Chapter 9 - The Seat That Was Supposed to Be Empty
By the time our wheels touched the runway at Joint Base Andrews, half the country knew my name.
Or thought they did.
The cabin erupted in applause when the aircraft landed safely.
I didn't.
Neither did Daniel.
We both knew landing hadn't ended anything.
Military vehicles followed us as we taxied.
Federal agents waited near a secured apron.
Emergency crews stood nearby.
Two F-35s passed overhead before turning away.
The sight made passengers cheer louder.
I watched silently.
Those pilots would probably never know how close someone came to turning their own systems into instruments of confusion.
Captain Rodriguez stopped the aircraft.
The seatbelt sign remained illuminated.
His voice came through.
“Please remain seated. Security personnel will board shortly.”
Nobody argued.
The door opened.
Federal agents entered first.
Then military security.
Viktor was removed.
The woman from 13B followed.
Adrian went next.
All three seemed strangely calm.
That bothered me.
Men who believe their operation has failed usually show something.
Anger.
Fear.
Defeat.
These people looked like employees finishing a shift.
Daniel saw it too.
“They expected to be caught.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I looked toward the jet bridge.
“Because they already delivered something.”
Agents separated passengers for identification.
The real Margaret Ellis had never boarded in San Diego.
Her boarding credential had been duplicated after she canceled a reservation the previous evening.
The legitimate owner of Viktor's cloned identity had boarded another flight.
Adrian had used the credentials of a physician currently attending a conference in Seattle.
Professional work.
Prepared well in advance.
Then security found something beneath seat 13C.
A small electronics pouch.
Inside were identity cloning tools and several blank access cards.
Useful evidence.
Not the real objective.
Under 13B, investigators found another transmitter.
Under my seat, the device I'd removed earlier.
Three planted systems.
Enough to coordinate local network access on the plane.
Still not enough to explain the public leak.
Daniel and I were taken separately for initial interviews.
Before agents led us away, he stopped me.
“Mason.”
“What?”
“Whatever those stories say about Syria, I don't believe them.”
“You barely know me.”
“I watched you risk your life for people you didn't know.”
I looked at him.
“That isn't proof of anything.”
“It is to me.”
Then they took him away.
My interview lasted ninety minutes.
Names.
Times.
Actions.
Every detail repeated.
I knew the process.
I didn't resent it.
The investigators had to treat me as evidence too.
Halfway through, Admiral Hale entered.
He looked older than the last time I'd seen him.
“Mason.”
“Sir.”
“You look terrible.”
“Good to see you too.”
His eyes dropped toward the bandage a medic had wrapped around my leg.
“You need a hospital.”
“I need answers.”
“You're still retired.”
“You called me.”
He almost smiled.
Then sat.
“We found the source of the leak.”
“Rourke?”
“Partly. Morningstar documents were real. Some were modified.”
“And the claim about me?”
“Fabricated.”
“Can you prove it publicly?”
“Eventually.”
I laughed once.
“Eventually is a bad word on the internet.”
He didn't disagree.
“How many outlets picked it up?”
“All of them.”
Wonderful.
My Pentagon ceremony had already been postponed.
Good.
I hadn't wanted it anyway.
Except somehow being accused of treason made me want to attend out of spite.
Hale placed a folder on the table.
“There's something else.”
I looked at it.
“Your seat assignment.”
“What about it?”
“You were originally assigned 14A.”
I remembered.
United had sent a seat-change notification the previous night.
I hadn't cared.
“Who moved me?”
“Automated system.”
“Triggered by?”
“An upgrade request.”
“I didn't request one.”
“We know.”
He opened the folder.
“The request came from an account belonging to Captain Jake Morrison.”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
“Mason—”
“Jake wouldn't.”
“The account was authenticated.”
“Then it was compromised.”
“We're trying to locate him.”
The room went very still.
“Trying?”
“He was supposed to arrive in Washington this morning.”
“And?”
“He never checked into his hotel.”
“Phone?”
“Off.”
“Last location?”
“Outside Baltimore.”
I stood too quickly.
Pain tore through my knee.
Hale pushed me back into the chair.
“Sit.”
“Jake knew my itinerary.”
“Yes.”
“He knew my original seat.”
“Yes.”
“He knew the ceremony.”
“Yes.”
“You think he moved me to 12A?”
“We don't know.”
I stared at him.
Jake had saved my life twice.
I had saved his once.
He had sat beside me in a hospital room for three nights after Syria because I kept waking up thinking Tyler was calling my name.
He was family.
Hale said, “I'm not accusing him.”
“But somebody wants us to.”
“Possibly.”
That was the smarter interpretation.
Divide trust.
Turn friends against one another.
Then Hale's phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
His face changed.
“When?”
He stood.
“Send it to me.”
The call ended.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“A vehicle registered to Jake Morrison was found abandoned near Baltimore-Washington International Airport.”
My chest tightened.
“Blood?”
“No.”
“Signs of struggle?”
“Yes.”
Then Hale's phone received an image.
He showed me.
Jake's truck.
Driver's door open.
Broken phone on the pavement.
And on the windshield, written in white marker, four words.
HE SHOULD HAVE STAYED HOME.
I forgot the pain in my leg.
Forgot the medal.
Forgot the cameras outside the base.
If Jake was alive, I was going to find him.
Then Hale showed me a second photograph.
A paper left on the driver's seat.
One line.
MIDNIGHT. COME ALONE, CHIEF.
Beneath it was an address.
Washington, D.C.
May you like
And suddenly the flight was only the beginning.
---
