Maya felt a chill.
“Of what?”
“That modern aircraft can be controlled without touching the cockpit.”
Torres entered behind Maya.
“That’s impossible.”
Reeves shook his head.
“People say that about every nightmare until somebody builds it.”
Maya examined the displays.
Multiple systems were contradicting one another.
Navigation showed Madrid eastward.
Standby compass said northeast.
Altitude data flickered between numbers.
Maya shut off one display.
Then another.
Reeves watched.
“You always were good.”
Maya ignored him.
“Torres, give me mechanical standby.”
“Here.”
“Cut flight directors.”
“Done.”
“Autothrottle?”
“Disconnecting.”
Nothing happened.
The throttle levers moved on their own.
Torres stared.
“What the hell?”
Maya whispered, “Remote command.”
Reeves leaned back.
“Now you understand.”
Maya turned toward him.
“Who has control?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I know the organization. I don’t know the operator.”
“And Celeste?”
Reeves’s expression changed.
That was enough.
“You didn’t know about her,” Maya said.
