Cyclops One (32 page)

Fisher leaned over the seat on the flight deck, trying to hear what Tyler and the pilots were saying.

“Once around to see what the layout is,” suggested the Special Forces captain.

“That just gives anyone on the ground a shot at us,” said the pilot. “Best bet is either parachute in or land right away. One or the other. They fired at least one missile at the Velociraptors. We’re a much easier target.”

“We’ll land, then,” said Tyler. The captain turned to Fisher. “We’re going to land.”

“You think that’s a good idea?”

Tyler looked at him as if he hadn’t understood, then pushed past to go down to his men. Fisher took his place.

“Hey! Don’t touch anything there!” said the copilot, proprietary all of a sudden.

“Stay away from the plane,” Fisher told the pilot. “They probably have it rigged for explosives.”

“Okay,” said the pilot. “But there’s not too much to work with. Strip’s narrow and short.”

“Sounds like a personal problem to me,” said Fisher.

Luksha cursed as the transmission from the patrol ship ended in a hiss. The American jets had obviously found the boat; the helicopters had not been able to lead them away.

He suspected that his reinforcements were under fire as well. He’d heard nothing from the transport or its escorts; he had to assume it had turned back.

He still had the four small speedboats they’d used to get to the island, as well as the helicopters waiting on the island thirty miles away, but none of them were big enough to carry off the weapon.

“The pilot,” he told his sergeant. “Get her and bring her here.”

As the sergeant ran off toward the boat landing, two of the men who were working on dismantling the laser emerged from the plane, carrying a large gray box housing computer gear. Luksha ran to them; one of the men, an engineering specialist, began to explain the significance of the box but Luksha cut him off.

“Put it back in the plane. We’re going to fly out of here.”

“General—”

“Throw it back in the plane,” demanded Luksha. “Then get down to the boats.”

*   *   *

One of the Russians jerked Megan to her feet. For a second she thought he was going to push her over the side of the rocks to the water ten feet below; instead he tugged her up the trail back toward the landing strip.

The plane sat exactly where she had parked it over the charges. If she had a few minutes, she might be able to figure out how to set them by hand, or find a backup device.

She could just as easily grow wings and fly away. Two Russian paratroopers met her guards, forming a cocoon around her as she walked. Rather than going to the bunker as she expected, they took her toward the aircraft.

There were planes overhead: Velociraptors, she thought.

Howe?

God, what if it was him?

The two men in front of her stopped abruptly, standing aside as a Russian officer approached. It was the same one who had informed her earlier she was a prisoner.

“This is Russian land. You are a trespasser,” he told her. His accent was thick and it took her a second to cut through it. “You are subject to serious penalties, including death.”

Megan guessed what was coming and said nothing.

“Fly us out of here and you are free. You have ten seconds to decide,” said the Russian. He reached to his belt and unholstered his pistol.

It was a gift, really: She could take off and crash the plane.

“We need fuel,” she told him. “There is an underground pumping system. It’s automated, though. We can do it easily. All right?”

His answer was drowned out by the roar of an aircraft approaching the runway.

If they were going to have any chance of getting the weapon and plane intact, Howe had to be careful about where he used the bombs. He didn’t have much of a target anyway: As he came across the island, he saw perhaps a dozen soldiers scurrying toward the parked Russian jet. There were boats on the other side of the island, but he decided to leave them alone; no sense cutting off their escape if what he really wanted was for them to leave.

Howe gave a few winks from his gun and shot off flares, hoping to suck off any shoulder-launched SAMs they might have left on the ground. He cruised over the strip at roughly seventy-five feet.

“Dozen or so ground people, maybe more,” he told the C-17 and Gorman. “They didn’t fire any SAMs at me, but that’s no guarantee.”

“We can get down on the ground and hold them there,” said Tyler, the assault team leader. “I can’t guarantee that they won’t blow up the plane, but the C-17 will block the runway and they won’t get off.”

“Good. We have reinforcements right behind you,” said Gorman. “No more than an hour away.”

“Tell them to move faster,” said Tyler.

“I’m going to go down again, then lead you in,” said Howe. He could see the big transport as it headed in from the northeast. “Once you’re down, you’re on your own.”

In Fisher’s experience, landings were always the worst part of any flight. The movie was over, drinks were cut off, and the anticipation of that next cigarette built like the swelling music in a 1930’s melodrama, without a violin section. He steadied himself at the side of the plane behind the SF team, admiring their weapons and bulletproof vests. The landing would take them down the runway away from the concentration of Russian troops; according to the satellite photo, they would have some cover at that end of the atoll from a short run of rocks. But to get to that cover, they would have to run roughly thirty yards.

Then again, he’d run farther when ducking the boss back at headquarters. This would be child’s play.

The rear deck of the aircraft opened as they began their descent. The rushing air sucked and pushed him; he felt cold and for some reason wet, as if he’d been thrown into the water. Daku and James, standing at the back of the plane, began dumping smoke grenades as the plane’s wheels hit the hard-packed dirt. Flares were being launched by the aircraft. Someone had started to shoot. Bullets ripped through the cargo compartment. The smell of burning metal mixed with the grit.

It
was
a thirties movie.

The plane veered hard to the right, then back, then hard right again.

Someone shouted. The plane resounded with the thump of a grenade launcher being fired.

“Go!” yelled Tyler. “Go!”

Fisher waited a second, then followed outside, crouching protectively to make sure his cigarette stayed lit in the wind. Smoke was everywhere, laid down by the commandos to cover their movements. Fisher looked to his left and saw the pilot and copilot crouching beneath the plane, holding M16s. Impressed, Fisher worked his way back around the other side of the plane, trying to figure out what the hell was going on beyond the thick haze of smoke and dust. The commandos had gone forward to the left but seemed to be holding their fire. The plane that held the laser weapon, meanwhile, was back at the far end of the strip, presumably guarded by the Russian assault team that had landed here ahead of them.

These interagency busts could be a real bitch and a half.

Fisher began trotting in the general direction of the SF team, bending his head down as a concession to the situation, though at the moment no one seemed to be firing. He found Daku at the edge of what looked like a haphazardly formed rock wall. The soldier thumbed him up toward the main group, which had taken position in some rocks about fifty or sixty yards ahead.

Fisher began trotting toward it. One of the SF soldiers grabbed him and nearly threw him down. Stumbling, Fisher caught his balance on the side of a crouched commando, who turned out to be Tyler.

“What the hell are you doing, Fisher?” asked the captain.

“I have to make the arrest,” he said.

“Those Russians’ll perforate you.”

“Won’t be the first time,” said Fisher.

Tyler grabbed hold of his suit jacket. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Careful of the material,” said Fisher. “Five of Sears’ finest squirrels labored to make this suit.”

The captain scowled but let him go.

“Give me the bullhorn,” said Fisher. “Let me talk to them.”

“You can speak Russian?”

“Only the four-letter words.”

Before the soldier carrying the bullhorn could come up, one of the Russians announced in fairly decent English that they were on Russian soil and would be treated as hostile aggressors if they didn’t take off immediately.

“Actually, this is Japanese territory,” Fisher yelled back, still waiting for the bullhorn. “And we’re in pursuit of stolen U.S. property. Which we want back. And also, I’m arresting the people who were flying the plane. Hang on a second, I have to read something to you.”

“You aren’t fucking going to Mirandize them,” said Tyler.

“Got to. Or anything they say won’t hold up,” said Fisher, pulling the small laminated card from his pocket. He took the bullhorn from James, who’d had it in his pack.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” said James.

“That and I’m having a nicotine fit,” answered the FBI agent, bringing the megaphone to his mouth. “All right. You have the right to remain silent….”

The combat with the helicopters, the tangle with the patrol boat, and the flyovers to clear the field had all taken their toll on Howe’s fuel. He was now well into reserves, and there was no way he was going to make the task force tanker. A second tanker from Kadena was likewise a good way off.

He was just about to break out a map to see about diverting down to Honshu or northern Japan, when he realized he had his own personal divert strip sitting below him. The three thousand feet was usable, thanks to the F/A-22V’s wing design. With the C-17 off to the side at the far end, Howe figured he’d have no problem stopping before his feet got wet.

Assuming they could secure the field.

The smoke had cleared somewhat; Howe could see a group of men near the Blackjack, and another group about fifty yards from the C-17. A third group was moving down the southern side of the island, possibly seeking to flank the Russians. From what he could see, nobody was firing.

When he failed to reach the SF troops on the frequency they’d been assigned, he went over to the command channel and asked Gorman what was going on.

“They have them pinned down by the aircraft,” she said. “At the moment they’re still trying to size up the situation. We have reinforcements en route.”

“You think I could land there if I had to?”

They discussed the possibilities as he recalculated his fuel. Depending on how he managed it, he had about a half hour in the air.

The two F-15s sent up from Kadena appeared above him. Howe could divert and land—and in fact he absolutely
should
do so.

But somehow it didn’t feel right to turn off. As he circled northward he caught sight of some debris in the water. Timmy’s plane had gone in somewhere nearby.

“Colonel, I can’t tell you what to do with your aircraft,” said Gorman.

Howe started to laugh.

“Thanks, I’ll remember that,” he told her before punching over to the frequency the new arrivals were using so he could brief them.

As the American FBI agent continued to ramble, Luksha signaled to his communications man. The sergeant ran forward with his satellite radio, wheezing from the dust.

“We’ll go down to the boats. Call in the helicopters,” he told him. “Tell them we’ll be pursued.”

“Yes, General.”

Megan heard the jet pass again and knew it was the F/A-22V.

It was him. He’d come for her.

To kill her?

He’d hate her by now. He’d think she was a traitor.

“This way,” said the Russian, grabbing her wrist.

“Wait, I can fly it,” she said. “If we put the fuel in, just enough to get away.”

“Don’t be absurd. They’ll gun us down. Come on.”

“No.” She pushed her shoulders down, as if clamping her arms to the sides of her body would somehow cement her to the spot.

“It is not an option,” said the Russian, and she felt a pair of arms grab her from behind.

“You got that out of your system?” asked Tyler as Fisher finished reading the Miranda warning.

“Hey, the lawyers say you gotta do it.”

Davis, on point, waved. The other team had taken up their position at the end of the runway across from the jet.

“All right, let’s move out,” Tyler told his men. “If that’s okay with you, Fisher.”

“I’m right behind you,” said the FBI agent.

Luksha heard the pop of the smoke canisters behind him. He had decided he would not run: This was, after all, Russian land, disputed or not. Nonetheless, he quickened his pace as his last two soldiers trotted behind him. Up ahead, the men had tied a rope around the American pilot and had begun to lower her down the cliff.

He grabbed the rope. An acrid taste rose from his stomach and burned his chest: He’d been defeated by unlucky circumstance, cheated, and now was being forced to run away with nothing to show for his efforts.

The man to his left slipped on the rocks. Luksha grabbed his arm, pulling him to safety. He saw the fear in the man’s eyes.

Yes,
he thought to himself.

He smiled, helping the paratrooper grab on to the rocks.

“Another day,” Luksha said loudly, before starting downward.

Unable to stop herself from swinging because her hands were tied, Megan banged against the rocks so sharply she lost her breath. She wheezed as she reached the sand, collapsing into the shallow water. Someone picked her up and threw her into the boat. Voices screamed above her, people yelling at her.

She thought of the fire and smoke her uncle had flown through.
Never again,
she thought.

And if the Russians had the weapon too? What then?

They didn’t, though. They were leaving without it.

The boat rocked. An engine roared, then another. She thought of trying to throw herself out, then felt a sharp pain in the back of her neck as someone stepped on her as he scrambled into the boat.

Luksha did not realize until the boats had started to back away from the island that some of his men had been cut off by the Americans at the end of the runway. But he was committed now; there was no option but to retreat.

He held on to the rail at the side as the small boat began to pick up speed. The woman pilot was crumpled on the floor beside him. Luksha reached over and helped her into the hard-backed seat.

“We have much to discuss,” he told her.

Her mouth moved but she said nothing. Belatedly, Luksha realized she was trying to spit at him.

He raised his hand to slap her but started laughing at her instead.

Howe finally found the right frequency for the SF ground team as he swept across the northern side of the atoll, his speed held back so he could get a good view of what was going on. A cloud of smoke and dust separated the main groups of fighters, or at least seemed to; though he was low and slow, it was still difficult to pick out exactly what was going on. There was movement near some rocks at the base of the island; as he moved past he caught sight of a boat.

“I think you have a group escaping in a boat,” he told the ground team as he banked around.

If there was an acknowledgment, it got lost in the general scramble of things as Howe positioned for another pass. The overlong mission had heaped fatigue on the pilot’s head like steel weights; his eyes burned and even his most mechanical, practiced motion felt awkward.

“Two boats—three. Coming out of the island. There’s another there,” he told the commandos as he started toward the island.

He had his gun selected, and the cue lined up in the HUD.

“They have one of the people from the plane, a woman,” said the SF commander, taking over from the communications man.

A woman?

Megan.

The realization froze him, as if he’d been hit by a taser. His hands moved; he flew the plane past the island and into a bank.

I can kill her.

I will kill her.

Fisher scrambled to the edge of the rocks and grabbed the line. It wasn’t that far down but he didn’t want to risk jumping into the water, since he couldn’t tell how shallow it was.

He also couldn’t swim.

“Where the hell are you going?” yelled Tyler, running to catch up.

“They have my suspect,” the FBI agent told him. He pulled off his jacket and wrapped the cloth around the line to keep his hands from burning as he went down. “I want her back.”

“We’ll never catch up.”

“We will if we don’t overload the boat.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I’ve heard that,” said Fisher, stepping off the rocks.

By the time Fisher got the boat started, Tyler and one of the SF men had made it down as well. Three others stood at the top of the rocks.

“This is all we’re taking!” yelled Fisher. “Throw down the megaphone.”

“What?” shouted one of the men.

“The loudspeaker!”

Fisher grabbed at the megaphone as it flew through the air. He deflected it into the water but managed to grab it before it sank, just as the boat started in pursuit of the Russians. He dumped the water out and tested it. The squawk seemed a little off-key but it was working.

“You really think they’re going to stop?” Tyler asked him.

“If we threaten them, they may throw her overboard.”

“How are we going to threaten them?”

Fisher thumbed toward the sky.

“We don’t have a radio with us to order in a strike,” said Tyler.

“You gonna tell them?”

Tyler nodded. “We’ll take this as far as we can,” he said. “But we’re not going to get ourselves killed.”

“Sounds like a plan. Want a cigarette?”

“The Russians are not important,” Gorman told Howe. “We have the laser. We have Navy assets en route and we’re landing a fresh team on the island. You can let them go.”

“Tyler and Fisher are in pursuit,” Howe told her, relaying the word the SF people had sent. “The Russians have at least one of the aircraft’s crew members.”

“He’s not important,” said Gorman. “We’re trying to reach Fisher and tell him to turn back. Leave them.”

Howe’s radar indicated that there was a helicopter approaching from the northwest. The F-15s had also spotted it; they kicked toward it to check it out.

He could shoot up the boats, no problem. At this point no one was going to question what happened. The whole scrum was too confusing, too fluid.

No one would criticize him for killing a traitor. On the contrary, Fisher and the others were trying to stop her. He was completely justified.

The boat sat in the center of the target box, held there by the computer. He could kill the bitch, have revenge or whatever it was—vent his rage.

She had betrayed his country and everything he believed in.

She had betrayed him.

He pushed his side stick, closing in.

He really did love her, in ways he hadn’t understood at the time. And now it was gone. It had shot past him, the way a meteor traveled once through the atmosphere and burned up.

His finger rested lightly on the gun trigger. But something held it back.

Love? Duty? Fear?

He couldn’t sort it out. He
had
loved her, and then hated her, and now, as his plane rushed toward the earth, he decided—unconsciously, without words, with thoughts that were fragmentary and fleeting—that it was what
he
had thought that mattered, and what
he
did now that was the important thing. Not Megan: She had made her choice; she was gone. Tearing up the boat, killing her—that wasn’t where his duty lie. Revenge, anger—they weren’t who he was or who he would be.

Howe banked the plane sharply in front of the escaping Russian boats. He was less than fifty feet from the surface of the water.

“I have a fuel emergency,” he told the SF unit on the island. “I need to land.”

Megan watched the F/A-22V as it flew across their path, so low it almost touched the waves. It was Howe—it had to be.

The others ducked as the plane flew by. She stood and stared at him, trembling with sadness.

She could easily throw herself out of the boat; they were concerned with their pursuers, busy trying to reach their helicopter, lining up their weapons on their enemies. She could go over the side, escape.

But there was no real escape for her; she’d known that when she’d agreed with Bonham’s original plan, as safe as he had made it sound. There were things worth dying for, and she remained convinced she’d chosen correctly.

The question she couldn’t answer was whether there were things worth giving up love for. She’d made the decision before she met Tom Howe, when she had the luxury of not facing the question. Her fate was set with her first decision, with the stories her uncle had told; her beginning became her end.

It tugged at her, though. If duty was more important than love, why did every part of her inside feel choked?

Eliot had said something in “East Coker,” his meditation on religion, about your beginning being your end, fate set as duty and meditation. It had been his answer for
The Waste Land.

Not her answer, but a comfort nonetheless.

She remembered reading
The Waste Land
to Tom once, joking with him at first, then growing serious. The end of the poem came to her now as she stared at her destiny. Eliot had ended by repeating the Sanskrit word for peace, as if he’d had a premonition of Julius Robert Oppenheimer standing at the atomic bomb test, invoking the god of destruction in an effort to find peace.

Peace.

It was possible.

Shantih.

Peace peace peace.

One of the Russian paratroopers jostled against her. The man had slid his pistol back into his holster.

The second she saw it, she threw her whole body toward it.

Luksha saw the bodies tumbling together out of the corner of his eye. He spun toward them, not yet comprehending as the boat slapped hard against the waves. Then he realized that the American was grabbing for his sergeant’s gun.

He pressed the trigger of his rifle. The first slug hit her in the side and spun her toward him. There was an explosion: She’d taken the gun from the holster. He fired again, finger nailed on the trigger.

Red and black and cold, cold—the smoke over the city as it burned filled her nose with the acrid scent of things dying, objects burning that were never intended to burn: rocks, dirt, human flesh.

It would never happen again. War had been made obsolete.

Megan felt herself falling into the black abyss. At the last second she recognized it as peace, and closed her eyes.

Fisher saw the bodies falling, one into the back of the boat, the other into the water.

“Aw shit,” he said out loud. He threw his cigarette into the ocean. “There goes my case.”

The others were silent as they slowed and pulled over to the lifeless body. He reached over and pulled her up with one hand, sliding her onto the boat. He knelt down and, for form’s sake, checked her pulse to make sure she was dead.