Page 21 of Identity Unknown
An aircraft marshaller in a reflective orange vest directs a King Air taxiing in, the roar of turbine engines loud. Off by itself in a remote corner is the Secret Service’s twin-engine black helicopter known as the Doomsday Bird. AI-assisted, it has wide tactical platform skids and gun mounts. Under the fuselage are special imaging systems enclosed in a radome.
“I sure hope you know what you’re doing.” Marino has a habit of talking to Lucy as if she’s a kid. “I don’t care what the computers are telling you. I can see the storm moving in with my own two eyes. And I don’t need artificial intelligence to tell me that it’s genuinely stupid to be flying anywhere.”
“I wouldn’t put you or any of us in danger,” she says, the lenses of her computer-assisted glasses dark again.
The wind is picking up as we reach the Doomsday Bird, the flat black paint seeming to absorb sunlight, the four main rotor blades gracefully bending toward the ground. The skin is covered with strange geometric configurations that could be symbols from an ancient language. Lucy has explained that the sigil-like shapes are a type of invisibility cloaking. They defeat radar and other sensors by reflecting light in unusual patterns.
“You want us getting struck by lightning? Because that could happen, not to mention fog and wind shear in the mountains. And if it hails? Think of the damage.” Marino is going through his litany of objections as Lucy opens the baggage compartment.
“We’ll be fine.” She helps him slide in the Pelican cases.
“What? You’ve got some kind of special lightning protection system?”
“We won’t get hit.” She takes my bags and fits them in.
“Why?” He glowers at her. “Because you’re such a gifted pilot you can outmaneuver lightning?”
“I can.”
Griping and arguing, he climbs into the back cabin, the helicopter shifting under his solid mass. He settles into a Nomex-upholstered seat, one of two facing forward, the headliner and floor covered with the same silvery fire-retardant material. The seats across from him have been removed, leaving an open area of flooring large enough to fit a stretcher.
Lucy and I step up on the skids, settling into the hot stuffy cockpit, leaving our doors open, the breeze cool. We fasten our four-point harnesses, and she straps a kneeboard around her left thigh, jotting down the time, the amount of fuel and otherdetails. Going through the preflight checklist, she pushes buttons and flips switches, multiple video screens blinking on.
An automated voice talks her through testing the autopilot, the hydraulics and other systems. She turns on the battery, and alarms begin to bong and blare as we put on our headsets, adjusting the voice-activated mic booms.
“You all set back there?” Lucy asks Marino, and I imagine him overwhelmed by anxiety in the back cabin.
“As set as I’m going to be.” His glum voice is loud in my headset, and I turn down the volume.
“We’re switching the intercom to crew-only as I start up and deal with the radios,” Lucy tells him. “But I’ll have you on camera. If you have a problem just motion.”
“I’ll be sure to flip you a fucking bird.”
“And if that doesn’t work,” Lucy says in all seriousness, “press the red button on your mic controls. It will alert us that you need our attention. For now, you won’t be able to hear us, and we can’t hear you.”
“Don’t fucking worry, I won’t feel like talking—” he says as she flips the intercom switch, and he’s gone.
Lucy fires up the first engine, and the rotor blades start turning with a roar. Next, the second engine is going, the generator on. She asks me to enter the frequency for ATIS, the automated weather service. The robotic voice recites the details about heavy rains, high winds and poor visibility moving from west to east across the Commonwealth.
“Niner-Zulu is ready for departure with ATIS,” Lucy talks to the tower.
“Stand by.”
“It’s busy, a lot of traffic right now.” She says this to me, the rotor blades thud-thudding, the radios bristling with calls as pilots wait to land and take off. “But once we’re clear from here there won’t be much, not with the forecast we just heard.”
“I hope Marino’s going to be all right back there,” I reply, the sun hot through the windshield.
“Him and his phobias. The less control he feels he has, the worse they get.”
“Which is why they’re in high gear since your mother started worrying about her crazed fans harassing and stalking her.” I adjust my mic boom so that it’s touching my bottom lip. “I didn’t realize the extent of the problems she’s having.”
“The trolls Mom’s talking about are nasty. But I doubt one of them broke into her car at the nail salon last month to grab her gym bag as she claims. There’s no evidence she’s being stalked.”
“What about the white van she’s been noticing?” I ask. “Last week she felt that someone was tailing her as she was driving to Target. She worried someone might be following as she rode her bike on the Mount Vernon Trail.”
“The van had no front license plate, meaning she couldn’t see the tag number, and there are a lot of bikes on the Mount Vernon trail.” Lucy scans everything going on out the cockpit windows, barely looking at me as we talk. “That doesn’t mean I don’t take Mom seriously. But I’m suspicious some of what she’s claiming could be a subconscious need for attention.”
“There’s nothing subconscious about it and never has been, Lucy.” I watch a Piper Cub start up, the prop sputtering and spinning, reminding me of a toy plane powered by a rubber band.