Fly by Wire

Chapter FORTY-TWO

Glass sprayed everywhere.

Davis dove to the floor as the shot echoed through the room. He caught a glimpse of Sorensen disappearing behind a table. She called his name, but then he heard screams from the other direction. Davis looked up and saw a big woman struggling with a man in an overcoat, their arms intertwined. He couldn't get a look at the guy, but decided it had to be Caliph. Without hesitation, he clambered to his feet and lunged into the melee.

Shoulder down, he made big contact. All three went sprawling. Davis landed near the front entrance. He got to one knee and was about to coldcock the guy when he got his first look. Mid-twenties, well dressed, blond hair — it was definitely not Caliph. Confused, he then saw the woman. She was ten paces away, lying in a heap under a table. It only took one look for Davis to understand — it was the woman from Sorensen's picture. Fatima Adara. The shooter. And Davis had probably just taken out an off-duty cop who was trying to save his ass.

Great move, Jammer.

Davis had taken one step toward her when Fatima rolled and locked eyes with him. She was grimacing, snarling like a rabid dog. She wrestled an arm from under her hip and Davis saw the gun. He changed direction fast and lunged for the door.

He crashed through just as bullets smacked into wood and glass all around. Then he felt pain, like his leg had been struck by lightning. More glass shattered. Davis rolled into the street and scrambled to his feet. He looked at his thigh and saw blood. He'd been hit, but everything seemed to be working.

Davis hesitated, looked back for Sorensen. He didn't see her anywhere. But he saw Fatima Adara. She was sweeping the gun across the place, keeping the rest of the clientele at bay as she moved for the door Davis had just flown through. He searched desperately for Sorensen one last time. Nothing. He was on his own.

Davis ran.

The crowds were thick. He bolted down the sidewalk, running through the pain. Davis weaved between people, his feet slipping constantly on the slick sidewalk. At the first corner, he looked back and saw Fatima trundling after him. She stood out like a Hummer in a sea of Volkswagens. Her gun hand was tucked against her side, and judging from the lack of panic around her, Davis decided she must have buried the weapon in her pocket.

He turned onto a side street that looked even more crowded, lined by nightclubs and theaters. The street was washed in an ethereal glow from banks of colored neon, an illusionist's scene that sparkled in gust-driven swirls of ice and snow. Davis kept moving. One block, then two. Even with his handicap he was making good time. He knew he could outrun Fatima — and that was all he had to do. As he ran he dug down into his jacket pocket. An instant later, Davis skidded to a stop on the frozen sidewalk.

His cell phone was gone.

The White House Situation Room was madness. Truett Townsend counted at least a dozen people on phones, all jabbering and yelling. He hated chaos, but right now it was the only way.

Darlene Graham announced, "The latest count is one hundred and six C-500s in the air. Over half are domestic, here in the States."

Someone yelled, "Does anybody speak Chinese?"

There was actually a "yes" from the crowd, and two staffers linked up on one handset.

If there could be a lone symbol of the sense of desperation, it was Herman Coyle. As the leaders of the world's technology superpower governed their crisis, the most accomplished scientist in the room was rushing around with a legal pad and number two pencil striking tally marks as he kept count of aircraft. Supercomputers were no longer any help.

Martin Spector said, "The Secret Service wants you to evacuate the White House, sir. They're afraid these airplanes might be aimed at political targets."

"Mr. Davis says the jets are headed for oil refineries," Townsend argued.

"But, sir—"

"No, Martin! I'll take responsibility."

Townsend took a seat behind his desk. He had learned a lot in the last five minutes. He had learned about a system called ACARS, or Aircraft Communication Addressing and Reporting System. It was the communications data link used by most airlines to track their airplanes, download maintenance and operational information, and — most important right now — to send messages to the crews. He had also learned about cargo hubs. At this moment, most of the C-500s in the world were airborne, either on their way to a late-night sorting facility in Europe or America, or headed for a second-day sort in the Far East. Whoever had planned this unnatural disaster had done a damned good job of maximizing the potential.

"We have a map," someone shouted. A large screen at one end of the room came to life and a Mercator projection of the world was presented. "It's a hybrid view," the same voice said, "combined data from our own FAA, European Control, and two commercial flight tracking Web sites."

"Are they all displayed?" Townsend asked.

"Yes, all that we know about."

Townsend didn't like the caveat. But what could he do? He watched one hundred and six tiny crosses floating across the globe. The representation seemed feeble, inadequate given the threat that was posed.

"One hundred and two," Graham said. "Four more have landed."

"How many can we communicate with?" the president inquired.

"All except—" Herman Coyle tapped out a count on his legal pad, "seventeen."

Townsend checked the clocks on the wall that registered both Eastern time and Zulu. They had nine minutes. "All right," he said, "keep working it — those are the top priority. We have to transmit instructions somehow. Let's get Davis back on the line."

His leg felt like it was on fire.

Davis was limping mightily as he navigated back to the Internet cafe — his phone had to be there. As he walked, he kept searching for Fatima. He suspected he'd lost her, figured she would give up the chase knowing she could never keep pace. That's what they called it in rugby — pace. Davis had always had it for a guy his size. Right now he was clocking in at far less than full speed, but he was still covering ground.

He checked his watch.

How long did he have until the president returned his call? Two minutes? Three? He hoped like hell he could find his phone. His stride quickened when he saw the cafe in the distance. But then he spotted an unmistakable shape on the sidewalk ahead.

Davis whipped his head left and right, desperate to get out of sight. Taking what had to be a page from Sorensen's book, he shot left and ducked into the nearest alcove. He peered through the corner of the shop window and found her. Fatima was fifty feet ahead, walking briskly. Closing fast. She had both hands in her pockets — to have only one hidden might look threatening. Her head was tilted down, but her eyes were quick and alert. The eyes of a hunter.

Her quarry suddenly realized his mistake — there was no way out of the recessed entryway. He should have just turned and run. Even with his bad leg he could outdistance Fatima Adara. But now he was trapped — glass on three sides, and soon a killer with a gun at the fourth. A killer who was looking for him.

Davis took a closer look at the store. It was an old music shop, at this hour locked down tight with a ferme sign posted in the window.

Inside, row after row of ancient vinyl relics sat waiting for some audiophile purist to come rescue them. A rescue that would almost certainly never come.

I know just how it is, he thought.

Davis backed against the side window. It would buy him an extra second, maybe two. Nothing more. All Fatima had to do was look — and he knew she would. An old newspaper swirled in an eddy at his feet. If she would only pass by, he could still get to the cafe and find his phone in time. Or find Sorensen and get the headquarters number, use another phone. Davis would make it work. He just had to stay alive for the next thirty seconds. And to do that, he needed to become invisible.

He took a step back and heard a hollow clink.

Fatima cursed the pain in her hip.

The American had been lucky, moving at the very moment she'd taken her first shot. And even luckier that some idiot had tried to wrestle her gun away, keeping her from taking a follow-up shot. But then the American had been stupid, misidentifying his threat. Not for the first time, Fatima had been saved by her appearance. Still, it had hurt when she'd crashed against the big table. Grimacing, she scanned the frozen street, looking for the bastard. He was big — but the size that had sent her flying minutes earlier might soon be his downfall.

She kept her hands in the pockets of her jacket, the right having a firm grip on the Glock. Handguns were not Fatima's preferred weapon, but if she could find the American again she would not miss. As she walked, she didn't bother to look at faces. Fatima would find him by his shape, just as he would attempt to find her. Yet she had to be careful. She'd noticed blood outside the cafe entrance, and Fatima reasoned she must have struck home with at least one round. He might still be close, and a wounded animal was always a dangerous one. She only had to see him first, not get too close.

She looked across the street and eyed every group for a man who didn't belong, a large figure trying to look small. To her right was a line of shops, but most were closed. She approached the recessed entry of a record store, a tattered poster in the window depicting an old black man wailing on a trumpet. Fatima edged away from the entrance, sensing a presence there. Then she saw him, curled into a ball — a drunk passed out on the cold concrete. The miserable wretch was using a newspaper for a blanket, and an empty bottle lay tipped on its side, near where his head had to be. Then a glimmer of motion came from above. The hand in her pocket tensed and Fatima s eyes were drawn higher.

For a moment she thought she had seen movement inside the store. But then Fatima realized it was only her reflection in the window, her profile taking the light at just the right angle. She stood still for an instant and looked at herself. The image transformed as Fatima again imagined what the surgeon might accomplish. The shape, the textures. She might be able to affect some changes herself, adjustments to her carriage and posture. She stood more erect, straighter, and taller.

Then Fatima chided herself.

She pushed the thought away. Now was not the time. Again she began to move up the sidewalk, her eyes studying an intersection ahead. She was nearly to the side street when she felt a vibration. It came to her knuckles, the same hand that was curled around the weapon in her pocket.

She had found the cell phone right where the big American had fallen, and so she'd picked it up. Fatima suspected it was the one he had been using as she'd maneuvered into position. Just before she'd missed the most simple of shots. Why had he moved at that moment? Fatima let go of the gun and pulled the phone from her pocket. It buzzed again. She stood still, staring at the thing, wondering if she should answer.

Curiosity got the better of her. She used her masculine voice, the one she had mimicked so many times before to become Caliph. "Hello."

The reply came in a squealing pitch, "Daddy, I have to talk to you!"

Fatima stood dumbstruck. Her thoughts stumbled. She muttered, "No, not now."

"Daddy! This is so, so important—"