After Layla left New York City she had one overriding desire: to put as much distance as possible between herself and the Guoanbu agents.
She started by taking a train to Montclair, New Jersey, where she went to the home of the most fervent InfoLeaks supporter in the area, a Marxist history professor named Max Verlaine. Last winter Professor Verlaine had let Layla crash on his couch for two months, and now he was even more generous. Without asking any questions, he gave her six hundred dollars and let her borrow an ancient Honda Civic with a full tank of gas. Even better, he handed her a driver’s license belonging to one of his ex-girlfriends, a brunette who roughly resembled Layla, at least judging from the fuzzy photo on the license. Layla thanked him profusely, then got on the interstate and headed south.
She didn’t stop until she reached Philadelphia, where she found an all-night copy shop. After buying an hour of time on one of the shop’s computers, she examined the files from the flash drive Dragon Fire had given her. There were only two documents and they weren’t encrypted, but they were in Mandarin. She downloaded a program to translate the files, but the results were gibberish—the text was too technical. One of the files was accompanied by thirty-three illustrations, thirty-two of which were circuit diagrams with Mandarin labels she couldn’t even begin to fathom. But the thirty-third illustration was more helpful. It was a line drawing of the thing she’d seen in the specimen jar, a housefly with electronic devices attached to its head, thorax, and abdomen.
Layla was too afraid to stay at the copy shop for the full hour. If Dragon Fire was right and the CIA was cooperating with the Guoanbu, she wasn’t safe anywhere. Using an anonymous sign-in, she logged on to the InfoLeaks network and quickly searched for someone who could help her understand the files and the specimen. Reviewing the list of InfoLeaks supporters and volunteers, she saw two people with the necessary expertise, but one of them lived in Manhattan. Layla had no intention of going back there, so she sent an e-mail to the other guy and returned to her car.
Over the next twenty-four hours she drove 1,500 miles, stopping only three times to refuel, load up on junk food, and take catnaps in the backseat. It was one in the morning when she arrived at the University of Texas in Austin and parked in the lot behind the Engineering Science building. The campus was dark and deserted, but at the arranged meeting spot—the Engineering building’s emergency exit—she saw the man she’d contacted. Tom Ottersley, a graduate student in the aerospace engineering department, leaned against the exit door, keeping it propped open. He was several years older than Layla and a foot-and-a-half taller, but they had something in common. In his spare time, when he wasn’t pursuing his Ph.D., Tom hacked for InfoLeaks. Even though she’d exchanged only a couple of e-mails with the guy, she sensed he was a kindred spirit.
He waved at her as she got out of her car. Then he looked left and right, surveying the area. When she reached the emergency exit, he nudged her inside and swiftly shut the door behind her. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I’m not supposed to be here this late and the campus security guards are always snooping around.” He held out his right hand. “It’s good to meet you. You don’t have to tell me your name. It’s probably better if you don’t, right?”
Layla shook his hand. He didn’t fit her image of an engineering grad student. He had broad shoulders and a square jaw and long hair the color of corn silk. He looked like he could pose for one of the university’s promotional brochures. She wasn’t usually impressed with physical beauty, but this guy was a phenomenon. “Thanks for doing this,” she said. “Are you sure the lab’s empty? No one working late?”
“Yeah, we’re good. Everyone else in the research group is at a conference in Seattle.” He led Layla down the corridor. “I’m the low man on the totem pole, so I couldn’t go. But now I’m glad I stayed home.” He glanced at the zippered pouch in Layla’s left hand.
“I’m sorry for being so vague in my e-mails. The truth is, I’m not sure what I have here.”
“Don’t worry. You described it well enough. I think I know what’s going on.”
They came to a door that read AEROSPACE DESIGN LAB. Removing a key from his pocket, Tom unlocked the door and hit the light switch. The room was large and the furniture oddly arranged. All the desks were lined up against the walls, leaving the center of the lab as clear as a dance floor. Someone had used strips of duct tape to mark several
Tom shut the door and locked it behind them. Then, noticing what Layla was staring at, he went to the
Up close, the thing looked more like a robotic dragonfly than a bird. Its body was a stiff black wire, four inches long. At one end of the wire was a microchip connected to an antenna and a tiny motor. The motor, in turn, was connected to the wings, which were made of a cellophane-like material stretched between shorter wires. At the other end was a horizontal stabilizing wing and something that looked like a rudder. It was so fascinating that Layla had to restrain herself from plucking it out of Tom’s hands. “Ornithopter?” she asked. “Why do you call it that?”
“Because it doesn’t fly like a fixed-wing craft or a helicopter. It flaps its wings like a bird.” He stroked his thumb along the edge of one of the diaphanous wings. “Actually, we used insect flight as the primary model for the Flier. At very small scales, the laws of aerodynamics are completely different. To a bug flying through the air, the forces are similar to what we feel when we’re treading water. The viscosity of the air becomes an important factor.”
Layla had studied physics at MIT before dropping out, so she was pretty familiar with aerodynamics. She pointed at the Flier’s antenna. “You operate it by radio control?”
“Yeah, like a model airplane. We transmit instructions from the base station. The radio system we built is powerful enough to control the Flier from ten miles away.”
Looking a bit closer, she noticed a small lens at the nose of the Flier. “Is that a camera?”
He nodded. “We added an ultralight video camera to allow the Flier to correct its navigation. The ornithopter is designed for indoor as well as outdoor flight, so it has to avoid crashing into walls. And the camera can also be used for surveillance, of course.”
“Surveillance?”
“That’s the whole point of the thing. Our research grant came from DARPA, the Pentagon’s R&D agency.” He went back to the
“So the Flier is supposed to be a surveillance drone? Like the ones they’re using in Afghanistan?”
“Yeah, the Pentagon wants a ‘microdrone,’ a small, inconspicuous device that can sweep low over the terrain and go into caves and houses to hunt for terrorists. Our Flier would fit the mission because it can fly in and out of tight spaces.” Tom put his hand on Layla’s back and led her to a computer on one of the desks. “Here, let me show you.”
He turned on the computer. Smiling awkwardly, he kept his hand on her back as they waited for the machine to warm up. Layla realized, with some surprise, that Tom was attracted to her. She found it unusual that this handsome, red-blooded Texan would be interested in a pasty-faced, flat-chested waif like herself, but the signs were clear. He kept sneaking glances at her.
After a few seconds he picked up a wireless controller that looked like a joystick for a Sony PlayStation. “Okay, prepare for takeoff,” he said. “Please put your seatbacks and tray tables in the upright position.”
He pressed a trigger on the joystick and the ornithopter’s wings started beating. They flapped as furiously as an insect’s wings, whirring and blurring, and the device climbed straight up, rising five feet in less than a second. Tom released the trigger and the Flier halted in midair, hovering at eye level. Then he said, “Wave hello,” and pointed at the computer screen, which showed the video feed from the Flier’s camera. Layla saw herself on the screen, waving.
“Now watch this.” He flicked the joystick and the Flier darted forward, heading for the desks along the wall. Bobbing and weaving, the ornithopter whizzed over the desk lamps and computers and telephones. The computer screen on Tom’s desk showed a dizzying riot of video, but apparently the Flier’s microchip could make sense of the information, sending navigational corrections to the rudder and wing motor whenever the drone came too close to an obstacle. Layla was impressed but also a little disconcerted. It was easy to imagine the government using these things for other purposes besides hunting terrorists.
Tom continued demonstrating the Flier for another two minutes. Then, without any warning, the
