Drone Games (24 page)

Akil punched in the current numeric month and year, and the lobby door popped open. He perused the wall directory. Ironically, one of his new neighbors was FAA’s O’Hare District Flight Standards Office.

Akil boarded the elevator and checked his watch. The sun would rise in three minutes. The doors opened to a dark reception area. He walked past a row of offices, stopping at one with a magnetic sign on the wall that read “Computer Doctors, LLC.” He entered his personal code on another keypad. At only 283 square feet, the room had basic office furniture and décor. There was a welcome packet on the desk as well as fresh-cut flowers, and a gift certificate from the nearby Rosemont Embassy Suites.

He raised the aluminum mini-blinds and opened the window. His distance-reading binoculars said 307 yards. The air traffic was moving steadily, and he judged the departures on Runway 22L at eight-minute intervals, each plane timed to the inbound approaches on Runway 4R. He scanned the surroundings, visualizing the drone’s flight path in five segments: vacant land, highway, fence, grass, and runway. Across Scott Street, beyond the first airport fence, stood a sprawling Federal Express distribution building and concrete parking structure. He panned the binoculars north to where Scott Street dead-ended into secured airport property. An unmarked, dark-gray sedan sat there idling. A single occupant was reading a newspaper. Akil noted a flock of starlings methodically searching the grass next to Runway 22L’s departure point. Considering that O’Hare was the second-busiest passenger airport in the United States behind Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson, everything seemed to be running smoothly. One by one, the morning flights ferried from the terminals. His target, hopefully on schedule, was due at 6:00 a.m.

Akil turned on his laptop and propped an assembled drone on the window ledge. He rubbed a soft cloth over the camera lens. He snapped the fuel cartridges into place and launched the unit out of the window. It quickly rose to seventy-five feet and headed north. He spotted a clear flight path and angled the drone west, crossing over the sparse traffic on Mannheim Road. Gaining confidence, he played with the toggle stems and observed the drone respond with near bird-like flight. He felt a strange euphoria in the effortless manipulation. It was satisfying to know that he possessed both superior ability and raw power. He was a predator with ultimate control.

Something else also pleased him. It was the ability to kill without having to sense or witness the results. The prey was nothing more than a target to be eliminated—a culture target. This was not real killing because it was not observable. It was simply meting out Allah’s judgment on those who deserved it. It was all too easy. His targets were lambs or rabbits resting in some open meadow, wandering about their daily lives with no reason to fear that which stalked them. A few would be taken, but no matter; there were many others. The predator would feast and rest, and then the pursuit would begin again.

The drone continued onto airport property, lowering to the grass and pacing alongside an Air France jet. A United flight was next in line, just another of O’Hare’s 1,500 daily departures. But it was his flight.

Eyes fixed on the laptop screen, Akil guided the drone into position. The starlings scattered into the air. He smiled at the drone’s color—red. He imagined the worst: a passenger in a window seat of a taxiing plane who just happened to be facing at the right angle, scrutinizing the perimeter grass edging at a brief moment in time. The passenger would then have to be savvy enough to notice something unusual, recognize it as both a drone and a threat to the aircraft as opposed to the blurred image of an early-morning cardinal, and raise enough concern to actually halt the flight.

It was a perfect day to fly.

—

The White House

Washington, DC

JACK RILEY was sitting alone in the corner of the Cabinet Room, next to a marble bust of George Washington. It seemed like the only place in the West Wing that offered some semblance of calm. He figured the wait would be brief.

He stared at the room’s signature mahogany table, a gift from President Nixon. Each Cabinet member had an assigned seat according to the date the department was established. Members also had the option to keep their chairs after leaving office as a memento of government service. The president’s was in the center.

Riley knew that the commander-in-chief was sworn to protect American lives and therefore had the authority to shut down the nation’s air transportation. There certainly was 9/11 precedent. But even the president had to realize that it was easy to talk about such action in the quiet confines of the White House but completely gutwrenching to actually give an order for the second time since flying was invented in 1903. Riley felt a mild throbbing in his temples from thinking about the logistics of just one airline carrier telling their in-flight pilots to bring their planes down ASAP. Then the real fun would begin.

The hapless passengers, the mega-congestion, the angry vendors, the scheduling chaos, not to mention refunding all those prepaid fees charged to customer credit cards and zero income for the airlines and their employees. The list was huge.
Does a carrier contract’s fine print contain force majeure language shielding it from terrorism?
he wondered.

On 9/11, stunned pilots frantically prepared to land at the nearest airport. Passengers desperately needed transportation and lodging. In some cases, school and city buses were used. Then came the psychological hits, not only to passengers but also to an oft-forgotten group who probably felt the impact of a shutdown more than any other—the flight crews.

After 9/11, airline unions worked tirelessly to provide support for workers concerned about their futures. When flights resumed three days later, some crews refused, not confident of airport security. Those who did return faced a new threat—layoffs.

Continental quickly cut 12,000 jobs; United and American cut 20,000; Northwest, 10,000; US Airways, 11,000; and Delta, 13,000. If the president issued that order again, he might as well bring in Donald Trump to speak his famous catchphrase to the airline workers.

Riley’s cell phone chirped. The caller’s ID said “FBI Command Center.” Riley answered.

“Sir, I’m Communications Specialist Marten,” the voice on the line said. “Special Agent Ford wanted you to know that a second message just came across that Milwaukee news station’s tip line. It was an interstate call and lasted approximately seven seconds. It appears to be the same voiceprint. Male, foreign accent, same cryptic reference to devastating wind and Allah. The flight number he mentioned this time was United 605. Agent Ford said that there’s been no reports of any incidents from the airlines. In other words, nothing’s blown up. What do you think that means, sir?”

Why ask me? What am I supposed to do?
Riley thought. “Did you trace it?”

“Yes, sir. It came from a cell tower owned by Nextel. FCC structure registration number 1207758, file number is A0121446. The FAA study is 99-AGL-4202-OE, issue date 10-25-1999 constructed 04-07-2000. Structure type is a building with antenna. Lat-long is 41-59-58.6 north—”

“Never mind all that,” Riley said impatiently. “Give me a location. What’s the tower’s address? What state? What city?”

“It’s 6600 Mannheim Road, Des Plaines, Illinois. That’s north of Chicag—”

Riley hung up as he bolted upright from the chair. He hurriedly scrolled through his phone contacts, found the one he was looking for, and dialed.

“O’Hare Airport Operations. Rebecca Marsh speaking.”

“This is a Homeland Security emergency. Get me Air Traffic Control manager Harold Flynn. Tell him it’s Jack Riley. And I mean
now
!”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Please stand by.”

Riley could feel the blood pulsing in his neck. He knew Flynn. He was a thirty-year veteran of Chicago’s Department of Aviation and a stalwart supporter of O’Hare’s multibillion-dollar modernization plan. Sadly, the sequestration crisis had forced them to periodically close their new northern control tower. Flynn was recently given a special assignment to help area residents understand and accept plans for new runway expansions. He was strongly considering retirement.

“Jack Riley? You picked a heckuva time to chat,” Flynn’s voice said. “If this is about Flight 605, we’re already on it. I’m in the main tower, and the FBI is swarming all over the place. What’s going on?”

Thank God
, Riley thought. “We don’t know, Harold. Just get everybody off that plane
fast
.”

“It was logged as an Airbus A319, westbound to Denver, Runway 22,” Flynn explained. “Jack, it left an hour ago.”

Riley let out an audible curse. “Where is it?”

“ATC Command has them at 450 knots and 34,000 feet. They’re approaching western Iowa.”

The FAA’s Air Traffic Control System Command Center was located in Vint Hill, Virginia, forty miles southwest of Washington, DC. The center monitored the nation’s air traffic control towers, approach and departure facilities, and high-altitude control centers. The facility also supported all electronic navigation. The center didn’t directly control air traffic, but it monitored and coordinated with other air traffic facilities and system users including the airlines, the military, and business aviation groups. The center’s main mission was to balance demand with capacity and to deal with weather and other potential disruptions. If the entire air traffic system in the United States was an orchestra, then Vint Hill was its conductor.

“Jack, I need to know,” Flynn said, his tone near pleading. “My assistant tower chief’s wife is on that plane. She’s taking their only granddaughter back to Taos, New Mexico. They could’ve booked Southwest through Albuquerque, but decided United to Denver at the last minute. You probably can’t tell me, but I’ll ask anyway—is this a hijacking?”

“We don’t know,” Riley repeated, feeling his throat constrict. A wave of nausea rolled through his stomach. “We need to get them down, Harold. And then pray.”

Decatur, GA

STUART ROBERTSON shuffled into the kitchen, stood on a chair, and poured Honey Nut Cheerios into two bowls. He flipped through the channels on the TV and then abruptly hurried to his parents’ bedroom. He knocked once, twice, and then waited patiently until someone gave permission. That was a new rule.

He peeked his head inside.

“Mommy, where’s Dad?” he asked, his voice weak and fearful.

“In the shower,” Linda answered, rising from her dressing table and rolling a lint brush over her skirt. She eyed her son suspiciously as he burrowed into the newly made bed and pulled a sheet over his eyes. Linda froze. Her mind instantly filled with words every working parent feared when faced with a sick child: fever, pediatrician, pharmacy, vacation day. One word collectively summed things: juggle. She sat on the bed and placed her hand against her son’s cheek.

“Don’t you feel well, honey?”

“A deer got dead on the TV,” he said softly. “There was a fire.”

Atlanta’s surrounding suburbs were overrun with whitetail. In Georgia, drivers had a 1 in 151 chance of a deer-vehicle collision. She assumed he’d seen a news broadcast.

“Oh no. That’s so sad. Was it a baby?”

“No.”

“Was it hit by a car?”

“Mommy? I don’t ever want to fly on an airplane.”

—

The White House Cabinet Room

Washington, DC

A THRONG of bodies burst through the doors. Senior staff and aides hurriedly upscaled the room’s functionality with lighting, documentation, office supplies, and communication access.

Secretary Bridge bent next to Riley. “New York’s circuit breakers just kicked in.”

Riley gave Bridge a confused look and then incorrectly assumed that the city’s electrical grid was somehow under attack.

“From the air?”

“Wall Street,” Bridge replied. “The stock market’s been open for eleven minutes, and it just shut down.”

The president entered the room last. Most of the chairs at the conference table were empty. For a moment, Riley thought he might be asked to move up and join what was arguably the single most powerful group of government officials in the nation, sans the Secretaries of Defense and State. Riley noticed FAA Administrator Elizabeth Slavin sitting well behind her boss, Secretary of Transportation Norman Minka, and figured no such invitation would be forthcoming.

Secretary Bridge began. “Mr. President, I’m sorry to confirm that a second commercial aircraft, United Flight 605, has gone down in Bellevue, Nebraska. Debris is scattered across the Fontenelle Forest Nature Center between I-29 in Iowa and Nebraska’s State Highway 75. It missed residential neighborhoods in South Omaha by four miles. There were one hundred and eight people on board. All are feared dead. The circumstances appear similar to those in Milwaukee.”

The president sat quietly with his hands folded. He was trying to muster the strength to speak the inevitable—a decision perhaps equal in gravity to approving a major military strike. A domestic order affecting the entire nation immediately and with severe economic consequences, it was a decision unlike any other.

“What is happening to our country?” the president said soberly.