Cyclops One - Страница 36

McIntyre saw another rifle and two clips lying close to it. He grabbed them, then whirled, sensing someone was watching him. Once more the blood fled from his brain.

One of the Indian soldiers sat upright on the ground, propped against the helicopter, eyes open. McIntyre stared at him, not sure whether he was alive or not. He started forward, thinking of poking him with the gun. As he took a step something seized him — not fear, and not precisely anger, either, but something he couldn’t have defined. It made him press the trigger. Three bullets burst from the gun. One glanced off the helicopter near the man’s shoulder and the others completely missed, McIntyre’s aim thrown off by the recoil. But though he hadn’t been hit, the man slumped over and fell to the side. He’d already been dead.

McIntyre stripped off the soldier’s bulletproof vest. There were grenades in it, two hooked into small pockets in the front and two more clipped on the top. The tops were taped so they wouldn’t accidentally explode. There were several clips of ammunition for the rifle as well.

Someone started talking inside the helicopter. It wasn’t a moan or a plea; McIntyre couldn’t make out the words or even the language, but the words had a calm, logical sound.

McIntyre took one of the grenades in his hand and held it. He started to push off the tape, thinking he’d blow up the helicopter, killing the men inside.

He’d expelled his anger, though. He didn’t want to kill; he just wanted to live.

He couldn’t think. He started to reel back and throw the grenade into the helicopter, then turned and threw it toward the rocks. His legs seemed to disintegrate; he pushed his body forward, sprawling and belatedly covering his head with his hands.

There was no explosion. He hadn’t set the grenade.

He had to get out of here.

McIntyre staggered, the rifles dragging over his shoulders as he began picking his way across and then down the slope, not sure which way he was going, only that he was moving.

Chapter 2

They were beyond tired, all of them, but Howe needed to get it all sorted out. He rubbed his eyes, hunching over the map as Atta and the crew members of Cyclops Two slowly — painfully slowly — worked through the cockpit gear and replotted each strike on the paper map. The map was so large that it draped over the small folding table they were using; they had to push it up to get the last of their plots in. They’d taken out a total of thirteen Indian ballistic missiles and six Pakistani IRBMs, as well as two SAMs.

“This hit,” said Atta, pointing to the far side of the map, “was definitely not ours.”

“We’re assuming it’s a missile, not a shadow contact,” said Howe. “Or a dummy warhead.” He leaned back against the frame of the weapons operator’s seat, slightly hunched over despite the ample clearance on the flight deck.

“The other may be,” said Atta, “but this here is definitely a live warhead. And the strike pattern on the target is exactly like ours: tracking laser, then the hit.”

It had to be Cyclops One. The AWACS radar contacts were consistent with a 767. They had tracked the contact’s flight north, then lost it in the mountains east of Jammu. There had been a series of Indian SAM launches; it appeared that the plane had been shot down by a Trishul missile, though the data was inconclusive. It was possible that the NSA would be able to supply more data about that in a few hours, pending their own analysis of the battle.

Had the Chinese stolen the plane, then used it to help Pakistan? Or had the Pakistanis stolen it themselves, only to lose it in battle?

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.”

Chapter 3

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.