Jim DeFelice - Cyclops One

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?”

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.”