Cyclops One af-1

by Jim DeFelice

  Firenze put up his hand as Howe came in. Howe waited while he finished whatever business he was going over with the others. When he came over, he seemed to shy away a little, as if he were a kid apprehensive about being punished for something he’d done.

  “We’re looking at a tough timetable on the Monitor,” Howe told the scientist, using the RC-135’s nickname. “I just wanted to make sure the technical people are going to be ready. Just see if there’s anything that needs to be done.”

  “Sure.” Firenze pulled out a PDA and popped up a scheduling screen, which took several different Gantt charts and compiled them into a hieroglyphic decipherable only by the scientist. He went through the different major tasks, assuring Howe that the aircraft and personnel would be ready shortly.

  “What about Cyclops Two?” Howe asked.

  “I didn’t think it was part of the operation,” said Firenze.

  “It’s not. I’m just wondering, if the aircraft were needed, if it would be ready. And the Velociraptors.”

  “You have to talk to the maintainers,” said Firenze. “But there’s no technical reason on my side to keep Cyclops Two on the ground.” The scientist gave him a funny look. “Bird One, though — that’s still mine. Until we figure out what was wrong with it.”

  “I thought it was cleared following the tests the other day,” said Howe.

  “I have some ideas I want to check out.” Firenze’s phone began to play the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The scientist grabbed it from his belt. “Gotta get this call,” he said, retreating to the other side of the long lab room.

  Howe’s own beeper went off a few seconds later, with the code showing that Bonham wanted to talk to him. Rather than finding a phone, he went back across the base and down into the main bunker. He ran into Bonham as he was walking toward the control room.

  “There you are. Good,” said Bonham, abruptly turning around and heading back toward his office.

  Howe felt a little uneasy as he trailed behind; the former general was walking faster than he ordinarily did, frenetic energy practically oozing from him.

  Megan had betrayed Bonham as well. He presented a calm exterior, but inside he’d be roiling.

  Howe wanted to pound her. Pound her.

  Unless she was a victim. Unless she hadn’t been lying to him.

  How could she have lied? She hadn’t felt as though she’d been lying.

  “We have a chance,” said Bonham, ushering him through the outer office.

  “What chance?” asked Howe. “What about?”

  “The national security advisor is going to talk to you about an operation involving Cyclops Two in India.”

  Howe reached for the seat in front of the desk, listening as Bonham told him of the situation in southern Asia. As Bonham laid it out, the mission itself sounded very similar to one of the scenarios in their early trials.

  “It’s a chance to redeem the program,” said Bonham. “If we can pull this through…any fallout from these Russians, or whatever the hell happened to Cyclops One…it won’t touch us. Your career will be saved. Don’t tell me you’re not thinking about that, Tom. I know you are.”

  His career was so far from his thoughts that Howe didn’t answer.

  “I don’t know the operational details,” said Bonham. “I’m not sure there are any. They’re going to keep me out of the loop, I’m sure, because I’m not — because NADT is strictly development. I understand that. But could the Velociraptors fly shotgun with Cyclops Two? What’s their status?”

  Almost against his will, the details of what Howe would have to do to undertake such a mission began turning through his mind. He started a list of whom he’d need — an intelligence officer first thing. Weapons people…

  The main people were already in place on the Cyclops side, and the Velociraptors.

  Support — tankers, AWACS, patrols for them. Reconnaissance. He’d need a lot of backup.

  SAR.

  “Tom, call Dr. Blitz,” said Bonham, turning the phone toward him, then reaching over and punching the numbers. “Here, I’ll get the connection.”

  * * *

  Three different checkpoints blocked the road off the mountain base. Bonham made a point of lingering at each one, stopping and chatting with the guards as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He’d changed into jeans and nondescript clothes, which was standard procedure for anyone leaving the base via the highway. He was also driving a civilian pickup with Montana plates, also standard procedure. It was not unheard-of for him to go off base while he was out here; he usually took off a few hours every visit, loading fishing gear into the back of the pickup. The gear was there now, and if anyone had asked he would have mentioned a stream about fifty miles from where the base road met the highway, a stream where he often fished.

  No one asked. And no one followed when he turned off the highway and onto the dirt road leading to the stream. He got out, put on his waders, and then went into the water. The first sting of the creek brought a rush of blood to his chest and upper body; he walked upstream ten or twelve yards, then set out a cast.

  If casts were only measured by distance, it would have been perfect; his fly sailed in a long, high arc for what seemed like forever. But it plopped hard into the water, too dead to fool a fish, too loud to be anything but a piece of bait. He might just as well put a cut-up rubber worm on the hook.

  No matter. Bonham reeled in slowly and cast again. The fly went even farther this time and landed even harder. He tried again, arms jittery, his mind too filled with other things, too distracted to relax.

  Bonham stayed in the stream near the deep part of the channel for more than a half hour, listening to the water and the stillness around him. Several times he thought he heard someone coming up the road behind him, but it was only the thumping of his heart.

  Finally he strode out of the water and went back to the truck. He packed away his gear slowly, then opened the small case where he kept his flies. He touched each specimen carefully, hoping the ritual might relax him.

  It did not.

  Back on the road, Bonham turned left instead of right, heading toward a McDonald’s about five miles away. He stopped and went in, using the rest room. When he came out, he paused at the public telephone booth. As if acting on impulse, he squeezed in and threw a quarter down the slot. Then he punched an 800 number.

  It took a while for the number to connect. When it did, he said firmly, “I have a new plan. It has to be followed precisely and quickly. It’s not perfect, but it will divert attention. Things can be left open-ended.”

  The person on the other end of the line said nothing as Bonham continued to talk. There was a simple acknowledgment when he was done. Then Bonham hung up and went to buy a Big Mac before returning to the base.

  Chapter 15

  What was presented to Megan wasn’t so much a plan as an idea, and a difficult one at that. To pull it off she’d have to fly her aircraft to the very edge of its endurance limit. There was a single field available for her to refuel at, and while the foreigners there would be well paid to forget her presence, there would be no way of controlling any future complications.

  On the other hand, she recognized the dilemma.

  This would not only draw attention away; it would allow her to complete her mission despite the delays and fresh demands.

  Was that still important?

  The augmented ABM system was. It was part of her goal, her real goal, and she would do anything to make it a reality.

  The first time her uncle told her his story about flying over Tokyo during World War II—how old was she? nine? and by then he was in his seventies—from the moment that he told her that story, her purpose had crystallized.

  We can end war.

  Not naïvely, not by putting your head in the sand or throwing away your guns, as the Quakers would urge. Her father’s father had made that mistake, and where had it led?

  To three hundred feet over Tokyo, flying through clouds of acr
id smoke, flesh and bricks on fire below, the roar of your engines not loud enough to drown out the babies’ cries.

  Because of weakness. Had Hoover challenged Japan in the beginning, in China, the outcome would have been different.

  Her father saw that, and her uncle. They even agreed that if Congress had acquiesced to Roosevelt’s rearmament — had they gone beyond his requests — the Japanese never would have dared.

  But give her uncle and the others credit: The American bomber crews in World War II did what had to be done. She would too.

  “What are we doing?” demanded Rogers.

  Megan hit the Delete button and confirmed, then looked up from her computer terminal.

  “Why are you in my room?” she demanded.

  “I want to know what was going on.”

  One thing she had to give him: He didn’t try to make himself attractive.

  “We’re going to plan a new mission,” she said. “It will eliminate the complications.”

  “Will I get paid?”

  “Of course,” she said, oddly comforted by his avarice. “Extra. Help me plan.”

  Chapter 16

  Fisher had almost made it to the helicopter when the evil sibyl’s gaze fell upon him. The landscape turned purple and a hideous howl filled his ears. The earth would lie fallow for seven years.

  “Mr. Fisher!”

  A curse formed on his lips but went unuttered; he didn’t want to lose the grip on his freshly lit cigarette. Instead, Fisher pretended he hadn’t heard anything and continued toward the waiting airplane.

  It was no use. Gorman had the angle and appeared in front of him with twenty yards to go. Fisher threw on the brakes lest he touch her and melt.

  “Hey, what’s up, Captain Bligh?” Fisher asked. “Tahiti in sight already?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “That plane over there.”

  “Who authorized your flight?” she asked.

  “You color-blind, Jemma?”

  “Huh?”

  “This isn’t a blue suit I’m wearing. I’m outside of your chain of command. Plane’s got a seat and I’m taking it.”

  He took a step toward the plane but she put her hand up.

  “Whatever you paid for the manicure, you got ripped off,” Fisher told her.

  “Andy, you can’t leave.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’re in the middle of an investigation.”

  “That’s why I’m getting on the plane,” said Fisher.

  “But if the Russians took Cyclops One—”

  “Which they didn’t.”

  “Damn it, listen to me.”

  Jemma’s face flushed, probably with embarrassment that she had used a four-letter word. Fisher smiled and took a long drag on his cigarette. “Mom’s gonna wash your mouth out, probably with lye soap.”

  “Listen, if the Russians — whoever — took the plane, then they had to have inside help.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “We have to figure out who it is and build a case. That’s FBI territory.”

  “You think? I pegged it for CID or DIA or something,” said Fisher. “Jeez, Jemma, when you roll your eyes like that, how come they don’t pop out?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, really, they look like they’re going to drop on the ground.”

  “Are you going to help or what?”

  “I am helping.”

  “By leaving?”

  “Didn’t you make that suggestion yourself the day I got here?”

  She drew back, her face turning red. Fisher would have enjoyed the performance immensely, but he was concerned about missing the flight. It was the only plane headed eastward for several hours. “Andy. Listen. Do you know who was helping here? Beyond the crew? Was Howe involved?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” said Fisher. “Probably not Howe.”

  “Why do you pull my chain like that?”

  “ ’Cause it’s so easy.”

  “Do you think there was a conspiracy here to steal the plane?” she demanded.

  “Makes sense.” Fisher shrugged. “But I’ll tell you more when I get back.”

  “Andy…I…we need someone here who knows what they’re doing,” she said.

  “Leaves me out,” said Fisher. He took a step forward.

  “I’m asking nicely.”

  “Can I get a sonar up to look in those lakes?”

  She looked exasperated. “No. That’s…to get permission to do that, and then get the gear…given the other evidence now…You’re nuts. Why are you obsessed with the lakes?”

  “Bonham’s the one who’s obsessed.”

  “He only suggested it.”

  “You don’t think that’s interesting?”

  Gorman’s sigh sounded like the mating call of a horse. “I don’t understand you. You figure out that the plane has been taken, then you come up with a crazy theory one hundred and eighty degrees in the other direction: that it crashed in the lakes.”

  “Who says that’s my theory?”

  Gorman stamped her feet, a gesture that reinforced Fisher’s suspicion that she had equine blood in her. “I’m going to put Kowalski in charge.”

  “It is kind of nice to see you grovel,” admitted Fisher, seeing the crewmen starting to button up the plane. “But I gotta get going.”

  Part Three

  WORLD WAR III

  Chapter 1

  Howe shut down his aircraft, slowly working himself out of the restraints, moving with great deliberation as if he were reluctant to leave the plane. He’d flown nonstop to Kabul, Afghanistan, refueling by air along the way. Ten thousand miles, give or take; it was a serious haul, even in the pilot-friendly Velociraptor, coming on top of several hours of intensive planning and then hustling to leave. By all rights and normal flight rules, he was owed some major sack time, but nothing about this operation could be called “normal.”

  There was no way he could go to bed until he made sure the operation was under control; a slew of details had to be attended to if they were going to be ready to take off tomorrow night, the analysts’ best guess about when the Indians would launch their attack.

  Howe extended his arms and stretched his back, twisting his muscles. Deciding he had officially caught a second wind, he pulled himself out of the cockpit and onto the ladder that the ground crew had brought over. The men had been waiting for some hours for his arrival and were already swarming like ants on a jelly sandwich. The Velociraptors’ “home” team was due to arrive in another few hours from North Lake, but the crew here — residents and others gathered as the ad hoc operation was pulled together — gave up nothing to them in terms of skill, speed, and precision. With a wide range of experience in various aircraft, the maintainers could probably have rebuilt the aircraft from the ground up if necessary.

  It wasn’t. The Velociraptor and its sister, now being secured by Timmy a short distance away, had performed perfectly. If he hadn’t been there, Howe would almost have doubted that the glitch that killed the controls on his original aircraft had even happened.

  “Man, do I have to take a leak!” yelled Timmy by way of greeting as he climbed down from the plane. “Piddlepack’s full up, and I had my legs crossed the last thousand miles.”

  Howe shook his head and began walking toward a pair of Humvees waiting nearby. By the time he had ascertained that they’d been sent to bring him over to the base commander, Timmy had joined him.

  Part of the air base had been given over to the operation, in effect quarantined from the rest of the world. A two-star general had come over from CentCom to take charge of the operation and was waiting for Howe in a suite down the hall from the base commander’s headquarters. Eight F-15Cs and a KC-135 tanker were tasked to the group, along with Cyclops Two and the Velociraptors. An AWACS and its escorts were due in shortly from Saudi Arabia, along with an E-3 upgraded Rivet Joint aircraft code-named Cobra Two, which could provide real-time intelligence from intercepted electr
onic transmissions, including radio and telemetry. There were two different SAR packages already here, manned by troops from Special Forces Command and including not only Air Force PJs or pararescuers but Army SF troopers as well. The packages were built around a pair of MH-60s, modified Blackhawks used for long-range missions; within a few hours they were expecting a long-range MC-130 that could be used for long-distance operations as well.

  Compared to the way the military ordinarily did things, the operation was thrown together. But the force it was able to project was, pound for pound, one of the most potent ever assembled, short of a nuclear-strike team. The warfighters were relying on not dozens but hundreds of highly skilled personnel backing them up: aircraft mechanics, survival shop specialists, weapons orderlies, fuel handlers, cooks, clerks, security people, communications whizzes, drivers, and gofers. The pilots might get any glory that was handed out, but in reality they were a very small piece of the pie.

  Major General Alec Liu had been briefed on the mission by the planners who had helped Howe outline it back in the States, as well as by the Pentagon and even Dr. Blitz. According to the latest estimates, the Indians would hit the radar site within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The attack would be made at night, but as yet it had been impossible to get a better idea of when. That meant a twelve-hour patrol, on top of the time it would take to prep the mission and get into position.

  Liu, an Air Force officer, realized how far that would push the flight crews and kept shaking his head as they traced the expected flight area on the map. There was no way to provide proper relief crews for the main elements of the mission: Howe, Timmy, and the crew of Cyclops Two were going to have to fight through their fatigue for the marathon mission.