me go, I entered the front door of the facility, my heart racing.
“Good morning, Mason. Welcome to NASA,” said Dr. Hannah, who had apparently been waiting for me at the front door.
“Follow me,” he said, leading me to the elevator, up to the ninth floor, then through a series of security checks, including a retinal scan. “Welcome to my office,” he said. “And now yours.”
“So you do work on Robonaut?” I asked, eyeing the upper half of a figure in an all-white body suit whose head was housed in a golden helmet that matched his gold backpack.
“Robonaut3, yes. Jerome, meet Mason Thomas,” he said as the man known as Ahmez appeared from a secondary room.
“Hello, Mason. Good to see you again,” he said.
My eyes widened. “Holy mother of . . . The android!”
“So they tell me,” he said as I squeezed the hand he extended exactly as a real person would do. While I had been certain Ahmez was a robot, nothing could prepare me for meeting him as an android.
