Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

NUMA Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

Hiram Yaeger walked through the air-conditioned computer bay on the eleventh floor of the NUMA building before heading for home. He made the same checks every night and thought of himself as a ship’s captain inspecting his vessel, but it was really just a habit born from the early days of computing when things were not as reliable.

Back when he’d first started, Yaeger had to check and reset huge reel-to-reel tapes and inspect processing connections by hand. When they first looked for bugs, it meant actual insects that had a habit of seeking out warm, dark places, getting themselves zapped on fragile micro electric circuitry and burning out what passed for microchips in the process.

Years later, it was all about mainframe processing loads and hardwired connections. Now the computers did it all themselves, speaking to each other through Wi-Fi, checking and rechecking their own performance against preset parameters. All Yaeger really had to do was to make sure no one had unplugged the system from the electrical outlet.

He checked anyway.

Satisfied that everything was in order he made his way toward the outer office. “Good night, Max,” he said, speaking to the computer.

“Night and day are the same thing to me,” the computer replied. “Unlike you, I work twenty-four hours a day.”

Hiram had designed Max and the rest of the computers in NUMA’s state-of-the-art processing center. Years before Siri had begun talking, Yaeger had given Max voice processing and interactive capabilities. Why he’d ever added a sense of humor, he didn’t know.

“No one likes a computer with a smart mouth,” Hiram said, pulling a light jacket over his shoulders and adjusting his wire-framed glasses.

“I don’t have a mouth,” Max pointed out. “But your point is well taken. FYI: You have a visitor in the outer office. My sensors indicate Priya Kashmir has just used her badge to enter the room.”

“Thanks, Max. See you tomorrow.”

Hiram continued toward the outer office, grinning that he’d stumped Max by saying good-bye in a way Max could not correct or elaborate on. A small victory for the human race.

He stepped through the door and spotted a figure in a wheelchair waiting for him.

Priya Kashmir was Yaeger’s new assistant. Born in southern India, raised in London, and schooled at MIT—where she’d graduated at the top of her class—Priya had been set to join one of NUMA’s field teams when a three-car pileup left her paralyzed from the waist down.

NUMA had honored her contract despite her injuries, paid for her medical treatment and given her a pick of assignments including working in the field if she wanted, insisting they’d find a way to make it work.

By then, she’d already decided on a different path, asking if NUMA could use her skills in the computing department.

“Hello,” she said cheerfully. “How are you this evening, Mr. Yaeger?”

Her accent was a mix of British and Indian, with the slightest hint of a Boston Yankee thrown in for good measure.

“Please stop calling me that,” Hiram said. “It makes me feel old.”

“Because your father was Mr. Yaeger?”

“My grandfather.”

She laughed, brushed a strand of mahogany hair from her face and handed him a note. “This just came in.”

Hiram took the note. It was written in flowing script that could have passed for calligraphy. “Your Post-its should be in an art museum.”

“I had a few minutes on my hands while I waited for the elevator,” she said.

Hiram read the note. The message was far simpler than the writing. It was from Kurt Austin.

“‘Need you to make Dumbo fly,’” Hiram read aloud. “‘Use those big ears and find me a splash-down site. And I need it quickly. Otherwise, you’re going to cost Rudi Gunn a bottle of Don Julio and box of hand-rolled Cuban cigars.’”

A puzzled look settled on Hiram’s face. “Curious.”

Priya had to agree. “I didn’t understand when Kurt rattled it off in the first place,” she admitted. “And I don’t honestly understand it now. But Kurt insisted you would know what he meant. I assume it’s some type of code.”

Hiram sighed, took off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. “Sort of. It’s Kurtspeak for: can you pull an all-nighter and find me a miracle?”

“Really? What’s the Dumbo reference? Isn’t that a flying elephant from the Disney cartoons?”