Focus, Karen.
Somewhere in NYC, there was a clue to Abdullah’s plans.
She fed video from NYC to all the available analysts, everyone watching in real-time for aberrations, for the pattern in the stream. There were thousands of video cameras, though, and the analysts were overwhelmed.
If only they had more time. If only there were fewer cameras.
She was leading a shared instant message chat with the analysts when a private IM alerted her that Dewey Green wanted to speak. She had met Dewey at the NSA on one of her first projects. She thought he suffered from Asperger’s syndrome, and every time he opened his mouth she was proven right. He was brilliant, in his own way, and she had submitted his name for recruitment. Dewy had a preternatural ability to process information and seemed like a perfect fit for the Office, until his personality quirks quickly got him banished from the War Room. Now he worked on special projects in his own office, on the lowest level of the base, far from prying eyes. Or people to offend.
It was for the best. His constant stream-of-conscious talk frazzled her nerves. If I have to listen to another recap of WKRP in Cincinnati, I’ll go crazy. God, why can’t he at least obsess about something recent.
CAN’T CHAT DEWEY, she typed.
WORKING ON SOMETHING?
YES.
HAHA, I ALREADY KNOW, I TAPPED YOUR VID STREAM.
She sighed.
Of course he did.
YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE WORKING ON THIS. I THOUGHT YOU WERE ON A PROJECT?
I’VE BEEN WORKING ON THE O/R WITH AI/NEURAL NETWORK THING. YOUR VID STREAM WAS THE PERFECT OPPORTUNITY TO TRY IT OUT. IT FLAGGED SOMETHING.
Her heart skipped a beat. Dewey was weird and could come across a little creepy, but he was also the smartest person she had ever met. WHAT?
HERE.
Her IM client collapsed, replaced with video from a single camera. She growled in frustration as he took over her workstation. Sometime soon, they were going to have a serious talk about boundaries.
The video was clearly from a tunnel entrance, but she didn’t recognize it. Vehicles passed through, each outlined in a white pixelated box, each popping a tag with a brief description. Then, a white and blue panel truck approached and entered the tunnel. The truck was tagged with a description.
SERVICE TRUCK/FIDELITY 95 %/ANOMALY 73 %/FLAGGED FOR REVIEW
The video collapsed and her IM client resumed. THAT WAS THREE MINUTES AGO, AT THE HOLLAND TUNNEL, INBOUND TO NEW YORK CITY.
She almost spit out the last of the coffee as alarm bells started ringing in her head. WHY WAS IT FLAGGED AS AN ANOMALY?
THE PROGRAM NEVER MATCHED A TRUCK LIKE THAT IN NEW JERSEY. SHOULD BE CON ED. PEPCO IS DC. PRETTY COOL, HUH?
ARE YOU TRACKING IT?
OF COURSE. IT’S HEADING FOR MIDTOWN.
A series of videos displayed quickly, showing the progress of the truck, and she knew that it was Abdullah.
THANKS, DEWEY.
NP, K. WANNA COME WATCH SEASON 2 OF WKRP?
IT’S ALL HANDS ON DECK, DEWEY. THINGS ARE CRAZY. I OWE YOU ONE.
They had just left Area 51 when Nancy joined Eric and Mark Kelly at the video monitor in the Gulfstream. Karen and Clark were on the split screen and both appeared worried.
“Show them, Karen,” Clark said.
An aerial shot of Manhattan appeared. “Times Square,” Karen said. The photo zoomed in until they could see the area in detail. “This is a stock photo. Now, watch this.” The stock photo was replaced by a series of grainy video cameras, showing different angles of the famous landmark. “This is from the Bank of America on 46th.”
Eric sucked air over his teeth as he watched the panel truck with the blue PEPCO logo pull up on the curb. “You think it’s him?”
Karen nodded. “It’s an anomaly. It should be a Con Ed truck. PEPCO is in DC. What would a DC power truck be doing in Manhattan?”
A cold pit settled into Eric’s stomach. “Clark, is there time to call DHS and get a VIPR team?”
Clark shook his head. “We’re trying. It will take thirty minutes to get through the proper channels, and besides, the VIPR team in New York is running light, most of them are deployed to Dallas and Los Angeles.”
Eric watched as two men got out and placed rubber cones around the truck. “Damn it. We don’t have thirty minutes. How far out is the Black Lady?”
“You can’t be serious,” Clark said, eyes widening.
“Get the Old Man on the phone. I want it authorized.”
Clark sighed. “On it.” His screen went black.
“Karen? What can you do for us?”
Karen scowled. “What can I do?”
“Let’s assume he’s not a suicide bomber. Let’s assume a remote detonator.”
Karen squinted, then her face lit up. “He’d probably use a cell-phone. I can kill cell phone service in Manhattan, but people are going to freak. Eric? What you’re suggesting with Frist? It’s crazy. We’re supposed to be a secret organization.”
Eric’s mind raced, but he dismissed the negatives. They were simply out of time. “Do it.”
Nancy stared at him from across the small table. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Eric noticed the rare display of concern. “Let’s hope John can do this,” Eric said, “otherwise parts of New York will be uninhabitable for years to come.”
Jim Blix was piloting the Black Lady through the thin atmosphere at one hundred and twenty thousand feet when the new destination popped in his HUD. In that moment, he knew something had gone terribly wrong.
When the CIA came knocking on his door, it was a no-brainier for him to leave the Air Force. The Lockheed X-100 bomber, code-named the Black Lady, was a test bed for experimental scram-jet technology. His first experience in the Black Lady was close to orgasmic, and he was crushed when the aircraft was scrapped after 9/11. He was surprised when a man showed up on his doorstep the next year, offering him a new job in an organization so secret that even mentioning it could get him locked away for treason.
He triple-checked the new orders as the ship’s computer recalculated his flight plan, then called to confirm. “Pleasure Palace, this is the Black Lady. Requesting a confirmation of new orders.”
“Please hold, Black Lady.”
There had to be a mistake. He knew what was in the weapons-bay. The man’s vitals displayed on his HUD. Someone must have made an error.
“Black Lady, do you copy?”
He recognized Fulton Smith’s voice and gulped. “Roger that, Pleasure Palace.”
The Old Man’s voice was crystal clear. “Please verify your orders.”
He punched in the challenge code and there was a pause, then the orders came back with the correct response.
“Orders are confirmed,” the Old Man said. “You have your destination.”
He felt the plane roll, making the corrections. The HUD displayed his new trajectory and speed.
He was coming in over Pennsylvania at 7800 miles per hour and was headed for New York City, starting his descent. In the distance he could see the curvature of the earth. He knew that he had to slough off the majority of his current speed to deploy the package. Opening the weapons-bay doors at his current speed would make the aircraft unstable. The computer couldn’t compensate and the aircraft would disintegrate.
His stomach dropped as the plane dove into the heavier atmosphere, the air piling up in front of the ship as it became a glowing hot ball across the sky.
He began to shake as the ship plunged towards the earth and he felt the airframe skidding through the air as the computer worked the control surfaces, too fast for any human being, to maintain the configuration that kept the ship aloft. Airspeed dropped dramatically and the airframe whined as the weapons-bay door opened. The ship vibrated wildly, the aerodynamics now compromised.