Jim DeFelice - Cyclops One

“Pet,” said Fisher in a loud whisper. Kowalski, who had sat in the row in front of him, bobbed his head backward but said nothing.

“Kevin Sullivan from Aerodynamics Linx will head the technical team. We’ll have a subsection on sabotage to rule it in or out; Major Yei from CID will take the lead, along with the technical team headed by Al Biushi. You may remember Mr. Biushi from the NASA project last year. The malfunctions on the F/A-22V that landed have yet to be explained,” said Gorman. Her hands jabbed the air as if she were a conductor signaling the cannon for the 1812 Overture. “That will be a priority for the Velociraptor technical team, which will be headed by Jack Meiser from Locker Aircraft.”

Fisher pulled his cigarette pack from his pocket and slumped back in his seat, unwrapping the cellophane as Gorman went through administrative information about meeting places and quarters. Anyone else would leave this sort of minutiae to an aide or even a handout, but Gorman’s hands worked into a frenzy and she actually smiled while reciting, from memory, the telephone extensions of the various subgroups assigned in the base’s encrypted phone system.

The cellophane wrapper stuck at the corner of the pack. Fisher pulled it off with a loud flourish; one or two of the people in front of him shot nasty looks over their shoulders, as if he’d set off a stink bomb.

“Howard McIntyre from the NSC will be joining us from Hawaii via closed circuit this afternoon,” said Gorman sharply, a buried Brooklyn accent filtering into her words. “Most of you know Mr. McIntyre, but for those of you who don’t, he is the assistant to the national security advisor in charge of technology. He’s flying to Hawaii for the augmented-ABM tests, which are due to start tomorrow, but he’s also been tasked to keep the President updated. As you can well imagine, the White House is extremely interested in what’s going on here. I don’t have to tell you all how sensitive this is, not only in terms of national security, but politically. Especially politically. I expect all of you to be discreet.”

She looked directly at him as she said that.

“Discreet — my middle name,” said Fisher in a whisper. “Hey, Kowalski, who’s Bonham?”

“Retired two-star Air Force general who heads the National Aerospace Development and Testing Corporation, which is NADT,” whispered Kowalski. “The big boss of the project. NADT’s a contract agency with serious clout. They’ve developed a half-dozen weapons including the modified F/A-22s, and they’re responsible for testing and refining a bunch more, including Cyclops. Part of the drive to privatize non-warfighting military functions and save some cash. Bonham’s the main man.”

“Yeah, but get to the good stuff. What kind of underwear?”

“That’s more your department, but I’d guess boxers.”

“What about the little boss?”

“You mean Howe?”

“Sure.”

“Almost bought it in the chase plane.”

“Prime suspect.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Who else is important?”

“Guy named Williams in the other chase plane. Gone. Air Force. Never heard of him.” Kowalski stopped to look at his notes. “Lady named, uh, Megan York.”

“Air Force?”

“Contract test pilot. Works directly for NADT, like just about everybody else here. She’s about thirty. Supposed to be a dish. Haven’t seen the photos yet.”

“Put me in for the eight by ten. What kind of underwear does she wear?”

Gorman frowned severely in their direction, then looked back to her groupies in the front row. “I’m in the process of requesting more people for the monkey work. Again, I remind you: Everywhere you go on this base, you go with security. You know the drill. Questions?”

“I have one,” said Fisher quickly. “Where’s the smoking lounge?”

“For those few of you privileged not to know Special Agent Andrew Fisher, that is him in the rumpled gray suit. He is our lone representative from the FBI, assigned to be as annoying as possible. Obviously the Bureau does not believe this is a very important case. Agent Fisher likes to play class clown, though fortunately today he has left his red nose and floppy shoes at home. He will act as FBI liaison and attempt to grab as much glory as he can, while at the same time doing nothing more than drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, though not in that order.”

“I thought grabbing glory was your job,” said Fisher innocently.

Gorman gave him some dagger eyes, then turned to answer other questions from the assorted teacher’s pets. The only one that interested Fisher was the one she shrugged in answer to: Why hadn’t the emergency locator beacons on the downed planes been picked up yet?

The answer was, there were no locator beacons. Because of the nature of the project, the planes flew without ident gear that would identify them if properly queried. They didn’t have black boxes or any of the otherwise useful gear that would, presumably, have made them easier to find. In fairness, all the monitoring gear they were carrying for the trial exercises would ordinarily be more than enough to supply pinpoint positions in the case of an emergency. But whatever had blanked the systems in all the planes had made them impossible to track as well.

As the questions faded, Fisher got up to leave. A few people nodded at him, but with the exception of Kowalski and Gorman he didn’t know anyone here very well. Probably just as well: It would make it easier to bum cigarettes the first few days.

“Hold on, Andy,” said Gorman as he started toward the door.

“Hey, Gorgeous.”

“Knock off the crap. This is my show.”

“I saw your name in lights outside.”

“Just do your job.”

“And save your ass like in Italy?”

“There are two opinions on that.”

“Yours and everyone else’s?”

“Oh, you’re a master comedian.”

“Yeah, I’m doing Vegas next week,” said Fisher. “Look, I’d love to trade bon mots with you, but I’m dying for a smoke. Where do I find the pilot of the F/A-22. Howe, right?”

“Who says you’re talking to Colonel Howe?” Gorman’s cheeks not only colored red but seemed to rise on her face. “I just went through the various assignments. This—”

“If you’re going to be a pain, we can call General Whatzhisname and ask him to read that long paragraph from DOD Memorandum 17-85B. The verbiage is a bit obscure, but I think it says something to the effect that you have to cooperate with me or get a good spanking. Of course, if that’s what you’re interested in…”

“Just stay out of my way,” said Gorman, walking away so quickly her escort had to double-time down the hall.

“Let’s go, Kato,” Fisher said to the sergeant looming at his elbow. “Smoke, food, meaning of life. More or less in that order.”

“Sir?”

“You can knock off the ‘sir’ routine,” he told the noncom, who looked to be about thirty. The patch on the pocket of his combat camos declared his name was JHNSN. “I know you don’t mean it. Just call me Fisher. Or Andy, if you’re pissed off. Come on, I need a smoke.”

“We have to go outside.”

“Yeah, or the men’s room,” Fisher told him. “But today we’ll go outside, because it’s always nice to make a good first impression.”

Howard McIntyre settled into his first-class seat, indulging in a fantasy about the stewardess who was pouring the champagne. He was just removing her bra when one of the two cell phones he carried in his suit jacket — he had a third in his briefcase, along with an encrypted phone — rang.

The attendant was just good-looking enough to tempt him not to answer, and he might not have if the call hadn’t been on his “A” phone, a special encoded satellite phone with global coverage reserved for his boss, National Security Advisor Michael Blitz.