“I’m glad you called, sir. Our E.F. Lab, excuse me, Electronics Forensics Lab is in the process of determining possible drop coordinates as we speak. They’re using the memory chips extracted from the drop boat’s vandalized GPS, substituting them into another identical working unit.”
“Oh? Go on.”
“Yes, they’re tracking waypoints from the recent past, trying to find a suspicious pause, a potential drop spot. The suspect that owned the boat traveled a lot, leaving thousands of waypoints. Not an easy task.”
“Well Lieutenant, I’m sure it’s easier than finding a two-meter-sized object in a 328 million square-meter area. Can they speed it up?”
“They’re working around the clock now.”
“So are we. And I’m talking about a hundred-and-fifty men. Can you possibly get information from the bomber?”
“No, I’m sorry, sir. I can’t. He died yesterday. Bullet wound and radiation poisoning.”
“Did he say anything? Any last words?”
“I was there by his isolation tent, in the hospital, dressed in a biohazard suit. He was barely breathing, gasping each breath. I asked him to confess, bare his soul on his death bed.”
“And what did he say?”
“Strangest thing. A calmness fell over him. He started murmuring things, almost musically. I could barely hear them. The whispers said, ‘A long, long time ago, I can still remember how, music used to make me smile.’ Then he drifted off. He twitched, then continued, ‘But February made me shiver, with every paper I’d deliver. This’ll be the day that I die.’ I’ll never forget his words. Seemed familiar, like I’d heard them before, but distant. Then he opened his eyes, staring through me, and asked, ‘When did you die?’ He wasn’t coherent; I could tell. His mind was gone. I didn’t know how to answer. Then he muttered, ‘Eleven… eleven. When did you die?’ He kept repeating it. It was so eerie I had to leave. Got a call from the hospital last night at eleven-ten that he had just passed.”
“Well, that’s quite some story Lieutenant. You do realize those are the lines to “American Pie” don’t you?”
The scrambler’s carrier buzzed for seconds. “I do remember. I was very young when it came out. Never understood the words, though.”
“I know it well. My high school’s graduation song. Don McLean was masterful when he wrote that. A mysterious, sorrowful ballad. Everyone cried.”
“Well, maybe there’s a clue in there, Captain. It has a strange connection to the case, ending in pie. Glad you reminded me. I’ll look into it. Other than that, I got nothing. Still waiting on the E.F. Lab’s results. Maybe tomorrow.”
Broward disconnected, looked back into the dark Ops Room through silhouettes of his SeaNetOps crew intently watching their screens, and called out, “I want some results Goddammit! Change your search algorithms, increase the sensitivities, drop another data repeater, do something! It’s got to be out there.”
At a rear console, Cross had teamed up with a SeaNet operator and was watching, learning the robot’s search techniques and the ocean floor’s characteristics. Briscoe sitting several consoles over, had done the same. The screens refreshed every five seconds, creating a slide-show effect; each slide, coarsely transmitted back by ultrasonic communicators, reflected a ten-meter forward movement. Still, they could often see silt covered bottles and cans sitting on the bottom, illuminated by the floodlights, moving with the currents. A two-meter long object would tower over them. Besides, the radiation alarm above the image screen would flash brightly at the slightest indication of radioactivity from the Bluefin, illuminating the room with a crimson glow. It had only happened once since the search began and that was when Briscoe walked closely by a Bluefin on the deck, charging for the next dive. It took him hours to explain that incident to the crew.
Broward soon left the Ops Room, headed to his quarters, kicking pipes, slamming doors, and cursing on the way, knowing he had to write another failing entry in his logbook. He sat at his desk, put pen to paper and told of another futile day.
SKYHOOK
The calendar flew across the room, hit a wall and crashed to the floor, pages splayed, MARCH facing up. She had grown to dread the month, and changing the calendar, placing March in front, was too much for her. Such a frivolous reminder of the imminent Armageddon. Pieces of paper were not worthy of that deed. She pitched the calendar into the trash can and, taking a thick black marker from her desk, wrote MARCH across her office wall in four-inch letters. Under that, she gridded fourteen squares ending on the fourteenth. An X in the first square started her day. She had thirteen more Xs to save her homeland, but at the tenth X she planned to lock her office, grab Pupski and start driving east until she could drive no more.
Working up the day’s schedule, she drew a blank. There were homicides, burglaries, rapes and other felonies working through the system, awaiting investigation, but she was fixated on Adam. And rightfully so. The other crimes would vaporize within microseconds in a radioactive cloud of searing heat, if she failed.
Finally, tasks congealing in her mind, she wrote the first item on her list: ‘E.F. Lab — Kick their butt.’ She had pushed, threatened and pleaded with them for results. But she had walked in on them several times during the past few days and found them playing video games. They had said they were simulating crime scenarios, but she knew otherwise. The Xbox and nearby “Call of Duty” cartridge gave them away.
Next she wrote: ‘ Search Ocean Drive.’ Her information on the residence had all come by proxy; she had never visited the hall of horror, herself. Even though it had burned down and still held memories of Keller, she felt there might possibly be some clue as the Adam’s drop site. She would put on a Smurf suit and explore for herself.
Squinting, realizing where all the tasks were leading, she moved her pen to the top of the list and wrote in big letters: NARROW SEARCH MAP!
‘Check Refuse Search Progress’ took the third line. Search crews were still out sifting through landfills looking for the radioactive bag of papers torn from Fogner’s wall. It was a background task, done when nothing else was happening. She needed to raise its priority.
She was thinking on the fourth line when her office phone buzzed. The buzz indicated it was an in-house call.
“Poole,” she answered, casually.
“Lieutenant, this is Jones in the E.F. Lab. We have your coordinates. Sorry it took so long, but we finally got a hit once we set the time hack to be mid-February, they just popped up in a Skyhook loop.”
“A what?” she asked, looking at item one. She marked through ‘Kick their butt’ and wrote, ‘Thank them.’
“Skyhook loop. A digital anchor function used to hold a boat in place when the depth below it is greater than the boat’s anchor line. It’s used in the Hydro Thunder game. Then we found a similar loop in the GPS data. It just connected.”
“That’s excellent, guys. What are the coordinates? I need to get them to the search ship, ASAP.” Above ‘Thank them’ she scribbled ‘Video games okay.’
“I’m bringing them down to you right now. Be at your door in seconds.”
As she hung up, she heard footsteps approach, a knock on her door, then Jones stood in the open doorway, a phone in one hand, a folded sheet of paper in the other. Across the front SENSITIVE INFORMATION warned prying eyes away.