Fly by Wire

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

Jammer Davis was nursing a tall beer at a tall table and staring at a soccer jersey.

The bar at L'Hotel Continental Lyon was the usual sports theme, pictures of famous athletes and lightly used equipment tacked all around. Of course, everything had a decidedly European twist. Baseball and American football were nowhere to be seen. Soccer and rugby dominated the photos. There were cricket bats and oars, tennis and squash rackets — all just the right size and flavor for nailing to a wall. The uniform Davis was looking at had been pinned up in a glass case along with a plaque explaining the significance of the game in which it was worn. He saw a distinct grass stain on the tail, implying it hadn't been washed after the match. Good thing it's in a glass case, Davis thought.

He checked his phone. There were no new messages from Jen. He had left her up in the air about the dance. His finger went to the green button and paused idly on top. He still wasn't sure what he was going to say. No, you can't go this time. You can never go. You can go with me when I get back. None seemed completely right.

Davis needed something more uplifting. He had a fleeting thought about calling Hurricane Sparky. She must have seen the news clip by now, his brief engagement with the French camera crew. Rita McCracken wasn't his boss any more, but it might be fun to call, just to yank her chain. I've alienated the entire board, Sparky, and they want a replacement. I gave them your name. Don't worry, it shouldn't take more than a year. I'll look after your plants.

Davis snapped his phone shut and shoved it into his bomber jacket that was hanging on the back of the chair. He sipped his beer, wiped a trace of foam from his lips with the back of a wrist. The brew was something local that looked and moved in his glass like 40-weight motor oil. He scooped a handful of snack mix from a bowl on the table. It was nice and salty. This made him take another sip. He was enjoying the cycle.

Davis thought hard about what he'd heard on the voice recorder tape. He had caught something in it, something that likely escaped the others in the room. It was there in Earl Moore's voice. Calmness, confidence — even at the last moment. Davis recognized it for what it was.

To the uninitiated, the concept of flight can seem intimidating. Those without training and experience often find pause at the risks involved. One-off mechanical disasters, the perils of turbulence or storms in an unpredictable sky. When such misfortunes actually rear up — fire and meteorological brimstone — those outside the fraternity might pray to God for deliverance, or even succumb to an aura of serendipity, resigned to let fortune settle things. No aviator worth his salt ever sees it that way. A technical malfunction is taken in stride, even seen as an opportunity to display one's firm hand and steel will. Bad weather need only be circumnavigated or endured, for in the true aviator's psyche there is that inescapable maxim — the surety that one is better than God and his elements.

It is, of course, all an illusion. That much is certain. Davis had seen the sky claim fine pilots, and more than a few fools. But equally certain rests the advantage of perceived invincibility in the face of crisis. Soldiers in combat often found it. Bulletproof status. To some degree, every sure-handed pilot Davis had ever met possessed it. And Earl Moore had it in spades. He'd heard it on the tape. The man was screaming toward the ground at nearly Mach 1, well in excess of the aircraft's placarded Vne — velocity, never exceed. But Moore was still aviating. Still thinking clearly.

Davis tapped the side of his cold mug with a fingernail. Twice. Click-click.

Of all he had heard today, of all the drama on the voice tape, that was what stuck in his mind. Right before the voice recorder had gone briefly offline — not one click, but two. Clear and close together, like a three-position switch being pushed fast through two detents. Click-click.

He remembered back to his first look at the radar data in Sparky s office. It had gone blank at roughly the same point in the descent as the voice recorder, maybe 10,000 feet. At the time, Davis had wondered if the airplane might have suffered a structural failure, broken up under the extreme speed. But now that he'd seen the crash site, he knew all the big pieces were accounted for. That theory didn't fit. And Davis was only happy when things fit.

He was lost in thought, staring at the floor, when a stylish pair of shoes and an even more stylish pair of legs came into view. He looked up and saw Sorensen. She was wearing a dress, mid-length but with a slit up one side that showed some thigh. They had agreed to meet at six. She was two beers late.

"Hi, Jammer. Sorry to keep you waiting."

"No problem, Honeywell. Been busy?"

"Not as busy as you — I saw the news clip of you leaving that meeting. You really caused a ruckus."

"Thanks. It's my signature move."

"I especially liked the end, when you told the reporter to go to hell."

"They played that part?" He feigned surprise. "Oh, well. It could have been worse. I was going to call Bastien a manipulative shitmouse — just couldn't think of the right French translation."

Sorensen stared him down and was about to say something when a waitress scooted up and looked at her expectantly.

Davis advised, "Go with the imported beer, Budweiser. It's only eight bucks a bottle."

She ordered a martini, then reached for the snack mix and took a handful. "So is there really a new angle in the investigation?"

"Maybe. We listened to the voice tapes. I heard some things I didn't like. I think we should be looking deep into the flight control software."

"You think there's a glitch in it?"

"It has happened before. The designers can't imagine every corner of the flight envelope. I've seen accidents where computers and pilots have gotten into a fight for control. It's not pretty. So I gave the board a recommendation."

"What was that?"

"I said we should ground all C-500s."

"You can't be serious — will they?"

"No, not a chance. But it'll give them something to think about. Something besides Bastien s spectacular suicide theory."

She said, "I understand that Bastien has called another press conference for tomorrow."

"I heard. He asked me to come. Probably so we could hold hands and show unity."

"And?"

Davis popped a pretzel into his mouth. "I told him he didn't need another press conference. I told him he needed a piece of rebar shoved up his undulating spine."

He saw Sorensen stifle a grin, but then her expression turned serious. "You're kidding, right?"

Davis shrugged, left it open.

"Jammer, do you think this is smart? Antagonizing him?"

"I don't like how things are going, and I'm not one for half measures." He sipped his beer and reflected, "You know, it's probably just as well I didn't stay in the Air Force. Can you imagine me as chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff? I'd just advise the president to go nuclear for everything. And none of that gradual response crap. Massive retaliation, that'd be my style."

Sorensen's martini arrived. It came in a curved-stem glass that looked very unstable. She took a long draw. "So why do you think Bastien wants to hang this whole thing on Earl Moore?"

"Hard to say. Maybe because it's easy. Earl Moore isn't around to defend himself. Or maybe because it's more dramatic than a line of bad computer code or a faulty mix of composite resin."

"Did you ever consider that he might be right?"

Davis paused. "Its not out of the question. But I really doubt it."

"Why?"

"I visited his wife back in Houston. After I saw her, I made a side trip to Moore's apartment. In truth, I found a few things I hadn't wanted to find. An empty Jack Daniel's bottle in the recycle bin. A few beers in the fridge. But that was it. And thank God, no goodbye cruel world' note sitting like a headstone on the dining room table."

"So he had been drinking," she said.

"Apparently. Just like at the hotel the night before the flight. But I found some other things in his apartment. There was a schedule for his son's soccer team with the scores filled out to mid-season. An e-mail confirmation for a pair of shoes he'd ordered online the day before he left. He just wrote a check to fund his IRA account. And Moore TiVo'd two ballgames on TV."

Davis drained the last of his beer and looked squarely at Sorensen. "I can't say what was on his mind the day of the crash. But when Earl Moore left home, he had every intention of coming back."

Two hours after spotting Fatima, Whittemore was sipping ginger ale in a dark corner of a cheap bar. He would have preferred something more substantial — disciple of the grain that he was — yet the idea that Caliph might be nearby demanded absolute sobriety.

Fatima had taken a cab from the ferry terminal and checked into a cheap hotel, a place that might get two stars if the rating inspector came on just the right day. She had taken a key from the front desk, given her bag to a bellman, and gone straight to the bar. That was over an hour ago. Since then, she'd done nothing but drink — rum and soda, if he wasn't mistaken. The more plowed she got, the more Whittemore was sure that Caliph's arrival was not imminent. Who would meet their boss in the shape she was getting into? Especially when your boss was the world s most ruthless terrorist.

It was a dreary establishment. The old wood floors had been worn smooth by generations of hard boots and dragged chairs, and patterns of dirt and dust denoted the spots where there had been no recent meeting between spilled beer and a mop. A brass rail, dull and dented, ran along the foot of a hardwood bar. The elbow-high bar itself had probably been stout fifty years ago, but now was riddled with tiny holes — termites or worms. Above it all, the wall trim sported a coat of fresh red paint that accented the rest like lipstick on an aging drag queen.

It was just after nine in the evening and the place was half full, a typical mix of transients and regulars, Whittemore figured. Groups of men and women interacted casually, and a few couples nuzzled in dark corner booths. A handful of men were perched at the bar on high wooden stools. They were spaced evenly between empty seats, hunched and immovable, the type who hold drinking among life's more solemn pursuits.

Fatima was largely ignored.

Whittemore decided that the pictures he'd seen had not done her justice. She was even uglier in real life. The dim light, mostly red and green hues cast from neon beer signs, gave her dark, pitted complexion an unearthly aura. She still had on the same clothes she'd worn on the ferry, and if Whittemore had read the immigration guy correctly, she probably smelled like puke. Even from thirty feet away in a dark room, her hair looked like she'd just rinsed it in the crankcase of an old truck. She was overweight, maybe a hundred extra pounds on a five-five frame. Not obese by American standards, but her clothes were inappropriately tight and highlighted the fact that all her acreage was down the wrong roads. Big thighs, big belly, no chest — Fatima was the penultimate loser in life's genetic game of roulette. Whittemore's regard for Caliph slipped a few notches. If I was the world's most wanted terrorist, I'd at least have a hot messenger.

His attention ratcheted up when Fatima stood. Looking marginally steady, she stretched like an overweight cat, scratched her crotch, and moved to the bar.

"I wan' another drink!" she demanded in English. Her voice was throaty, the words slurred like she had a mouthful of glue.

The bartender was a short, heavyset guy wearing an apron. He frowned. The room was relatively quiet, so Whittemore heard his response. "One more," he said, "then you must go."

Fatima smiled and looked the guy over like he was hanging on a hook in a butcher's shop. "You married?" she asked.

He held up his hand to show a ring.

"Ah, hell, that don't matter! You kinda cute."

He slid her cutoff drink across the bar, along with the tab.

"What time you finish work?"

The man ignored her and went to the far end of the bar to engage one of his regulars — a guy who was snickering.

Whittemore gauged the scene. He knew a lot about drinking. Knew people handled it differently. Some giggled. Some got nasty. Some fell asleep. From the look of it, Fatima Adara got horny. One of God's little jokes, he decided. He hoped none of the men at the bar was that desperate. The last thing he needed was for some free-range drunk to stumble in and confuse things. Ever so briefly, Whittemore considered sending Fatima a drink himself, maybe engaging in some alcoholic nuptials. A little amorous pillow talk might give him Caliph. Then again, it might give him erectile dysfunction. Whittemore wanted a promotion, but he had his limits.

Fatima downed her last drink, snapping her head back to get every last drop. Then she fished into her pocket, dropped a wad of euros on the bar, and headed out.

Whittemore had settled in advance. He was increasingly disappointed. Short of spotting Caliph, he hadn't known exactly what he was looking for, what to expect. But so far, Fatima had gone to a hotel, gotten drunk, and now she was probably headed to her room to pass out. Once that happened, there wouldn't be anything to do until morning. If that was how it went, Whittemore didn't have much choice. He would have to call in the contact. Take his commendation plaque.

He followed Fatima into the hotel lobby. Whittemore looked discreetly toward the elevator, expecting to see her there. Nothing. His head whipped around and he spotted her, just a flash, as she cleared the main entrance and headed down the street.