Cyclops One - Страница 30

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.”

Chapter 14

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.

Fisher spotted a pot of coffee on a credenza nearby. “Can I have a cup?”

“I’m sorry — the coffee is cold,” said the woman.

“I drink it cold.”

She smiled indulgently.

“Actually, I’m looking for Justin Pierce,” said Fisher. “I understand he’s the titular head of the agency.”

The word came out smoothly, despite the innuendo.

“Mr. Pierce is never in,” said the woman.

Fisher scratched the side of his head, emphasizing his confusion.

“Lice?” asked the woman.

“I think they’re gone, actually,” said Fisher. “Shampoo worked wonders. I want to talk to Megan York’s boss. I believe that would be the head of the technical support team. His name was Lee, I think.”

“Her name is Sylvia Lee, and she is in Hawaii for a conference.”

“ABM tests?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Personnel records?”

The woman curled her lips. Now he remembered who she was supposed to be: Cruella, the dog-hater in 101 Dalmations.

“Our personnel records are confidential. Unless you have a court order, of course. That’s the law.”

“Yeah, the law’s a funny thing,” said Fisher. “Who deals with the contractors, Miss—”

“That would be Ms.”

“You deal with them?”

“Only the general.”

“Your accounting office is which way?” said Fisher.

“Accounting is handled by an independent firm,” said the woman.

“Organizational chart?”

“It’s being redone. Anything else?”

“If you let me take a shot at that coffee,” said Fisher,

“I’ll bark for you.”

* * *

The halls of the Rayburn Building were proportioned in such a way as to impress mere mortals as they walked down them, and not even Fisher was immune to their spell. He felt imbibed in the spirit of democracy as he found Congressman Matt Taft’s office; though a poor government worker himself, Fisher understood the inherent importance of his role as public servant.

That and the fact that he had a slight caffeine buzz on, due to the consumption of not one but two Dunkin’ Donuts Big Gulps on the way over from NADT. Cruella had denied him her own blend, even after he’d demonstrated a howl pro bono.

Besides drinking the coffee, Fisher had used the trip to bone up on who exactly Congressman Taft was, besides being Megan York’s cousin. His briefing came courtesy of a newspaper reporter at The Washington Times who owed him a few favors and thirty bucks from a Super Bowl bet gone bad. Fisher had frankly expressed his ignorance, which for some reason never failed to impress newspaper reporters, and had received a detailed description of the congressman’s career, only partially condensed from the newspaper’s computer morgue.

This had taken all of two minutes. Several janitors at the Capitol Building had higher profiles than Megan York’s cousin. The twenty-ninth ranking minority member on the House Armed Services Committee, his name had appeared in exactly two stories over the past twelve months, and one was about rolling eggs on the White House lawn.

The congressman was not in his office, which wasn’t particularly surprising. His legislative assistant, a short, gnomelike man with a beard that reached to his chest, agreed to see him after growling at the receptionist, who reacted by cracking her gum somewhat louder than before. Fisher took one look at the gnome’s brown-stained hands and reached into his pocket.