Our Trusty Getaway Car

Chapter Two

Personal Log: June, Friday

. . . And all I have to do is keep them running . . .

Sandulf

In complete silence, KITT observed a patrol car as it passed by his current location; a darkened hospital parking lot. The surroundings weren't new to him, but the circumstances were. Usually sitting in front of a medical facility meant he was waiting for his human counterpart to recover from some newly acquired injury. Now, he was hiding from the police in virtual blindness due to having his scanners turned off to prevent detection. How had he ended up this way?

Well, for starters, he left the highway. He knew it was risky to leave the interstate for any reason, but the necessity to refuel the car was inevitable. Logically, a station closest to the thoroughfare would have been the wisest choice, but self-service wouldn't do. After all, he couldn't exactly pump his own unleaded. So, full-service gas station it had to be then and he just so happened to find one that had an automatic car wash too. Curse his weakness for cleanliness and undercarriage baths. Nonetheless, distance from the highway was only part of the equation to his current problem.

After being filled with gas he just knew would result in him having to have his tanks purged and cleaned off in a car wash he felt should have been condemned, there came the little issue of payment. He was already ashamed about leaving the Foundation, but now he would be spending money on said escapade; money that was scarce to begin with. Yet, he wasn't about to, as the expression went, 'stick it to' the nice, young station attendant either. So two options; use his built-in money dispenser and pray the twenty-something-year-old man wouldn't notice the driverless state of the vehicle when asked to retrieve the cash from the passenger side or give the Foundation's account number to be charged and therefore traced back to him. Here was to hoping his trust in humanity wasn't misplaced. Luckily, his grateful assistant wasn't one to ask too many questions, especially when an excellent tip was given. All seemed well in KITT's world until he did something incredibility counterproductive and without consideration.

He had communicated back to FLAG how much he had taken out and for what purpose; a hardwired reflex; a force of habit. That simple lapse of judgment could undo everything. He had been so careful; taking back roads, micro-jamming traffic cameras and electronic toll collecting systems, even scrambling his own homing beacon. Now he had basically given away his exact location. How could he have done that? He went into surveillance mode immediately, sweeping phone lines, tapping mobile devices and listening for radio frequencies. Nothing seemed threatening. Maybe he was being a little paranoid. He was over one-thousand miles away from the Foundation and his pit stops only numbered three, one of which was to just recharge and the other to help a family recover a loose pony; thank goodness for high traction drop-downs.

He had pulled into the driveway of the gas station ready to turn in the direction that would lead him back to I-70 when he spotted a police cruiser two miles up the road. He heard over its two-way frequency an APB issued.

"Be on the lookout for a black 1982 Pontiac Trans Am . . ."

He had stopped, reversed gear, and backed up behind a sign as the patrol car neared the station. Usually his make and model were an advantage to him. In an investigation, criminals would mistakenly underestimate the older car to their severe hurt and, in preference, he had grown attached to the design, but now his retro frame stuck out like a sore thumb in the midst of newer reproductions. Denial didn't quite suit an AI, but maybe it wasn't him they were looking for. After all, there could be another offending 1980s sports car in the area.

". . . with California license plates reading Knight. Report back immediately if located; approach only if necessary and with caution . . ."

So much for wishful thinking; it was time to act. He had pulled back into the gas station and exited on the other side. He couldn't let them see him. Looking for a less lit area to hide in he had noticed a shadowy place one block down and sped to it thus finding him now quietly sitting in front of a hospital, with most of his systems toned down to keep the lights of his dash low.

The police vehicle went on without incident, but KITT waited a beat before switching his scanner back on and his cloaking mechanisms off. He drew out of his spot near some bushes and steered towards the back of the building to find another exit. He hesitantly turned his headlights on, knowing that if law enforcement saw the car without them he might simply be caught for a simple traffic ordinance anyway. But then, shouldn't he turn his self in? Wasn't that the right thing to do? But that would mean he'd have to go back and he couldn't, no. As long as he didn't receive a direct command to stop by the proper authorities, he could continue to . . . to what? Where was he even going? Why? He shouldn't be doing this to begin with . . . 'no'.

"All I need to do is reach the highway, undetected, and select a destination that will achieve my goals of both remaining hidden and finding a conclusion to the recent dilemmas," he stated evenly through his voice modulator, having a sudden need to hear his own calm tone. Being 'on the run' was demanding; the unwanted independence so taxing. He was programmed to rely upon human input; so used to taking orders and carrying them out not making decisions all alone. There were too many options to choose from, each leading to different outcomes and even more choices; choices he wasn't intended to handle on his own.

His engine stuttered and stalled. The desperate need for direction, someone to tell him what to do, was overwhelming. He sat paralyzed with that awareness. The insecurity, uncertainty, indecisiveness . . . it was a nightmare to his logic with no means of working it out. If he went back, they would be in danger. He didn't know how. That caused confusion. If he kept going, all of them would be safer. He didn't know why. That caused frustration. Someone had to be behind all this. He didn't know who. That caused alarm. If he went back, something terrible could happen. He didn't know what. That caused distress. One thing he was certain of; if he did return it would put them in harm's way. He wouldn't. That caused resolve.

His engine started with a low rumble. His dominant program, protecting human life, would have to serve as his determination; the only human-based guide within him. Grant it, relying on purpose alone with no direct instruction was going to be unbelievably complicated for him, but it gave him the will to continue. Unfortunately, this only helped with part of his dilemma. He still needed to know how he was going to get back to the highway.

Experience would have to answer that quandary. He searched his memory banks, pulling up things he had learned from . . . well his most resourceful and reckless partner, Michael. In a nanosecond, he listed the capabilities at his disposal; reversible license plates, the ability to locate law enforcement vehicles up to ten miles away, and an engine that could become virtually silent. In the next nanosecond, he activated those functions simultaneously; his license plates now read 'KNI 667' while a route was plotted indicating where police cruisers were including their speed and headings as he eased down the road on one whisper of a motor.

Other than a few detours to avoid attention, KITT made it to the intersection leading to the on-ramps without a hitch. However, upon approaching the light, there came a warning up on his monitor. Nestled right behind a guardrail, where the ramp merged with the open highway, sat a state trooper; ready to strike no doubt. KITT slowed down considerably and influenced the traffic lights to change from green to yellow to red, stopping in the left turn lane. How was he going to get past them?

Another query to his memory modules brought up some options which seemed to always involve his first driver. He remembered Michael disguising him like a refugee jalopy on their excursion in Central America once, but that wasn't practical or appealing right now. He could backtrack and try to find other ways onto the road, but there could be similar situations at those locations. Besides, the police were still patrolling and, like in a game of Pac-Man, it would only be a matter of time before they cornered him.

He turned to some of the other devices he had at his disposal for further ideas. He could change his color at will thanks to Tabitha's Light Emitting Coating, or LEC, over his MBS, but it also gave off a glow that would be too eye-catching at night. He could try, with serious reservation, Brian's addition; the SUMPM or Super Ultra Mega Pursuit Mode and outrun the trooper . . . no. First off, it would certainly draw attention and, second, it drained way too much fuel for him to justify now, especially since it was filling up that got him in this trouble to begin with. If only Bonnie had really toyed around with the idea of making him invisible.

There's always Turbo Boost he thought sarcastically; more of an inside joke to him than a viable option. He had to come up with something eventually though because even with his ability to hold the light indefinitely a patrol unit was bound to come . . . that's when a large tractor trailer pulled alongside him in the other turn lane. A car carrier to be exact and, as luck would have it, there appeared to be plenty of empty space in the back. Maybe, this was a job for the ole Turbo Boost after all.

If he could jump up onto the clip without the truck driver noticing and do it before passing the trooper he might be able to ride straight through without so much as a second glance. There was some risk involved, but if he could sail over gorges and plow through cement walls, this should be a piece of cake, as they say.

He waited until the lights changed and allowed the lumbering vehicle to pull ahead of him; by far the hardest part of this whole operation. He positioned himself directly behind the truck, knowing he was now out of the driver's mirrors and view. He adjusted his trajectory guidance system for the exact angle to make the leap and sent the right amount of power needed to the rockets so he wouldn't overshoot his mark. In one expertly calculated move, he launched himself upwards in a burst of power and landed neatly on the inclined spot in the back. The faint echo of good work buddy played through his processor as he quickly engaged his emergency brake and turned off his lights. Placing the Pontiac in park, he sat, keenly aware he was about to pass the state trooper. This was it; three, two, one . . .

The truck zipped by the marked car in a matter of seconds, but KITT experienced every millisecond as a little eternity. He observed the blue and white lights of the state officer's vehicle reflected in the windshield of the SUV in front of him. His circuitry nearly failed. They spotted him, he must have been too loud, or they knew he was an old car on a new bandwagon. All hope of escape was lost in that moment . . . until he saw the trooper pass right on by him to a yellow 'beamer' that was obviously speeding. A brief sound escaped his speakers; a nervous laugh, if he were human.

That was close, pal; another touch from the past. Well, he was safe for now and that counted for something.

Three Nights Earlier

The grounds of FLAG's estate were quiet as most of the staff that worked in and around the mansion had gone home for the evening. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary for a Thursday night except for one detail, an altogether welcome yet unfamiliar sedan sitting in the circular driveway. Parked just behind it was an equally unknown but allowed flatbed truck; its plain clothes driver snoozing away in the cabin. Judging by the light shining out one of the mansion's windows, the owner of the car was inside.

Scott Wellington, a man who looked to be in his late sixties with a roundish face and lean build was seated in a large plush leather chair in one of the mansion's second story offices. This would be the first time Scott had ever made an appearance at the estate before, even though he had been head over the Foundation actively for ten years. It was a lovely little piece of property, with a certain allure about it, but his reasons for never visiting were varied and grave at best. Regrettably, his obligations lead him out here tonight with difficult choices to make. Decades of research, several people's jobs and a man's dream would be riding on this decision and he was feeling the burden of that responsibility tenfold.

He was here expecting a conference call soon; one that had been set up a week prior due to a face to face meeting failing to bear any workable agreement. He started drumming his fingers on the wooden desk; his hand inches from the black office phone; his mind wandering. He believed fully in the work FLAG did. They had done a lot of good work over the years; putting away a lot of criminals who otherwise would have gone free and helping victims get back what they couldn't on their own; a chance. He didn't want to see all this come to an end; not on his watch, not ever.

But, a lot of things had changed over the years; the increased price of equipment, resources and standard of living for one thing and the dwindling amount of finances for another. Fundraisers and charity events just didn't seem to pull in as much as they used to in this economy and Knight Industries had grown tired of footing the difference. He had tried to reason with the board, but they insisted that the money could be put to better use elsewhere and often did just that. The old methods of FLAG were just outdated solutions in a world of better innovations they'd say.

The board had told him five months ago that the Foundation's funding would be suspended and that they would not sign for another special operative until a decision for further endowment was reached. He was shocked and afraid it might be too late to save what he had promised to uphold. The list of things he should have done differently quickly played and replayed in his mind followed closely by self-doubts. Had he made the right decisions? Could he have done it differently? Would it all end soon? He was faced with this last chance of convincing Knight Industries to keep its long-standing investment by proving another way to raise funds or standing to give everything over to the highest bidder and losing the Foundation as he knew it.

"What have I done?" he sighed miserably. Looking up he noticed the portrait of an older man on the wall. It had a silver plate at the bottom of the frame which read: Wilton Knight, founder of the Foundation for Law and Government. "One Man Can Make Difference."

Scott took in a deep breath. The phone rang. He pressed the speaker button . . .

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen . . ."

The conference began.

Unbeknownst to Mr. Wellington, or his callers, a third party was recording their conversation from an adjacent structure to the main building; a garage to be precise.

KITT was ashamed of himself for eavesdropping. After all, it was illegal, and to listen in on the director of the organization he belonged to no less. On the other hand, so to speak, he was instructed to go into surveillance mode by his friend and former partner, Michael, for this specific purpose. He chose to comply. Technically, he was supposed to only take orders from his current driver, but since the AI had been without one for five months it couldn't hurt to take the advice of a former one he both liked and trusted.

At this point in the 'stakeout', he was alone as Michael wasn't allowed on the grounds after dark. Since the man no longer worked for FLAG he was only permitted there at certain hours and even that was due mainly to the man's stubbornness and persistence to do so. Therefore, KITT would get the 'scoop' about the Foundation's future tonight and recap with Michael in the morning. Of course, this late night spy mission of theirs didn't go without question. Bonnie pointed out just how wrong it was to listen in on important, sensitive information and just how much trouble they would all be in if discovered.

KITT had been torn between these two significant people from his past; driver and technician arguing their cases like an old married couple would do. But in the end, Bonnie lost the vote if only because KITT was already curious as to why Mr. Scott Wellington was coming to the mansion in the first place, considering the man had never visited prior to this. In fact, KITT still didn't even know what the man looked like as Scott had slipped in through the back wearing a heavy overcoat. But, after hearing the man's voice, KITT had a strange notion he had heard Scott before. It was peculiar and, adding to the abnormality of it all, Wellington had invited Bonnie and Michael to a professional banquet being held for staff tomorrow evening. That troubled the AI. For an institution that was struggling with finances, a large dinner party appeared to be a rather frivolous expense.

To what end would it serve?

Plus, he had to admit he was also concerned as to what the purpose of that tow truck in the front was. Bonnie and Michael had been very vague about what he would hear but assured him everything would be fine and not to worry, which made him worry, of course.

Hopefully, he could get some real answers now.

"Let's just skip right on to business. I want Flag's operations to continue," Jennifer Knight's familiar voice said over the line, "but I also know this has to be a unanimous decision and that some things have to change for that to happen."

She actually was one of the main shareholders for Knight Industries and coincidentally headed the company. Her name was no coincidence either as her father had not only created the corporation but founded FLAG. Obviously, her sayso carried weight and her tone reminded everyone of that.

"I'm open to suggestions," Scott said. Another man's voice came over the telephone. He was known as Jay Malloy, a board director for fifteen years and his tone was gruff.

"I say we let the government have the whole thing and cut our losses. They certainly have the resources. I mean let's face it, the nineties aren't coming back. That non-profit stuff just doesn't work in the private sector."

"I beg to differ," a woman named Jocelyn Sanders, a member for five years, said in her very cultured voice, "There is a freelance agency itching to take over this project and though they may be a little on the greenhorn side, they are connected to some groundbreaking work."

"Yes, but the technological advancements in Flag have been phenomenal because of all the testing done in real-world applications. We can't just let that go. In the right hands that could be quite profitable for us," interrupted a smooth-talking man by the name of Doctor Andrew Phillips; a member of the board for twelve years.

"I believe you're all forgetting why Flag was created. It's here to catch criminals who operate above the law. It's here to help people who have nowhere else to turn. It's here to help provide back-up to law enforcement and government agencies in time of need. If we're tied up in the federal government's administration there won't be room enough to breathe let alone act on an investigation and if it becomes just another private research corporation it will be driven by the bottom line instead of getting the job done," Scott stated. All was quiet for a moment and Mr. Wellington wondered if he had lost them.

"He has a point," a third man, Jonathan Gadson; on the panel for eight years, finally replied in a business-like tone.

"My father started the Foundation for Law and Government because the world had enough corrupt politicians and businessmen to go around and not enough people to stop them . . ." Jennifer added pointedly.

"Look, I understand all that, but, at the end of the day, it all takes money. The fact is we are running a business not operations for James Bond. Maybe we can keep certain aspects of the Foundation, like contracting technology with law and government, but the investigations have to go. At least if we give it to the Feds the employees could keep their jobs and we would be spared the expense. There would still be investigations; it would just be done differently. That's all I'm saying," Jay stated.

"No, Mr. Malloy, you know as well as I do it's the military who's really interested in this deal and they'll have their eyes on one thing. They see the Knight Industries Two Thousand as a hundred-fifty million dollar investment that they will tear apart for reproduction. Wilton Knight did not want his technology to be used for that purpose specifically and I will not allow it to happen," Scott voiced strongly.

"Besides, if we hand it over to this freelance law enforcement group we could still keep some lucrative economic ties to it and hold some powerful influence over its operations. It would be known as the Knight Foundation, according to the man heading the proposal; a Russell Maddock," Jocelyn interjected.

"Well, my proposal is that we use that technological marvel to 'our' advantage. If we're smart about this, maybe loaning it out to the private sector of research and development for testing would be profitable . . ." Dr. Phillips began.

KITT's mainframe trembled. One side wanted to give him up to become a possible strategic weapon in military hands, another desired to sell him to amateurs for the principles of rent-a-cop and the other was to have him dissected under a microscope for earnings. Was the Foundation going to willingly hand him over to 'the highest bidder' like this? Was that all he was useful for now? Is this why that tow truck was out there?!

"We can't do any such thing. The car is supposed to remain secret. It's what gives us the edge over the criminals my people face," Scott stated tersely. KITT detected the genuine concern and anger in Scott's voice and, for some odd reason, it made the AI feel safe.

"Yeah, well its maintenance bill sure is no secret to us," Jay said bitingly.

"I know, but it can be manageable if we look at alternative technologies-" Scott began.

"But that doesn't include the damages caused by it or its drivers, not to mention injuries and paychecks for that matter. In fact, Mr. Malloy may be right. It may just be that side of the Foundation needs to go," Dr. Phillips interrupted. Jennifer sighed.

"Enough. I was really hoping we could reach a consensus tonight. All corporations and institutes have their ups and downs and sometimes it is best to let them go, especially if they mean financial ruin, but what I can say is that the actions of FLAG have personally saved my life twice and countless other lives. It hasn't bankrupted us yet nor do I believe it will now. It was built on a dream to make the world a better and safer place for all of us and I won't put a price on that."

Again there was silence, but this time it was charged. KITT had sensed Jennifer's sincerity through the voice analyzer. It had been a bumpy road with her, but he couldn't shake the belief that her father, his creator, would have been proud. He could only hope that her statements hadn't fallen on deaf ears as all the others continued to remain quiet.

Then Jonathan spoke up.

"I've been giving this tremendous thought over the last few months. I would be willing to fund the Foundation for another year, tentatively of course, but only if you will assign me control of the fundraising departments at Flag and allow me to relocate the operations here in Seattle to my existing warehouses. I believe I can turn the support for Flag around in a year and I'll even supply up to thirty-five percent of the general fund from my personal investments if everyone else will agree and pitch in."

The atmosphere changed in drastic ways for all sides considered.

Scott's features brightened. Jonathan's proposal sounded promising. He waited patiently to see how others would respond.

KITT's inward countenance darkened. Jonathan's proposal sounded unsettling. He waited uneasily for the others to reply.

"Thirty-five percent, huh?" Jay said, clearly weighing the offer.

"How would you plan to fix the funding issues?" Dr. Phillips questioned acidly, not as convinced. Jonathan sighed.

"Dr. Phillips, I could draw up some projects and plans to lay out before you by the end of next week if you'd like. I assure you that I have experience in saving bankrupt programs as do you probably, but as Mrs. Knight has pointed out, we are running out of time. Right now I'm just asking for a commitment to try."

"I've already shared my thoughts about keeping FLAG," Jennifer stated.

"I suppose it still keeps our options open, regardless. I'm in," Jocelyn said.

"Well, I'm in as long as you keep that thirty-five percent edge off. Rick and Margaret will like that too," Jay said. Scott outwardly grinned while KITT inwardly shook.

"I intend to," Jonathan replied with a smile in his voice, "And you Dr. Phillips?"

"Fine, yes. I guess Knight Industries will keep the Foundation for Law and Government as a beneficiary, but I only agree for six more months. If I don't see improvement by then, I'm out," Dr. Phillips finally agreed.

"Well, thank you, ladies and gentlemen, of the board for your time and consideration. I will inform the staff about the continued contract once everything is finalized and begin interviewing for a new operative as soon as documents are squared away," Scott said happily.

"We'll send the paperwork to you in the morning . . ." Jennifer went on to explain, but KITT just left his audio surveillance to record as he went into a separate channel to think. His processor was so chaotic at this point. Something was wrong, but he couldn't prove it.

Jonathan Gadson's proposal had to be erroneous, but there was no evidence of it. His own voice analyzer hadn't picked up any stress in the man's tone that would indicate lying. Besides, why would the man lie about something like this? He'd been on the Board for eight years. Plus, FLAG was going to stay. Knight Industries had reached a decision to keep backing the Foundation; that was good news.

But that good news was a lie he briefly thought. But the evidence directed him otherwise. Perhaps he was just nervous about moving. After all, he didn't want to leave Los Angeles; he didn't want to leave Michael and Bonnie. However, he knew that if he had to he would and Michael and Bonnie would understand and stay in contact, so that couldn't' be it. Maybe his mainframe needed to be examined; it had been a while since he had been serviced. Still, the notion that something was horribly wrong kept pushing in on him.

What if something was wrong? He tried searching up on Jonathan and found nothing incriminating. He tried searching his own memory banks and drew a blank. Theoretically, if nothing was amiss he should have dropped it from his processes, but he couldn't. He needed more flexible data; a human perspective.

The Firebird's engine turned over as the garage door opened remotely, each at KITT's command. The car rolled out onto the gravel path leading to the more permanent brick drive ahead.

Mr. Wellington hung up the phone and stood up to grab his jacket from the coat rack next to the window. He happened to glance out and thought he saw something that could only be described as a gleaming shadow taking flight down the driveway.

. . . love is kind . . .