Cyclops One (14 page)

The transmission clearly belonged to a Russian aircraft. Even Luksha, no expert, could see from the graph how the query to the Russian satellite for its position matched the pattern of a dozen other aircraft, including his own. Luksha could also see that the geopositioning gear that made the query had once been in a Tu-160; this match was also perfect.

But according to the three intelligence people fidgeting before him, no Tu-160 had been flying to make the query. The few currently operating with Voyenno-Vozdushnyye Sily’s Long-Range or Frontal Aviation units—officially there were six of the aircraft the Americans dubbed the Blackjack, but in reality only two had actually flown in the past six months—had both been grounded when the query was made.

“So is this a Tu-160, or just the GPS system?” asked the general.

“It is impossible to know for certain, of course.” Chapeav nestled his hands on his potbelly. “Several Tu-160s from the Ukraine were sold for parts some years ago. It is likely that this came from that lot. Some airframes were sold in those transactions, but given the location over the Pacific, we rule this out as an actual Tu-160. It’s simply a GPS unit, and perhaps related avionics, that’s been placed in another aircraft.”

“We rule it out because it’s not the answer we’re seeking,” said Luksha, as usual becoming impatient with Chapeav’s know-it-all manner.

It was possible that one of the Russian military’s development commands or even an aircraft factory was operating a Tu-160 for test purposes or covert missions that his people were not privy to. The bomber, though oldish, was a large, relatively stable platform that was quite usable if kept in good repair. But Chapeav dismissed this with a wave of his hand, claiming that his impeccable sources would have made it clear already if this were the case.

“It is possible that one of the Middle Eastern governments—Iran, I would think—has refurbished an aircraft or two and is conducting long-range testing over the Pacific,” conceded Chapeav, almost as an afterthought. “But our inquiries have not lent support to that theory. That is why we believe the GPS unit itself is all that is involved.”

“Why would the Americans use our satellites?” asked Luksha.

“Assuming it
is
the Americans, it would make it harder to detect or defeat.”

“By them, not us.”

Chapeav smiled faintly, then turned to the short bearded man on the right, a specialist who had worked for the PVO. The man reached into a folder and laid out a set of satellite images showing a bare island near the water.

“Among the islands included in the agreement with Japan for oil exploitation in the Kuril’skije Ostrova was one once intended as a relief base,” said Chapeav. His right hand began to shake; it occurred to Luksha that were it not for this physical disability, the intelligence expert would be intolerable. But the disease softened his hard opinion of him.

“This is a photo of the island,” added Chapeav, pushing the picture at the far right of the series in front of the general, “taken within the past week. And this one is from an aircraft before the leases to the private companies, some years ago.”

As Luksha compared the two photos, Chapeav spoke of the island. It had been used during the 1950’s and sixties as a base for spy flights over Japan and the Pacific, gradually falling out of use during the 1970’s. A brief round of activity in the 1980’s brought improvements to the base under a plan to operate long-range bombers with cruise missiles in answer to the American deployment of the B-1B. The bunkered hangar, cut into the rock, could hold six aircraft, and the access was angled in such a way as to avoid exposure to American satellites then in use—an advantage, Chapeav noted, that continued to this day.

There were obvious differences in the photos Luksha was examining. The older one was black-and-white, and taken at a slightly different angle. A rectangular patch of metal and machinery, which appeared to be an oil rig, sat at the right side of the island in the new photo. But Luksha could not see anything else of significance. He put them down and held out his hands. “The oil derrick?”

“They have reactivated the hangar,” said the intelligence expert triumphantly.

“How can you see that?”

The photo interpreter proceeded to explain, pointing to a thin line at the lower right of both photos. The field itself was camouflaged by shadows that appeared to be rock outcroppings. The line, a reflection of the closed hangar blast door, was not present in the middle series of photos.

“It is not part of the oil-drilling process, which, as you can see, was abandoned,” added Chapeav. “I would believe they timed the work according to the satellite coverage, possibly using the oil derrick as a cover. The small boats that came in and out at that time—they would all have appeared to be part of the oil project, which stopped six months ago.”

“But the base is now in use?” Luksha asked.

“We believe so.”

“By the Japanese?”

“There are no indications that the Japanese Self-Defense Force is involved, but they cannot be ruled out.”

“You’re telling me that whatever used the Tu-160 GPS flew from this island,” said Luksha, “and that it was the 767 aircraft that housed the laser weapon.”

“No,” said Chapeav. “We have not made that connection…but it is an interesting guess.”

His tone was triumphant, as if they were playing some parlor game. Clearly the intelligence expert had made that guess himself: The GPS reads began only twenty-four hours after the laser plane had disappeared.

An interesting coincidence, but no more.

“Can that airfield be used by an airplane as big as the 767?” asked Luksha.

“Yes, though it is not as easy as it seems,” said the third expert, who until now had not spoken. His area was aeronautics; he proceeded to explain how difficult it would be for a plane to take off and land on the strip. The bomber, though heavy, had the advantage of variable-geometry wings. But he ended the discussion of impossibilities by saying it could be done.

“Who owns the lease?” said Luksha.

“We are examining that,” said Chapeav. “It is under Japanese authority by treaty, which makes the information slower to obtain. According to their official records, it is abandoned.”

Luksha leaned back in his seat, considering all that he had been told. In order to do anything further, he would have to travel to Moscow personally to ask permission and gather additional resources.

“It would be useful to visit the island,” he said finally, knowing it would elicit another parlor-game smile from Chapeav. “I will begin preparing the arrangements.”

Blitz sat down at the small metal table across from the large stove in the White House kitchen. It was nighttime, and he could see both his reflection and the President’s in the window next to the refrigerator as D’Amici fixed himself a cup of herbal tea. He could, of course, have gotten an aide to do it; Blitz imagined most presidents would have. D’Amici not only liked to do things himself, he liked places like the kitchen—places normally out of bounds for the chief executive. They reminded him, he said, of the real people he was working for.

Corny, but Blitz had known him since he was a governor, and knew he meant it.

The dark window showed there were deep lines in the President’s face; the mirrored view showed none of its usual confidence and self-assurance. Earlier, D’Amici had spoken to the leaders of both India and Pakistan, strongly hinting that he knew they were at the brink of war. Neither had done more than mouth a few platitudes, and intelligence reports since indicated his calls had accomplished nothing.

The Cyclops Two battle group was in Afghanistan, awaiting the President’s final, personal call to proceed.

Or not.

“So, do we go through with it?” asked D’Amici, bringing his cup of tea back to the small table.

“I think we should, yes.”

Blitz could smell the strong mint of the tea as D’Amici held the steaming cup to his face. He put the cup down; it was too hot to drink.

“If it goes sour, we’ll lose people,” said D’Amici.

“The weapon and the F/A-22Vs,” said Blitz.

“I don’t really care about the machinery,” said D’Amici. “I care about the lives.”

Blitz understood, even though the equation was lopsided: A dozen or two dozen Americans against the possibility of a million, many millions, of Pakistanis and Indians.

“I think we should do it,” he told the President. “I think we have the potential—it could change a number of things.”

“The end of war,” said D’Amici. His tone was somewhere between tired and gently mocking. “You’re starting to sound like a brochure for the augmented ABM system.”

“I don’t think it’s the end of war,” said Blitz. “I’m not naïve. And I’m not pushing a weapons system. But I do think it’s a chance. It’ll show people we’re determined. It could have an enormous impact.”

D’Amici got up and began pacing through the room. “I think about Lincoln sometimes, walking upstairs the night his son was dying. He had all those men in uniform on the battlefield. Roosevelt, pushing himself along in a wheel-chair, or being pushed. And Ike, ordering the overflights of Russia, even as they kept taking shots at his planes. They all faced difficult decisions.”

“Thank God they made the right ones,” said Blitz.

“Sometimes they didn’t. That’s the point.” The President picked up his cup, blowing into it to cool it. “You remember during the campaign, the first time you briefed me on India? You predicted this.”

“I predicted difficulties,” said Blitz. “Not this specifically.”

D’Amici sipped his tea, then put the cup down. “Come on,” said the President, starting back upstairs. “I have to get the order out now if it’s to do any good.”

Captain Atta Habib completed a fresh round of checks with his copilot, then undid his restraints. His neck had stiffened under the weight of his helmet. He took it off as he rose, stowing it in his seat before stretching his legs on the flight deck. While the 767 could—and usually was—flown in shirtsleeves, the accident that had claimed Cyclops One had reinforced the importance of survival gear. Unlike “normal” 767s, the Cyclops aircraft were fitted with special ejection seats, specifically designed adaptations of the ACES II model standard in fighters like the F-15. The seats ejected upward through large hatchlike cutouts in the roof of the plane. The metal pins, along with tags to manually blow the hatches if the automated system didn’t work, were visible above each seat.

Atta wondered if York and her crew had thought about the ejection mechanism too. He remained convinced that they had been lost in an accident: He didn’t buy the hijacked plane theory at all; no one who knew Megan could.

Atta felt his vertebrae crack as he leaned backward, all of the muscles stretching. The flight decks on the Cyclops warplanes were more spacious than their civilian counterparts, thanks to the modifications necessary to carry the weapon. Originally designed for a three-person crew, the two-man cockpit in production 767s was a comfortable executive office; in Cyclops it was a veritable suite. Behind the pilot’s and copilot’s chairs were four crew stations for the laser, two apiece facing consoles along the wall. The configuration allowed for decent walking space to the back galley. The walking space covered the access points and one of the wire tunnels for the laser gear, but these were covered by a carpet, and the crew joked that there was enough room for a regulation bowling alley, an exaggeration that nonetheless hinted at its spaciousness. The galley included a rest room and a small kitchen area complete with a microwave and a thermos coffeemaker supposedly rated to stay inside its fitting at negative 10 g’s. Future versions of the aircraft would probably include a second crew compartment, where a reserve team could catch a snooze on a long mission.

The Boeing people hadn’t planned on making a revolutionary warplane when they drew up the 767; they were looking for an economical way of moving people around the globe. But just as they had done with the venerable 707, their fundamental engineering values had created a versatile airframe capable of going far beyond even the visionary’s dreams. The engineers and contractors working for NADT had a good basis to work on, and credited the original designers for most of their success. Habib had taken this airframe through a stress test—ostensibly for the laser nose—that included a barrel roll and an air-show loop. Granted, it wasn’t a sleek F/A-22V or a teen-series fighter, but the big jet was surprisingly nimble and extremely well behaved, even at the far edge of its advertised design limitations. Habib felt confident it would perform today.

He thought the same of his crew. The four of them together had over fifty years in the service and had spent the last year on the Cyclops project.

The same things could have been said of everyone on Cyclops One.

Atta paused behind the designating station. While the pilot actually made the shot, the designating specialist—Technical Sergeant May Peters, in this case—guided the computer as it worked with the various inputs and prioritized potential hits.

Had she been male, Atta would have given her a good-natured slap on the side or back. But he worried about doing that with a woman—worried it might be misinterpreted or, worse, that he might actually hurt her. Even though he knew Peters rather well—had met her husband and even had dinner with them once or twice—he remained formal.

“Good work, Sergeant,” he told her.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, her tone not quite as rigid as his but still well shaded toward formality.

Atta went over to the other station, which was manned by another tech sergeant, Joe Fernandez. Feeling he had to treat Fernandez the same as Peters, he repeated the same words and received precisely the same response. Satisfied, he looked over his domain one more time, pausing before returning. He had thought of making a little speech as a morale booster. Colonel Howe had given one on the tarmac earlier and he’d been impressed. But Atta wasn’t that good a speaker in front of crowds, even tiny ones; he felt something growing in his throat and decided not to chance it.

He thought of saying a prayer but worried that might be taken the wrong way: He was a Muslim, and maybe Christians would think he was imposing his beliefs on them. So instead he stretched one more time and went back to his seat.

“We’re looking good,” he told them over the interphone after he slipped his helmet back on. “Looking real good.”