Fly by Wire

Chapter THIRTY-THREE

"Jammer!"

Sorensen s voice came sharp through the pitch darkness. The tone didn't carry fear. It asked, What the hell are you doing?

"Hang on," he said, "I'm counting." His fingers were still on the two switches. They had to be or he might not find them again in the dark — probably just what Earl Moore had done. Seven, eight, nine —

"Now!" Davis said.

Two more clicks and the lights came back on. He looked over the displays in front of him. The primary flight instruments came right back. Elsewhere there were a few flags, some amber warnings, but these systems soon righted themselves. After twenty seconds, the only thing amiss was the ship's clock in one corner, flashing 12:00 like a cheap alarm clock after a thunderstorm.

He said, "That's it! That's what happened!"

Sorensen blinked as her eyes adjusted. She looked at the labels on the switches, trying to understand. "B-A-T? You turned off the batteries?"

"I turned off everything. On the C-500 these two battery switches control electrical power to all the busses. Turn them off, and virtually everything shuts down."

Sorensen remarked, "And you're saying the captain did that?"

"Yes. Only he did it while they were screaming at the ground at nearly the speed of sound."

"Jeez. That would have taken some pretty big — well, you know."

"Yeah. But I don't think he was finding a lot of alternatives at the time." Davis cycled the overhead dome light on and off twice. The fluorescent hangar lights outside staggered back to life. "And if you ask me, there's only one reason he'd do something so drastic."

"I can't imagine."

"I think Earl Moore was holding a joystick in his hand that wasn't responding. I don't think he had any control whatsoever over that airplane."

The drive back to Lyon passed quickly. Davis thought out loud, bouncing ideas off Sorensen while she drove.

Before leaving the factory, he had asked Scharner for an aircraft systems manual. In the Air Force, they called it a Dash-1, and the C-500's was a four-inch-thick doorstop. It described, from an operator's viewpoint, every system on the aircraft. Electric, hydraulic, fuel, air conditioning. While Sorensen drove, Davis pored over the sections labeled "Flight Controls" and "Automatic Flight." He studied diagrams and control law and flow charts. He was sure that Earl Moore had cut off all power because he'd lost control of World Express 801. And the shallow dive angle at impact proved that he had almost figured things out in time to save the airplane.

Almost.

By the time they turned into the parking lot at Building Sixty-two, Davis was in a slow burn. He closed the flight manual as Sorensen pulled into a parking spot. The sun had set, and darkness blotted the nearby buildings to mere silhouettes. With the Fiat's engine off, cold began to seep in. He felt it pulling from the window, drifting over his feet. Davis made no attempt to move. He knew he had to be calm, had to think about his approach.

He had already called ahead. Bastien was here, working late. He hadn't sounded thrilled about a meeting and was even more reluctant when Davis told him to make it alone. So Davis had insisted. And the investigator-in-charge had agreed.

Sorensen said, "Refresh me, Jammer. Why are we here?"

"To have a word with Monsieur Bastien."

"So you're convinced that we're dealing with a problem in the flight control software?"

"It's the only thing that makes sense."

"And you're going to tell him what you discovered at the factory about turning off the battery switches?"

"I'm going to tell him a lot of things."

Davis fell silent. He watched the headlights on a nearby street flow in steady circulation. He watched airplanes take off and land from the runway in the distance, their blinking beacons and intense landing lights guiding them through darkness. In his mind, Davis added things up. It was a lot of math, and in the middle of it all he felt a hand on his arm. He looked over and saw Sorensen trying to read him.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "No."

"Don't do anything silly, Jammer. Can you imagine what would happen if you got kicked off this investigation?"

"I'd go home and see my daughter. That's what would happen." He saw the seriousness of her expression. "Look, Honeywell, don't worry. Bastien is due some pain, and I'm looking forward to delivering it. But I won't do anything that will involve his dentist, if that's what you're thinking."

She looked relieved. "Can I?"

He grinned. Which was probably what she was after.

"So am I invited to this meeting?"

He almost said no. Davis hadn't been counting on it. But then he had second thoughts. "Yes. I would like you to come."

"Because?"

"When your weapons are dull, Honeywell, strike thine enemy with greater force and repetition."

She took a stab. "Sun Tzu? The Art of War?"

He shook his head. "Jammer Davis. The game of rugby."

Darlene Graham walked into the Oval Office as a shell-shocked director of Homeland Security was walking out.

President Townsend was standing, looking beleaguered himself.

"We've found something, Mr. President."

Townsend seemed not to hear. He said, "The lines at gas stations are getting huge. People are panicking, filling up milk jugs and water bottles. What the hell good is a ration plan if there's nothing left to ration?"

"Dr. Coyle said to expect a short period of widespread unavailability. The supply system will gradually catch up once rationing has begun."

"Twenty gallons a week," the president said, "for each licensed driver. That's what the secretary of energy has come up with. But it's only preliminary. I think it might go lower. We'll need to make adjustments for people who use their cars for work. Taxi drivers, Meals-on-Wheels. How the hell—"

"Mr. President," Graham interrupted loudly.

Townsend's attention came full. "Sorry, Darlene. This is a little overwhelming. Thank God I've got three and a half years until reelection. What is it?"

"We have something on Caliph, sir."

This got his attention. "Something?"

"Early this morning a package was dropped at our embassy in Geneva. It was sent by someone who claims to know Caliph's whereabouts."

"I'd reckon a lot of people say they know where he is. We've slapped a pretty hefty reward on his head."

"Yes, and that was clearly the motivation in this case."

The president bit. "Okay. What makes you think this one is on the up-and-up?"

Graham said, "You've been briefed on our DNA identification program, right? The one for high-value targets?"

The politician in Townsend winced at the word "targets." But he was aware of it. "I believe it's a CIA program."

"Yes, for big-name terrorists. We try to track down family members, the closer in the bloodline the better, and take samples for analysis. Clans in the Middle East tend to be big, so we can usually find somebody who will either take a bribe for a mouth swab or just plain doesn't like their violent uncle. Once we have a sample, we keep it on file. That way, if we ever get a bead on the target and strike, we have a quick and sure way to identify remains and confirm the kill."

"Okay," the president said, "so you're saying we have a sample on Caliph?"

Graham nodded.

"And what happened in Geneva? Did somebody send a piece of him to our Swiss Embassy?"

"Maybe."

Townsend's eyes narrowed. He'd meant it as a joke. "You can't be serious."

"We got a vial of blood that we're currently analyzing. It takes time. But there was also a copy of a report from a very reputable German laboratory. It showed the DNA profile of a second sample. This test was performed over a year ago, and we've already confirmed its authenticity with the lab. The data matches their records precisely."

"And?"

"The test results from last year are almost certainly Caliph. We should have results on the new blood sample in a day or so — like I said, it takes time."

"But what you have today is a lab report that matches Caliph and a random blood sample. That's a little thin to get excited about, Darlene."

"I know, I know. It could just be a lab tech trying to make a quick buck. But we haven't had many breaks in our search for Caliph. We're following it up."

"All right," the president agreed. "And what does that involve?"

"Whoever gave us this sample has asked for a meeting in Geneva."

"When?"

Graham looked at her watch. "In about six minutes."