John Nance: Lockout

“Not much longer. Truth is, after thinking my way through some of the more dismal moments on that flight—when I wasn’t sure how we had a chance at salvation—I realized I have other priorities more important to me than flying or even making captain. He stopped and smiled slowly as he met her eyes. “In fact, one priority in particular.”

“Which priority is that?”

“You.”

Two months later

Camp David, Maryland (4:10 p.m. EST)

Normally, CIA Director James Bergen and Deputy Director Walter Randolph would have been delighted to be summoned to Camp David for a private conversation with the president, but this trip was to receive a formal ass-kicking along with their DIA counterparts. The meeting had been brutal, with an angry president determined to end once and for all the interdepartmental rivalries of his intelligence community.

Fat chance! Walter thought to himself, very glad his thoughts couldn’t yet be discerned either from his taciturn expression or through some electronic gadget.

The Defense Intelligence team had departed immediately afterwards by helicopter, their metaphorical tails firmly between their legs, while the CIA team was to be driven back to Langley. But one of the president’s aides caught Bergen and Randolph at the door and ushered them back into a small den. POTUS entered the room almost as rapidly.

“Jim? Walt? I’m still unclear on a key element of what happened to Pangia. Was Lavi controlling the airplane or not? Did he set this up?”

Walter Randolph shook his head. “We don’t believe there is any way Lavi could have been controlling the airplane through a computer from his first class seat. And we don’t believe there was any way he could have manipulated so many coincidences, including the accidental triggering of the lockout system.”

“No moles on our shore, in other words?” the president said, leaning, arms folded, against the side of a sofa.

“It is always possible that there could have been a confederate over here, but we seriously doubt it.”

“DIA? NSA?”

“No, sir. Definitely not one of us. If a mole existed at all, if someone had been buried deep in Pangia or the black project or both, he would be a civilian, and a brilliant one at that. But it just doesn’t figure.”

“If it did, I was going to order you guys to find that mole at all costs.”

“We’d be chasing a ghost, Mr. President.”

“Very well. That was unclear from your joint briefing. Of course, I was too busy kicking your collective parochial asses to listen well.” He looked at his watch. “I have to go. Have a safe trip back to the Beltway, gentlemen.”

Three hours and a half dozen meetings later, the president of the United States settled comfortably in one of the wide wicker chairs on the veranda after handing Paul Wriggle a glass of Scotch.

“Oban, Paul. My favorite. I’m half Scottish, so these are home squeezin’s.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ve always loved a good single malt.”

The president gestured to the starfield overhead, iridescent in a crystal clear night sky. “I’ll always regret not getting out there. How about you, Paul? Ever want to join NASA?”

“I just wanted to fly. Anywhere. Space, atmosphere, you know.”

“Yep, I do know. I felt the same, just… other interests got in the way of being a professional birdman.” He turned to the general and smiled. “Now let’s talk about you. What’s all this retirement stuff?”

“It’s time.”

“I could tell you no. I could have you promoted to four star, Paul, rather than let you retire,” the president said, swishing the liquor in the crystal snifter he was holding.

Paul Wriggle shook his head ruefully as he nursed his own glass. “Promotion is for those who don’t let their commander in chief down, Mr. President. Besides, that would trigger an absolute tsunami of resentment at the Pentagon.”

“I don’t think you’ve let me down, Paul. I know you’ve been terribly hard on yourself and the final assessment of things, but… you ran a very tight ship and sometimes shit happens.”

“Yeah, like a bank of computers I should have had programmed better.”

“Paul, seriously, you said yourself there had to be an extraordinary number of one-off failures to get to what happened. Who knew the test program your lady was running hadn’t been properly shut down weeks earlier? She didn’t even know. Who knew it would activate itself if the server was rebooted, and then start broadcasting through NSA all over the planet looking for your black box? Who knew the janitor would accidentally turn off the only computer containing that program, and then not understand he couldn’t just snap it back on? For that matter, who knew that the little chip in that computer was defective and it would re-start itself despite being programed not to? I fail to see how all of that’s your fault.”

“Because I was in command, sir.”

“Yeah, I know the protocol. I respect you for that attitude. But I’m still not even completely convinced this was all coincidental.”

Paul Wriggle leaned forward slightly, searching the president’s face for a smirk or other indication he was being kidded.

“Mr. President, you can’t think Lavi is still in the woodwork somewhere? We’ve disproved all that.”

“Oh, I know. William Piper never left Haifa. The guy who sent the wrong airplane really did exist and wasn’t a spy, and our CIA guys were incredibly sloppy in deciding otherwise. And your lady who had the accident certainly wasn’t working for Lavi. How is she, by the way?”

“Fully recovered and newly engaged to the coworker who found her… saved her life, in fact.”

“Good. Anyway, aside from the fact that earlier today I had to read the riot and sedition act to both the Company and the DIA for a whole laundry list of sins, including gross overreaction and leaping to conclusions, I’m not entirely sure in my gut we’ve got the whole story.”

“Why, may I ask?”

“Too coincidental. I’m even thinking someone helped Moishe’s heart attack to conclusion, or, hell, maybe he did himself .”

“Aren’t you chasing shadows under the bed, sir?”

“Maybe. Oh, we’ll never know, of course. Lavi’s gone, the war didn’t happen, Gershorn proved himself under excruciating pressure, and Mossad will never talk. But I’m still suspicious.”

“I guess I’m not.”

“I’m sorry about Lockout, Paul.”

“You had no choice but to shut it down, sir. I just can’t believe the media never sniffed it out.”

“If the aircraft hadn’t gone up in smoke, they might have. Course, Airbus is still frantic to convince the world their airplane wasn’t the cause. Frankly I feel sorry for them. I wish I could help them, but… not possible. Good thing our Special Forces guys were there to validate what happened with that fire, don’t you think, Paul?” the president said with a wink.

Once more, Paul Wriggle looked at the president, studying his face, noting a sly smile.

“Yes, sir. That was a $200 million investment, though.”

“More like a billion-dollar liability. How are your people, Paul? Get everyone new jobs?”

“Yes, sir. All but the janitor, our retired navy chief. He was deeply upset by his role and didn’t want to go anywhere.”

“One switch. One… flick of the hand. Completely random, or… completely brilliant.”

“Sir?” Paul said, looking alarmed, and all the more so as the president smiled and nodded as he sat back.

“I’m just sayin’…”

Colorado Springs, Colorado (9:20 a.m. MST)