She thought of the exit process minutes before as she left the building and the guard’s careful examination of her purse for flash drives or any other storage medium. Thanks to that traitor Snowden such a search was now routine. The presence of a simple scribbled note in her purse shouldn’t have alerted him, but with her fears rising exponentially, she wondered now whether taking even that information out of the building was a violation. Would there be a security team even now coming after her? Surely, she wasn’t supposed to know that the originating programming signal she’d discovered so many hours ago—the same one that had apparently caused an airliner to change course—came from their own building. How could she erase what she knew? It would be like un-ringing a bell.
Oh God, what do I do now? Who do I tell? I have to tell someone.
The electronic warble of her smart phone caused her to almost lose control of the car, and she struggled to stay on the road while fumbling for the instrument. There was a strange phone number on the screen. She knew not to answer it, but the longing for deliverance won out, and her finger found the green button.
“Jenny Reynolds?” a male voice asked. It was somehow familiar, but she was far too scared to coalesce the memory.
“Yes.”
“This is Will Bronson. You remember? From this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you, Jenny?”
“I’m…”
“Are you still at work?”
“No. In my car.” And scared to death, she wanted to add.
“Good. Were you going home?”
Why would he want to know that? she wondered, trying desperately to stay ahead of the conversation but losing the battle to sheer panic.
“Jenny?”
“Uh… yes… no… I was, I was going to go drop in on my boss, at his home. He’s over by…”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Jenny, I would like you to change course and meet me. Tell me approximately where you are, and I’ll arrange a place to meet.”
“Why?”
“Because…” he hesitated. “Because I want to take you out tonight, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
As much as she wanted that to be true, she knew it was a dodge for anyone eavesdropping, and she had barely a split-second to decide whether to trust him.
A split-second was all she needed.
“Okay. You won’t have to take no. I’d… like to see you, too. I’m just a mile south of my building on the Parkway, heading south.”
“Take Greenbelt Road exit west. You know the Beltway Plaza Mall?’
“Yes.”
“Pull up in front of JCPenney and turn on your four-way flashers. You’re in a red Prius, right?”
“Yes, but how did you…”
“I’ll find you. Don’t call anyone.”
“Will?”
“Yes?”
“How… how do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t. I’ll need to prove it. Dinner and a movie, to start with?”
“Okay. Wait, to start with…?”
“See you in ten.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Aboard Pangia 10 (0030 Zulu)
Dan Horneman took a deep breath as he finished buttoning up the heavy coat he’d borrowed. He was standing beside the offending metal cabinet in the electronics bay beneath the cockpit of Flight 10. The thing was still booby-trapped with electrical power, but as long as he was careful, his plan might work.
He turned toward the forward hatch leading back to the cockpit and nodded to Carol, who was watching carefully, deep concern etching her almost flawless face.
There was no way to reach over the top of the thing without all but bear hugging the metallic side. Provided the voltage within wasn’t too great, all the layers he was wearing should prevent electrical arcing, he thought. The previous shock was enough for one lifetime, but he had been skin to metal with the thing while grounding himself with his other hand to close a circuit that could have killed him.
Not this time.
Slowly feeling his way along through thick leather gloves, Dan followed his memory until his index finger settled into the hole. It took a bit of twisting and pushing to force his glove-clad finger in deep enough to touch the top of the metal plunger, but at last he could feel it, and after checking to make sure his face wasn’t touching skin to metal, he shoved the plunger down hard, feeling nothing yield. He shoved harder, his finger protesting in pain, knowing that before he’d been hit by a bolt of electricity before reaching the release point.
If there was a release point.
Dan withdrew his finger and pulled his hand and arm away, thinking through what he’d felt. There was a plunger, but unless it was a dummy set up just to suck in and shock an intruder, there had to be a release mechanism inside.
Once more he took his flashlight and poked around every part of the cabinet he could reach or see, wondering if he could have missed another hole or hatch or panel somewhere. But he found nothing.
Okay, I’m just not pushing it down far enough.
He needed a small wooden stick, but finding wooden sticks in a jet at 38,000 feet was ridiculously unlikely.
Dan stepped away from contact with the cabinet and pulled off his glove, fishing in his uniform pocket for the clippers. Small, metallic, and just slim enough, it might work, he thought. Once again he donned the glove and maneuvered himself into position, carefully inserting the body of the nail clipper into the hole and feeling it align with the sides, the cutting head settling squarely on the plunger. Slowly, gingerly, he moved the tip of his index finger to the more narrow back end of the clipper and pushed steadily, feeling the plunger descend, keeping the small tool aligned with his index finger until it was in almost to the limit.
The “click” of the internal locking cam releasing was felt more than heard, but suddenly the top of the cabinet rotated toward him.
He grabbed each end and lifted the entire side off its lower channel moving it far enough aft to expose more than half of the electronic nightmare within.
There in the middle was a large warning placard in red block letters:
WARNING! THE CONTENTS OF THIS VAULT ARE PROTECTED BY HIGH VOLTAGE ELECTRICAL CURRENT THREE TIMES THE MINIMUM SUFFICIENT TO KILL A HUMAN. DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, TOUCH OR OTHERWISE ATTEMPT TO MANIPULATE OR INTERACT WITH ANYTHING INSIDE WITHOUT FOLLOWING DEACTIVATION PROCEDURES.
There was an ordinary keypad to the right of the sign, with keys large enough to be pushed by a gloved hand, but there was no indication of the code.
What in hell IS this thing? Dan thought, already knowing the most important part of the answer: It was obviously what had disconnected their entire cockpit and locked them out of the basic ability to fly the jet. Whatever it was supposed to accomplish strategically, tactically it was controlling the show, and that had to end.
Dan ran his eyes carefully up and down the racks of electronics, finding no switches large or small and only a few blinking LED lights. No other placards or identification plates adorned any of the equipment, and all of it was packed in so tightly that there seemed no way to reach around behind any of the boxes.
Jesus, where do I start?
He could hear Carol’s voice calling to him, and he turned toward the hatch, flashing her a thumbs-up. She nodded and smiled and withdrew her head undoubtedly to report to Jerry that he was in, but in to what? The more Dan examined the contents of the cabinet, the more his stomach knotted. Whoever had installed the infernal thing had no intention of bluffing. Even if he could work with the thick gloves, there were no wing nuts on any of the boxes that might free them up and allow them to be pulled out, and if the system was wired to resist interference, it might even fry the electronic engine controls and flight computers, leaving them with a dead and falling airframe.