Rick Mofina - Free Fall

“You did, sir.”

Cole shook his head.

“I certainly did not.”

Bropton shot a glance to Yakawich, who suggested they go to the office. Once they were in the trailer, Yakawich went to the steel cabinets against one paneled wall. He sifted through files, removed one and consulted it.

“Yeah,” Yakawich said, “it’s what I thought. You called us on the twenty-sixth of last month, Mr. Cole, and told us to auction the contents of your unit. I sent Becky to your place. You signed the paperwork and gave us your spare key.” Yakawich handed a contract to Bropton, who gave it a quick read and passed it to Cole. “She said you weren’t feeling so good that day.” Yakawich gave Bropton a subtle look. “And, I’m sorry, but we found a lot of empty liquor bottles in your unit.”

“I don’t think this is a police matter,” Bropton said.

Cole stared disbelievingly at his signature and traveled across a wasteland of fog-shrouded memories.

It was true. In a fit of booze-drenched emotional pain he’d decided to jettison all his belongings, but he’d been too drunk to remember.

“In any event-” Yakawich went to his desk and passed an envelope to Cole “-we’ve just processed your check. Here it is, four-hundred and fifty, after our fees. The invoice and list of items are in there.”

“Who bought my property? There’s something of value I need to retrieve. Where is it?”

“It’s on your invoice, but I can tell you that it went to Kord Pitman. He’s a second-hand dealer in Bismarck.”

“Would he still have it? It was only last weekend.”

“I’ll give him a call for you right now if you like, sir.”

“Please, it’s urgent.”

The distance to Bismarck from Clear River was over three hundred miles and was usually a four-hour drive. Cole made it in a little over three and a half, heading directly to the High Plains Vintage Emporium.

The business was in the northeast fringe of Bismarck, on a stretch of flatland with an aging farmhouse and an enormous metal Quonset hut. Behind it, there was an array of used cars, trucks, farm vehicles and heavy equipment. Three large German shepherds roamed the grounds freely.

“Well, like I said on the phone, Mr. Cole-” Liz Pitman led him into the massive Quonset hut “-you’re more than welcome to take a look. See if you can find what you want. Then we can talk.”

The hut was crammed with rows of huge storage shelves groaning under the weight of beds, tables, dressers, stoves, fridges, sofas, TVs, desks, paintings, driers, washers, clothing, books, toasters, blenders, it went on and on. Dust mites danced in the columns of sunlight leaking through the tiny rooftop windows. The place had an air of discarded dreams.

“The load from Clear River was recent and hasn’t been processed.”

“Processed?”

“As you can see, we distribute items to the proper area,” Liz said. “Kord’s in Idaho, so Jess and Dwight were working on it this morning. All the new items are near the back. So what was it you were most concerned about?”

“The contents of two metal file cabinets.”

“There you go and there they are.” Liz pointed.

Cole’s cabinets stood alone in an area near all the other material from his storage unit.

“Now we’ll be happy to sell it back to you.”

Cole opened the first cabinet. It was empty. So was the second.

“These were filled with files and material. Where is it?”

“Hold on.” Liz reached for her phone.

She made a call, then turned away from Cole to talk privately, which he took as a bad sign, as he searched among the other items. He touched things that had belonged to his wife and to his daughter. In this place, it made him realize how short and fragile life was.

“Sir?”

Cole turned to her. His heart skipped.

“We usually recycle all paper material, and that’s where my sons are now, at the recycling plant. They had a large load and added your material to it.”

“So it’s gone?”

“No. I stopped them, but if they bring the load back, that’ll be an additional cost.”

“I’ll pay it! Get them back here as soon as possible, please!”

For thirty-five tense minutes Cole waited with Liz, until the dogs barked and a five-ton truck grinded up to the hut’s back door. As country music leaked from the truck-Johnny Cash-Liz and her sons helped Cole locate his property. After he’d agreed to a payment of four hundred dollars, they’d helped him load his pickup truck.

During the long, lonely drive back to Clear River, Cole considered all of his items bundled in the bed of his truck.

I don’t know if I still have the skill to develop an answer to the system’s weakness . His hands tightened on the wheel. And do I have the time before the next tragedy?

Manhattan, New York

Kate worked at her desk, mining the article for useable information.

It was a report in the Chicago Tribune on a speech President Bush had given to air industry workers at O’Hare International Airport a few weeks after the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001.

The president’s remarks had focused on strengthening air safety and security. Kate went to the link for the White House archives and printed off the full speech. In it, the president had promised action on a number of fronts.

Kate underlined one key section.

“We will look at all kinds of technologies to make sure that our airlines are safe,” the president had said, “including technology to enable controllers to take over distressed aircraft and land it by remote control.”

Remote control? What happened to this technology? Was it ever used? Kate chided herself for not finding this piece of information earlier and using it in her reports on EastCloud and Shikra.

It was there all this time and I missed it .

Chuck Laneer was not at his desk when she placed her printouts of her research on his chair. “I think we could have a story here,” she wrote in the yellow note she stuck to the package.

Thirty minutes later, Chuck called her.

“This will work,” he said. “And I have an idea on what we can do.”

He called Kate into his office, along with Hugh Davidson from the business section. Hugh reported on computer technology and was known as Newslead’s Emperor Nerd. He was partial to bow ties and pastel shirts.

Chuck had Tim Yardley with Newslead’s Washington bureau and Noah Heatley with the London bureau on the line. He turned on his speaker.

“You’ve all had a chance to look at the older clips. We’re going to build a story on this. Kate will lead. Hugh and Tim and Noah, I want you to feed whatever you can find on the subject to Kate.”

“Excuse me, but this issue’s been around,” Hugh said. “What exactly is new here? What’s the context?”

“We’ll build our story in relation to the questions surrounding Shikra’s crash in London and the near disaster with EastCloud at LaGuardia,” Chuck said. “Whatever happened to this remote-control technology the president promised? Does it exist? Could it have helped, or could it have somehow been in play and abused by some criminal group? We’ll come at the story fresh.”

“Why didn’t we do this earlier?” Noah asked from London. “Why didn’t we, or anyone else for that matter, pick up on this? I mean, there have been long-standing arguments in the aviation industry about the possibility of cyber hijacking, and conspiracy theories, all of these things.”

Chuck hesitated, glanced at Kate, thought for a moment.

“Besides,” Noah continued, “everyone here thinks Shikra was caused by a double engine failure due to an electrical malfunction arising from poor maintenance. Why is there such a desperate push for this odd angle? Is it because of the Zarathustra message Newslead received?”