Jim DeFelice - Cyclops One

Or was Megan responsible somehow on her own?

“There are several other contacts that we can’t completely account for,” said Atta. “Once the AWACS people review everything and compile it with the other data, they may be able to sort it out.”

Howe glanced at his watch. He was supposed to brief the Pentagon in five minutes over a secure video hookup in the headquarters building; it would take at least ten to get there. He looked around at the small knot of people crowded into the 767.

“All right. Anything else?”

Atta shook his head. The rest stared, more or less blankly.

“You guys, everybody, get some rest,” Howe told them. “Sleep. Good job. We did a good job. Better than anyone could’ve asked for.”

Outside, engine specialists and a veritable army of maintenance experts were busy dissecting the damaged engine and wing. A new power plant had been located and was en route. Howe nodded at the few men who seemed to notice him — most were absorbed in their jobs — and then walked toward the Hummer that had been assigned to transport him over to the base commander’s suite. His legs felt as though they had lead inserts at the knees, and the rims of his eyes seemed to vibrate with a metallic fuzz.

What would have happened if they hadn’t been here? Ten million, twenty million people dead? Fifty million injured?

If the other plane was Cyclops One, then Megan had been flying it. She had taken down the other two missiles.

She might have been ready to take down others.

His anger toward her seemed to have faded into confusion. He got into the truck and rubbed his eyes, bracing himself as the driver raced across the base. Inside the general’s temporary command post, the secure conference had already begun.

“Good job, Colonel,” said Dr. Blitz on the screen at the side of the room as Howe entered. “Beyond expectations. Very, very good job. The President is proud of you and your people.”

The screen changed; the feed showed the “tank,” the secure conference room in the basement of the Pentagon. The head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff repeated Blitz’s congratulations. Several other military people chimed in, then the defense secretary told him they’d just made history.

Howe ran down the tally. They’d heard the initial reports, but this probably seemed more solemn, more official. He concentrated on the missiles, adding the F-16 and its probable nuke almost as an afterthought.

Someone at the Pentagon mentioned that the CIA analyst thought the plane had been carrying a five- or eight-megaton bomb.

“We believe the Indians have two missiles left,” said Blitz. “That’s our best guess. Both sides have agreed to a cease-fire. The UN Security Council is going to meet in a few hours in emergency session. You’re a hero, Colonel Howe. You and your people.” He seemed almost choked with emotion.

“Hear, hear,” said someone at the Pentagon.

“The President is going to address the nation in a few minutes to let them know what happened,” said Blitz. “He will mention you and your team.”

“There’s one thing we have to talk about,” said Howe. “Two of the hits that were made — we believe they came from another laser. It had to be Cyclops One.”

Luksha had flown all night and his eyes felt as if they were on fire. He stared through the window as the car sped down Pereulok Sivtsev Vrazhek in the Arbatskaya section of Moscow just outside the Kremlin. Once something of a bohemian quarter and now a tourist favorite, the area included several new government buildings carefully concealed behind old facades. The one Luksha’s military driver was taking him to, in fact, had only been occupied a few months before; this was Luksha’s first visit, and he did not quite know what to expect.

The car stopped in the middle of the street, in front of a four-story yellow building whose exterior dated from the late eighteenth century. A single guard in a black suit stood at the doorway, eyeing Luksha suspiciously as he walked up the steps. The man touched his ear — there was an ear bud for a communications system there — then nodded to Luksha, who nodded back and pulled open the thick door. Two guards, these in paratrooper uniforms, stood inside the long but narrow vestibule. The men had AK-74s equipped with laser-dot sights; their fingers rested on the triggers. They neither moved nor said anything as the general walked past. His boots slid slightly on the polished marble floors; the lighting was so dim that he could not have read a newspaper. A large abstract painting by Kandinsky hung at the far end of the hall, which formed an alcove for a short flight of stairs to the left. Luksha walked down the stairs and there was met by two more paratroopers, who snapped sharply to attention and stood silently while a petite woman in an army uniform strode forward.

“General, please,” she said, waiting for his nod before turning on her heel and leading him to a waiting elevator.

As soon as Luksha was inside, the doors slid shut and it started downward, picking up speed as it went. The young woman stared at the door as it descended; Luksha felt his ears pop.

The door opened on a corridor of polished granite. The rug on the floor was so thick Luksha felt as if he would trip as he walked. They turned right; two men in civilian dress passed, saying nothing, eyes studiously avoiding both Luksha and his attractive guide.

Two short corridors later the young woman deposited the general in the office of his commander, Andrev Orda, who besides being a major general was a member of parliament. As was his habit, Orda played the fussy old maid welcoming a long-lost relative, ushering Luksha in and offering him a vodka, which could not be turned down. Luksha felt himself sinking into the leather chair in front of Orda’s pristine glass desk, his tired bones precariously close to sleep.

Two toasts later Orda’s hospitality evaporated into the more comfortable — for Luksha — abruptness of a former army field general.

“The American weapon was used over India,” said Orda. “You told me it was not operational.”

“On the contrary,” said Luksha. “My last communication not only noted that the remaining plane and its escorts had left the base but spoke of the possibility that the weapon might be used.”

“The Americans are celebrating already. Their president has gone on television and declared war obsolete.”

Luksha said nothing. He could not blame the Americans for celebrating, though in his opinion their claims for the weapon were overblown. It would make war more efficient, not obsolete.

“What happened to the plane that crashed?” asked Orda. “Or was that intended as some manner of ruse?”

“That is why I am here,” said Luksha. As succinctly as he could, the general laid out what his people had found and what they had surmised. He made it clear that he could not explain why the weapon would have been flown under such conditions from its development base; he was not, he admitted, certain that the aircraft had not crashed, since the American actions were consistent with an all-out search. But the hints of activity at the supposedly abandoned island in the Kurils, added now to telemetry that seemed military in nature and records of a fuel delivery some eight months before, seemed “provocative.”

Luksha used the word deliberately; it was one Orda relished.

Two flyovers by his Geofizia, outfitted with a photo reconaissance pod, had proven inconclusive; a ground inspection was necessary.

“I can answer many questions simply by going there,” said Luksha. “Four or five destroyers, a battalion of paratroopers…We quarantine the island, take it over, capture the weapon.”

Orda’s face, reddened by the vodka earlier, turned nearly white.