“What’s she doing?” McBurney asked, referring to Sorensen
as she attached an electronics cable to a receptacle inside the well of the
forward landing gear.
“She’s hooking up the AMDAC.”
McBurney looked at him and shrugged.
“ ‘Automated Maintenance Data Accumulation Computer,’ ”
Kerns explained. “Before and after each flight we use it to retrieve all the
maintenance data from the airplane’s on-board computer files, like information
stored within the FMS fault-monitoring logic. You can also download flight
profile information, all of the measured hydraulic, electrical, cabin
environmental, uh, control surface actuation, engine condition, and so on. Maintenance
crews use it to identify what service needs to be done.”
“Slick.”
“In commercial service nowadays this data is transmitted
real-time via satellite to the ground.”
“Does this AMDAC talk to the engine computers?”
Kerns grimaced and dug his hands into his pockets. “Not
directly. Remember the FMS takes fault-monitoring data from the whole airplane
and stores it in memory, including the engine faults. But it’s the engine
control that diagnoses engine faults before passing them off to the FMS. So, I
guess you could say the AMDAC indirectly communicates with the engine
computers.”
It wasn’t clear to McBurney whether that was a yes or a no.
“But all of the systems are connected, and the AMDAC connects to the FMS.”
“That’s right,” Kerns nodded, more confidently now.
McBurney and Kerns both watched Sorensen type her commands
into the AMDAC keyboard. Apparently over-hearing the conversation, she reached
down to the second shelf of the cart—Kerns’s eyes followed her every
movement—and removed a thumb drive from the computer. She turned and held it up
for McBurney.
“This contains flight profile information like you’d find
in the black box,” she said, referring to the aircraft flight data recorder. “But
there’s also information on every single sensor in the airplane, right down to
the emergency evacuation light bulb in the aisle floor that’s burned out and in
need of replacement.”
McBurney glanced at Kerns’s foot resting on the side of the
landing gear. “Tire pressure?”
“That’s on here, too.”
He took the familiar-looking thumb drive and turned it over
in his hand, examining it. Sean was a software designer. His expertise was
ensuring the control logic interfaced properly with other airplane systems...
“Engine oil pressure?”
“Everything in the engine,” she assured him. “All on one
little memory stick.”
He could tell that the two young people were proud of their
field of endeavor. “This is truly amazing, sophisticated technology. I can’t
thank you both enough.” He handed the portable flash drive back to Miss
Sorensen, who leaned over to insert it back into its USB port.
Leaving the technicians to their work, McBurney then walked
toward the administration building. His head was pounding from lack of sleep;
concentrating on absorbing all of the information hadn’t helped. Time for
another coffee.
An hour later McBurney was sipping his second cup of
machine-brewed tea and leaning against a bank of metal cabinets inside the
cavernous hangar, watching the profusion of activity while trying to find
something else to investigate. His discussion with an instrumentation engineer also
had been interesting, but probably off the mark. He noticed suddenly that the
AMDAC cart, its long coil of cable neatly stowed on the bottom shelf, had been
wheeled out of the way to the side of the hangar floor. That it sat unattended
struck him as vaguely disturbing.
McBurney turned and looked toward the rear of the hangar. There
he saw Kerns sitting with Sorensen, both sipping cans of soda and deep in discussion.
“Do you mind telling me,” McBurney said, interrupting, “if
I wanted to find out more about this AMDAC system back at the plant, who would
I see?”
The two technicians looked at him curiously. “You mean, at Thanatech?”
Kerns asked. “For the engine part of the system?”
“Yes. For the engine part of the AMDAC system.”
Sorensen and Kerns shared an unhappy look. “I’m afraid that
would be difficult,” the woman informed him.
McBurney said nothing.
“Unfortunately, the engineer responsible for that is dead. I
guess you could try his supervisor. Her name’s Emily Chang.”
39
THE TWO CYCLISTS PUMPED
their
legs and grunted as they overtook the next crest of Richardson Highway. There
they paused to rest on the highway shoulder, their feet on the gravel, catching
their breath. If an eco-tour was decidedly not their idea of a vacation—their
packs were heavy and besides all the work, Alaska was
cold
for this time
of the year—both agreed the terrain was spectacular. Mountainous terrain thrust
upward into the bright blue sky and brisk, arctic winds swept down through
Isabel Pass. They saw in the distance the elaborate system of cables suspending
the Trans Alaska Pipeline high over the surging Tanana River. Not visible
anywhere were signs indicating the presence of other human beings or their
automobiles.
The men dismounted and wheeled their bikes around the
padlocked gate that blocked motorized vehicles from entering the service road. Further
ahead they hid the bicycles behind brush; their destination was not the gate valve
facility frequented by employees of the firm which serviced the ‘TAP.’ Ten
minutes later they had hiked through dense pine forest and directly to the
clearing surrounding the pipeline. As their first priority they determined that
everything conformed to their instructions; the satellite image of the
prevailing terrain, procured over the Internet by the tour outfit, had further
reduced surprises.
Mohammad Mousavi and his partner, Salman Ehteshari, quickly
set about removing the implements from their packs which arrived via express
delivery to their hotel in Delta Junction on the previous day. Over their
heads, the four-foot diameter pipeline hung eight feet above the tundra,
supported by pedestals spaced forty feet apart and anchored deep in the permafrost.
The pipeline extended in both directions as far as they could see. The unmanned
service facility nearby was beyond the next rise, out of sight and not a
concern.
Mousavi considered the North Slope crude oil coursing along
the pipeline at the rate of some hundreds of thousands of barrels a day; the
humming sound he attributed to the gas-turbine pumping station located several
miles to the north. Mousavi admired the Americans for their ingenuity in
erecting the 800-mile engineering feat, a vast testament to the distrust that
the
infidels
held for the people of Islam—a physical affirmation that
the policies which engendered that very distrust would continue. Well, Mousavi
thought, however briefly, today our little disruption will remind them of their
arrogance.
Ehteshari removed from his backpack three two-foot lengths
of shape charges, each consisting of a high-strength maraging steel channel and
Composition-4 plastique explosive. Each channel had been gently curved to
follow the contour of the four-foot diameter pipe, so as to properly focus the
compression wave of the blast. Ehteshari waved flying insects away from his
face as he laced nylon rope through the holes in both ends of the charges. Mousavi,
meanwhile, packed plastique around the inch-diameter pedestal bolts supporting
the base of the pipeline.
Ehteshari hefted the first section of shape charge
affectionately in his hand. He turned toward Mousavi, who had climbed onto the
base of the pedestal and was now inserting a detonator into a hand-formed loaf
of explosive. “About one meter from the pedestal?” Ehteshari asked his partner
to confirm.
“Yes. There, where I can reach it.”
Looping in his hand the nylon rope attached to one of the
charges, Ehteshari tossed it up and over the top of the pipeline. Standing on
the base of the pedestal, Mousavi retrieved the rope from his partner and used
it to carefully position the charge at the underside of the pipe where the
longitudinal stress was greatest. Then he firmly tied together the ends of the
rope, effecting a taut nylon band encircling the pipe for the purpose of focusing
the powerful blast.
They quickly repeated the process for the other two shape
charges. Detonators were carefully inserted into all three charges in the same
manner as the plastique that Mousavi had already packed around four of the
pedestal bolts. Finally, they connected the detonator wires to the battery and
timer. As a final precaution everything was spray painted with a battleship
gray closely matching that of the pipeline; the nylon rope had already been
dyed prior to shipment.
Mousavi stood beside his partner to examine their work. Ehteshari’s
expression was doubtful. “The rope will be strong enough?”
A registered professional engineer, Mousavi had analyzed
the dynamics involved. “The wall of the pipe is one centimeter thick. I
estimate this will be traversed twice by the shock wave of the blast before the
rope even begins to stretch.”
It was just before noon; they were spot-on schedule. Mousavi
reached up onto the pedestal and set the timer for three
A.M.
By the time the steep pressure drop registered on computer
screens in the Port of Valdez, the two eco-tourists would be comfortably
reclined in their seats on their flight to Seoul.
40
PAUL DEVINN EASED
the
rented Toyota off Interstate 77 onto the exit ramp for Wells Creek, a farming
community located inexplicably in the middle of the rolling flats some sixty
miles south of Cleveland, Ohio. A quarter-mile beyond the center of town, such
as it was, he found a sporting goods store and parked beside two other cars in
the narrow front lot.
Entering the store, Devinn removed from his pocket the list
he’d prepared and went about collecting the items. Whenever buying ammunition,
he made certain to select the highest competition-grade. After scanning the
shelves he acquired two twenty-round boxes of precision-loaded .45 ACP caliber
handgun cartridges, followed by two twenty-round boxes of 7.62 mm NATO 150
grain bullet cartridges. For the latter he specifically chose semi-jacketed
boat-tails; his experience seemed to confirm the manufacturer’s claims that the
chamfered rear edge of these projectiles reduced aerodynamic profile drag for
greater accuracy. He included with his collected items a package of size AA
alkaline batteries, in case he needed night vision equipment, deciding that he
probably would.
Devinn placed the items on the checkout counter before a
short, stocky man who peered over half-spectacles and rang up the purchase. Devinn
handed him his credit card.
The man looked at the card, then back over the items. “Find
everything you need today, Mr. Smith?”
“Everything.”
The man nodded and slid the card through the electronic
reader, handed it back, and waited to confirm the transaction. “Good then,” the
man said. He looked expectantly at Devinn.
Devinn looked back blankly.
“I’ll also need a driver’s license and NFID card.”
“Oh.” Devinn fumbled through his wallet. “Been a while
since I bought any.”
“Doesn’t help that the Feds keep changing the law,” the man
acknowledged. “Of course, they just wan’na badger me out of maintaining a
license.”
Devinn handed over his driver’s license and NFID.
The shop owner glanced at both him and his driver’s
license. Upon comparing the name and photo on the national firearm
identification, it too was passed through the card reader.
Watching from the corner of his eye, Devinn held his
breath.
In digital terms, the FBI’s Criminal Justice Information
Services Division in Clarksburg, West Virginia was virtually next door. As soon
as the social security number belonging to Carl Smith was submitted to this
first in a series of National Instant Criminal Check computers, it was screened
against a list of numbers belonging to all living U.S. citizens ever charged or
convicted of violating any of the 920 statutes that comprised the federal
criminal code. If this step produced a match, the number was immediately
rejected and the firearm transaction prohibited—Smith’s social security number
cleared this first tollgate. The electronic inquiry was directed next to a new
installation belonging to the Treasury Department in Fairfax, Virginia. There a
series of databases were checked in order to validate the social security
number, including a screen against those belonging to people transferred abroad
and/or relinquished of their citizenship, and those belonging to citizens in
violation of Internal Revenue Service, interstate commerce, international tax
treaty, anti-money laundering, or U.S. immigration and naturalization law. If
the ‘NICS’ electronic inquiry cleared each of these tollgates, then the date,
time, and merchant tax identification were permanently recorded against the
social security number and the transaction affirmed. If it bounced, the
transaction was prohibited in a manner similar to failure of the previous,
criminal tollgate.
The social security number for Carl Smith failed the
Treasury Department screen. The Carl Smith to whom the identification number
was originally assigned had been discharged from the hospital with his two
loving parents, but pronounced dead thirty-nine days later of sudden infant
death syndrome. Shortly after notification of his death, some forty years ago,
the county coroner’s office had filed a form to redact the infant’s social
security number from active status.
Failure of this particular tollgate—by this particular
applicant—triggered another, unconventional screen. This special diversion
triggered an encrypted connection to one of several computers maintained for
classified administrative and payroll transactions of the FBI. Smith’s social
security number was screened this time against a small and specially maintained
list, hidden within a small data file buried beneath an elaborately constructed
maze of many dozens of files. Carl Smith’s number passed this final tollgate. The
entire inquiry process had been completed in 5.5 seconds.