Cyclops One (11 page)

Dr. Blitz had nearly reached his office in the West Wing when one of his secure cell phones rang. Glancing at the number, he saw it was McIntyre. He took the phone out and stood against the wall, deciding he would go straight to the President’s office when he finished the call.

“Blitz.”

“McIntyre. Something’s definitely up.”

It took considerable fortitude not to use any of the dozen or so sarcastic responses that occurred to the national security advisor. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. I wangled an invitation to some bases up in Kashmir. I’m leaving in ten minutes.”

“Good,” said Blitz.

“The army’s on high alert. Everybody’s antsy. You want a rundown from the embassy people?”

“What I want is more information than I can get from CNN,” said Blitz.

McIntyre started to protest.

“I understand it’s a difficult situation. I have to go,” said Blitz as someone came down the hall. He snapped off the phone, then smiled at Wordsworth Cook, the secretary of state. A small horde of Cook’s aides clogged the hallway, going over some last-minute items with the secretary as Blitz slipped into the Oval Office.

Jack D’Amici was standing at one side of the desk, hitting small golf balls into a practice putting device. The balls snapped into one side of the chute and then were spit back across the thick, regal carpet. His chief of staff stood nearby, watching.

“Professor.”

“Mr. President.”

Blitz took a spot next to the putting range, careful to position his feet in the rough.

Ordinarily, D’Amici would chat as he putted, but today he concentrated on his shots.

A very bad sign, Blitz thought.

The chief of staff excused himself as Cook came in. The two men, one blue-collar striver and the other drenched in old money, couldn’t stand each other and barely exchanged nods.

The President continued to work on his golf after the door was closed.

“India is going to strike Pakistan,” said D’Amici finally, sinking the last ball in his line in the hole, “because they’re convinced Pakistan will hit them. How do we stop them?”

“Bump their heads together,” said Blitz.

Neither the President nor the secretary of state laughed.

“I think if we permit a nuclear war to proceed, we’ll have committed almost as grave a
sin
as those who start it,” said the President. “And I use the word
sin
on purpose.”

D’Amici put up his hand to keep Blitz from interrupting. “I think that we have to do everything we can to prevent India from attacking Pakistan,” he continued. “Clearly, if they strike the missiles, the Pakistanis will have no option but to respond.”

“Nothing we can do will prevent them from attacking,” said Blitz. “Even if we shared intelligence, they’d simply change their plans.”

“We could also tell the Pakistanis they’re coming,” suggested Cook.

“Then how do we guarantee they wouldn’t launch a preemptive strike?” said Blitz. “If we were in that position, I would.”

“As would I,” said D’Amici.

No one said anything as the President lined up his golf balls for a fresh round. Blitz couldn’t help but think about the augmented ABM system; what would this conversation be like ten years from now? Would the President simply call both sides and tell them they wouldn’t be allowed to fight?

It would be more complicated, surely, but at a minimum they could prevent a nuclear exchange.

Ten years from now. Not now.

Maybe simple rhetoric would scare them off now. Hints, rather than hard facts—get them to realize what was at stake.

“I spoke to Howard McIntyre earlier,” said Blitz, trying to move the conversation forward. “He’s sure they’re close to action. Maybe a strongly worded speech on national television, getting the entire world’s attention; it might get them to pause.”

“If this was simply the government, that might work,” said Cook. “But this is clearly a splinter group. And as for Pakistani reaction…”

He let his voice trail off. Blitz generally had a hard time reading the secretary of state; he seemed to be something of a pacifist, yet had served in the Defense Department and came from a family that had contributed a number of generals to the Army. A onetime senator, before returning to government he had been on the board of several defense contractors.

“Assuming I appeal to both sides and that doesn’t work,” said D’Amici, “what do we do next?”

Blitz glanced at Cook, who glanced at him.

“Can we stop the Indian attack on the radar site?” asked D’Amici. He smacked his golf ball so hard it scooted nearly to the opposite wall. He walked over and retrieved it.

“That would be quite an operation,” said Blitz. “To get aircraft that deep in Pakistan-—we can do it, but the Pakistanis, and probably the Indians, would see us.”

“What if we used Cyclops?” asked the President.

Blitz thought many things at once. Striking a helicopter would be fairly easy for the weapon, which had already proven it could do so in trials. It could operate out of Afghanistan and fly either over that country or just over the border. And, if successful, it would have a tremendous impact on both countries, impressing them with American resolve to prevent nuclear war.

On the other hand, it was filled with risk. American lives would be at stake; worse, if it failed and word got out about the attempt, American prestige would suffer.

What was prestige next to millions of lives? If they stopped this war, wouldn’t that prevent others? Wouldn’t it help deter attacks against America itself?

“The laser system itself may work,” said Cook. “But the plane crashed, didn’t it?”

“We have another one,” said D’Amici. “What do you think, Professor?”

“How can we trust it when the other malfunctioned?” interrupted Cook.

“There have been new developments,” Blitz said. The report on Gorman’s latest findings—and, just as important, what she wanted to do about them—would come over from the JCS. But, given the circumstances, the President would not be happy if Blitz didn’t tell him about it now. D’Amici stopped putting and stood with his golf club in his arms as Blitz summarized the latest theory and recommendations.

“I can’t believe the Russians would steal the aircraft,” said the President finally.

“Nor can I,” said Cook.

“There are questions that are worth investigating,” said Blitz.

“We can’t just invade Russia,” said Cook. “That’s what Gorman’s talking about here.”

“They want to use Cyclops Two?” said the President.

“I think the idea is that it would be able to neutralize anything the Russians had,” said Blitz, uncomfortable at carrying water for a plan that hadn’t been finalized and wasn’t his to begin with. “But it may have been added because the people at North Lake are pretty adamant about wanting to be involved.”

“If the Air Force is thinking of using Cyclops in an operation, obviously they believe it’s ready to be used,” said the President. “And if that’s the case, then we should use it in India, if all else fails.”

No one spoke for a moment. Blitz looked at a picture on the wall behind the President that showed Dwight Eisenhower taking the oath of office. D’Amici admired Ike for many reasons. Like Ike, he was in favor of a strong military, yet suspicious of the industrial complex necessary to equip it. Eisenhower had taken a proactive role in several conflicts; would he do so here?

“I’d like to see what a plan involving Cyclops looked like,” said D’Amici. “Can you take care of that, Professor?”

“Yes, sir,” said Blitz.

Captain Jalil stretched his legs as he walked up the ramp to the headquarters building, fighting against the urge to run. He could think of only one reason his colonel had summoned him. The attack date had been set.

The regiment’s forward base consisted of a short airstrip and a collection of tents scattered around two
L
-shaped buildings, both of which appeared to date from the British occupation, if not before. Made of large clay blocks covered with more than a century’s worth of paint, the buildings had large windows along their sides; they were more like arboretums than military offices. The morning was still cool in the valley northeast of Sutak in Kashmir, and Jalil felt a chill as he walked down the long hallway. Perhaps it was energy and anticipation: He had waited so long for this that he couldn’t hope to hold himself back, now that the moment had arrived.

Jalil turned the corner to his commander’s office, entering the wide doorway and snapping to attention. His commander continued to work over something on his desk, not offering the slightest hint of acknowledgment. The commando captain stood at stiff attention the entire time; it was relaxing in a way, allowing his muscles and bones to ease into a perfect posture.

“Captain, we have a slight difficulty to deal with,” said the colonel finally before looking up.

Jalil didn’t answer. He felt disappointment—worry, really—that the plan had been canceled. But he kept his body motionless.

“Due to the nature of our arrangements, not everyone is aware of our commitments.” The colonel frowned. Only a small portion of the army and air force were involved in the plan to make the country safe from the terrorists across the border; while they knew they would be supported after the fact, success depended on maintained secrecy, even from those superiors not privy to the plan.

“We are receiving a visitor in the next day or two who must be handled very carefully,” the colonel continued. “He is an American—a spy, really—though of course he won’t admit that. I believe he was allowed to come here because the base seemed the most innocuous place for him to be: far from the front line and nearly unoccupied.”

Jalil resisted the temptation to grin at the irony. “What if the visitor is here when the order comes?” he asked.

“Then I suppose it would be useful for him to meet with an accident. While on patrol with us, perhaps,” said the colonel. “Demonstrating the audacity of our enemy. I would prefer that it did not come to that, but if it did, a suitable script could be arranged.”

Jalil nodded. His colonel grimaced a second, then turned his attention back to his desk, jotting something on a pad. The captain waited nearly a full minute, still at attention, before leaving the office.

“We’re not dredging the lake,” said Gorman.

“I don’t want to dredge it,” said Fisher. He reached into his pocket for a cigarette, even though they were inside the North Lake control room. “I want to look in it. All I need is some sort of sonar to run across the bottom.”

“And what exactly do you think you’ll find?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe a big hunk of an airplane with something big enough to identify it.”

“It’s a waste of resources.”

Fisher shrugged.

“The plane wouldn’t have just disappeared in the lake,” Gorman said. “No. We’re not wasting our time. Don’t smoke that cigarette in here or I’ll have you arrested.”

Fisher tapped the cigarette on the table. “You’re not going to make me have the Canadians do it, are you?”

Gorman didn’t answer.

“They were setting it up to look like a crash, but something went wrong,” said Fisher. “That’s what I think.”

“We flew over that area several times during the search.”

“Not that far north.”

“We did go over it.”

“It’s beyond your grid. And a lot of that shoreline would be covered by trees from above. That may have been part of the idea.”

“You’re way off base, Andy.”

“Here’s your chance to prove it.”

Gorman said nothing.

“You wanted me to interface with the Canadians, right?” said Fisher. “Consider this taking you up on your offer.”

“As a matter of fact, Andy, why don’t you just go search the lake yourself. Jump in it, as a matter of fact.”

Fisher stuck the cigarette in his mouth. “Sarcasm isn’t your thing,” he said, leaving.

Firenze squeezed his eyes so hard, the eyeballs hurt. The recycled air of the protected research facilities was triple-filtered and adjusted for humidity as well as temperature, but something in it nonetheless aggravated his sinuses and seemed to drain all the moisture from his body.

Even if Colonel Gorman’s theory was true and Cyclops One had been hijacked or stolen, he still couldn’t explain what had happened to the F/A-22Vs. While it seemed logical that some sort of kill command had been sent from Cyclops One to the Velociraptors, there was no evidence in the telemetry data. Not one integer was out of place or unaccounted for.

They’d looked at everything, even the radar altimeter. There was no way the accident had occurred. No way.

The scientist slid his chair back. Fatigued, his brain no longer functioning properly, he decided there was only one thing to do: He pulled out his laptop and fired up Free Cell.

Firenze had gotten through one deal when he was interrupted by a loud
garrumph.
A lanky government-type stood in front of him, a foam coffee cup in one hand and a Pepsi in the other.

Fisher, the FBI agent.

“You look like a Pepsi guy,” said Fisher, handing him the can.

“Thanks. Hey.”

“Hey yourself. Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

“You want to finish the game first?”

Firenze killed the game without saving it. “Just helps me think, you know?”

“Cigarettes are less frustrating,” said the agent.

“More expensive, though.” Firenze laughed.

“You know what happened to the Velociraptor yet?”

“I’ve been working on it. What happened was impossible. It was like snapping off a power switch. Except that it came back on.”

“Maybe there was a loose wire somewhere and Howe just hit it hard enough to get it to reconnect,” said Fisher. He pulled over a chair and sat on the back, his feet balancing it on the floor. “Used to have a TV like that. You had to slam the top a couple of times to get the colors right.”

Firenze laughed again, though they’d actually checked into a more sophisticated version of the agent’s theory.

“You think Howe faked it?”

“Faked it?”

“Like he didn’t really have a malfunction.”

Firenze shook his head.

“You didn’t think of that, did you?” The FBI agent took a long sip from his coffee.

“No, I didn’t. But Colonel Howe would never be involved in something like this. Never.”

Fisher nodded slowly. “What about Megan York?”

“I don’t think she would, either.”

“Other people on the plane?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Tractor beam,” said Fisher suddenly.

“Tractor beam?”

“Sure. That Russian spy plane—has a giant tractor beam. Flashes through the air, tows Cyclops One back to base.” Fisher smiled. “I talked this thing over with one of my guys back at the Bureau. Hope you don’t mind. He knows a lot about computers and stuff. Not too good at Free Cell, though.”

“Why would I mind?”

“He thought it had to be one of two things,” said the agent. “One, it didn’t really happen to Howe. Or two, there’s a command in your computer that erased itself.”

“The code couldn’t have erased itself. We can see all the commands,” explained Firenze.

“You can see the commands you’re set up to see.”

“Well, yeah. That’s everything.”

Fisher looked at him for a minute, then shrugged and stood.

The environmental system, thought Firenze: the circuit that controlled the heater and the air conditioner.

No way.

But they hadn’t checked it.

Fisher dug into one of his pockets. “This cell phone—you can get me anywhere, anytime. Works all over the place. Unless you call from my boss’s phone. That’s blocked out.” He unfolded a bent business card from his other pocket and gave it to Firenze. “You get something, give me a call, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Really okay?”

“Really okay,” said Firenze.

“I think you’re right about Howe,” Fisher said. “For what it’s worth.”