Every attempt had one goal.
Keep the evidence from leaving Falcon Ridge.
At 06:44, Cacau sent the message Sloane later mentioned on the runway:
Aircraft still staged. Pilot moving forward. Need hard stop.
The reply came from a prepaid device that went dark six minutes later.
Then make it unflyable.
That was when Cacau got the paint.
The grenade was his own escalation, or so he would claim later. Investigators never fully believed that. Men like Cacau often call the worst part of the plan “improvised” once the plan fails. But whether he was ordered to carry it or chose to bring it, the meaning was the same. He wanted the flight line terrified enough that no one would ask the right question until the evidence could be moved again.
The right question was never “Why did he throw paint?”
The right question was “Who benefits if this aircraft does not leave?”
Cacau’s first interrogation began at 09:35.
He entered still trying to look offended. The arrogance had partially returned after the grenade was removed and the immediate danger passed. He sat in the interview room with his wrists cuffed to the table and insisted he had prevented an unsafe flight.
The CID agent asked what made the flight unsafe.
Cacau said the cargo was misclassified.
“How did you know what cargo was aboard?” the agent asked.
“I heard concerns.”
“From whom?”
“People in operations.”
“Names.”
Cacau leaned back.
“I’m not going to throw people under the bus because your office wants a clean story.”
The agent placed a photo of the paint-smeared windshield on the table.
“This is not a concern. This is sabotage.”
Cacau looked at the photo.
“You don’t understand what that flight was going to do.”
“What was it going to do?”
He said nothing.
The agent placed a still image from Hangar Three beside the first photo. It showed Cacau opening the supply cabinet.
Cacau’s jaw shifted.
Then came the access log.
Then the maintenance note.
Then the weather advisory.
Then the 06:44 message.
Cacau stopped leaning back.
The agent watched him carefully.
“You were not trying to stop an unsafe aircraft. You were trying to stop evidence from leaving the base.”
Cacau looked up.
“That evidence is not what they told you it is.”
“Then what is it?”
Cacau’s mouth opened.
Then closed.
Fear returned again.
Not fear of the agent.
Fear of the answer.
That was when investigators knew Cacau was still protecting someone, but not out of loyalty. Loyalty has a different posture. Cacau was protecting someone because he believed the consequences of naming that person were worse than prison.
General Sloane expected that.
She had seen the structure before. A mid-level operator gets caught holding the visible weapon, then hints at powerful people without naming them, hoping the institution will become cautious. Hoping the case will slow down. Hoping command will decide that digging too deep might embarrass too many offices. The phrase “this goes high” is sometimes a confession, sometimes a threat, and sometimes a desperate attempt to make accountability feel dangerous.
Sloane did not slow down.
She accelerated.
By 11:00, she ordered a freeze on all Mesa Crown access to Falcon Ridge systems. By 11:20, contractor badges were disabled. By noon, all flight scheduling changes from the previous seventy-two hours were pulled. By 13:10, CID had seized devices from the logistics coordination office. By 14:30, the evidence package from Copper Nine had been moved under armed guard to a secure vault on base instead of by aircraft, because the flight line itself was now compromised.
Origi spent most of that day being interviewed.
Investigators asked him about the false maintenance note, the weather advisory, the logistics call, the preflight sequence, Cacau’s exact words, the grenade, General Sloane’s arrival, and his own decision to grab Cacau by the collar. He answered everything cleanly, but he could feel the last part hanging in the room.
“Yes,” he said before the agent asked it a third time. “I put my hands on him.”
“Why?”
“He had just blinded my windshield before takeoff.”
“At that moment, did you know he had a grenade?”
“No.”
“Would you have approached differently if you had known?”
Origi gave a humorless laugh.
“I’d like to say yes.”
The agent looked up.
Origi continued.
“But the honest answer is I don’t know. I saw the windshield, I saw him standing there proud of it, and I moved.”