Drone Games (32 page)

Riley frowned at the drawings. They ranged from an oversized ear to a six-inch bat wing. He set the bag down. “Excluding the passengers, a total of twenty people had contact with Flight 771. One fueler, three baggage handlers, two mechanics, two caterers, two maintenance workers, two rampers, three agents, and, of course, the crew. None fit any obvious profile. One technician replaced a brake temperature fuse, and we’ve got a copy of his log. Do you have anything else?”

Ross produced a set of colored computer drawings. One showed remarkable detail of Flight 771’s fuselage cut away to expose the cockpit section.

“My team has concluded that both planes crashed due to a dramatic loss of power, hydraulics, and pilot controls. The Delta flight data recorder showed evidence of a shutdown that originated here.”

He used a pencil-thin marker to connect the nose landing gear with the vertical tail fin. He fingered through the drawings.

“Here’s a closer look at a potential point of impact. It was in our preliminary opinion, by an explosive. Notice the direction of the outward burns. This was further evidenced by the distortions in the hinges and riveting on the gear bay doors. Everything was forced outward.”

“What’s your conclusion?” Riley wondered. “How did it happ—?”

Ross cut him off.

“You can conclude whatever you want. In this case, an aviation action. I’ve just told you what we believe happened. The facts support damage caused by an internal explosion. Unfortunately, that opens an even bigger box of unanswered questions.”

“Such as?”

“I’m sure you know that people are screaming ‘cover-up’ on TWA Flight 800 and the NTSB’s theory of sparks or electrical shorts igniting fumes. There’s a truckload of speculation and witnesses in that case, especially with regard to missiles. I simply can’t afford to go into why it happened. And I won’t cross the line between pure investigation and criminal intent. That’s your job. But I do have my own theory.”

“Fine, it’s not a missile.” Riley was frustrated. “So give me your opinion.”

Ross lifted a bag of pumpkin seeds to his mouth. “This was criminal. On the Delta flight, someone planted a bomb inside or underneath that cockpit, a radio-controlled or a timed device with enough power to rupture the flight control cables. The airborne debris got sucked into the engine. I didn’t mention it in my public interview with Neela, but the United flight was even worse in that the voice and data recorders showed that things were running smoothly and operating normally. Three seconds later, everything was gone—controls, hydraulics, voice, electrical, and
all
backups. It had to have been a massive in-flight explosion. Things simply don’t go from normal to dead in three seconds.”

“Aren’t modern jets supposed to be able to handle foreign material being pulled into the engines?” Riley asked. “Didn’t Boeing prove that by heaving a bunch of frozen turkeys into the fan blades?”

Ross wanted to laugh. “Jet engines are machined so perfectly that their tolerances are measured in thousandths of millimeters. A couple of seagulls can ruin a pilot’s day. Those turkey tests were done to prove that the engine cowling itself could withstand an explosion and not damage the fuselage in-flight. Trust me, the engines would lose power. My opinion on this is that it was criminal. It’s your job to find out how.”

San Diego, CA

Seaport Village

NAMED
PUNTA de los Muertos
for early Spanish scurvy victims, Seaport Village consisted of seventy shops, galleries, and restaurants set on a ninety thousand square-foot landfill. The Point of the Dead had four miles of tourist walkways.

Kevin Jones set his guitar case on a tiled bench seat across from a seawall that overlooked San Diego Harbor. He lifted the guitar to his lap and strummed through C, D, and G chords—his favorite way to verify tuning. The air smelled deliciously of fresh-baked pretzels. He set the guitar down and pulled one pretzel apart. He thought he could eat, but he was simply too nervous so he tossed the piece onto the sidewalk. In a scene straight from Hitchcock’s
The Birds
, wings and beaks instantly appeared. The seagulls were remarkably bold and fought angrily over the morsels. One bird hopped onto the guitar case. When Jones tried to pet the seemingly friendly visitor, he was given a nasty warning. It was all about the dough—literally.

Behind him, a crowd gathered in the open food court. Music pumped through two amplifiers. The musician at the microphone had a smooth voice, and his guitar playing was crisp. Jones froze. He instantly recognized the classic Travis-style, finger-picking chord bounce from C to G. The song’s melody and lyrics were especially familiar.

“Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go, looking for the places only they would know. Lie la lie . . . lie la la la lie la lie . . . lie la lie . . . lie la la la lie la lie la la la la lie.”

He’s singing Simon & Garfunkel
, Jones thought. “
The Boxer.” Why can’t I do that? I can. I know I can
. He eased closer, checking his watch. He was next.

“This guy’s good, hey?” a bystander commented to Jones. “I dig that song.”

“Me too,” Jones remarked. “Paul Simon wrote it way back in 1968. He recorded it with four guitars and a piccolo trumpet. It took six weeks. It’s amazing that it’s still so musically pleasing after all these years.”

“I’ve always wanted to play the guitar,” the young man admitted, noticing Jones’s case. “But I’d be totally freaked if I had to sing in front of anyone.”

“Playing is the easy part,” Jones noted, checking his watch again. “Unfortunately, not everyone can sing.”

“That’s the truth. When I sing, foxes start to howl.”

The song ended. The crowd responded with loud applause.

Jones’s eyes grew wide, and he turned to the man. “Fennec foxes?”

“Yeah, when I was a kid under a bright desert moo—” Akil turned warily. “I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”

“Omar? Omar Yassin? I’m Kevin. Kevin Jones.” He pumped Akil’s hand vigorously. “The Entomopter drone—remember? You called me about performance in sand and maximum leg grip pressure. I can’t believe it. How weird is this? What are you doing in San Diego? I thought you were beta testing on a project with Dr. Al-Aran in some Saudi Arabian oil field. Are you finished?”

“Kevin . . . um . . . what a surprise,” Akil stammered. “Of course. My profound apologies. Dr. Al-Aran’s project. A funeral . . . my . . . um . . . one of my dearest relatives passed away. My aunt. She lived here . . . north of here. She had pneumonia. In Romoland. It’s in Riverside County. I am actually on my way there now. We . . . my family is extremely saddened by the loss. It was a long illness.”

“Oh man, I’m sorry,” Jones offered, sensing something odd in Omar’s manner. Somehow the slovenly look didn’t match his demeanor. “But how did you get all the way to California with the flight ban?”

“Mexico. I flew into Tijuana. If you’ve never done that, it’s indeed an interesting experience.”

“I bet,” Jones agreed. “This whole country’s gone scary, especially the economy. Can we do dinner later or something? I’d love to hear about the drone’s test results. I’ve been so busy that I’ve lost touch with my old project team. How long are you in town?”

“I am truly sorry, Kevin, but it’s not possible. There are pressing family duties that I must attend to. Then I return home tomorrow.”

“That’s too bad,” Jones said, glancing at the time. “So, tell me, how did the drone perform?”

“Well, to be honest, it was rather disappointing. Average at best. The initial flights looked promising, but I’m afraid we simply expected a little too much. The device did not hold up very well in sand. The wings kept dislodging. It could only travel a few hundred yards before becoming uncontrollable.”

Jones’s reaction fell somewhere between surprise and embarrassment. Then it turned defensive. “That’s bizarre. What exactly were you trying to accomplish? You shouldn’t have had any problems.”

“Our team documented everything, so we do have a record for any required enhancements. I would be more than happy to provide you a copy.”

Jones reconsidered. “Nah, don’t bother. I’ve got enough on my plate.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Akil said, cutting the conversation short. He extended his hand. “Perhaps we can play music together sometime.”

“Sure,” Jones said with a puzzled look. “I’ve got a condo two blocks from the beach. Gotta keep up my image.”

Akil gave Jones a limp handshake and awkwardly turned away.

He spotted Marissa and the kids waving to him from the seawall walkway. He waved back and gestured toward the parking lot.

“Who was that you were talking to?” Marissa asked when they met up at the minivan. She was fairly certain it was a man, but the person did have a ponytail. She helped Jo-Jo with his seat belt and then slid into the front passenger seat.

“Just a guy I knew in high school . . . in Minnesota,” Akil answered, starting the engine. “We were on the gymnastics team. He was a year behind. Why?”

“I’m just jealous,” she admitted. “You’ve been to so many places, and I’ve never been out of San Diego.”

“I know how to fix that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Feel like getting away?” he suggested. “The kids would love a vacation.”

“So would I.” Marissa looked at him oddly. “But I just met you.”

“Did you hear what I said? Don’t think, don’t worry, and just do it. There’s nothing for you here, especially living in a motel and earning commission from a loser like Viktor. We’ll take a nice long trip and then maybe find a new place to live—somewhere that’s not so crowded. Maybe we’ll come back or maybe we won’t.” He lifted her hand. “Don’t tell anyone about us, okay? Especially Viktor. I’ll handle him.”

“Eddie, please, he’s mean,” she warned. “He’s the reason that his wife, Tamara, had a nervous breakdown in the first place. He always complains about other people, but he’s even worse. She keeps a gun in the house and said she would use it if he hurts her again. I think she’s serious.”

“In the house where?” Akil asked sternly.

She hesitated. “Her laundry basket. Under a towel.”

“Is Viktor right- or left-handed?”

“Left, I think. Why do you want to know that?”

“In case he ever swings at me,” Akil answered. “It’s always good to be prepared.”

Marissa felt her heart race with excitement. Hope was something she rarely experienced. She had dreamed of a better life but had never had the financial means or opportunity. This was a complete whirlwind. She could easily pack up and leave. She had no real assets except her minivan, and no close family ties. Her children could adapt to anything.

“What about you?” she wondered. “You just got here. What would you do about school and your apartment? Viktor would really be—”

“I have a confession to make,” Akil interrupted. He lifted her hand to his lips and looked into her eyes. “There’s something special about you. I’ve always said that when I found the right girl, I’d know it. Someone who’s kind, beautiful, and who’d make a good friend and partner. Maybe even a wife. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m telling you the truth from my heart. Something happened the first time we talked on the phone. Let’s just get away. Your kids are awesome. I want to be a part of their lives. Please let me prove that I can be a good role model to them, maybe even their father. I can finish college anywhere. I only need a few more credits. It doesn’t have to be here. My parents left me a lot of money. You’ll never have to worry again. If you want, you can put your things in storage; I’ll pay for everything. Just take what you and the kids need. You won’t have to work another day, and you can have anything you want. We’ll find out about ourselves. I mean, if there’s really something there. I promise I’ll take care of you and your family, Marissa. A couple of weeks and a nice long vacation. Trust me, okay?”

“Eddie? I have a confession too,” Marissa said, smiling. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Akil wiped them away with his thumb. “Viktor just left me a voice mail. He said business is bad, and he has to let me go.”

Akil cupped his hand gently around her head. “Forget him. It’s fate, and it’s a good thing. I’m here for you, Marissa, and I’m going to take care of you. We’re going to be a family. Come with me, okay? A nice, relaxing, fun vacation. Who knows? Maybe we’ll find a new place to open my music store.”

Marissa composed herself and turned to her kids.

“Who wants to go on vacation?” They cheered. She nuzzled Akil. “I could really use some new clothes. Would it be okay if we stayed here? Maybe half an hour?”

“Shop as long as you want.” Akil smiled broadly, checking the time and opening his laptop. He reached in his pocket and peeled off five hundred dollars. “Buy some ice cream for the kids and something nice for you. I’m going to check out car top carriers and then work on our business plan.”

Akil watched her stroll out of sight.

He signed into Gmail.

Toothdoc2b:
What’s up, dude? Catch any sharks?

PartyLuvr30308:
Not yet. Still hung over. How is Southern California?

Toothdoc2b:
Awesome. Things are working out great. I think I’m in love! Any other suggestions for a nice vacation?