Jim DeFelice - Cyclops One

“We have them all,” said the Cyclops pilot.

“Hold on,” said Howe. “Wait until they’re at the border.”

“Hey, Colonel, you see that contact Unk-2?” said Timmy, referring to the computer tag on the large unknown aircraft flying northward near the Indian coast. “What’s his game, you figure?”

“Has to be a spy plane,” suggested Howe, just as he had earlier.

“Not Indian, though. Came off the ocean.”

“Could be the Russians.” They were a bit too far away to get good information about the aircraft, but its size and speed made it fairly obvious that it wasn’t part of the attack package.

Advising them, maybe, though one of Howe’s own ELINT aircraft ought to be picking up signals in that case. Cobra Two reported that the Indian forces were still flying silent com. The Pakistanis, meanwhile, did not seem to know anything was amiss.

“Lead MiG will be in range of the Pak radar in zero three,” said Timmy. “I don’t know…. He’s pretty low; hemight just get through.”

“We wait until he’s committed to crossing the border,” said Howe. He’d begun to climb now, swinging around the coverage area of the radar site. All of the Pakistani flights had returned to their bases; the only thing that the PAF had in the air were two Mirage IIIs back near Lahore. Besides the attack package closing in on the Kashmir border, the Indians had their 767 radar plane and its escorts flying near the border to the west, giving them coverage just about to Afghanistan.

Howe suspected that the Indians had other groups of planes airborne to the south, out of his task force’s detection range; they’d be preparing a follow-on strike once the first group of planes took out the sites. At the moment, though, they were too far off to see or worry about.

“One minute to border,” said Timmy. The two Velociraptors had separated about fifteen miles, Howe to the northeast and Timmy to the southwest of the lead MiG. They could divvy it up between them if they had to.

“Cyclops is tracking. We’re ready anytime, Colonel.”

“Bird One.”

“MiGs are slowing — turning! Shit,” said Timmy.

“Don’t sound too disappointed, my friend,” said Howe. “This just means we did our job.”

“Yeah, well, figures they’d wimp out,” said the wingman.

Howe laughed. His joints cracked; he hadn’t realized how tense he’d become.

“Bird One, be advised the strike force you’ve been tracking has used the word abort,” radioed Cobra Two.

“Bird One acknowledges. Well done, team. Kick-ass job, everybody,” said Howe. “How we looking out there, Timmy?”

“All I see is fannies with tails between their legs, scurrying home,” replied the wingman. “Our UFO’s still coming north, though. Sucker’s going to be at the border in, like, zero-five.”

“Yeah, I see,” said Howe.

“Maybe we ought to check him out,” suggested Timmy.

“Negative,” said Howe. “Cyclops, you’re cleared to head back to the barn.”

“That would be cave,” said Atta, the Cyclops pilot.

“Just don’t run into Ulysses,” said Howe.

Cyclops banked north, heading for its temporary Afghanistan base. The other aircraft checked in; Howe listened to the AWACS escorts working out a tank with Budweiser, the KC-135 assigned to make sure they didn’t go dry.

“Hey, that unknown contact is hitting the gas,” said Timmy. “They should be on Pakistani radar by now.”

“Bird Leader, be advised Mirage flight is being vectored south,” said Eyes.

“Confirming that,” said the AWACS controller. “Not sure what they’re doing. Could be heading for that unidentified contact, R2.”

The Pakistani airplanes would be picked up by the Indian radar plane quickly.

“Shit!” yelled Timmy. “MiGs are turning back.”

For a second, panic surged through Howe: the irrational fear he’d felt in the wake of the accident.

Then it was gone. He squeezed his hand on the stick, felt himself relaxing ever so slightly, giving himself over to the plane.

“MiG flight is receiving new orders,” said Cobra Two. “They’re being told to proceed…. They’re proceeding!”

“Understood,” said Howe. “Cyclops, give me status.”

NADT’s headquarters was not marked from the highway, although Fisher surmised he was in the right place by the strategic rock formations that sheltered video cameras along the driveway. A half-mile in from the road, a row of closely spaced trees partially hid a picket fence extending around the property; the pickets themselves half camouflaged a grid of wires, probably electrically charged.

A guard post sat where the fence and one-lane access road met. Two security officers in nondescript uniforms stepped out to flag Fisher’s car down.

His Bureau credentials did not work their usual magic, but the guards did grudgingly admit him after calling for instructions. Fisher drove through the gate, over a bridge, and past a moat with geese that looked as if it had been stolen from a Disney movie; he almost expected to find Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs waiting for him at the front door.

Close. A woman in a black business suit, her skirt cut so high it had less material than a napkin, flagged him down near a long concrete apron punctuated by cement barriers.

“Mr. Fisher?” She leaned into his car, filling it with so much perfume, Fisher would have gone for a gas mask if he’d carried one. The top of her shirt was strategically arranged to highlight the natural skin tones of her chest; NADT obviously didn’t fool around.

“I was this morning,” said Fisher from his car.

“Very good, sir. Will you follow me?” Her tone was somewhere between officious and luscious. “Someone will come for the car.”

“Why not?” Fisher got out and followed Snow White to the one-story black glass building. The dwarfs were nowhere to be seen.

A single security desk stood in the exact center of the vast space; there was no other furniture, not even a potted plant on the first floor. Fisher’s guide smiled at the guard — he looked to be at least eighty and very possibly was the evil queen in butch disguise — then turned abruptly toward a ramp that opened in the floor nearby.

“You won’t want to smoke in here,” warned the woman as they strode down the ramp toward a single elevator. “Sets off alarms. Nasty things come down from the sprinklers.”

“Water?”

“Some sort of gas,” she said.

Fisher was tempted to test the system but held off, worried that the gas might be an even stronger version of her perfume. There were no buttons in the elevator, and no floor indicators. The car moved smoothly downward for about thirty seconds, then stopped.

Still no dwarfs. Snow White led him down a long hallway to a large reception area, where another young woman in an equally short skirt sat at a glass-topped table, her nipples poking rivet holes through her blouse. Fisher began to wonder if he had somehow made a wrong turn and ended at a brothel.

“General Bonham is not here, Mr. Fisher,” said the woman at the desk.

“I can wait.”

“You really should have called ahead.” She traded a smile with Snow White. Fisher realized that his knowledge of Disney films was severely lacking; he couldn’t figure out who she was supposed to be.

Figaro, maybe? But that would make him Pinocchio.

Ouch.

“I’m afraid you’ll be waiting a long time,” said the woman. “I believe he’s in Montana.”

“Is he?” Fisher had already checked: Bonham was in fact en route to D.C. Not that he actually wanted to talk to him. “Maybe you could check for me.”

“I’m never wrong,” said the woman.