“I’m sure that… whatever they’re supposed to do has been done. You’ll have to ask the chief of maintenance about that. I’m just supposed to bring these papers.”
“You’re not doing the installation?”
“Not if it’s complete. Look, I’m sorry, Mr. Cole, but I’ve gotta run. Nice meeting you.”
Ben watched him descend the steps and hurry out of the hangar before moving back into the spartan cabin and running a series of tests on the computers in search of a stray copy of the main Boomerang program.
After an hour of careful probing, it was obvious it was wasted effort. Ben stood and moved back toward the front entry door and the cockpit, visualizing the final flight test and wondering if the two pilots would be able to pull the new T-handle fast enough if the program went nuts again. It was prominent enough and large enough to get a hand around easily, and judging from the complexity of the engineering drawings he had seen, it had obviously been carefully conceived.
Something about the plans snagged his memory, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Ben looked around to see if anyone was observing him, but the hangar appeared empty. He leaned into the cockpit out of curiosity and decided to sit down in the surprisingly comfortable captain’s seat, his eyes on the red T-handle.
Ben let his left hand close around the cool metallic mass of the red T-handle as he absently wondered how much force was required on the specially installed device to actually pull the autoflight servos free of the control cables somewhere below in the Gulfstream’s belly. He pulled gently on the handle to gauge the resistance, unprepared for the response, as the T-handle came off smoothly in his hand, effortlessly trailing a loose length of cable.
Ben raised the handle to eye level, feeling a flash of guilt for breaking something that shouldn’t have been touched, before realizing with a start that the cable had been loose for a very specific reason: It had never been attached to anything.
He threaded the cable back in and replaced the T-handle, recalling the strained encounter with the maintenance man, who had apparently been trying to retrieve the T-handle installation order before Ben Cole could find it. Lindsey had promised him the disconnect would be installed, but if the installation was complete, this was a placebo, a dummy device for show only.
There had been a word stamped in the information block of the papers Ben had seen, and he tried to pull up the visual image of it now, wondering if it was a growing paranoia or reality working to convince him the word he’d seen was “canceled.” If so, Lindsey had lied to him.
He scrambled out of the seat and almost fell down the Gulfstream’s airstairs in his hurry to leave the hangar as fast as possible. There was a parking lot across the road adjacent to the base exchange and he found a spot and parked, letting the engine idle as he tried to think through the growing puzzle.
Am I being watched? he wondered, glancing around. Why would they lie about the emergency disconnect? Or could the installation just not have been complete? No. If it were incomplete, why send a nervous maintenance guy to snatch the plans away?
He recalled the delay getting admission to the Gulfstream hangar in the first place, and his suspicions coalesced.
Davis! He tried to talk me out of getting aboard because he didn’t want me to find out they’d canceled the disconnect. Davis and Lindsey are in on this together, but do they have anything to do with the renegade lines of code and their disappearance?
Lindsey’s smiling face returned to his thoughts, along with the very pleasant memory of her hair brushing his face the day before, that invigorating wave of femininity now drying into the brittle reality that she had merely been using him. He felt betrayed and helpless.
The memory of the terror two nights before when their jet dove toward the ocean and skimmed the surface returned. That icy fear was all too familiar, like the childhood dream of trying to run from the monster but being unable to move an inch. The memory of those few moments of panic and indecision was enough for a lifetime. Going up again was okay as long as they had the manual disconnect, but without it, and with dangerously unknown lines of code appearing and disappearing in the master program, the possibility that the next test would be fatal was growing at almost the same speed as the conclusion that he was helpless to stop the disaster.
He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the lab.
“I’m… really feeling lousy, Gene,” Ben said, keeping his voice even. “Unless you seriously need me back there to look at anything new, I think I’m going to go home and go to bed.”
“Go home, Ben. Nothing new to talk about.”
He punched the disconnect button and put the car in reverse. He had no doubt that he was little more than a pawn now, and just along for the ride.
Could I be wrong? There was little hope of that. But the question of why hung in the air as he put the car in gear and moved out of the parking lot.
FIFTEEN
WEDNESDAY, DAY 3 ANCHORAGE, ALASKA LATE AFTERNOON
“I’ve found him, April.”
“Who?” April replied, still fumbling for control of the cell phone she’d yanked from the holster on the side of her purse as she tried to steer.
“An aviation lawyer we can trust. He’s in D.C., and he’s making calls at FAA headquarters to see if he can head off any problems with that inspector Harrison.”
“That’s good news, Gracie.”
“No guarantees, but he’s one of the best. He’s spent two decades battling the FAA enforcement division’s demonstrated desire to revoke every pilot license in America, and to the extent they can be scared of anyone, they’re scared of him. He charged a three-thousand-dollar retainer, which I’ve already sent.”
“Gracie! Thank you. I’ll pay you back as soon as I return.”
“I’m really seriously worried, as you can tell.”
“Dad will deeply appreciate your doing that.”
“So how is our captain?”
April related Dean’s arrival and her trip to the Coast Guard in lieu of staying at the hospital. “Dean called a few minutes ago. Mom and Dad will be released by four, and we leave for Seattle at six.”
“Tell me about the Coast Guard,” Gracie said.
“Okay. The Coast Guard is a military-style organization placed under the control of the Department of Transportation with a mission that—”
“April!”
“Well, you do that to me all the time.”
“Yeah, but that’s how we’re supposed to do it. You set up the joke and I deliver the punch lines. Okay. Tell me what you found out from the Coasties.”
April outlined the conversation with Lieutenant Jim Hobbs and the fact that he’d called just fifteen minutes before to arrange a meeting. “Gracie, something’s obviously making him cautious. He wants me to meet him at a Starbucks nearby. I’m trying to figure out what that means.”
“Perhaps he likes coffee.”
“No, really. He said he was calling on his cell phone and that he’d have a civilian parka over his uniform, and he said not to mention to anyone that I was meeting him.”
“Well, at least he wasn’t asking you to join him for a serious discussion at the Happy Bottom Motel.”
“He’s married, Gracie.”
“I keep telling you, Rosen. You leave this wide wake of interested males behind you. That’s why I can always find you in a crowd.”
“Where are you right now, O’Brien?”
“Still in my office under a ton of briefs.”
“The legal kind, I assume?”
“There you go again, stealing my lines. You headed over to meet him now?”
“Yes. And are you going to meet us at Seatac when we arrive?”