Cyclops One

Chapter 1

Blitz put his head back on the couch, jostling the headset as the conference call continued. He’d been on the phone since boarding the 747 in Hawaii two hours ago, discussing the Indian-Pakistan situation with various analysts. Things had moved so fast, he wasn’t completely confident the two countries wouldn’t be at war by the time he touched down.

He was fairly certain of one thing, however: If they did go to war, it would be extremely nasty.

If the CIA and NSA were interpreting the most recent Orion Elint intercepts correctly, a unit of Indian paratroopers had just practiced blowing up a mock radar site several hours ago. The exercise had included live ammunition, helicopters, and aircraft.

In and of itself, the exercise wasn’t particularly interesting; everybody conducted live-fire exercises now and again to keep the snake-eaters tuned up. Nor was it more than simply alarming that the site had been set up to look like a specific Pakistani early-warning radar — one that the analysts said covered a key alley or path to Pakistan’s two suspected nuclear-missile launching sites in the far northeastern corner of the country.

What was truly ominous was the fact that the unit conducting the exercises could not be identified within the Indian chain of command. And that several Indian Air Force units had “disappeared” from their normal bases in the south and were believed to be in Kashmir.

Given political developments over the past few weeks, Blitz concluded that a small group of Indian military officers had decided to plan a preemptive strike against Pakistan’s nuclear forces. It was undoubtedly seen as a way to prevent the increasingly belligerent forces in the Pakistani military from trying to take advantage of the deteriorating political situation in India. The plan was a solid one: The special forces would take out the radar; Indian jets would come across the border a few minutes later. Within twenty minutes they would be at their targets — just before the missiles could be launched if a warning was received.

There was only one problem: The Pakistanis had secretly relocated two missiles to a base deeper in the country. Augmented by a booster shipped from China three weeks before, the missiles could obliterate any part of India.

The Indians obviously hadn’t picked up on it yet. Their preemptive strike would do just the opposite of what was intended: ignite a nuclear exchange, not head one off.

Blitz had just debated with the secretaries of state and defense what to do. State wanted to find some way to warn the Indians off. Defense wanted to do the same for Pakistan. Blitz argued that there was no way to do either without both compromising future intelligence-gathering operations and making the situation even more unstable.

They had to come up with something. The military analysts examining the plan believed it had been set up for a moonless night, the first of which was five days away.

“Professor?” Mozelle ducked her head around the partition across from the couch. “You wanted General Bonham. He’s on two.”

The other major headache.

“All right,” said Blitz. “Could you get me some water?”

“No coffee?”

“I think I’m going to give up caffeine.”

Mozelle rolled her eyes. Blitz went off coffee about once a month.

His earphones clicked, and General Bonham’s basso came on the line.

“Dr. Blitz, this is Bonham.”

“General, thanks, I know you must be busy. Where are we?”

“Still no change.”

“The President is asking about this,” said Blitz. “He wants a resolution.”

“I believe one’s in sight, sir. Colonel Gorman is optimistic. It is, technically, her ball game.”

Mozelle reappeared with a bottle of Pellegrino and a glass. She mouthed the words All I could find, then set the glass down on the table at his side. There were small indentations to hold the glass and bottle during turbulence.

“I understand that there’s a theory that the aircraft was stolen by the Russians,” said Blitz.

“There’s little to support that theory,” said Bonham. To his credit, his voice was remarkably even.

“The crash is still unexplained?”

“I’m afraid so. My technical people, and everyone who’s been sent here — we’re working on it around the clock. You can assure the President of that.”

“I’ll try,” said Blitz. Mozelle was once more at the partition. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me informed.”

Blitz killed the connection.

“McIntyre on one. And the President wants to know when you’ll be back in D.C.”

“Better ask the pilot.” Blitz took a sip of the water. It reminded him of being on vacation — which reminded him he hadn’t taken a vacation in three years. “McIntyre?”

“Professor, this place is hell.”

“I’m not interested in cosmology, McIntyre. How close are these people to war?”

“Couldn’t tell you. I just got into Delhi. You know what the temperature is?”

“You’re whining an awful lot.”

“I am, yes.”

“Did you start on those bases?”

“Well, no. Not yet.”

“Get an update at the embassy, then get moving. There’s an Indian general who’s offered you a plane. Take advantage of it.”

“How did the tests go?” McIntyre asked, tacitly surrendering.

“Jolice hit a home run. Then we had bad weather and canceled the other two shots.”

“Really?” said McIntyre.

“There were so many delays, it was agreed to scrap them. Only the Jolice people were upset,” said Blitz. “We’ve rescheduled the tests for a week and a half from now. We’re moving them up to Test Area D, south of the Aleutians. I don’t want a vendor circus ever again.”

“Is Jolice going to take part?”

“Absolutely,” said Blitz. “I want to make sure their hit wasn’t a freak shot.”

“Did they complain?”

“Oh yes.”

“They’ve come out of nowhere, missile-wise,” said McIntyre.

“You think they screwed with the tests?” asked Blitz.

“I don’t see how. But I’m with you about rerunning the tests.”

Until now Jolice’s claim to fame was manufacturing very small parts in rocket motors. Some of the other partners were fairly major players: Ferrone Radiavonics, for example, had done a great deal of work on Cyclops. But Jolice and the rest were newcomers in the ABM field.

“A minor problem, compared to India,” Blitz told him. “Keep me informed. I want you to check in six hours from now.”

“But it’s four in the morning here,” managed McIntyre before Blitz clicked off the line.

The national security advisor picked up his glass of water and took another sip. Three more lines were lit with waiting calls.

“Line two is your friend from New York, Kevin Smith, wondering about that ball game next Monday,” said Mozelle. “The Yankees?”

Blitz grimaced. Smith had field box seats right behind the dugout. But there was no way he’d get a chance to get to New York with everything that was going on.

“Better tell him we’ll reschedule,” said Blitz. “Who’s on two?”

Chapter 2

The northern Wyoming airport had been a military base back in the sixties. All that remained were a few low-slung hangars dating from the forties or fifties. Even from the distance, it was clear that weeds had overgrown the runway — though the expert on forward air fields Fisher had persuaded to accompany him explained that wouldn’t be a real problem. The pavement itself was in good condition, clear of debris and not even dusty, as if it had been swept recently.

Which Fisher thought very possible.

“You could put a C-17 down on this,” said the sergeant, walking along the cement with him. The Air Force Special Tactics or Special Forces squadron member was trained in combat control tactics, or landing aircraft in hostile or potentially hostile areas near the front lines. A lanky Texan with a scar on his cheek, Sergeant Bowman preferred Marlboros to Camels but didn’t turn down free-bies. “You might even get a loaded C-5A off. Nice long runway. Good shape.”

“You think it’s been used lately?” asked Fisher as they walked toward what had once been a hangar area.

“Well, something’s been in and out: We know that just from what the sheriff was telling you,” said Sergeant Bowman. “But uh, pinpointing it to a 767—that all’s detective stuff.”

“Where we going to find one of those?” said Fisher. He bent down to examine a spot on the pavement.

The local sheriff had told him that the strip had been used by pot smugglers during the nineties. The sheriff claimed he’d put a stop to it; Fisher figured that meant his price had started eating too far into the overhead.

There had been two reports of low-flying jets in the general area called in to the dispatcher three nights before, which would be the night after Cyclops’s disappearance. They’d actually sent a car out but of course found nothing.

“Fuel truck was there,” said the sergeant. He walked to a stained spot near the cement about twenty feet away.

“When?” asked Fisher.

Sergeant Bowman got down on the pavement. “Recent. Real recent.”

“Well, don’t taste it.” Fisher walked to the edge of the pad, then around toward the wall of the large building that sat at the corner of the ramp. The weeds weren’t all that high and a few were brushed back, but whether a truck had driven over them recently was anybody’s guess.

Fisher took a fresh cigarette out and lit up. The main entrance to the base was up a road to his left. They’d seen another service road farther south when they’d been in the air. There were all sorts of tracks running across a spot at the north side: ATVs, it looked like.

The next-door neighbors were a good twenty or thirty miles away. They had to be interviewed, even though it was unlikely as hell they knew anything.

The sheriff had offered his help. That’d be a laugh, almost as big as the one he’d get when he called the local Bureau office, surely undermanned, for help.

Fisher studied the tip of his cigarette. Was the dry air affecting it, or were his Indian friends doing something to make them burn faster?

The large hangar in front of him had no doors, but its roof was intact. Fisher walked to it and went inside.

The floor was so clean, it could have been vacuumed.

Undoubtedly was.

“Pilot wants to know how we’re doing,” said Bowman, who was wearing a radio headset.

“Tell him we’re ready to go,” said Fisher. “And ask him if he saw a good place for a burger.”

“Are you part of the investigation or what?” demanded Gorman as Fisher got off the helicopter back at North Lake.

“Both,” he told her.

“You can’t just go around commandeering helicopters, Andy. You’re part of a team. There’s a procedure.”

“Yeah, well, listen, Jemma, I found out where our plane’s been, or was, for a couple of days. Bitch of it is, I was about three days too late.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Maybe more — hard to tell. I’m thinking we can get those guys to do that thing with the contrails and radars again, only change the area. Then we backcheck that against the legitimate flights, because this was probably camouflaged as a legitimate flight.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Andy?”

“Buy me some coffee, Jemma. You owe me big-time.”

Chapter 3

Sitting in the second row in the control room, Howe watched the instrument readouts change on the big screen at the front as the technical people reviewed the data from his flight yet again. They’d been over it so much by now, Howe suspected they had every bit of computer code memorized, and still they hadn’t figured out what the problem was. According to the data, there was no problem.

The Velociraptor pilot who’d been bumped from the original test, Timmy “Blaze” Robinson, had come down to the control room to kibitz. He was perched on the back of the seat next to Howe, sipping a cola. In the row in front of them, Firenze — the head of the team that had developed the shared avionics system and its related interfaces, and one of the most important scientists on the F/A-22V project — stood over one of the displays, his finger jabbing at the data flow like an old-West gunman using his revolver.

“Copacetic,” said Firenze finally. “Perfectly copacetic.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Timmy.

Firenze looked up and blinked at him. “Means I can’t find a problem.”

“Maybe there isn’t one,” said Timmy.

“Mass hallucination,” said Firenze. The other scientists were knocking off to get some refreshments, soda mostly. “Kinda like the song on that new Weezer.”

“Haven’t heard it,” said Timmy.

There were talking about a CD by a rock group. The two men were roughly the same age, and while Howe didn’t see that they had much else in common, they apparently shared the same musical tastes.

“Mind if I borrow it? You’re going to be tied up, huh?”

“Go ahead,” said Firenze. “It’s up in the lab.”

“You’re a guy, Doc.” Timmy turned to Howe. “Hey, boss. Lunch?”

“Sounds good,” said Howe. “What do you think, Matt?”

“Very fuggled,” said Firenze. “We’re going to have to get into the bizarre theories next.”

“How bizarre?”

“UFOs,” said the scientist, who didn’t appear to be kidding.

“Hungry?” Howe asked.

“Nah. Thanks. Thinking to do.”

Howe caught up with Timmy in the hall. They went up a level to the NADT Lounge, a plush cafeteria that was one of the serious benies of working with a “private” contractor rather than the regular Air Force. Even the best military chow paled in comparison to the offerings at the Lounge.

Not that the pilots selected from the gourmet side of the menu. Timmy ordered a sausage-and-pepper grinder and insisted on extra garlic. Howe ordered a hamburger with melted blue cheese. It filled the plate, and the spiced fries were sharp and golden.

Megan used to love them, though she’d only eat a few.

“Too many make me fart,” she said.

It seemed impossible that the word had come from her mouth.

“They’re really grinding on the avionics system,” said Timmy. “They keep running it back and forth.”

“I don’t think they have a clue.” Howe picked up a fry. He’d been eating one the first time he met Megan; she’d walked in wearing jeans and a pair of T-shirts, looking like one of the kids working the food line.

He’d give anything for that moment — anything.

“Hey, boss, what’s your flight level?” said Timmy.

“Huh?”

“You’re up in the sky somewhere,” said the other pilot. “Still running through the tests?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I talked to Williams’s dad last night. Nice guy.”

Howe nodded. He’d spoken to the father as well, making the arrangements.

“Hell of a looker.”

Howe jerked his head up, vaguely aware that Timmy had continued talking but unsure of what he had said. Had he been talking about Megan?

“What?” asked Howe.

“I said I met Williams’s sister once. She was a hell of a looker.”

“Oh.”

The two men continued eating in silence.

“You liked her, huh?”

Howe stared at him. The younger pilot wasn’t trying to be insulting, not at all.

“Megan York,” prompted Timmy.

“Yeah. I did,” said Howe.

“Sucks. She was pretty nice.”

Howe nodded. He didn’t want sympathy; there really wasn’t much call for any.

“I know you didn’t publicize it,” said Timmy. “But, uh, she, uh, she was pretty nice.”

Howe smiled, both appreciating the attempted delicacy and amused by it. “She was nice,” he said.

More than nice, but he’d only known her — slept with her, he meant — for four weeks. He really shouldn’t be feeling like he’d been kicked in the ribs, should he?

If he’d known it was going to be that short, would he have done things differently?

Like…

…talk her out of taking that flight?

Why had she frowned at him that morning? What was she thinking?

He’d make sure they gave her a hell of a funeral.

And then?

Then he’d feel like shit for the rest of his life, his one real chance at true love blown all to shit in the Canadian Rockies.

“Yeah, sucks,” said Timmy. He smiled, back to his old self. “You think Firenze really believes in UFOs?”

Chapter 4

General Vladimir Luksha stood with his legs spread slightly and his arms straight out, bent at the elbows so that his fingers touched the sides of his head. He twisted slowly at the waist as he exhaled, moving first in one direction, then the other, practicing a yoga routine he had learned years and years ago as a young lieutenant on assignment to India. It was the only thing of value that had come from that brief tour as a foreign advisor; his three months there did not help his army career, and surely the Indians learned nothing of value from him.

He felt the joints at his neck crack, temporarily releasing the tension there. He went back to the desk in the bunker office he had borrowed for his operation, putting on his sweater as well as his jacket. It was an unusually hot summer day outside; that meant it might be approaching fifty, about as balmy as the Russian Far East ever got.

The temperature in the bunker itself never varied more than two degrees from 72° Fahrenheit; nonetheless, Luksha had felt cold the moment he flew over the Urals from Moscow two months before, and from the moment he arrived at the base ten miles from Petropavlovsk-Kamchakiy on Kamchatka he had worn a sweater as well as his jacket. If any of the others in the borrowed facilities at the former naval base thought this eccentric, they didn’t share their comments with the general.

Luksha’s long-range spy planes were confined to the far quarter of the facility, guarded and serviced by a special detachment of men who lived behind two rows of barbed-wire fence. Luksha’s intelligence analysts — mostly language and telemetry experts, though he had an assortment of scientists, photo interpreters, and aeronautical engineers — lived in the compound as well. It was a large family with its own rules and entertainments; for the most part, the men got along without problems.

They had to. Unless one could prove extreme family hardship — and had the proper political connections in Moscow — he knew he would stay behind the barbed wire until the operation was over.

The buzzer on Luksha’s desk signaled that his appointment had arrived. The general pushed the button to acknowledge the call; he had no secretary, and his visitor knew from experience that the fact the intercom buzzed back meant he could enter.

Luksha waited as Laci Chapeav came into the room. The former KGB specialist shifted his eyes nervously about, as if looking for a bugging device; he headed Luksha’s analysis division, and so paranoia was nothing but an occupational hazard. Chapeav’s long frame had been thin, almost gaunt when Luksha met him many years before. Now he had a potbelly and large bags beneath his eyes like drooping golf balls, but his mind remained sharp.

“The Americans have lost their aircraft,” said Chapeav. “It’s the only logical conclusion.”

“So you said two days ago. Where is it?”

Chapeav’s right hand began to shake, a by-product of a neurological disorder, not nervousness. Chapeav did not get nervous, at least not when dealing with his area of expertise.

“The Geofizia data has been reanalyzed,” he told Luksha. “We are confident that the target aircraft crashed in the mountains, roughly where they are looking. All transmissions ceased. It’s the only possible explanation.”

“Then why can’t they find it? Are they really looking, or is it a ruse?”

Unlike many of his colleagues, Luksha did not overestimate the Americans’ capabilities. Nonetheless, he felt it almost unthinkable that they would simply lose one of their most valuable weapons systems in a common air accident.

“There is a coordinate of doubt,” admitted Chapeav. “But the transmissions that the Geofizia picked up and that we have culled from the satellites are consistent with American SAR procedures. If they are merely going through the motions, they are doing an excellent job.”

Luksha nodded. Their high-altitude spy plane — a Myasishchev M-55 dubbed the Geofizia, because its “cover” mission was as an environmental tester — had been a thousand miles from the actual test area, using its long-range sensor array to gather electric transmissions from the Americans as they tested their aircraft. With the exception of a few rather incidental voice communications, the telemetry from the test craft was coded and essentially indecipherable. Nonetheless, it gave experienced analysts considerable information about the types of systems involved and some of the procedures for using them. Coupled with the spy satellites, Luksha knew enough about the American system to know it represented a turning point in airborne warfare.

He had suspected from the first that the accident was actually part of a deception campaign, though if so, he couldn’t explain where they might be thinking of using it. Perhaps it was merely a ruse to pretend that the weapon was not ready and thus hide its actual deployment.

Possible. But why go to the trouble given the secrecy surrounding the project.

They must know they were being spied upon.

Of course they did.

“General?”

Luksha looked up at Chapeav.

“We will need more resources,” said the general.

Chapter 5

Bonham cocked his head to the side, listening as Colonel Gorman outlined her latest theory on what had happened to the Cyclops 767. She was obviously tired, and her voice barely carried to where he was sitting in the second row of the control room. The bags beneath her eyes seemed to grow as she spoke.

“It’s incontrovertible that an aircraft was at the Wyoming site,” she said. She nodded to the airman sitting at the computer station near her, who put a screen capture showing a radar plot up on the video projector. She flashed her laser pointer at a small blip in the right corner. “This anomaly is unexplained. We think it was the airplane taking off.”

“Twelve hours after the event?” asked Colonel Howe, who was sitting in the front row.

“Yes.”

Matt Firenze began asking questions about how far the plane would have been able to travel. Gorman turned the questions over to one of the technical people. The Cyclops planes were 300ER versions of the versatile airframe, which gave them a published range of 7,400 miles (with their Pratt & Whitney engines unmodified); the actual range varied according to a large number of factors, starting with how much fuel had been loaded into the plane.

The discussion segued into the difficulties of using the weather-mapping radar to coordinate with the other flight data. Bonham didn’t feel he should object to the technical points — he saw no point in speaking at all — and so waited impatiently for them to move off the technical points to the real problem: where Gorman and her people thought the plane had gone.

The FBI agent, Fisher, had taken a seat at the end of the back row, slouching behind a cup of coffee. Bonham watched him from the corner of his eye; it seemed to him that Fisher was studying him as well.

“What you guys are basically saying is that you have no idea where the plane went, and that it could have gone very far,” said Howe. “But you also don’t have any real evidence that it was at this base.”

“Something was there. We’re positive of that.” Gorman glanced up in Fisher’s direction — he’d been the one who found the plane — as if she were expecting him to say something, but he didn’t.

“I can’t believe that Megan York would have stolen it,” said Howe. “That’s treason. She wouldn’t do that.”

“Maybe she didn’t,” offered Fisher.

Everyone turned around and looked at him, but he didn’t add anything.

“Anyone aboard that plane who objected to what was going on could have used the radio,” said Gorman. “The pilot especially. Flying the big plane through those mountains would have taken two people.”

“Not necessarily,” said Howe. He felt his cheeks burning. Why wasn’t anyone else standing up for Megan?

“At this point we have to work on the assumption that everyone aboard was in on it,” said Gorman.

Howe turned to the FBI agent. “What do you think happened?”

Fisher shrugged, then looked over at Bonham as he spoke. “I don’t know. I’d like to look at some of those lakes in the Canadian Rockies.”

“Which lakes?” asked Howe.

“The ones General Bonham suggested.”

Bonham cleared his throat. “I don’t believe I suggested that.”

“My mistake,” said Fisher.

“I may have said something that maybe we should search in that area,” said Bonham, retreating under the agent’s stare. “Obviously I was wrong.”

“Our best theory is that the plane was here,” said Gorman, retaking the initiative with a sharp tone. “And, coupled with the NSA data regarding the Russian spy operation—”

Bonham saw his chance. “What Russian spy operation?”

“We briefed that the other day,” said Gorman.

“Maybe you could go over it again,” he said.

Gorman began talking about transmission intercepts and a high-level Russian operation based in the Far East.

“We want to get a close-up look at that operation as well as other bases they may have in the interior of the country. I’m asking for more people,” she added. “I may set up a new option; I have to talk with my superiors.”

“What kind of option?” Howe asked.

Gorman hemmed a bit. Bonham realized that her original orders had included not merely investigating the incident but recovering the plane. She was thinking about a logical extension: an operation in Russia, if she could find it there.

Logical?

Good God, what a cowboy. What was it about women officers, anyway? Why did they always try to out-macho the men.

Bonham looked at Howe, who was fidgeting in his seat, obviously agitated by the possibility that Megan York and the others aboard Cyclops One were traitors. Poor dumb bastard.

Gorman asked for questions.

“I want to volunteer,” said Howe.

“Volunteer for what?” Gorman asked him.

“I want to make sure I’m involved,” said Howe.

Gorman looked over at Bonham, as if to suggest he say something, but Bonham realized there was little use: Howe wouldn’t listen to logic right now. This was one of those times when a manager did best by doing nothing; Gorman eventually realized it and wrapped up the meeting.

“I’d still like to look at those lakes,” said Fisher as Bonham passed him on his way to the door. “What do you think, General?”

Bonham shrugged. “I guess that’s up to you. Your boss lady seems to think the plane’s not there.”

“Do you?”

Bonham looked at him a second, unsure whether the FBI agent thought he was being sly or suspected Bonham was just psychotic. Unable to decide, he finally shrugged and left the room without saying anything else.

Chapter 6

The copilot, Abe Rogers, had been the most problematic choice for the project from the start. He was the only one of the three who was active Air Force, as opposed to an NADT hire, and yet he was by far the most greedy. Megan didn’t mind greed as a motivator: It was powerful and relatively predictable. But the blatant money lust annoyed her, if only because it reminded her that others involved with Jolice, Ferrone, El-Def, and all the related companies were also primarily interested in money, not the ideals that motivated her.

Her uncle would have pointed out that it didn’t matter. Greed and corruption were always there; even some of the people around Washington and the other Founding Fathers were greedy and corrupt. What mattered was the end goal, and your own purity.

“We were supposed to be done,” he said, standing beneath the overhang that led to the hangar facilities.

“I’m not in charge of the test schedule,” she told him.

“What are you in charge of?” Rogers’s tone was close to a taunt; he pushed his chest forward as if he were an ape trying to intimidate her.

Let the bastard try something,she thought to herself.I’d only like the chance to cut him down.

She didn’t need a copilot.

“I want more money,” he demanded.

“I’ll pass the request along.”

“Do that.”

He spun and walked toward the access door. Megan was angry enough to go out from under the artificial rock outcropping and walk up the path toward the shore. Technically she shouldn’t; the satellite would be in range relatively soon.

They’d been cooped up here too long. The last-minute changes in the ABM testing schedule had made everything more difficult. She could only guess what was going on at North Lake.

The complications had begun with the Velociraptors. She knew that Williams had died. The blackout should have lasted only a few seconds — a blip, really — just enough to sever the connections and let Cyclops One get away.

But events always took their own course.

Like Howe. He was an accident.

Worse: confusion. Still, if he’d been the one killed and not Williams, what would she have felt now?

The waves lapped at the rocks below. Megan listened for a while, then, mindful of the approaching satellite, went back below.

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 their 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.”

“What if we used Cyclops?” asked the President.

Blitz thought many things at once. Striking a helicopter would be fairly easy for the weapon, which had already proven it could do so in trials. It could operate out of Afghanistan and fly either over that country or just over the border. And, if successful, it would have a tremendous impact on both countries, impressing them with American resolve to prevent nuclear war.

On the other hand, it was filled with risk. American lives would be at stake; worse, if it failed and word got out about the attempt, American prestige would suffer.

What was prestige next to millions of lives? If they stopped this war, wouldn’t that prevent others? Wouldn’t it help deter attacks against America itself?

“The laser system itself may work,” said Cook. “But the plane crashed, didn’t it?”

“We have another one,” said D’Amici. “What do you think, Professor?”

“How can we trust it when the other malfunctioned?” interrupted Cook.

“There have been new developments,” Blitz said. The report on Gorman’s latest findings — and, just as important, what she wanted to do about them — would come over from the JCS. But, given the circumstances, the President would not be happy if Blitz didn’t tell him about it now. D’Amici stopped putting and stood with his golf club in his arms as Blitz summarized the latest theory and recommendations.

“I can’t believe the Russians would steal the aircraft,” said the President finally.

“Nor can I,” said Cook.

“There are questions that are worth investigating,” said Blitz.

“We can’t just invade Russia,” said Cook. “That’s what Gorman’s talking about here.”

“They want to use Cyclops Two?” said the President.

“I think the idea is that it would be able to neutralize anything the Russians had,” said Blitz, uncomfortable at carrying water for a plan that hadn’t been finalized and wasn’t his to begin with. “But it may have been added because the people at North Lake are pretty adamant about wanting to be involved.”

“If the Air Force is thinking of using Cyclops in an operation, obviously they believe it’s ready to be used,” said the President. “And if that’s the case, then we should use it in India, if all else fails.”

No one spoke for a moment. Blitz looked at a picture on the wall behind the President that showed Dwight Eisenhower taking the oath of office. D’Amici admired Ike for many reasons. Like Ike, he was in favor of a strong military, yet suspicious of the industrial complex necessary to equip it. Eisenhower had taken a proactive role in several conflicts; would he do so here?

“I’d like to see what a plan involving Cyclops looked like,” said D’Amici. “Can you take care of that, Professor?”

“Yes, sir,” said Blitz.

Chapter 11

Captain Jalil stretched his legs as he walked up the ramp to the headquarters building, fighting against the urge to run. He could think of only one reason his colonel had summoned him. The attack date had been set.

The regiment’s forward base consisted of a short airstrip and a collection of tents scattered around two L-shaped buildings, both of which appeared to date from the British occupation, if not before. Made of large clay blocks covered with more than a century’s worth of paint, the buildings had large windows along their sides; they were more like arboretums than military offices. The morning was still cool in the valley northeast of Sutak in Kashmir, and Jalil felt a chill as he walked down the long hallway. Perhaps it was energy and anticipation: He had waited so long for this that he couldn’t hope to hold himself back, now that the moment had arrived.

Jalil turned the corner to his commander’s office, entering the wide doorway and snapping to attention. His commander continued to work over something on his desk, not offering the slightest hint of acknowledgment. The commando captain stood at stiff attention the entire time; it was relaxing in a way, allowing his muscles and bones to ease into a perfect posture.

“Captain, we have a slight difficulty to deal with,” said the colonel finally before looking up.

Jalil didn’t answer. He felt disappointment — worry, really — that the plan had been canceled. But he kept his body motionless.

“Due to the nature of our arrangements, not everyone is aware of our commitments.” The colonel frowned. Only a small portion of the army and air force were involved in the plan to make the country safe from the terrorists across the border; while they knew they would be supported after the fact, success depended on maintained secrecy, even from those superiors not privy to the plan.

“We are receiving a visitor in the next day or two who must be handled very carefully,” the colonel continued. “He is an American — a spy, really — though of course he won’t admit that. I believe he was allowed to come here because the base seemed the most innocuous place for him to be: far from the front line and nearly unoccupied.”

Jalil resisted the temptation to grin at the irony. “What if the visitor is here when the order comes?” he asked.

“Then I suppose it would be useful for him to meet with an accident. While on patrol with us, perhaps,” said the colonel. “Demonstrating the audacity of our enemy. I would prefer that it did not come to that, but if it did, a suitable script could be arranged.”

Jalil nodded. His colonel grimaced a second, then turned his attention back to his desk, jotting something on a pad. The captain waited nearly a full minute, still at attention, before leaving the office.

Chapter 12

“We’re not dredging the lake,” said Gorman.

“I don’t want to dredge it,” said Fisher. He reached into his pocket for a cigarette, even though they were inside the North Lake control room. “I want to look in it. All I need is some sort of sonar to run across the bottom.”

“And what exactly do you think you’ll find?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe a big hunk of an airplane with something big enough to identify it.”

“It’s a waste of resources.”

Fisher shrugged.

“The plane wouldn’t have just disappeared in the lake,” Gorman said. “No. We’re not wasting our time. Don’t smoke that cigarette in here or I’ll have you arrested.”

Fisher tapped the cigarette on the table. “You’re not going to make me have the Canadians do it, are you?”

Gorman didn’t answer.

“They were setting it up to look like a crash, but something went wrong,” said Fisher. “That’s what I think.”

“We flew over that area several times during the search.”

“Not that far north.”

“We did go over it.”

“It’s beyond your grid. And a lot of that shoreline would be covered by trees from above. That may have been part of the idea.”

“You’re way off base, Andy.”

“Here’s your chance to prove it.”

Gorman said nothing.

“You wanted me to interface with the Canadians, right?” said Fisher. “Consider this taking you up on your offer.”

“As a matter of fact, Andy, why don’t you just go search the lake yourself. Jump in it, as a matter of fact.”

Fisher stuck the cigarette in his mouth. “Sarcasm isn’t your thing,” he said, leaving.

Firenze squeezed his eyes so hard, the eyeballs hurt. The recycled air of the protected research facilities was triple-filtered and adjusted for humidity as well as temperature, but something in it nonetheless aggravated his sinuses and seemed to drain all the moisture from his body.

Even if Colonel Gorman’s theory was true and Cyclops One had been hijacked or stolen, he still couldn’t explain what had happened to the F/A-22Vs. While it seemed logical that some sort of kill command had been sent from Cyclops One to the Velociraptors, there was no evidence in the telemetry data. Not one integer was out of place or unaccounted for.

They’d looked at everything, even the radar altimeter. There was no way the accident had occurred. No way.

The scientist slid his chair back. Fatigued, his brain no longer functioning properly, he decided there was only one thing to do: He pulled out his laptop and fired up Free Cell.

Firenze had gotten through one deal when he was interrupted by a loud garrumph. A lanky government-type stood in front of him, a foam coffee cup in one hand and a Pepsi in the other.

Fisher, the FBI agent.

“You look like a Pepsi guy,” said Fisher, handing him the can.

“Thanks. Hey.”

“Hey yourself. Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

“You want to finish the game first?”

Firenze killed the game without saving it. “Just helps me think, you know?”

“Cigarettes are less frustrating,” said the agent.

“More expensive, though.” Firenze laughed.

“You know what happened to the Velociraptor yet?”

“I’ve been working on it. What happened was impossible. It was like snapping off a power switch. Except that it came back on.”

“Maybe there was a loose wire somewhere and Howe just hit it hard enough to get it to reconnect,” said Fisher. He pulled over a chair and sat on the back, his feet balancing it on the floor. “Used to have a TV like that. You had to slam the top a couple of times to get the colors right.”

Firenze laughed again, though they’d actually checked into a more sophisticated version of the agent’s theory.

“You think Howe faked it?”

“Faked it?”

“Like he didn’t really have a malfunction.”

Firenze shook his head.

“You didn’t think of that, did you?” The FBI agent took a long sip from his coffee.

“No, I didn’t. But Colonel Howe would never be involved in something like this. Never.”

Fisher nodded slowly. “What about Megan York?”

“I don’t think she would, either.”

“Other people on the plane?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Tractor beam,” said Fisher suddenly.

“Tractor beam?”

“Sure. That Russian spy plane — has a giant tractor beam. Flashes through the air, tows Cyclops One back to base.” Fisher smiled. “I talked this thing over with one of my guys back at the Bureau. Hope you don’t mind. He knows a lot about computers and stuff. Not too good at Free Cell, though.”

“Why would I mind?”

“He thought it had to be one of two things,” said the agent. “One, it didn’t really happen to Howe. Or two, there’s a command in your computer that erased itself.”

“The code couldn’t have erased itself. We can see all the commands,” explained Firenze.

“You can see the commands you’re set up to see.”

“Well, yeah. That’s everything.”

Fisher looked at him for a minute, then shrugged and stood.

The environmental system, thought Firenze: the circuit that controlled the heater and the air conditioner.

No way.

But they hadn’t checked it.

Fisher dug into one of his pockets. “This cell phone — you can get me anywhere, anytime. Works all over the place. Unless you call from my boss’s phone. That’s blocked out.” He unfolded a bent business card from his other pocket and gave it to Firenze. “You get something, give me a call, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Really okay?”

“Really okay,” said Firenze.

“I think you’re right about Howe,” Fisher said. “For what it’s worth.”

Chapter 13

Bonham considered not picking up the phone, since he’d already told his assistant that he was leaving, but then habit got the better of him. He picked up the handset and then practically barked into the mouthpiece, intent on scaring off anyone who wanted to waste his time.

“Bonham.”

“General, this is Dr. Blitz. I have a request. I realize it’s unconventional, and I want you to speak candidly and without prejudice in response.”

Bonham sat down in the chair and listened as Blitz briefly outlined the situation in India and Pakistan. The bastards were really going to kill themselves, Bonham thought.

“Could Cyclops Two be positioned to strike the helicopters before they attacked?” asked the national security advisor.

“Of course.” The words slipped out of Bonham’s mouth automatically, without any consideration whatsoever. Blitz obviously realized that and asked the question again.

This time Bonham thought about the problem more carefully. It wasn’t simply a matter of sending the airplane halfway around the world. Its entire support team had to go as well.

But it could do it. One of the early simulations as well as a war game exercise had outlined almost exactly the same mission.

For a brief moment Bonham returned to the Air Force careerist he’d once been, aware not only of the importance of the mission but the difficulties involved in getting the job done. Above everything else was a strong desire to succeed, to accomplish the job; logic came after the emotion, a plan to succeed.

And then came something darker and deeper — something that had been part of his makeup as an officer but suppressed.

Bonham saw that he had an opportunity that could not be thrown away. He didn’t have a plan yet — he was far from a plan — but he sensed there would be one.

“We can do it.”

“Actually,” said Blitz, “it will be an Air Force operation, not NADT’s. That’s why I’m asking for your assessment.”

“War Game Bosnia 2,” said Bonham, naming the exercise. “We took out a SpecOps helicopter team. You’d want the Velociraptors as backups, just in case, but it’s doable. Very, very doable.”

The war game had taken place during the previous administration, but Blitz was no doubt aware of the outcome. He murmured vaguely.

“We can have Cyclops Two ready. It is ready. And the Velociraptors,” said Bonham. “We’ve been scrambling the team for Colonel Gorman; this just involves shifting priorities.”

“It’s not going to be your operation,” said Blitz again.

“I understand that.”

“I’d like to speak to Colonel Howe.”

“Of course. It will take some time to locate him,” said Bonham.

“Our discussions — this doesn’t represent a final decision,” said Blitz.

“Of course not,” said Bonham, his mind seeking ways to make sure it was.

Chapter 14

Howe watched from the sidelines as Gorman and her people refined their plans to find Cyclops One. It was impressive, a veritable air and sea armada that could cover several thousand square miles of the Russian Far East. If her plan had been approved, fully half of the available assets — and a good portion of the unavailable ones — in the northern Pacific, Hawaii, and on the West Coast would have been thrown into the project.

Twice, the people at the Pentagon sent her back to the drawing boards. Through it all, Cyclops Two and the three F/A-22Vs remained out of the mission plan, apparently because of objections from the top. Only the Cyclops test monitor aircraft, an RC-135 whose test equipment could presumably be modified to help detect the laser plane, was in the mix.

Howe would accept that. He could fly aboard the plane as an advisor to the task group. It wasn’t what he wanted — he wanted to be in the Velociraptor, he wanted to nail Meagan himself — but he could accept it.

The memories that had haunted him over the past few days had retreated now behind the flames of a burning house. He saw his anger at being betrayed as a physical thing, something consuming the past and leaving it in ashes. He would get her; he would bring her back.

And yet, for all his rage and hatred, part of him didn’t believe it could be true. Part of him thought she would never ever do this — never give up her country. Rogers, maybe, or even one of the weapons people, but not Megan. Part of him thought they must have killed her to do this.

Megan was rich enough to do anything she wanted, but she had become a pilot and gone to NADT because she believed she could contribute something. She wanted to make the world safer; she saw Cyclops as exactly that kind of program, something with far-reaching implications.

Had her whole spiel been bull?

The lasers were one-of-a-kind products, hand-built, worth hundreds of millions of dollars. The two they had had taken more than twenty-four months to construct, and there weren’t any others in the pipeline.

He’d get her.

As finally approved by the Pentagon, Gorman’s plan called for a Special Forces unit to stand by while a pair of Rivet Joint ELINT gatherers and U-2s conducted offshore surveys of the Russian Far East, concentrating on the area where the Mystic Bs were operating from. Additional satellite assets were being ordered into place over that part of Russia, and two fresh teams of interpreters were being assigned to help look for clues about the planes. The NSA was reviewing intercepts from the area over the period to hunt for clues to the plane’s disappearance; a Navy spy vessel that worked with the agency was being directed into the area.

“Make love to me,” she said. “Make love to me.”

After Gorman’s plan was finally settled, Howe went about checking on the myriad administrative tasks associated with Cyclops. Crisis or no crisis, there were innumerable details to be checked, initials to be scribbled, E-mails to be acknowledged. His mind squared his emotions off into the corner, and while he felt as if he were missing part of himself, he managed nonetheless to go about the routine business with what he at least thought was a veneer of reasonable calm.

Howe worked his way over to the Testing Lab 2, where a team had begun working on the modifications necessary for the monitoring aircraft. Firenze and a knot of scientists huddled at the far end over some hastily arranged tables; a row of workstations duplicated part of the RC-135’s readouts, allowing them to test their changes.

Firenze, though the youngest in the group, was by no means the strangest; that honor went to one of the two experts in digital compression and communication techniques used by the shared avionics system. The two engineers were both about 350 pounds and dyed their close-cropped hair matching shades that varied according to some scheme Howe had never managed to decipher.

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 acrid 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.”