Jim DeFelice - Cyclops One

Bonham stayed in the stream near the deep part of the channel for more than a half hour, listening to the water and the stillness around him. Several times he thought he heard someone coming up the road behind him, but it was only the thumping of his heart.

Finally he strode out of the water and went back to the truck. He packed away his gear slowly, then opened the small case where he kept his flies. He touched each specimen carefully, hoping the ritual might relax him.

It did not.

Back on the road, Bonham turned left instead of right, heading toward a McDonald’s about five miles away. He stopped and went in, using the rest room. When he came out, he paused at the public telephone booth. As if acting on impulse, he squeezed in and threw a quarter down the slot. Then he punched an 800 number.

It took a while for the number to connect. When it did, he said firmly, “I have a new plan. It has to be followed precisely and quickly. It’s not perfect, but it will divert attention. Things can be left open-ended.”

The person on the other end of the line said nothing as Bonham continued to talk. There was a simple acknowledgment when he was done. Then Bonham hung up and went to buy a Big Mac before returning to the base.

What was presented to Megan wasn’t so much a plan as an idea, and a difficult one at that. To pull it off she’d have to fly her aircraft to the very edge of its endurance limit. There was a single field available for her to refuel at, and while the foreigners there would be well paid to forget her presence, there would be no way of controlling any future complications.

On the other hand, she recognized the dilemma.

This would not only draw attention away; it would allow her to complete her mission despite the delays and fresh demands.

Was that still important?

The augmented ABM system was. It was part of her goal, her real goal, and she would do anything to make it a reality.

The first time her uncle told her his story about flying over Tokyo during World War II— how old was she? nine? and by then he was in his seventies —from the moment that he told her that story, her purpose had crystallized.

We can end war.

Not naïvely, not by putting your head in the sand or throwing away your guns, as the Quakers would urge. Her father’s father had made that mistake, and where had it led?

To three hundred feet over Tokyo, flying through clouds of acrid smoke, flesh and bricks on fire below, the roar of your engines not loud enough to drown out the babies’ cries.

Because of weakness. Had Hoover challenged Japan in the beginning, in China, the outcome would have been different.

Her father saw that, and her uncle. They even agreed that if Congress had acquiesced to Roosevelt’s rearmament — had they gone beyond his requests — the Japanese never would have dared.

But give her uncle and the others credit: The American bomber crews in World War II did what had to be done. She would too.

“What are we doing?” demanded Rogers.

Megan hit the Delete button and confirmed, then looked up from her computer terminal.

“Why are you in my room?” she demanded.

“I want to know what was going on.”

One thing she had to give him: He didn’t try to make himself attractive.

“We’re going to plan a new mission,” she said. “It will eliminate the complications.”

“Will I get paid?”

“Of course,” she said, oddly comforted by his avarice. “Extra. Help me plan.”

Fisher had almost made it to the helicopter when the evil sibyl’s gaze fell upon him. The landscape turned purple and a hideous howl filled his ears. The earth would lie fallow for seven years.

“Mr. Fisher!”

A curse formed on his lips but went unuttered; he didn’t want to lose the grip on his freshly lit cigarette. Instead, Fisher pretended he hadn’t heard anything and continued toward the waiting airplane.

It was no use. Gorman had the angle and appeared in front of him with twenty yards to go. Fisher threw on the brakes lest he touch her and melt.

“Hey, what’s up, Captain Bligh?” Fisher asked. “Tahiti in sight already?”

“Where are you going?”

“That plane over there.”

“Who authorized your flight?” she asked.

“You color-blind, Jemma?”

“Huh?”

“This isn’t a blue suit I’m wearing. I’m outside of your chain of command. Plane’s got a seat and I’m taking it.”

He took a step toward the plane but she put her hand up.

“Whatever you paid for the manicure, you got ripped off,” Fisher told her.

“Andy, you can’t leave.”

“Why not?”

“We’re in the middle of an investigation.”

“That’s why I’m getting on the plane,” said Fisher.

“But if the Russians took Cyclops One—”

“Which they didn’t.”

“Damn it, listen to me.”

Jemma’s face flushed, probably with embarrassment that she had used a four-letter word. Fisher smiled and took a long drag on his cigarette. “Mom’s gonna wash your mouth out, probably with lye soap.”

“Listen, if the Russians — whoever — took the plane, then they had to have inside help.”

“Makes sense.”

“We have to figure out who it is and build a case. That’s FBI territory.”

“You think? I pegged it for CID or DIA or something,” said Fisher. “Jeez, Jemma, when you roll your eyes like that, how come they don’t pop out?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, really, they look like they’re going to drop on the ground.”

“Are you going to help or what?”

“I am helping.”

“By leaving?”

“Didn’t you make that suggestion yourself the day I got here?”

She drew back, her face turning red. Fisher would have enjoyed the performance immensely, but he was concerned about missing the flight. It was the only plane headed eastward for several hours. “Andy. Listen. Do you know who was helping here? Beyond the crew? Was Howe involved?”

“I haven’t a clue,” said Fisher. “Probably not Howe.”

“Why do you pull my chain like that?”

“ ’Cause it’s so easy.”

“Do you think there was a conspiracy here to steal the plane?” she demanded.

“Makes sense.” Fisher shrugged. “But I’ll tell you more when I get back.”

“Andy…I…we need someone here who knows what they’re doing,” she said.

“Leaves me out,” said Fisher. He took a step forward.

“I’m asking nicely.”

“Can I get a sonar up to look in those lakes?”

She looked exasperated. “No. That’s…to get permission to do that, and then get the gear…given the other evidence now…You’re nuts. Why are you obsessed with the lakes?”

“Bonham’s the one who’s obsessed.”

“He only suggested it.”

“You don’t think that’s interesting?”

Gorman’s sigh sounded like the mating call of a horse. “I don’t understand you. You figure out that the plane has been taken, then you come up with a crazy theory one hundred and eighty degrees in the other direction: that it crashed in the lakes.”

“Who says that’s my theory?”

Gorman stamped her feet, a gesture that reinforced Fisher’s suspicion that she had equine blood in her. “I’m going to put Kowalski in charge.”

“It is kind of nice to see you grovel,” admitted Fisher, seeing the crewmen starting to button up the plane. “But I gotta get going.”

Howe shut down his aircraft, slowly working himself out of the restraints, moving with great deliberation as if he were reluctant to leave the plane. He’d flown nonstop to Kabul, Afghanistan, refueling by air along the way. Ten thousand miles, give or take; it was a serious haul, even in the pilot-friendly Velociraptor, coming on top of several hours of intensive planning and then hustling to leave. By all rights and normal flight rules, he was owed some major sack time, but nothing about this operation could be called “normal.”