“It’s like a Trojan Horse virus. Actually, we didn’t find the code, but we found that something had erased something, and we figure that’s where it has to be. We couldn’t duplicate it on the bench units. It had to be there. We have a model—”
Fisher let the boy genius explain how he thought a rogue program could have caused a power surge in the circuitry connected to the shared radar sections and at the same time knocked out the controls. It was rather convoluted, but the agent knew better than to cut off a scientist mid-theorem.
“It’s just a spike, a temporary hit,” concluded Firenze, “and that fits with what happened.”
“Who developed that system?”
“It was purpose-built for this model of the plane,” said Firenze. “I think Carie Electro Controls. But it could have been Jolice too.”
“Jolice?”
“They have a lot of little divisions and things. It’s hard sometimes to keep them straight.”
“They owned by Ferrone?”
“No, it’s the other way around, I think,” said the scientist. “I think Jolice is the bigger company.”
“Why don’t you work for them?” Fisher asked Firenze, whom the records had shown was working on the project under a special contract with the Air Force.
“Jolice, NADT, all those people — they make you rich, but then they figure they own you,” said Firenze.
“I know how that goes,” said Fisher. “Except for the rich part.”
Chapter 11
McIntyre watched the wheels of the truck bounce up the trail. He could tell it was something small and relatively old, but he was too afraid to rise and get a good view of it. When he was sure it had passed, he sat up and tried to take stock of his situation.
They’d be working on finding him. The NSA would have the location of his transmission by now. But could they do anything about it? He was half a world away.
There’d be Navy units in the Indian Ocean. Somebody could come up and get him.
It might mean staying another night at least. He’d have to find a place to hide.
Something to eat would be good too. And drink.
McIntyre rose and shouldered his guns, then began walking toward the road, going in the direction the truck had come from. It took only a few minutes to reach the nearest curve, which made its way across a notch on the side of a series of hills. There was a switchback in the distance, but he couldn’t tell if the one-and-a-half-lane pressed-chip-and-tar road led to it or not.
He began to walk. Two or three minutes later he heard a vehicle coming up behind him. There were some trees a short distance away and he managed to get to them before the truck passed. It was a pickup, and it moved at a pretty good clip. Just as he started out from behind the tree he heard another truck. He slid down, watching a military vehicle speed past. It was a Russian-made KAMAZ 6x4, or possibly an Indian knockoff. The six-wheeled truck had a canvas backing, the kind that might be used for light cargo or soldiers, but what it was loaded with or even if it was loaded at all he couldn’t see.
Was it even Indian? He might actually be over the line in Pakistan. The border in Kashmir wasn’t very well defined, and now there might not be a line at all.
McIntyre walked for a long while, his head gradually stooping closer to the ground. Finally he heard noises. Thinking it was another truck, he climbed over the stones at the side of the road and hid in a small depression a short distance away. Minutes passed without anything appearing, and he finally realized the sound wasn’t getting any louder. It seemed to be an engine of some sort, but it was standing still.
A large boulder stood on the slope across the road from him. Thinking it might give him a vantage to see ahead, he slipped back across the road and clambered up the slope. But the rock was higher than he’d thought, and tired and battered as he was, he couldn’t get to the top, not even when he put down the rifles. He settled for sidestepping across the slope below it, pushing through the bushes to see.
Something orange flashed in the distance.
A tiger.
He reached for a rifle, realizing belatedly that he had left them on the ground. He took a step and then the tiger sprang forward, charging him from the distance.
McIntyre tried to run but quickly lost his balance and slid down the rocks. He covered his head, cowering against the dirt and scrubby vegetation, waiting to be torn apart.
Except that he wasn’t; the tiger had stayed where it was.
It wasn’t a tiger. There were no tigers here, or other large cats; even the snow leopards had long ago fled, leaving man as the only predator. The orange was a piece of cloth, and as he walked toward it he realized it wasn’t even orange but yellow. It was draped over a bush, and it wasn’t moving.
McIntyre looked past the cloth and saw a building in the distance, set back near a clearing. This, he thought, might be a good place to arrange the pickup, though he’d have to scout it first, see if there were people nearby. He checked his watch: He had a half hour left before he was supposed to call.
The bushes in the back didn’t provide much cover, but the building looked run-down and possibly abandoned. McIntyre gathered his courage and walked down a shallow slope toward what seemed to be the back or a side wall, studying two large metal housings on the roof. There was no sound, and he could see no vehicles nearby. The highway swung around somewhere ahead, passing in front of the building.
The door must be on that side. Here there were only windows, one boarded, the other’s glass covered with a thick layer of grime.
McIntyre edged to the left side of the structure. There were two windows. A car or truck passed; he crouched before it came into view and couldn’t see it.
He tried to come up with a plan, but his brain wouldn’t supply one. What would the occupants do if a man with a rifle — two rifles — appeared at the front door, his clothes torn and covered with blood?
Shoot him, or run for their lives.
But then again, if no one was here, it would be a perfect place to stay and wait for a rescue.
McIntyre hunched on his knees, thinking. Finally he pushed up from the crouch, walking toward the building with the guns still in his hands.
When he was about twenty feet away, he tried to run. After a single step his right thigh muscle began to spasm. He managed to reach the wall and hurled himself against the blocks, catching his breath before edging toward the front corner.
A metal door was set into the front wall about a third of the way down. The road was visible through some trees to his left.
McIntyre steadied the rifle in his right hand, glancing at his finger on the trigger. Then he knocked on the door with his left hand as hard as he could manage, and stepped back.
No one answered. He tried again, stepped back farther this time. The third time he used the butt end of the rifle, the other gun swinging awkwardly off his shoulder. When no one answered, he reached for the handle.
The door was heavy and opened toward him rather than inward. Slapping his side against the door to hold it open, he stood against the darkness, anger inexplicably mixing with his fear and exhaustion; with a rush he went forward into the building, not so much ready for anything as resigned to it.
There was no one inside.
The building housed some sort of machine shop. A pair of desks sat in the front, separated from the work area by some filing cabinets and open space.
There were phones on both desks. McIntyre went over and picked one up.
A dial tone.
A dial tone! He wouldn’t have to rely on the satellite phone and the draining battery.
But didn’t the fact that the dial tone worked mean the building wasn’t abandoned?
Was it a trap? Was someone watching him?
McIntyre put the phone back down and walked through the rest of the building. There was a washroom in
