Jim DeFelice - Cyclops One

“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.

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.”

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.”