“Michael, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll get right to the point. We’re trying to make numbers work, but our whole program is under severe scrutiny. Everyone is running for cover. The Mars mission is still alive but with certain reductions. I’m afraid your project has been impacted. We’re releasing the official announcement shortly. I wanted you to know before I called Garton. I’m sorry.”
Robertson’s face turned ashen. He sat motionless, staring across the room at the set of red-and-silver Coca-Cola Entomopter wings pinned inside a glass display case.
“Impacted how?”
“The sub-project has been canceled. Funds have already been reallocated to the moon project. Looks like that’s a go. You need to put all your schedules and any other work in progress on hold indefinitely.”
“What about future planning? Couldn’t we at least continue to test the—”
“Don’t you understand what I’m telling you? We just don’t have the funding for your drone. I wanted to tell you myself.”
“The moon project is the dumbest idea I’ve heard this year. We’ve already been to the flipping moon.”
“Michael, I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry.”
“Stu, we’ve known each other for years. We roomed together in college. I named my kid after you. Help me out here.”
“I’m sorry.”
Robertson leaned into the speaker. “You’re sorry? Tell that to the students on my research team who turned down other highly sought-after appointments to meet your time frames. Tell that to benefactors who donated the funding just to satisfy your needs. Tell that to the Pirelli Foundation, who just became the world’s biggest fools for giving a golden plaque to something that’s already been canceled. Exactly where would you like me to stick that?” Robertson heard a dial tone. “Hello? Stuart?”
Chapter 16
“I just think it’s best,” Tom Ross said quietly into his phone.
“You think?” Marcia’s voice screeched. “Let me tell you what I think: I think you’re a failure, and a miserable one at that. A failure to me as a partner, and a failure to yourself as a human being. You haven’t got the faintest idea of how to treat a lady, to buy her things and take her places and hold her on a pedestal. That’s what a real man would do. You haven’t got the guts. The only thing you’re good at is whimpering on and on about losing your precious Amy. She’s gone, so get over it. Nothing you do will ever bring—”
Ross clicked off and slammed his phone on the table.
The waitress appeared with a coconut shrimp appetizer.
“Are you okay, mister?”
“Bring me some scotch, please,” Ross said, opening a bag of pumpkin seeds. “Good stuff. I saw a bottle of seventeen-year Balvenie Doublewood. Lots of ice.”
“Little family dispute, eh?” A man’s voice spoke through the wooden slats in the next booth. “I couldn’t help overhearing.”
Ross was about to politely tell the eavesdropper to mind his own business, but he recognized something about him.
“This is really embarrassing. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”
“We all go through it, pal,” the man said, standing up and boldly taking a seat at Ross’s table. He extended his hand. “I’m Jack Riley.”
“Tom Ross. I was at your presentation on the fourth. I really enjoyed it.”
“Most people do.” Riley opened his cell phone. “I thought I recognized you. NTSB, right? I hope you don’t mind. I like to have a broad range of contacts.”
They exchanged data.
“Nancy Petri was wrong,” Ross said.
“I’m used to it.” Riley smiled, eyeing the appetizer. “Politicians give me a headache. Do you mind?”
“Help yourself.”
Riley dragged a shrimp through the plum sauce. “What’s with the nuts?”
“Pumpkin seeds.” Ross flicked one across the table. “I got hooked as a kid.”
Riley frowned at the morsel, then touched it to his tongue. He made a pained face and placed it on a napkin.
“A little phone argument?” Riley ventured. “Your wife?”
“Ex-wife. It’s complicated,” Ross said. The waitress brought a fresh cocktail. He took a hefty swallow. “So, did you fly for the Air Force?”
“Nah, I’m not a pilot. I was in charge of Gulf War technical teams that trekked out into the desert and set up satellite receivers. We were based out of Langley. We made sure everybody could sync up with whiz-vee.”
Ross paused thoughtfully. “That’s a military radio communication system.”
“Wideband Secure Voice is the avionics radio communication system. ARC-164 is a UHF frequency hopper that’s totally uncrackable. Every aircraft we fly has it. We tried to upgrade once, but it was too perfect. It’s the same system the president uses.”
“Hmph. Sounds impressive.”
“Impressive and top-secret. After the war, several units mysteriously appeared inside some Saudi F-15s accidentally installed by some of our own incompetent contractors. I irritated the chain of command and probably ruffled the wrong feathers. I never was very tactful with bureaucracy. After that, I figured my chances at reaching major were nil, so I got out.”
“And now you’ve got your own bureaucracy at Homeland Security.”
“Not exactly.” Riley chuckled. “One secretary and two assistants.”
“You’re joking.”
“Apparently you weren’t listening very well during my presentation. I evaluate threats and point the appropriate federal enforcement agencies in the right direction. I’m the guy who makes sure that everyone and everything gets plugged in. Other than traveling my butt off day and night, it’s a great job. I get to work alone and still carry a pretty big stick.”
“Besides attacking football stadiums and theme parks, what else do you think al-Qaeda might do? Be honest.”
“You don’t want to know,” Riley said. “Trust me.”
“I do,” Ross said adamantly. “Tell me the truth.”
“With all respect to Jack Nicholson, you can’t handle the truth.”
“Try me.”
Riley shrugged. “They’ll make a statement. A very poignant statement.”
“Like what?”
“Well, Mr. NTSB…” Riley swallowed his third shrimp and washed it down with some water. “I’m torn. I used to believe that terrorists were dead-set on getting educated on everything from chemical to nuclear warfare. Now I’m not so sure. After 9/11, we’ve ramped up our defenses and our security coordination to the point of mega-overkill. They’re the best in the world. I’m starting to think that terror groups know they’ll never match our capabilities and will simply fall back on what they do best: plain old-fashioned, senseless murder. The kind that makes a huge statement and simply can’t be stopped. Here’s a good one. Ever been to Arlington National Cemetery to watch the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns?”
“Sure, many times.”
“Ever been searched on the way in?”
“No.”
“Me either,” Riley said. “On the hour, every hour, a sergeant brings a replacement guard out to relieve the active guard. At one point during that solemn ceremony, all three are standing together, front and center. If I wanted to make a statement, I’d step over the flimsy rope line, walk right up, and detonate myself. What a despicable yet effortless way to completely disgrace the entire US military, huh? Or how about ordering my US sleeper cells to pick random but prominent members of Congress? Shadow them day in and day out. Memorize their routines and schedules. Learn their neighborhoods, homes, and patterns. Then, on a given date at a given hour, execute them and their families in a horribly brutal way. Chop their heads off and send the video everywhere.”