Cyclops One af-1

by Jim DeFelice

  Chapter 7

  Howe couldn’t stand or sit still, could hardly walk instead of run. He couldn’t go anywhere, or couldn’t decide: He had to do something, had to what?

  Punch something.

  It was bad enough when he thought Megan was dead. He wandered through the underground complex, jogging up the stairs rather than taking the elevator, going to the hangar bunkers and lab areas. He moved quickly, warding off conversation, pausing only for the card checks and retina scans. He wanted to be alone, and yet, he walked nowhere that he could be alone. His mind spun like the turbine in an engine cut loose from its controls. He couldn’t believe she was a traitor; he couldn’t believe she’d used him.

  Was this what that look on the runway had meant? Had she been laughing at him all along?

  He’d kill her himself.

  Maybe it was Rogers, the copilot. Maybe he’d gotten up from his seat, strangled her or poisoned them all somehow, killed them and taken the plane himself.

  Gorman was wrong, wrong, wrong.

  But that look — what had it meant?

  Howe found himself standing in the hallway near Bonham’s office, waiting for Bonham to get off the phone. As soon as he heard him hang up, he walked in, knocking on the doorframe.

  “Whatever it takes, I want to help track them down,” he said as he walked in.

  Bonham squinted, as if there were words on Howe’s face he couldn’t read.

  “We’re all involved,” said Bonham finally. “There’s no question about that.”

  “No — I want to be on the front lines. Every asset we have, including the Velociraptors, ought to be involved. I want to be there. I deserve to be.”

  Bonham got up abruptly and went to his outer office door, closing it as well as the inside one. When he came back, the expression on his face was even more pained than before. He seemed to have to push the words from his mouth.

  “Your concern’s going to be appreciated. It’s understandable. Totally. Completely,” Bonham said. “But…well, I’m not in the chain of command, so what I say…it’s just based on my…my experience and sense of things. Careerwise, your best bet — the thing you should do right now…I’d hang back. Let events take their course. No one’s going to blame you if the plane was…if it turns up somewhere else.”

  The lie seemed to embarrass Bonham, and he stopped speaking. If the plane had been stolen, Bonham’s head would be the first chopped off — God knew what would happen to NADT itself — but Howe’s would surely tumble soon afterward. If the accident hadn’t already killed his career, this had.

  “I want to be on the front lines,” insisted Howe.

  “It’s not my call.”

  “I ought to be involved in recovering the aircraft,” said Howe. “It’s my project. I want to stick with it to the end.”

  “It’sour project, Tom.Ours. We are involved. Whether we like it or not. But we can’t do every single thing. You know that. Besides, recovering the plane, if there were an operation…it wouldn’t really be our assignment. You know?”

  “I want to be. You have the pull.”

  Bonham pursed his lips together but said nothing. Howe’s energy had finally run out. He nodded, then rose and left the office.

  Chapter 8

  Dr. Blitz shifted uneasily in the secure videoconference room. The national security advisor’s private facility in the sub-basement of the Old Executive Office Building was only a few weeks old and the environmental controls still hadn’t been fine-tuned. Given a choice between freezing and sweating, Blitz had opted for freezing. His fingers were now nearly frozen into position.

  There were advantages to using this room, however. The conference coordinator sat across from him, separated by the sort of glass window that would be used in a radio DJ booth. Blitz sat in front of a panel that allowed him immediate access to several different secure networks and his own personal computer files. He could talk to his staff, either via secure text IMs or vocally over the phone while the mike was on mute. Two other stations could be occupied, and it was up to him to decide whether to put them on the air or not. The system allowed him to get real work done while pretending to listen.

  Not that he needed that capability today. All his attention was directed toward the others on the line as they discussed the disappearance of Cyclops One.

  It wasn’t bad enough that India and Pakistan were about to start lobbing nukes at each other. The Air Force colonel assigned to investigate the Cyclops accident had just come up with a bomb of her own: a theory that the Russians had stolen the aircraft and its weapon.

  An incredibly plausible theory, as the silence of everyone else on the circuit — the CIA director, the defense secretary, the head of the Air Force, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS) chairman — attested.

  “We start by surveying the Russian base,” said Colonel Gorman, her square chin firm despite the shaking video feed. “I’ve asked Special Operations Command for input on an attack option.”

  “Slow down, Colonel,” said the defense secretary, Myron Pierce. “You’re talking about an act of war in a foreign country — a member of NATO, I might add.”

  “Stealing our plane wasn’t an act of war?” snapped Gorman, adding belatedly, “With respect, sir.”

  “They’re not going to keep it in the open if they did take it,” said the CIA director, Jack Anthony. “And I doubt they’d have it at that base where the spy planes are. The satellite review hasn’t turned it up.”

  “The interpreters are reworking that,” said Gorman. “Obviously we don’t have twenty-four-hour coverage of that base. It’s possible it stopped there, refueled, and moved on.”

  “What else would the attack option include, Colonel?” asked General Grant Richards, JCS chairman. It was a softball question with an almost solicitous tone; Blitz realized Gorman had already briefed him.

  Smart.

  “In the best-case scenario, I’d like to use Cyclops Two,” she said. “It would neutralize anything we came up against.”

  “Cyclops Two?” said Blitz. “I thought the aircraft on the project were grounded.”

  “That would be unnecessary if Cyclops One were located, proving there was no malfunction,” said Gorman. “I would note that aside from some minor technical points, everyone from the scientists to the maintainers at North Lake has failed to find a problem. This explains why, frankly.”

  “What about the Velociraptors?” said Blitz.

  “I wasn’t asking for them, sir,” said Gorman. “But I’d certainly take them.”

  “They also have a clean bill of health,” said General Richards.

  Blitz realized that the Air Force was going to push strongly to get the plane back, not just because it was their asset, but because doing so would put them in an excellent position to get rid of NADT and regain the initiative on their own development programs.

  He was sympathetic to that. And there was a certain symmetry to using the weapon that had gotten them into the problem.

  Still, this was one of the few times he actually agreed with the defense secretary: They were getting ahead of themselves.

  Gorman detailed a preliminary order of battle that involved a good hunk of the forces available to the Pacific Command. Simply mobilizing that large a force would surely tip off the Russians.

  Assuming, of course, that they had stolen the plane.

  “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” said Blitz. “Far, far ahead.”

  “Sir, I was authorized to retrieve the aircraft,” said Gorman. “My orders were explicit. They went beyond investigating the circumstances.”

  “Your orders were issued under a different set of circumstances,” said Blitz. “In any event, we have to find it first.”

  He glanced at the wall clock. He was due upstairs to talk with the President about India and Pakistan in five minutes. He’d bring this up as well — recommend a search without the strike option.

  “I intend to find the aircraft, sir,” said Gorman.
“But when I do, wouldn’t it make sense to be in a position to retrieve it immediately?”

  “What about a smaller task force?” said General Richards.

  “We would prefer overwhelming force,” said Gorman.

  “In case of any contingency. On the other hand, a small strike force, operating with Cyclops Two, could be used for a pinpoint operation.”

  “We haven’t heard from the FBI,” said Anthony. “What does Andy Fisher think of all this?”

  “Mr. Fisher was the one who figured out where the airplane had been taken,” said Gorman.

  “Oh? Let’s hear him, then.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not available,” said Gorman. “Mr. Fisher tends to work according to his own schedule.”

  “Speaking of schedules, I’m afraid the sand has run out of my egg timer,” said Blitz. “I think we should press ahead with the search but hold any attack option in reserve.”

  “I think Cyclops Two and the Velociraptors should be prepared for a mission,” said General Richards. “We’ll formally take the aircraft over this afternoon from NADT.”

  The others murmured agreement. Blitz saw no point in objecting.

  “I’m meeting with the President in a few minutes,” he told the others. “I’ll bring it up with him.”

  Chapter 9

  Out of other options, Fisher resorted to a tactic he had learned from an old hand on his first week as an FBI field agent: guile. He phrased his request for a helicopter in such a way as to make the request sound as if he wanted to retrace the probable path from the test area to the abandoned base, something not even Jemma Gorman could object to. But as soon as the MH-60 Blackhawk got over the Canadian border, Fisher leaned forward into the cockpit area with his red-lined topo map.

  “What we really want to do,” he said over the headset they’d given him, “is head up north, to the point where they found that plane part, and work up from there. I want to look at this wedge here, these lakes especially.”

  “That’s not our flight plan,” said the pilot.

  “Yeah, I know. You allowed to smoke in here?”

  “Not really.”

  “Even if I open the windows?”

  A half hour later the helicopter passed over the plateau where the 767’s part had been found. The area was marked out with small triangular flags but was no longer guarded.

  “So what exactly are we looking for?” asked the pilot as they flew along the western leg of the triangle Fisher had marked out.

  “Damned if I know,” said Fisher over the interphone circuit. “But I’ll tell you if I see it.”

  “Pretty country,” said the crew chief, standing near him at the side door.

  “Yeah,” said Fisher.

  “You know, some of this area has been gone over quite a bit,” said the crew chief. “We went over it ourselves.”

  “Yeah,” repeated Fisher. “I want to get further north, though. How deep you think that lake is?”

  “Couple hundred feet, I bet. Real deep.”

  “What I think I’m looking for is something very deep with a deserted road nearby for access.”

  “You looking for a hunting lodge?”

  “Maybe,” said Fisher. “Actually, an abandoned place would be perfect. Road doesn’t have to be much. Enough to get a couple of trucks in.”

  “Hmmm,” said the chief.

  “That mean you remember something like that?”

  “Means I could use a smoke too.”

  * * *

  There were two reasonable candidates, both at least fifty miles farther north than the search grid, but both on line with where the part had been found. One sat in a crevice between two rocky peaks and had a paved road around the bottom quarter. But there were cabins a few miles south with a view of the road, so Fisher opted for the other site. A flat area emptied out of a road and on the lake at the southeast; they put the helicopter down there.

  Fisher got out of the chopper and walked up the road, which looked like a logging trail cut through the woods. There were a few stacks of brush alongside it; the cuts looked weathered, though none of the people in the helicopter had been Boy Scouts and so they couldn’t tell how old they were. The trail ran a hundred yards to a macadam road.

  Fisher stood at the turnoff, smoking a Camel pensively. There were tire tracks at the edge of the road. He paced off the width, deciding the trail was roughly twenty feet wide — more than enough to get a flatbed down.

  But if there was anything in the water, it was fairly deep. And there was no debris on the shoreline.

  Back by the lake, the crew members were sitting on the rocks, dangling their feet in the water. The pilot stood gazing over the surface.

  “So?” he asked Fisher when he returned.

  “Could be,” said Fisher.

  “Could be what?”

  “Nothing or something. Hard to tell.”

  “If the plane crashed in the lake, wouldn’t there be debris on the surface?” asked the chief.

  “I did see a candy wrapper,” said Fisher. “But then again, Canada’s always coddled litterbugs.”

  Chapter 10

  Dr. Blitz had nearly reached his office in the West Wing when one of his secure cell phones rang. Glancing at the number, he saw it was McIntyre. He took the phone out and stood against the wall, deciding he would go straight to the President’s office when he finished the call.

  “Blitz.”

  “McIntyre. Something’s definitely up.”

  It took considerable fortitude not to use any of the dozen or so sarcastic responses that occurred to the national security advisor. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. I wangled an invitation to some bases up in Kashmir. I’m leaving in ten minutes.”

  “Good,” said Blitz.

  “The army’s on high alert. Everybody’s antsy. You want a rundown from the embassy people?”

  “What I want is more information than I can get from CNN,” said Blitz.

  McIntyre started to protest.

  “I understand it’s a difficult situation. I have to go,” said Blitz as someone came down the hall. He snapped off the phone, then smiled at Wordsworth Cook, the secretary of state. A small horde of Cook’s aides clogged the hallway, going over some last-minute items with the secretary as Blitz slipped into the Oval Office.

  Jack D’Amici was standing at one side of the desk, hitting small golf balls into a practice putting device. The balls snapped into one side of the chute and then were spit back across the thick, regal carpet. His chief of staff stood nearby, watching.

  “Professor.”

  “Mr. President.”

  Blitz took a spot next to the putting range, careful to position his feet in the rough.

  Ordinarily, D’Amici would chat as he putted, but today he concentrated on his shots.

  A very bad sign, Blitz thought.

  The chief of staff excused himself as Cook came in. The two men, one blue-collar striver and the other drenched in old money, couldn’t stand each other and barely exchanged nods.

  The President continued to work on his golf after the door was closed.

  “India is going to strike Pakistan,” said D’Amici finally, sinking the last ball in his line in the hole, “because they’re convinced Pakistan will hit them. How do we stop them?”

  “Bump their heads together,” said Blitz.

  Neither the President nor the secretary of state laughed.

  “I think if we permit a nuclear war to proceed, we’ll have committed almost as grave a sin as those who start it,” said the President. “And I use the words in on purpose.”

  D’Amici put up his hand to keep Blitz from interrupting. “I think that we have to do everything we can to prevent India from attacking Pakistan,” he continued. “Clearly, if they strike the missiles, the Pakistanis will have no option but to respond.”

  “Nothing we can do will prevent them from attacking,” said Blitz. “Even if we shared intelligence, they’d simply change the
ir plans.”

  “We could also tell the Pakistanis they’re coming,” suggested Cook.

  “Then how do we guarantee they wouldn’t launch a preemptive strike?” said Blitz. “If we were in that position, I would.”

  “As would I,” said D’Amici.

  No one said anything as the President lined up his golf balls for a fresh round. Blitz couldn’t help but think about the augmented ABM system; what would this conversation be like ten years from now? Would the President simply call both sides and tell them they wouldn’t be allowed to fight?

  It would be more complicated, surely, but at a minimum they could prevent a nuclear exchange.

  Ten years from now. Not now.

  Maybe simple rhetoric would scare them off now. Hints, rather than hard facts — get them to realize what was at stake.

  “I spoke to Howard McIntyre earlier,” said Blitz, trying to move the conversation forward. “He’s sure they’re close to action. Maybe a strongly worded speech on national television, getting the entire world’s attention; it might get them to pause.”

  “If this was simply the government, that might work,” said Cook. “But this is clearly a splinter group. And as for Pakistani reaction…”

  He let his voice trail off. Blitz generally had a hard time reading the secretary of state; he seemed to be something of a pacifist, yet had served in the Defense Department and came from a family that had contributed a number of generals to the Army. A onetime senator, before returning to government he had been on the board of several defense contractors.

  “Assuming I appeal to both sides and that doesn’t work,” said D’Amici, “what do we do next?”

  Blitz glanced at Cook, who glanced at him.

  “Can we stop the Indian attack on the radar site?” asked D’Amici. He smacked his golf ball so hard it scooted nearly to the opposite wall. He walked over and retrieved it.

  “That would be quite an operation,” said Blitz. “To get aircraft that deep in Pakistan-we can do it, but the Pakistanis, and probably the Indians, would see us.”