Cyclops One (12 page)

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.

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.

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.”