Drone Games (5 page)

Ross opened a thick document stamped
Courtesy Copy
in his inbasket. He shook his head at the eleventh revision of the latest Department of Homeland Security organization chart. Thankfully, the NTSB wasn’t part of it. There weren’t many advantages of working exclusively for and under the scrutiny of the United States Congress, but this was definitely one. He wondered how many DHS employees would be physically transferred and on which effective date. Relocation was always rough, especially on families.

Family
. Like a powerful magnet, the word pulled his thoughts back to a quiet neighborhood in Arlington, Virginia, a connected two-story duplex, and a relationship with Marcia Davies that he had once thought might lead to a family. His first wife of eighteen years had been a kind, small-town Ohio woman with traditional down-home family values. She’d undergone a delicate female operation and, while recovering at home, had died suddenly from a blood clot.

Ross had been devastated by the loss and buried himself in work just to survive. He’d met Marcia at a technical aviation conference in San Francisco and was immediately smitten. He had no clue that behind her sexy smile and her degrees in engineering and accounting lay a brash, spoiled daddy’s girl raised in country clubs, fur coats, and fine Southern estates.

The marriage happened quickly on a luxurious and private Caribbean island. Two years later, Ross knew that he’d made a terrible mistake. His sweet Southern belle had grown into a self-centered, nasty stranger skilled in tantrums and manipulation. Her penchant for materialism grew out of control. She regularly berated him publicly and openly flirted with any male who’d pay attention. Ross had worked up the nerve to divorce Marcia but not the heart to ask her to leave. He simply drifted back into the escape of work.

Marcia continued to live in the upper flat while heading up Deloitte’s Audit Division on 12th Street Northwest in Washington, DC.

Ross was on rotational duty as the investigator-in-charge of the NTSB’s “Go Team,” an elite group of specialized experts, ready to respond to catastrophic aviation accidents at a moment’s notice. During their assigned tours, Go Team members were on call 24/7, expected to arrive at the accident scene as quickly as possible, analyze what happened, and ultimately provide a safety recommendation so it never happened again.

All members understood that nothing short of death or Armageddon should stop them from responding. No personal commitment was unbreakable. Disciplinary measures were routinely threatened and meted out. During 9/11, the US Justice Department took the investigatory lead of the airline crashes, while NTSB provided advice and support. Nevertheless, Ross worked for months on four hours of sleep per night. He took one precious day off for a funeral, only to have it remanded when Flight 587 crashed on November 12, 2001, in Rockaway, Queens, New York.

Field Specialist Ron Hollings poked his head inside Ross’s office.

“Guess where we found the file on that 747 that crashed near Madrid in 1976—the one with the wing failure?”

“The men’s room storage closet,” Ross replied offhandedly, his tongue locked in fierce struggle with a stubborn pumpkin seed fragment.

“How’d you know?”

“It used to be a pre-archive holding room, but no one followed up. Boxes just started accumulating.”

Hollings glanced at the pumpkin seeds—a solid stress indicator. True to his gender (no matter what reality TV writers scripted) Ross, like most men, wasn’t comfortable talking about personal relationships. Hollings knew he needed a shove.

“Did you ask her to leave?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I will, I promise. I just don’t have the energy.”

“You look tired, Tom.”

“Thanks. I know.”

Hollings closed the door and sat down.

Ross rose from his desk and gazed blankly through the windowpane. “Marcia’s always been high-strung. She blames her job. Public accounting firms are ruthless. She drags herself upstairs every night, and I can tell she’s physically and mentally exhausted.”

“Stop rationalizing a nasty situation,” Hollings said firmly. “Marcia’s a nasty ex-wife and a nasty tenant. You need to do two things: tell her she needs to go, and then find a new renter. Someone nice.
Then
worry about a new relationship. They’re out there; I guarantee it. Maybe even on one of those dating sites.”

Ross made a painful face and spit a seed hull at the wastebasket. He flipped through his calendar. “I need to think. Tell Jenna I’m taking the rest of the—ugh! Is today the fourth?”

Hollings nodded.

“Another Homeland Security presentation?”

“Yep.”

“I can’t win,” Ross said softly.

“Nope.” Hollings glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes. I saved us front-row seats.”

Ross opened his office door. Employees were already making their way to the conference center.

“I can’t win,” Ross repeated, reaching for a notepad. “Just what I need, another boring security consultant. I’ve heard enough of them to last the rest of my career. What’s the warning this time, anthrax-laced toilet paper?”

“I’m not sure, but Barrens arranged it personally. I don’t think the speaker’s a consultant. I think he’s one of their directors. He’s definitely got Secretary Bridge’s ear. Barrens wants everybody there. It’s another departmental edict.”

Ross stared at the calendar for a few moments and then defiantly reached for his briefcase. “What could be important enough to bring the Secretary of Homeland Security to this place on a Monday morning? Screw it. I’m leaving anyway.”

“Tom, that’s not a good idea. This is a mandatory meet—”

Ross cursed, slamming his briefcase to the floor. “This job has sucked every living drop of energy out of me, and now they want my soul. Well, guess what? I’m not giving it.”

Hollings let his boss vent. He knew it would pass. Ross rarely showed this kind of emotion, especially not since his promotion to acting division chief. His workload had doubled with the responsibility. It was both sad and somehow reassuringly human that, when faced with mounting personal and professional pressures, even the best people had breaking points.

Ross rested his forehead against the wall. “I’m sorry, Ron. I’m not sure I can handle another motivational speaker telling us how far to bend over during a Washington terrorist attack. I’ve heard it all before. I’m just sick of it.”

“Hey, I understand,” Hollings reassured. “If it makes you feel any better, this guy’s spiel is supposed to be pretty good. A friend of mine over at Justice heard it and said it really woke him up. Your friend Ms. Petri has publicly challenged the content. If she’s there, we might see some fireworks.”

Nancy Petri was an Illinois congressional representative and special liaison to the NTSB’s Office of Public Affairs.

Ross rolled his eyes. “Petri runs her office by the book and nothing but. If this guy gets cocky I wouldn’t want to be in her sights, but whatever. Let’s go. And mark my words—I will get my life in order.”

He slid into his suit coat and strode out the door.

THE NTSB used a state-of-the-art underground conference center adjacent to its headquarters building at 429 L’Enfant Plaza Southwest in Washington, DC. The center consisted of a theater-style auditorium for 350 people, 1,682 square feet of flexible space, and two aisles wide enough to accommodate even the largest of public press venues. Every seat was filled.

“Good morning,” Roger Barrens, the NTSB’s Managing Director, announced from the center stage. “We’re excited that the Secretary of Homeland Security, Samuel Bridge, could join us this morning.”

The room gave out strong applause. Bridge waved. Barrens produced a fact sheet.

“The speaker you’re about to hear is Jack Riley, Director of Homeland Counterterrorism. Mr. Riley hails from Georgia, where he graduated from Emory University with a degree in mathematics. He served in the United States Air Force, achieving the rank of captain. In Desert Storm, he was in charge of placing, encrypting, and synchronizing all satellite-to-ground voice communication links. He’s a third-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do and also has, dare I say, the unique honor of reporting directly to Secretary Bridge and is therefore allowed to ignore . . . er, bypass all those evil undersecretaries.”

This drew a mass chuckle. Barrens’s brother carried that title in the DHS Office of Intelligence and Analysis.

“Mr. Riley also has a rather quirky fetish for stuffed animals that’s well-known in the intelligence circles. I’ll let him explain that. His presentation today is called “Komodo.” The president has seen it and was so impressed that he ordered it be taped and delivered to all federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies in the nation. That about sums up the gravity. Secretary Bridge has also expressed strong support for the theory based on its, and I quote, ‘on-target significance.’ With that, let’s begin. Mr. Riley?”

The audience applauded warmly.

The spitting image of a youthful Sidney Poitier sprang from his chair next to the Secretary and approached the podium. He appeared physically fit, with a strong jaw line, symmetrical facial features, a touch of temple gray, and an unusually grim visage. He clipped a wireless microphone set to his belt and necktie but had apparently forgotten to turn it on. His midnight blue suit gave off a subtle metallic flash as he walked regally down the center aisle. He carried an olive-gray, black-blotched stuffed animal the size of a football under one arm. It was a fish.

“Thank you, Roger. Good morning. My Christian name is Prince—Prince Jackson Riley. I’m neither Irish nor next in line for the British or any other throne. My mother named me
Prince
because she thought I looked like African royalty when I entered this world. My friends still call me that. You may call me Jack.

“As Roger pointed out, I work in DHS counterterrorism, and I have one heckuva job. I get to snoop around, ask questions, assess and alert other agencies about potential gaps in defenses for current terror threats, and also share what I consider to be potential future threats to the homeland, no matter how far-fetched they may seem. I suppose you might consider me terror’s point man—specific or potential, imminent or elevated; bombings, cluster-cell identification, motorized incidents, weapons of mass destruction—you name it.

“But don’t let the impressive title fool you. My extremely skinny staff and I work in the trenches hand in hand with every federal enforcement agency. It’s all about teamwork. For some strange reason, my boss doesn’t believe in letting dedicated, loyal, and hardworking human beings take time off. He just keeps piling on the assignments.” Riley turned. “How long has it been since I’ve had a vacation, Mr. Secretary? Three years or four?”

“Write your senator,” Bridge responded to a throng of laughter.

It had been four years. A day here or there was fine, but Bridge had finally allowed his senior staff to take an extended vacation only after bin Laden had been killed.

Riley shook his head and turned back to the audience. “Perhaps we’ll meet somewhere in an official capacity, but I hope not. Terror is never a pleasant thing.” He pointed to the large US flag standing in the corner. “Take a good look at the symbol of American freedom, people. It might be the last time you’ll ever think that.”

A slide appeared on the room’s two ten-by-twelve-foot projection screens.

You can’t defend against the unthinkable

without thinking about it in the first place.

“And now, the unthinkable.”

A photograph of two adult Komodo dragons appeared, mouths agape, spaghetti-like streams of saliva dangling disgustingly. The title said:
al-Qaeda.

“Before we get started, I’ve been working real hard to clean up my language and apologize in advance if I slip,” Riley announced. “I tend to get emotional about terrorism and more than a little colorful. I’d also like to find out where your heads are.” He held up the stuffed toy. “This is Shaitan. In Arabic, that means ‘Satan.’ He represents an evil black grouper that I’ve been chasing around the Florida Keys. I’ve hooked him several times, but he’s always managed to slip away. My daughter taught English in El Salvador and shared my fish story with some villagers. One was kind enough to hand-sew this little guy. Who among you is smart enough to catch Shaitan?”

Several hands went up. Riley flung the fish across the room in a wide arc. It landed in a woman’s lap.

Riley strolled toward her. His eyes took a snapshot of her name tag and appearance. African American, thirties, medium build, short hair, attractive. “Patricia Creed, NTSB Aviation Operations. You look familiar. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you. I prefer Tricia.”

“Okay, Tricia. You win the prize. What do you do?”

“I support aviation accident investigations. Mainly interviews with principals, survivors, relatives, and other witnesses. Usually face-to-face, but not always.”

Riley nodded, impressed. “What’s your vision of the next 9/11?”

“Excuse me?”

“The next large-scale terror attack on American soil.”

Creed straightened in her seat. “Well, I’m not exactly familiar with terrorism tactics. Um . . . what about blowing up Amtrak trains or poisoning food at McDonalds?”