Robopocalypse (7 page)

6. S
EE AND
A
VOID

American 1497 heavy.… Say souls on board
.

M
ARY
F
ITCHER
, D
ENVER
A
PPROACH
T
OWER

PRECURSOR VIRUS + 8 MONTHS

These air traffic control communications occurred over the course of seven minutes. The fate of more than four hundred people—as well as two men who would become distinguished soldiers in the New War—was determined in seconds by a single woman: Denver air traffic controller Mary Fitcher. Note that italicized passages were not transmitted over the radio but collected from microphones inside the Denver air traffic control tower
.

—
CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217

START OF TRANSCRIPT

00:00:00

DENVER

United 42 heavy, this is Denver Approach. Say heading.

+
00:00:02

UNITED

Uh, sorry, we’re turning back on course. United 42 heavy.

+
00:00:05

DENVER

Roger.

+
00:01:02

DENVER

United 42 heavy, turn left immediately. Heading 360. You’ve got traffic at twelve o’clock. Fourteen miles. Same altitude. It’s an American heavy 777.

+
00:01:11

UNITED

Denver Approach. United 42 heavy. Unable, uh, unable to control my heading or altitude. Unable to disconnect the autopilot. Declaring an emergency. Squawking 7700. (static)

+
00:01:14

DENVER

American 1497 heavy. This is Denver Approach. Climb immediately to fourteen thousand feet. You have traffic at your nine o’clock. Fifteen miles. A United heavy 777.

+
00:01:18

AMERICAN

American 1497, roger. Traffic in sight. Climbing to fourteen thousand.

+
00:01:21

DENVER

United 42 heavy. Understand you are unable to control your heading and altitude. Your traffic is now thirteen miles. Same altitude. Heavy 777.

+
00:01:30

UNITED

 … makes no sense. (inaudible) … can’t.

+
00:01:34

DENVER

United 42 heavy. Say fuel on board. Say souls on board.
(long moment of static)

+
00:02:11

UNITED

Approach. United 42 heavy. We have two hours thirty minutes fuel on board and two hundred forty-one souls on board.

+
00:02:43

DENVER

American 1497. Traffic at your nine o’clock. Twelve miles. Same altitude. United 777.

+
00:02:58

UNITED

United 42 heavy. Traffic is in sight. He doesn’t appear to be climbing. Get that plane out of our way, will ya?

+
00:03:02

DENVER

American 1497. Have you started that climb yet?

+
00:03:04

AMERICAN

American 1497 heavy. Uh, we’re declaring an emergency. Uh. We’re unable to control altitude. Unable to control heading. (inaudible) Unable to disconnect autopilot.

+
00:03:08

DENVER

American 1497. Understand loss of control. Say fuel. Say souls on board.

+
00:03:12

AMERICAN

An hour and fifty minutes fuel. Two hundred sixteen souls on board.

+
00:03:14

M. FITCHER

Ryan, get on the computer. Whatever this problem is, both of these planes have got it. Figure out when these two were last near each other. Do it now!

+
00:03:19

R. TAYLOR

You got it, Fitch. (sound of typing)

+
00:03:59

R. TAYLOR

Those planes both flew out of Los Angeles yesterday. They were at gates right next to each other for about, uh, twenty-five minutes. Does that mean anything?

+
00:04:03

M. FITCHER

I don’t know. Shit. It’s like these planes
want
to hit each other. We’ve got about two minutes before people die. What’s going on in Los Angeles? What’s (inaudible). Anything weird there?

+
00:04:09

R. TAYLOR

(sound of typing)

+
00:04:46

M. FITCHER

Oh no, oh no. They can’t fix this, Ryan. They’re still on a collision course. That’s what? That’s, like, four hundred and fifty people. Give me
something.

+
00:05:01

R. TAYLOR

Okay, okay. A fueler robot. An autoramper. It malfunctioned yesterday. Sprayed a bunch of fuel on the ramp and shut down two gates for a couple hours
.

+
00:05:06

M. FITCHER

How many planes did it fuel? Which ones?

+
00:05:09

R. TAYLOR

Two. Our birds. What’s it mean, Fitch?

+
00:05:12

M. FITCHER

I don’t know. I’ve got a feeling. There’s no time. (sound of a click)

+
00:05:14

DENVER

United 42 heavy and American 1497, I know it sounds far-out, but … I have a hunch. You’re both experiencing the same issue. Both your planes passed through LA yesterday. I think a virus may have entered your refuel control computers. See if (inaudible) … find the circuit breaker for the subcomputer.

+
00:05:17

UNITED

Roger approach. I’m willing to try anything. (static) Uh, that’s probably behind the seat. Right? Be advised, American 1497, fueling circuit breakers are on panel four.

+
00:05:20

AMERICAN

Roger. Looking for those.

+
00:05:48

DENVER

United 42 heavy. Traffic is now twelve o’clock and two miles. Same altitude.

+
00:05:56

DENVER

American 1497. Your traffic is now nine o’clock. Two miles. Same altitude.

+
00:06:12

UNITED

(voice of Traffic Collision Avoidance System) Climb. Climb.

+
00:06:17

UNITED

Can’t … find the breakers. Where are—(inaudible)

+
00:06:34

DENVER

(emphatic) See and avoid. American 1497 and United 42. See and avoid. Collision imminent. Collision … Oh no. Oh, shit.

+
00:06:36

AMERICAN

(unintelligible) … I’m sorry, Ma.

+
00:06:38

UNITED

(voice of Traffic Collision Avoidance System) Climb now. Climb now.

+
00:06:40

AMERICAN

 … where (shuffling) Oh! (exclaimed loudly) (long moment of static)

+
00:06:43

DENVER

Do you copy? Repeat. Did you copy?

+
00:07:08

DENVER

(inaudible)

+
00:07:12

UNITED

(hysterical yelling)

+
00:07:15

DENVER

(relieved) Oh my god.

+
00:07:18

AMERICAN

American 1497. Roger. It worked. That was a close one, y’all! Oh my! (sound of hooting)

+
00:07:24

DENVER

(heavy breathing) You had Fitcher worried there for a second, kids.

+
00:07:28

UNITED

United 42 heavy. Flight control restored. It worked! Fitch, you magnificent woman, can you get us cleared for landing? I need to kiss the ground. I need to kiss
you
, sister.

+
00:07:32

DENVER

Uh, roger that. United 42 turn right, heading oh nine oh. Airport is at your two o’clock and ten miles.

+
00:07:35

UNITED

United 42 heavy. Roger. Airport in sight.

+
00:07:37

DENVER

United 42 heavy, cleared for the visual. Runway sixteen. Right. Contact tower one thirty-five point three.

+
00:07:40

UNITED

Thanks for the help. Tower on thirty-five three. See ya.

+
00:07:45

AMERICAN

American 1497. Same story. Got a grin on my face up here. But, uh, somebody sure has some explaining to do.

+
00:07:53

DENVER

That’s for damn sure. Bring it home, pilots.

END OF TRANSCRIPT

This incident led directly to the invention and propagation of the so-called fitch switch, designed to manually separate peripheral onboard computers from flight control during an emergency. No passengers were harmed on either flight, although the experience of passing within feet of another 777 aircraft was incredibly frightening. I know this for a fact. My brother Jack and I were both passengers on United Flight 42
.

—
CORMAC
WALLACE,
MIL#GHA217

7. P
HREAK

I’m as nasty as the day is long and I know every trick
in the book. If I want you, mate, I’ll get you
.

L
URKER

PRECURSOR VIRUS + 9 MONTHS

I assembled these transcripts from footage recorded by a webcam in a bedroom in south London and by several closed-circuit television (CCTV) cameras in the nearby neighborhood. The video was grainy, but I have done my best to relay exactly what unfolded. The identity of the room’s occupant has never been fully verified. In the transcripts, he simply calls himself Lurker
.

—
CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217

The screen is nearly black, offering little information. There is only the sound of a phone ringing, very faint. Someone breathes, waiting for a person on the other end to pick up.

Click
.

The figure in the chair speaks in a deep, gravelly voice. “Perk up your ears now, duchess. You’ll want to know this. I’ve got two people here held hostage, right? One of ’em is bleeding all over my carpet like a stuck fucking pig. Now, I know you can trace my address, and that’s fine with me. But if a single cop comes round and sets a foot in my flat, I swear to god and all his cronies, darling, I’ll fucking kill these people. I will shoot them and kill them. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. May I have your name, sir?”

“Yes, you may. My name is Fred Hale. And this is my house. This bloke reckoned he could get off with my wife in my own place without me knowing. In my own bed, no less. And the fact is that he was wrong on that account, wasn’t he? And he knows it now, don’t he? He was
dead
wrong on that account.”

“Fred, how many people are there with you?”

“Just the three of us, duchess. A right happy family. Me and my cheating wife and her fucking hemorrhaging ex-boyfriend. They’re duct taped together in the
family
room.”

“What’s happened to the man? How badly is he injured?”

“Well, I slashed him in the face with a Stanley knife, didn’t I? It’s not complicated. Wouldn’t you protect your family? I had to do it, didn’t I? And now that I’ve started, I’m not sure that I shouldn’t just keep stabbing until I can’t go on. I don’t care anymore. You understand, darling? I’ve lost my fucking grip here. I’ve completely lost my fucking grip on this situation. You hear me?”

“I hear you, Fred. Can you tell me how badly the man is injured?”

“He’s on the ground. I don’t know. He’s all—Ah, fuck me. Fuck me.”

“Fred?”

“Listen, duchess. You need to dispatch some help here right now because I’m going off my nut. I mean it, I’ve gone psycho. I need help over here right fucking now or these people are going to die.”

“That’s fine, Fred. We’re sending help now. What kind of weapon do you have?”

“Right. I’m armed, okay? I’m armed and I don’t want to share more than that. And I’m not going to prison, either, you hear? If that’s it, then I’ll kill myself and them and we’ll be done with it. I’ll not be going anywhere tonight, understand? And, ah, I’m not talking anymore.”

“Fred? Can you stay on the line with me?”

“I’ve said my piece, right? I’m hanging up now.”

“Can you stay on the line with me?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Fred? Mr. Hale?”

“Catch you in the funny pages, duchess.”

Click
.

An office chair creaks as the figure stands up. With a sharp snap, the blinds flip open. Light floods into the room, instantly saturating the webcam. Over the next few seconds, the contrast adjusts automatically. A grainy but discernible image emerges.

The room is filthy: littered with empty soda cans, used phone cards, and dirty clothes. The chair squeaks again as the dark figure drops back into it.

The tough-talking man is actually an overweight teenager wearing a stained T-shirt and sweatpants. His head is shaved. He sprawls back in the beat-up office chair, feet resting on a computer desk. With his left hand, he holds a cell phone to his ear. His right hand is tucked casually under his left elbow.

From the phone, a faint ringing.

A pleasant-sounding man answers. “Hello?”

The teenager speaks in his own shrill, adolescent voice, quivering with nervous excitement.

“Fred Hale?” asks the kid.

“Yes?”

“Is this Fred Hale?”

“That’s right. Who’s this?”

“Take a guess, you ponce.”

“Excuse me? Look here, I don’t know—”

“It’s Lurker. From the phone phreaks chat room.”

“Lurker? What do you want?”

“You thought you could speak to me any way you wanted? That I’m no class? You’re going to be sorry for that. What I want is to teach you a little lesson, Fred.”

“How’s that?”

“I want to hear your wife cry. I want to see your house go up in flames. I want to punish you to the extent of my abilities and then just a bit more. I want to break you today, mate, and read about it in the papers tomorrow.”

“Break me? Oh my god, what a bloody joke. Sod off, you poor little Billy no-mates. Lonely, are you? Be honest. Is that why you’re ringing me? Mum out with the girls and left you all alone?”

“Oh, Fred. You’ve no idea who you’re speaking to. What I’m capable of. I’m as nasty as the day is long and I know every trick in the book. If I want you, mate, I’ll get you.”

“You’re not scaring me, you silly little dimwit. You found my home number? Och, congratulations. Listen to your voice. What are you, maybe fourteen years old?”

“I’m seventeen years old, Fred. And we’ve been speaking for nearly two minutes. Do you know what that means?”

“What are you sodding off about?”

“Do you know what that means?”

“Hold on—someone is at my door.”

“Do you know what that means, Fred? Do you?”

“Shut your mouth, you little bugger. Let me get this.”

The man’s voice is fainter now. His hand must be muffling the phone. He curses. There is a bang and the sound of splintering wood. Fred shouts, surprised. There is a thunk as his phone drops to the ground. Fred’s cries are quickly drowned out by stomping boots and staccato orders shouted by a team of authorized firearms officers: “Get down.” “On your face.” “Shut up.”

In the background, faintly, a woman cries out in fright. Soon, her sobs can’t be heard over the shouts, the glass breaking, and the vicious barking of a dog.

Safe at home, the teenager who calls himself Lurker listens. Eyes closed and head cocked, he absorbs every bit of satisfaction from the phone call.

“
That’s
what it means,” Lurker says, to no one in particular.

Then, alone in his filthy room, the teenager silently raises his fists over his head like a champion boxer who has just gone ten rounds and come out on top.

With one thumb, he hangs up the phone.

The next day. Same webcam. The teenager called Lurker is on the phone again, lounging back in the same relaxed position. He balances a soda on his bulging belly and holds the phone to his head, frowning.

“Right, Arrtrad. Then why hasn’t the story played yet?”

“It was fucking brilliant, Lurker. I called the headquarters of the Associated Press and spoofed my phone as the Bombay consulate. I posed as a bloody Indian reporter calling from—”

“That’s great, mate. Fantastic. You want a fucking cookie? Just tell me why there’s a story written about my prank floating on the wire but there’s no headline in my local rag?”

“Right, Lurker. No worries, mate. There’s one thing. In the story, they say it was some kind of computer glitch that must have caused the raid. You were so good that they didn’t even trace it back to a person. They think a machine did it.”

“Bollocks! I’ll ask you one last time, Arrtrad. Where is my story?”

“The story is locked by an editor. After the piece was submitted, it looks like this bloke went in for another edit and then never left the page. So, it’s been stuck in edits for the last twelve hours. Fellow must have forgotten about it.”

“Not likely. Who is he? The editor? What’s his name?”

“I was already on that, see? As the Indian reporter, I got the guy’s office number at his bureau. But when I called, it turned out he never worked there. They don’t know him. It’s a dead end, Lurker. It’s impossible to find him. He doesn’t exist. And the story can’t be picked up off the wire until it comes out from the edits, see?”

“The IP.”

“Oy?”

“Am I stuttering? The fucking IP address. If the cunt suppressing my story is sporting a false identity, then I’ll track him down.”

“Oh my god. Right. I’ll e-mail it to you now. I sure feel sorry for this bloke when you get hold of him, Lurker. You’re going to take him out. You’re the best, mate. There’s no way—”

“Arrtrad?”

“Yes, Lurker?”

“Don’t you ever again tell me that something is impossible. Ever. Again.”

“No worries, mate. You know I didn’t mean to say—”

“I’ll catch you in the funny pages,
mate.
”

Click
.

The teenager dials a number from memory.

The phone rings once. A young man answers.

“MI5, Security Service. How may I direct your call?”

The teenager speaks in the clipped, self-assured voice of an older man who has made similar calls hundreds of times. “Forensic computing division, please.”

“Of course.”

Clicking, then a professional voice answers. “Forensic computing.”

“Good morning. This is Intelligence Officer Anthony Wilcox. Verification code eight, three, eight, eight, five, seven, four.”

“Authorized, Officer Wilcox. What can I do for you today?”

“Just a simple IP lookup. Numbers are as follows: one twenty-eight, two, fifty-one, one eighty-three.”

“One moment, please.”

About thirty seconds pass.

“Right. Officer Wilcox?”

“Yes?”

“That belongs to a computer in the United States. Some sort of research facility. Actually, that didn’t come easy. There was quite a lot of obfuscation involved. The address bounces globally from a half dozen other places before landing back there. Our machines were only able to track it down because it exhibits a pattern of behavior.”

“What’s that?”

“The person at that address has been editing news articles. Hundreds of them over the past three months.”

“Really? And who is at that address?”

“A scientist. His offices are at Lake Novus Research Laboratories in Washington State. Let me just look it up for you. Right. His name is Dr. Nicholas Wasserman.”

“Wasserman, eh? Thanks very much.”

“Cheers.”

“Catch you in the funny pages.”

Click
.