“We have you and the applicable protocols logged in, sir. How may I assist?”
“I will be at the west entrance in fifteen minutes. I need immediate access to my reporting authority. Highest priority code.”
“You’re certain, sir? Highest code? This is a busy evening.”
“Yes. I’m sorry, but absolutely yes. On my authority and accountability.”
“Yes, sir. Understood. An escort will be waiting.”
He punched in a fast dial number then and waited until Colonel Baumgartner had come on the line back in Colorado Springs.
“What have you got, Dana?”
“A mixed bag, Paul. We haven’t located Gail Hunt yet, but we got into her credit card account and found her last charge was for gasoline in Lyons, Colorado, which is a gateway to Estes Park.”
“Nothing beyond that?”
“Nothing. Also, we’ve been blasting the unlock sequence on every network link we have, but we’re getting no answering response, and just a minute before you called, I got the word that our conduit has shut down.”
“Translate that, please.”
“We… transmit the signal to an intermediate location that I think you know, and they boost it on an uplink, and from there it networks out. That primary server has been turned off, or at least is suddenly refusing our signal.”
“Any ideas why?”
“Yes, sir. A few. None of them good. And at least one involves a project compromise.”
“Okay. Keep trying. Dana, were any of us thinking that Gail had something to do with the aircraft switch?”
“I’d hate to think that, but she’s the key, and without her, we don’t even have a clue whether the codes we’ve been blasting are correct. Where the hell is she, you know? Disappearing the very day our airplane is pulled out of the desert doesn’t sit well with me.”
“On the outside chance that… well, she’s involved, try sending a picture of her to Ron Barrett, the owner of Mojave Aircraft… no, on second thought, don’t.”
“You mentioned Mojave… and that’s becoming strange. We had a call from Ron Barrett for you, and he was about a millimeter from hysterical. He said two federal officers from the Transportation Security Administration had shown up there this afternoon to grill him and his lawyer, and the agents reportedly told Barrett that his employee… the one who made the mistake with our machine… was using an alias and now can’t be found.”
“TSA? What the hell would they…”
“Obviously not TSA.”
“Oh. Of course. The Company?”
“CIA, yes.”
“More likely DIA.”
“No, Paul, it makes sense. One of our friendlies in the Beltway tipped me off an hour ago that Langley was kicking over trash cans looking for explanations, and supposedly the Situation Room has been lit up for this.”
“A bit excessive, don’t you think? Any direct bead on us?”
“Negative. Not so far.”
Wriggle sighed, rubbing his forehead.
“I’m on the ground in the Beltway now. Where is our jet? I figured an hour and a half out of Tel Aviv.”
“We concur, but it’s slowed down.”
“What? What do mean, ‘slowed down’?”
“By over sixty knots, and before you ask, that’s not explainable by winds at that altitude.”
“Do you think the crew has retaken control?”
“Their heading is still the same, but the speed could indicate something. We’re just not sure what. If they change course, however, depending on where they head, it could mean we’re dealing with something entirely different.”
“Tell me, Dana.”
“Someone could be using our machine and our equipment as a shield for what they’re really up to. You… do know former Prime Minister Moishe Lavi is aboard, right?”
“What? No!”“
Dana Baumgartner filled in the details, and Paul Wriggle felt his head swimming.
“Oh, my dear God! No wonder the Company and the Situation Room is involved!”
“Does that… have a particular meaning to you, Paul? That Lavi is aboard?”
“At the very least it means the diplomatic explosiveness of this is far beyond anything I imagined. Good lord! Okay, Dana, I’d better ring off for the moment.”
“I’ll call the minute we get anything new.”
“Yes. Please.”
He punched the disconnect and sighed, hesitating in deep thought for what seemed like a very long time, before making the decision and pulling out a folded note from his shirt pocket. Don was right, he thought. Further hesitation was unsupportable. He carefully punched in the telephone number on the note and triggered the call, wondering how in hell he was going to verbally navigate the razor edge he would need to walk. He glanced at his watch, calculating the time zone change to Chicago, and almost missed the answering voice on the other end.
“Hello?”
“General Rick Hastings, please,” he said.
“This is Rick Hastings. Who is this?”
“Paul Wriggle, Rick. One of your classmates from undergraduate pilot training.”
“Hey, Paul! Kinda late for a telephone reunion, don’t cha think? But it’s good to hear from you. What’s up? I assume you’re not calling to chat about the Cubbies?”
Paul chucked. “I would never chat about the… God, you never give up on the Cubs, do you?”
“Of course not! That’s what sets Cubs fans apart. Eternal mindless optimism. So what’s on your mind, Paul?”
“Short and sweet, okay?”
“Of course.”
“First, I’m still on active duty. I’m a two star now, heading a program I can’t discuss. I know we haven’t talked since you retired as a three star, and I apologize for never formally congratulating you on becoming CEO of Pangia. But that’s the subject: Pangia. You have an airplane in trouble, I may have the solution, but flag rank officer to flag rank officer, I need your immediate assistance and an almost complete absence of questions about how I know what I know.”
Paul could hear Hastings changing hands and almost dropping the receiver.
“Holy moly, Paul! That’s quite a preamble.”
“I know it.”
“Well, I clearly have the fiduciary loyalty to this company to consider now.”
“We’re flag rank, Rick. That never changes. Remember the prime directive about joining the star club? Although I shouldn’t have to mention it.”
“No, you shouldn’t, Paul. A bit rude, I’d say, but I’ll hear you out.”
“Can I get some assurance?”
“Assurance? I’ll do the right thing for our service, and our country, Paul. You don’t have to ask for that.”
“Very well.”
“What is it, man?”
“Do you have any communication with your flight crew?”
“No. We did, sporadically, via a handheld satellite phone, but we think they ran out of battery. We know they’ll call back if they can.”
“So there’s no current means to relay something to them? Not even ACARS?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“I’ve got a code sequence, Rick. If we can get one of the pilots to punch it into what would probably appear to be a dead flight management computer, they’ll probably get back complete control.”
There was a chilling silence on the other end.
“Paul, are you telling me our service is screwing around with that airplane?”
“No! Absolutely not!” Paul Wriggle said, suppressing the small, burning kernel of doubt in his gut that he had a bead on everything that was happening. “What’s happened is a complete electronic accident.”
“You know something about this substituted airplane, don’t you? I just found out a half hour ago.”
“The aircraft swap was a total accident, Rick. Yes, that’s my bird, and she has some special equipment I can’t admit exists.”