Jim DeFelice - Cyclops One

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.