The Turing Option

“We are sure that the only connection between the two attacks was Mr. Delaney. Since the attackers were never found this is of course supposition. Also, the second attack is not within my jurisdiction…”

“I am in charge of that investigation,” the second officer said, a grizzled and menacing-looking Colonel. “My name is Davis, Military Intelligence. This concerns us greatly because the leak appears to have originated from inside a military base. A Navy establishment.” There was no doubt from his tone of voice how he felt about naval establishments.

“What has your progress been?” Benicoff asked.

“We have some leads that we are following up. However we have found no trace of any connection between the individuals who were in the first and second attacks.”

“Let me sum up then,” Ben said. “If you add up what the theft at Megalobe and the attacks on Brian have cost — it must be up in the millions. So we know that some very well heeled source hired the hopheads to kill Brian at the hospital. When they did not succeed there, this same source, we assume, tried again in Mexico. Is that correct, Colonel?”

“It conforms to our own estimates of the situation.”

“So in reality all we know is that someone with a lot of money has tried to kill Brian twice and has failed both times. Can we assume that this source is also the same one that committed the original attack and theft?”

He waited in silence until he obtained two reluctant and brisk military nods; the General was as stolid as ever.

“Then it would appear that we are all investigating the same people. Therefore I will keep you appraised in the future of our progress — firm in the knowledge that you will be doing the same. Is that agreed, General?”

“Agreed.” The word could not have been more reluctantly produced had it been squeezed from a rock. Ben smiled around the table.

“I am glad that we are all on the same side. Major Kahn, will you explain about your Expert Program and the results that it has produced?” Her report was succinct, clear and brief. When she was done they turned back to Benicoff.

“I took the investigation from there. The results so far are good. Firstly there was a flight at that time in that place. It was recorded by San Diego Miramar. The investigators found a cattle rancher who lives under the calculated flight path. He was disturbed by a low-flying chopper — he remembers it because it interfered with the end of a film he was watching on television at the time. We have a perfect time match from the program.”

“You have located the helicopter?” the General snapped.

“Once we put all the bits and pieces together that was the easiest part. It had to be the TS-69 that was working on the construction site. Any machine from outside the area would have to have filed a flight plan and there was no record of one. The copter rental company’s records reveal that on the afternoon of the evening in question there had been an electrical malfunction that temporarily grounded it. The machine did not return to Brown Field where it was based, but remained at the site in Guatay. The following morning mechanics were flown there and the fault, a minor electrical one, was repaired. So minor, I must add, that the pilot himself could have repaired it. A loose connection on one of the instruments.”

“Was the machine flown that night?” the General asked.

“According to the records — no,” Ben said. “That is the interesting part. Flight records are kept from the pilot’s logbook since, unlike an automobile, there is no odometer on an aircraft, nothing to indicate how many miles the thing has flown. But every engine has an hour meter that records how many hours it has been on. And here we did find a discrepancy. The pilot reported no flight that night, that the machine was on the ground and never flew until the next day. That does not match the engine’s records. So now we come to the interesting part. The FBI were into the company’s records as soon as I reported this possibility to them. They had the pilot in custody within two hours — and this is a recording of an interview I had with him just before I came here.”

There was absolute silence as Ben slipped the cassette into the built-in player in the desk. The screen slid down into position on the far wall and the room lights dimmed as he turned it on. The camera had been located behind his head, which could be seen in silhouette. Harsh lights revealed every detail of expression on the face of the man he was talking to.

“Your name is Orville Rhodes?” they heard Ben’s voice ask.

“Sure. But nobody calls me that. Dusty, as in Dusty Rhodes, get it? And also, PS, I’ve told you all this a couple of times already — so how’s about you telling me just what the hell I am doing here? Or even who you are. All I know is the FBI dragged me here without a word of explanation. I have my rights.”