To help the robot operator, a mechanic familiar with the make of the plane is on the radio explaining where to cut. He sounds so specific that first I think he’s reading from a manual. Then I overhear he’s actually on the phone from an air museum outside Orlando, describing the plane they have on display as he takes it apart.

On Knoll’s screen, the diamond-tipped blade starts spinning. The tech moves the edge a few centimeters and it begins cutting into the casing over the engine. The rusted metal sprays out a cloud of brown dust as the saw carves a hole the size of a book. The grinding sound carries across the water. Once the smoke clears, the robot uses an arm to pull the piece away and sticks a camera into the engine compartment.

The technician takes several minutes to get the camera over the location of the engine serial number. When the numbers finally come into view, he calls them out over the radio.

A new voice, someone who sounds like he’s indoors somewhere, calls the numbers back out for confirmation. He’s probably in a dark basement library under the Pentagon poring through a repair log that hasn’t seen light in half a century.

I look at the two dozen other officials watching the monitor Knoll is holding up for us. I know what they’re thinking. It’s what the Warlock desires. He wants us to hope the numbers match.

Forgetting the dead man in the pilot’s seat, probably another innocent victim, we all want this to be true. We want this to be one of the missing planes . . .

We want the mystery to be bigger than us. We want novelty of the unexpected.

We want to be entertained.

There’s a disconnect around me between the horrible acts and the spectacle.

That sickens me. I can understand the power fantasies men sometimes have about serial killers. It’s something else when we’re waiting for confirmation that would give proof to this asshole’s illusion.

We have this strange desire for symmetry. Humans are pattern seekers. We’re designed by nature to get a little buzz every time something connects in a novel way. It’s why we play Sudoku, enjoy simple video games, and watch TV shows with different characters but the same plots.

We love patterns.

Even dark patterns.

The tech continues calling numbers.

We wait for the man in the basement to respond. No one is breathing, for fear of missing the moment.

I look at everyone around me. I know it’s not real. Somehow we’re all about to be deceived, or it’s going to fall apart. Regardless of what the man in the Pentagon basement says, it’s a trick.

But I know it won’t fall apart here.

Damn him.

I know the answer before the man in the basement says the words. I get that goose-bump feeling.

I feel guilty for wanting it to happen.

The serial number etched into the engine block is a perfect match.