on our monitoring. Hence, policy change.”
Farrell fingered a cell phone clipped to his belt. “I think I have to call the IIC.”
Bryan had taught Storm this, too. Th e IIC was the Investigator- in-Charge, the person responsible for coordinating all the working groups, the highest ranking official at the site. If the IIC got involved, Storm might as well slap handcuffs on himself. Impersonating a federal official to gain access to a secure crash investigation site broke at least four laws he could think of off the top of his head. It would certainly land him in the local jail for a spell. Jones would probably let him rot there as punishment for allowing himself to get caught.
“I already talked to him,” Storm said, breezily. “But waste his time if you want to. I’m sure he’s got nothing better to do.”
Storm bent back over the piece of metal he had been studying. Farrell unclipped his cell phone. Storm readied himself to flee.
Farrell pushed the two-way talk button on the phone and said, “Hey, I’ll be back in a second. I’m just looking at something with this guy from the FAA.”
“The FAA?” the voice on the other end said.
“Yeah, I guess they’ve had some kind of policy change.”
“All right. See you back here in a bit.”
Storm felt his insides relax. He focused his attention—for real this time—on the piece of metal that had caught his eye previously.
“Pretty weird, huh?” Farrell said.
“I’ll say,” Storm replied.
“What do you think? It’s a piece of the forward pressure bulkhead, right?”
“Sure looks that way to me,” Storm said, as if he had personally studied hundreds, if not thousands, of forward pressure bulkheads.
“What do you think did that ?” Farrell asked, pointing to a line that had been cut in the metal.
In a field full of things that had been twisted and sheared by the force of impact, this line was perfectly straight. Even Storm’s untrained eye could tell the angle was wrong. And yet the cut was incredibly precise.
“I don’t know,” Storm said.
Except he did know. Among Storm’s abiding interests were high-tech weaponry and gadgets, which he jokingly called “toys.” He was constantly pressing Jones to give him an inside line on the latest toys—the classified stuff that no one else got to see. Not long ago, Jones had arranged for Storm to make a visit to a military contractor for the demonstration of a new high-energy laser beam.
You could take down an airplane with this thing , the engineer had told him.
The words came back to Storm now. The weapon he had seen was still in beta version. It needed to be shrunk down to a more usable size and then made sturdy enough for the battlefield. What it didn’t need was more power. It was already a hundred kilowatts—the equivalent of one thousand 100-watt lightbulbs being focused in one tiny beam, only a few hundred nanometers wide.
The heat that resulted was incredibly intense. Storm had watched a demonstration of the laser easily slicing through a thick sheet of metal.
The incision looked exactly like the one that had been cut in the piece of metal in front of him.
CHAPTER 7
PANAMA CITY, Panama
T
he most striking feature of Eusebio Rivera’s seventieth floor penthouse—something all visitors to it beheld with wonder—was a massive saltwater fish tank.
It occupied an entire wall’s worth of space, and it separated his home office from his bedroom suite, meaning he could see it whether he was at work or at leisure. It was filled with fish in every color of the rainbow: clown fish and angelfish, hawk fish and lionfish, hamlets and grunts, all swimming happily above a plastic reef that had been made to look just like the real thing.
What they didn’t see—unless they looked very carefully—was Rivera’s favorite part of the fish tank, the reason he commissioned it for his home in the first place. Camouflaged in the craggy recesses of the imitation coral, just below all those
Farrell fingered a cell phone clipped to his belt. “I think I have to call the IIC.”
Bryan had taught Storm this, too. Th e IIC was the Investigator- in-Charge, the person responsible for coordinating all the working groups, the highest ranking official at the site. If the IIC got involved, Storm might as well slap handcuffs on himself. Impersonating a federal official to gain access to a secure crash investigation site broke at least four laws he could think of off the top of his head. It would certainly land him in the local jail for a spell. Jones would probably let him rot there as punishment for allowing himself to get caught.
“I already talked to him,” Storm said, breezily. “But waste his time if you want to. I’m sure he’s got nothing better to do.”
Storm bent back over the piece of metal he had been studying. Farrell unclipped his cell phone. Storm readied himself to flee.
Farrell pushed the two-way talk button on the phone and said, “Hey, I’ll be back in a second. I’m just looking at something with this guy from the FAA.”
“The FAA?” the voice on the other end said.
“Yeah, I guess they’ve had some kind of policy change.”
“All right. See you back here in a bit.”
Storm felt his insides relax. He focused his attention—for real this time—on the piece of metal that had caught his eye previously.
“Pretty weird, huh?” Farrell said.
“I’ll say,” Storm replied.
“What do you think? It’s a piece of the forward pressure bulkhead, right?”
“Sure looks that way to me,” Storm said, as if he had personally studied hundreds, if not thousands, of forward pressure bulkheads.
“What do you think did that ?” Farrell asked, pointing to a line that had been cut in the metal.
In a field full of things that had been twisted and sheared by the force of impact, this line was perfectly straight. Even Storm’s untrained eye could tell the angle was wrong. And yet the cut was incredibly precise.
“I don’t know,” Storm said.
Except he did know. Among Storm’s abiding interests were high-tech weaponry and gadgets, which he jokingly called “toys.” He was constantly pressing Jones to give him an inside line on the latest toys—the classified stuff that no one else got to see. Not long ago, Jones had arranged for Storm to make a visit to a military contractor for the demonstration of a new high-energy laser beam.
You could take down an airplane with this thing , the engineer had told him.
The words came back to Storm now. The weapon he had seen was still in beta version. It needed to be shrunk down to a more usable size and then made sturdy enough for the battlefield. What it didn’t need was more power. It was already a hundred kilowatts—the equivalent of one thousand 100-watt lightbulbs being focused in one tiny beam, only a few hundred nanometers wide.
The heat that resulted was incredibly intense. Storm had watched a demonstration of the laser easily slicing through a thick sheet of metal.
The incision looked exactly like the one that had been cut in the piece of metal in front of him.
CHAPTER 7
PANAMA CITY, Panama
T
he most striking feature of Eusebio Rivera’s seventieth floor penthouse—something all visitors to it beheld with wonder—was a massive saltwater fish tank.
It occupied an entire wall’s worth of space, and it separated his home office from his bedroom suite, meaning he could see it whether he was at work or at leisure. It was filled with fish in every color of the rainbow: clown fish and angelfish, hawk fish and lionfish, hamlets and grunts, all swimming happily above a plastic reef that had been made to look just like the real thing.
What they didn’t see—unless they looked very carefully—was Rivera’s favorite part of the fish tank, the reason he commissioned it for his home in the first place. Camouflaged in the craggy recesses of the imitation coral, just below all those
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