Cyclops One af-1

by Jim DeFelice

  “What motivates Bonham?” he asked the pilot.

  Howe shrugged. “I don’t know. He buys into it, I guess. We don’t really discuss philosophy.”

  “Not money?”

  “He wants to be defense secretary someday,” said Howe.

  “What do you think about talking to him?”

  “When? Now? It’s after eleven.”

  “Yeah. If we’re lucky we can catch him in his jammies.”

  Chapter 5

  Bonham turned on the TV and flipped over to ESPN as he pulled off his jacket and tie. The swirl of parties and receptions over the past forty-eight hours — the whole hail-fellow-well-met routine — was an intoxicating diversion, but it was only that. Segrest and a number of the others were determined to use the weapon for the second stage of augmented-ABM tests, set to begin in a few days. They were trying to isolate him, maneuvering behind his back.

  He’d sent Megan York a long, coded E-mail telling her to carry through with the dismantling of the weapon immediately. Her one-word acknowledgment had been uncharacteristically short. There was no way, however, to safely contact her or the others on the island.

  ESPN cut to a commercial; he’d have to wait for the scores.

  Bonham slipped off his shoes. His paranoia was starting to get the better of him. Things had gone incredibly well, and his idea to set up the Cyclops One crash in India had worked out even better than he had hoped. The satellites had been able to definitively identify the strike on the Indian missiles as a laser discharge, and the investigators would spend months if not years trying to somehow connect the Pakistanis to the theft. In the meantime NADT was getting all the credit for Cyclops Two’s performance, and despite the tarnish of the theft Bonham’s stock was rising proportionately.

  He would have preferred burying the plane in the lake by remote control as planned. But this was the next best thing. The loss of the Velociraptor and the delays in the ABM tests had complicated everything.

  Segrest was being greedy. They had achieved so much — why did some people always want even more?

  ESPN SportsCenter came on, leading with a story Bonham didn’t want to hear: The Red Sox had lost again. They now trailed the hated Yankees by two games.

  The doorbell relieved his anguish.

  At this hour the security people at the gate ordinarily would insist on a visitor calling ahead. But there were several people they knew well enough to send right through, and Bonham indulged in a brief fantasy that one had decided on delivering a midnight pick-me-up in person.

  Colonel Howe’s voice punctured the fantasy as Bonham reached the door.

  “General Bonham, this is Tom Howe. I need to talk to you.”

  “Tom.”

  Bonham pulled open the door. Next to Howe was the annoying FBI agent, Andrew Fisher.

  “Come in,” Bonham said, trying to remain the gracious host. “Why didn’t you call ahead?”

  “We didn’t want to wake you if you were sleeping,” said Fisher.

  A lie, obviously. But why?

  Pain-in-the-ass Fisher — why hadn’t he been reassigned yet?

  Bonham led them back up to the den, killing the TV and offering drinks. They declined but he got a Scotch for himself, retrieving a few cubes of ice from the kitchen.

  Howe sat ramrod straight in one of the chairs. Fisher sprawled against the corner of the sofa, his feet up on the table.

  “Do you know where the Cyclops laser weapon is?” asked Fisher.

  Bonham took a sip from his drink. “Is that a trick question?”

  “Mr. Fisher’s not convinced that the weapon from Cyclops One was destroyed in the crash,” said Howe.

  Bonham felt a twinge of panic. It was hard enough dealing with Fisher, who at least had a reputation as an eccentric and maverick. Howe not only was smart but had access to people who would listen to what he said. Bonham steadied himself with a sip of the Scotch, letting the bitterness sting at the insides of his mouth. He sat back down and closed his eyes momentarily, as if fighting off fatigue.

  “As far as I know,” said Bonham, “the preliminary findings from the task force assigned to the disappearance of the plane is going to reflect — well, it’s going to say that it crashed in China after a fire aboard, which blew up the laser fuel.”

  “There’s no evidence of that,” said Fisher.

  “No?” Bonham knew that there was — they had very carefully worked out what the crash would “look” like — but it was not difficult to act surprised. “Did the Chinese get there first? Or the Indians?”

  “Maybe the laser wasn’t there to begin with,” said Fisher.

  Bonham looked at Howe and smiled, as if they were in on the joke together. “Well, I guess the satellites and Cyclops Two’s sensors were wrong, then.”

  Bonham walked over to the chair and sat down. The more he heard of Fisher’s theory, the easier it would be to discredit it, though the agent had already given him more than enough ammunition.

  “There was definitely another laser fired,” said Howe. He looked at Fisher, who was still staring at Bonham.

  “So, was there another plane?” asked Bonham. “Chinese? Russian? I guess Russian wouldn’t work, because they’re allies of the Indians. Unless they were being altruistic. Possible, I guess.We were.”

  Howe looked over at Fisher. Fisher, suddenly seeming very reluctant to talk, shrugged again.

  Howe rose abruptly. He was angry, though characteristically he controlled his emotion so well that only someone like Bonham, who’d dealt with him for a while, recognized it. “I’m sorry we bothered you, General.”

  “No, no, listen, I want to hear what you think,” said Bonham. “Have a drink.”

  “It’s late,” said Howe.

  Fisher remained on the couch.

  “Tell me your theory,” Bonham told him. “Where is the laser if it didn’t crash?”

  The FBI agent pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”

  Bonham hesitated, but only for a moment. He had clearly discredited Fisher in Howe’s eyes, but it would still be useful to know what Fisher was thinking. He balanced that against his growing revulsion of the agent.

  “Go ahead,” he told him.

  “Maybe I better not,” said Fisher. He unfolded himself from the couch. “Probably bother your wife.”

  “I’ve been divorced from number two for five years,” Bonham told him.

  Howe was already at the hall to the door.

  “He’s got my ride,” said Fisher. “But thanks anyway.”

  “Now listen, if you boys have something solid, I want to know what’s going on. I know Jemma Gorman is competent, but maybe there’s something that’s been overlooked.”

  “I’ll let you know,” said Fisher, shambling out.

  Chapter 6

  Howe didn’t talk until they were back in the car.

  “What the hell was that about? We looked like a couple of assholes.”

  “Pretty much,” said Fisher. “What do you figure a condo here goes for?”

  “Maybe you like looking like an asshole,” said Howe. “I don’t.”

  “According to his financial disclosure, he spent under two-fifty on the place when he bought it two years ago. Just from what I saw, there had to be three bedrooms, I’m going to guess a formal dining room on the other side of that living room, the den we were in, at least two baths plus the master bath. Gated community, yada yada yada — what, million? Million and a half? Tall ceilings, though, so probably even more. TV setup, furniture, paintings, that Chinese vase in the corner? Wasn’t Crate & Barrel.”

  “You blew smoke up my ass, didn’t you?” said Howe. “Why did you want to see Bonham? Just to check his condo out?”

  “Relax, Colonel. You’re too high-strung. Wave at the guards and smile. They did us a favor.”

  Howe tightened his hands on the steering wheel as he passed out of the condo property.

  “The general wouldn’t have seen you if you had come alone
, is that it?” Howe asked.

  “Part of it.”

  “You should have just said that without bullshiting me about another plane, then. I don’t like being bullshitted.”

  “I ain’t bullshitting you, Howe. Unlike everybody else.”

  “Fuck you.” The traffic light ahead was turning yellow. Howe stopped at the intersection and turned to Fisher, who was sitting slumped against the door, his thumb pressed against his lips watching him.

  “What’s the real story here? Was the laser destroyed or not?” asked Howe.

  “Not,” said Fisher. “I think.”

  “You think?”

  “If I knew for sure, I wouldn’t be here, Colonel. I’m sure Bonham has a lot to hide. Maybe just money, maybe more. Whether it’s related or not, I don’t know. Everybody hides things.”

  “You think he was paid off to steal the laser?”

  “I think that would’ve come later, once he’s involved. Or not: Maybe these guys just figure they can do whatever the fuck they want. Just from what I can see, they control a lot.”

  “They stole the laser so they could rig the ABM tests.”

  “Yup.” Fisher squirmed in the seat. The light had turned green. “Listen, you didn’t expect him to drop to his knees and confess, did you? Of course not. He wouldn’t have gotten where he is, much less pulled this off, if he was like that. Hell, kid who breaks into a house isn’t even like that. You got some cars back of you.”

  Howe stepped on the gas. “Why him?”

  Fisher shrugged. “Had to be somebody pretty high up. I don’t have York, I trust you, so that leaves Bonham.”

  “Why do you trust me?”

  “There was a virus thing in your plane’s environmental system that nearly caused you to crash. Firenze compared what was left of it to the system in the plane that crashed and it’s identical. Doesn’t totally let you off the hook, I know, but it’s all I got to go on at the moment.”

  “There was a virus in my plane?”

  “They have a more technical explanation.” Fisher took out one of his cigarettes. “You think I operate by gut, huh? I look at you and decide you’re honest?”

  Howe felt so unsure of so many things now that he didn’t know what to feel, much less to say. Bonham and Megan traitors?

  “You go by your gut, bad chili dog can throw you off,” said Fisher.

  “Bonham wouldn’t have fooled with that plane,” said Howe.

  “Not himself, no. May not have been meant to kill anybody; your wingman went a little lower than he was supposed to, and maybe that got him nailed.” Fisher shrugged. “I may never know for sure, though. The people who did the controls won’t talk to me, which is a hopeful sign.”

  The entrance ramp to the Beltway was just ahead. Howe put on his blinker, figuring he’d dump Fisher off and go back to the hotel and sleep, maybe for a month.

  “I do have another idea,” said Fisher, rolling down the window and throwing the cigarette away. “If you’re interested.”

  Chapter 7

  This time the kid was sitting on a park bench, waiting for him. McIntyre tried to stop himself from moving forward, but it was hopeless: He had as little power to change the dream as he had to change what had happened in Kashmir.

  The sky began to change color, subtly shading from deep blue to a greenish gray. Tinges of red appeared near the horizon. McIntyre tried to concentrate on them but his eyes were inevitably drawn to the boy sitting on the bench.

  A bell began to ring. At first he didn’t know where it was coming from; he thought it was part of the dream. Then he realized it was the doorbell. He threw off the covers, grabbing anxiously for the light at the side of the bed. He wasn’t fully awake, but he was thankful for the interruption, glad to be spared the nightmare.

  By the time McIntyre pulled on his bathrobe and slippers, he was almost completely awake. The bell continued to sound at regular intervals. His relief faded as he glanced at the clock on the night table. It was just past two o’clock in the morning.

  “Yes?” he said when he reached the door to the condo. “Who is it?”

  “Colonel Howe,” said the voice.

  “Howe?” He hesitated for a second, not sure whether it might be some sort of gag or a trick or something. He unlocked the dead bolt but left the chain, pulling the door open a crack before reaching to turn on the light.

  “McIntyre, we have to talk to you.”

  It was Howe. There was someone else with him, though McIntyre couldn’t see who it was.

  “Colonel…it’s a little late.”

  “I know.”

  Had he heard about the kid and his mother? Maybe he was here to warn him.

  McIntyre pushed the door closed, then undid the chain.

  The FBI agent, Fisher, was with Howe.

  They must know.

  He nodded to them both without saying anything, then led them inside. They trailed him to the kitchen. The overhead fluorescents stung his eyes when he snapped them on.

  “I’m going to make some coffee,” said McIntyre. “Sit down.”

  “I know we’re disturbing you,” said Howe.

  “That’s all right.” McIntyre measured out three scoops of Maxwell House into the filter.

  “Hit it again,” said Fisher.

  McIntyre froze. It took a second to figure out that the FBI agent wanted him to make the coffee stronger.

  “Mr. Fisher has a theory,” said Howe.

  McIntyre’s fingers trembled and he dropped the scoop.

  “Let me do that,” said Fisher, getting up. “Have a seat.”

  McIntyre’s robe fell open as he pulled out the chair. He fussed at it in slow motion, pulling it together, feeling suddenly cold in the room. Howe began to talk as he tightened it.

  He was talking about the laser, about Cyclops One — not what had happened on the ground.

  Fisher thought the laser had been put into another aircraft to be used during the augmented-ABM trials.

  McIntyre couldn’t believe that was why they were here. He hoped it was, though — he wanted it to be, wanted the boy back alive, back before him, breathing or even crying, but alive.

  “It would take a lot of people to pull it off,” said Howe.

  “Just the right people,” said Fisher.

  He put the coffee down in front of McIntyre. It was stronger than he was used to; the aroma alone was enough to jar McIntyre’s senses. It helped drive the dream away.

  “There were traces of the chemicals used in the laser system at the site,” McIntyre told them. “I was briefed on the preliminary findings by Gorman.”

  “Yeah.” Fisher took a gulp of the coffee. “There’s traces but no real volume. Lab people pointed that out. Unfortunately, we don’t have anything to compare it to. I suggested we blow up the other plane but nobody went for that.”

  He didn’t seem to be joking.

  “I have another idea,” said Fisher. “We watch the ABM test and see what happens.”

  “They’ll know we’re watching,” said McIntyre. The coffee was good for his head, but what was it doing to his stomach?

  “Yeah, you’re right,” said Fisher. “Probably it’s just a wild goose chase.”

  “I think we ought to do it,” said Howe.

  McIntyre didn’t know if the theory made any sense or not; he just knew he didn’t want to be alone, fearing the nightmare might return.

  “Tell me more about your theory,” he said.

  “There’s not much more to it,” said Fisher.

  Howe glanced at him, frowning as if he knew he were lying, but the Air Force officer said nothing himself.

  “Another time,” said Fisher, getting up.

  “Wait.” McIntyre looked toward the doorway, as if he expected the child to appear. “It wouldn’t be too hard to set up, but I’d have to talk to Dr. Blitz about it.”

  “Good,” said Fisher. “Where’s your phone?”

  * * *

  An hour and ten minutes after bein
g woken by McIntyre’s phone call, Dr. Blitz sat behind his desk in the West Wing of the White House, trying to run the fatigue from his eyes. McIntyre still looked shell-shocked from his experience in India, and Colonel Howe just looked exhausted. But the FBI agent, Andy Fisher, smirked in a way that suggested he didn’t need the coffee he was chugging. His offhand manner was difficult to decipher; Blitz couldn’t tell if he was trying to provoke a response or was just naturally a jerk.

  “I don’t believe any of this,” Blitz told Fisher after he outlined his theory.

  “Yeah, it is pretty far-fetched,” said the FBI agent. “It’s out there.”

  “So why are you here?”

  Fisher leaned his face forward as if he were going to say something utterly profound. Instead he scratched his ear. “You came to D.C. from teaching, right?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Blitz had the distinct impression that Fisher was examining him as he spoke, watching his reactions the way a miner panned through sediment, looking for gold.

  “Nothing.” Fisher leaned back against the chair, resuming his slump. Blitz knew the agent had been involved in high-level espionage and technology cases before, and assumed he wasn’t the dummy he pretended to be.

  And then suddenly he realized the import of the question he had just been asked.

  “You think I’m involved, don’t you?”

  “Are you?” answered Fisher.

  “I ought to throw you out of here.”

  “It’s happened before.”

  Blitz locked his eyes with the FBI agent.

  “Don’t be a wiseass, Mr. Fisher.” Blitz turned to McIntyre. “The launch-surveillance satellites can’t pick up the laser discharge except under very specific circumstances.”

  “I’m aware of that,” said McIntyre. “But we could use the test monitoring plane, the RC-135.”

  “It’ll tip them off.” He looked over toward Fisher.

  “Probably,” said the agent.

  “It won’t matter if they know,” said McIntyre. “That’s the point, isn’t it? You want them to know you’re watching, because you’re hoping they’ll do something you can trace. And if they don’t and you’re right, their missile will miss and that’ll be evidence anyway.”