Cyclops One - Страница 40

“It’s a boot,” said Fisher.

“How the hell can you tell?”

Fisher knelt down near it. “Believe me. That’s what it is.” He picked it up and looked at it. The bottom half had been burned by high heat; Fisher guessed it would help the lab people recreate the fire and explosion. A bit of sock was evident in the mass, so even if there wasn’t any flesh in the blob there, they’d have a shot at DNA.

Maybe. Of course, if the blob included bones or even just burnt flesh, that’d be even better.

The FBI agent held it out to one of the soldiers, who suddenly looked a little pale. “Evidence.”

“Don’t you want to, uh, put it in a bag or something?”

“Nah,” said Fisher. “By the way, the foot’s not in it.”

“How do you know?”

“Just guessing,” Fisher admitted. “But if I told you it was, you wouldn’t take it, right?”

“How can it be empty?” said the trooper, still hesitating.

“Boot probably got blown right off while the foot and leg were burning to a crisp along with the rest of the body. Lab guys’ll get off on this.”

The soldier took the boot without further comment.

Fisher walked down another slope, surveying more of the scattered bits and pieces. A piece of green cloth lay tangled against a few rocks about twenty feet to the right, tangled with a long piece of burnt metal. Fisher bent down and saw that it was a collar from a flight suit — or at least might have been. He folded it and put it in a paper envelope from his jacket.

“Watcha got?” asked Duke, tramping down the slope.

“Cloth. We’ll look for DNA.”

“Yeah? Will that work?”

“Gives the lab something to do,” said Fisher.

“The pilots have a good read on some more pieces west,” said Duke, who’d been talking to them on his radio. “There’s some good hunks out there.”

Fisher took a long drag on his cigarette.

“I need as many pieces of metal as we can get to test for explosives.”

“Which pieces?”

“The ones where the bomb was,” said Fisher, throwing his cigarette butt away and walking back up the hill.

Chapter 8

Clayton Bonham had always believed that you could tell a great deal about a man by what he ordered at an expensive restaurant. In his particular case, the filet mignon — medium rare, with a pepper sauce and oyster mushrooms — meant that he was a solid, conservative man who appreciated the finer things in life, but nonetheless eschewed flamboyance.

The choices of his guests fell in line with his theory. Congressman Taft had chosen a nondescript chicken and pasta dish from the lite side of the menu, an attempt not only to demonstrate that he was watching his weight but also that he was not a spendthrift; the dish was nearly the least expensive entrée, though least expensive was a relative term on M Street. Jeff Segrest, by contrast, had ordered a grilled salmon soup with foie gras mousse floating on a black corn taco — a bizarre though thoughtlessly flamboyant mélange that looked about as appetizing as the napkin covering the wrought-silver bread basket.

The restaurant, named James after its owner and executive chef, ranked comfortably in the top tier of Washington power eateries, a fact that Bonham kept firmly in mind as he ate, since it meant that their conversation had to be circumscribed. This was not necessarily a bad thing, however; while he found Taft inoffensive, Segrest was a serial blowhard, and only the possibility that he would be overheard kept his boasts within somewhat reasonable bounds.

It also meant that he was semidiscreet regarding Cyclops, which was what both men wanted to talk about.

“Revolutionary,” said Segrest. “That was the President’s word.”

“Yes,” said Bonham. Things in India had gone remarkably well — much better, in fact, than he could have hoped. Incredibly better. The intelligence agencies were closing in on the wreckage, with the early reports indicating that an Indian SAM had taken out the plane. Depending on what theory they began to favor about the aircraft’s theft, evidence would be supplied — nothing firm, of course, just hints and suggestions. A money transfer, a name on a visitors’ list, a credit card transaction — the sort of things the sleuth Fisher would eat up.

The bastard had sniffed out the lake plan somehow, even though they hadn’t gone through with it. Bonham still hoped Fisher might manage to convince someone to have the damn thing drained. Serve the idiot right.

“Do you think this is the end of war, General?” asked Taft.

Bonham smiled. The President had used that phrase, and a number of commentators had picked it.

“I think it’s a bit premature,” said Bonham.

“My cousin thought the augmented ABM system more critical,” said Taft.

Bonham smiled again, though this time much more tightly. Though anyone who really mattered would surely know who the men and their relationships were, Bonham nonetheless would have preferred that Megan’s name not be mentioned. She surely would have preferred that herself.

“The antimissile system is critical,” said Segrest. “And when we get the contract, it will be a windfall.”

More than a windfall, you greedy bastard,thought Bonham, sipping his wine. Segrest controlled a considerable portion of the Jolice and related portfolios, and so he had to be dealt with very carefully. Still, Bonham fantasized about the day when he would tell the fat pomposity to get out of his office.

His White House office.

“Don’t be premature,” Bonham said mildly.

“We’ll score well in the next round of tests,” said Segrest. He looked at Taft. “The congressman agrees.”

Bonham realized belatedly that Segrest wasn’t merely boasting: He was demanding that the weapon be used in the next round of tests.

“The tests will show what the tests show,” said Bonham. He could feel his throat starting to close. “Anything can happen. Whatever the results, Jolice should be funded. An argument is there.”

“More than an argument when the results of the first test are duplicated.”

He was ordering it. Ridiculous!

Bonham picked up the napkin from his lap and daubed at the sides of his mouth, surreptitiously glancing around the room to make sure no one was listening.

The plan was to dismantle the weapon and the base, and to leave. Anything else was far too risky — for him especially. He’d gone to great lengths to cover their tracks.

And why, really? Because of greed. Because Jolice and its backers stood to gain billions if the augmented ABM system was built. Never mind that it might not work. Never mind that companies much better suited to build it — Lockheed and Boeing, for example — were being flim-flammed out of the competition.

Meagan York’s motives were pure, but no one else’s were, not even his. He wanted power, not money; at least he had the wisdom to realize when they’d gone too far.

“I believe the weather in the Pacific is very tempestuous,” Bonham said, as close to a hint as he dared.

“Nonsense,” said Segrest. “The weather there has never been better. Don’t you agree, Congressman?”

“Oh yes,” said Taft.

“We have to move along the course I’ve outlined,” said Bonham. He kept his voice low; still, he worried about being overheard.

“No. That’s far too cautious. You’re conservative, General, a conservative by nature.” Segrest’s voice was so loud, it could have been a toast. Bonham pushed his teeth together, sure that others were staring. “The future — imagine the possibilities.”

“Yes,” said Bonham.

“Very rich possibilities,” said Segrest, signaling to the waiter for more wine.

Chapter 9

The first day after the crash, McIntyre managed to walk only a few hundred yards beyond the ravine where the helicopter had gone down. He lost his strength somewhere after midday and, lying down to rest, fell fast asleep. When he woke it was dark; he went back to sleep and didn’t open his eyes until the sun forced them open. He got up and began walking. After a while he realized the aches and stiffness he’d felt had melted into a gnawing hole in his stomach, something he thought must be hunger, though it felt slightly different than that, as if his stomach had been emptied and then twisted in his body.

McIntyre came to a hillside so sheer that the only way was to slide on his butt. He couldn’t find a comfortable way to hold the guns and finally decided to loop the straps around his neck. As he started to push down he changed his mind, thinking it would be better to crawl on his belly, but it was too late: Unable to stop himself, he slid sideways, then rolled and kept going until he slammed against some rocks. The gray hands that had climbed over his eyes pressed in and he lost consciousness.

He was out for an hour, maybe more. Then the ground in front of his face turned blue. He opened his eyes and saw that he was about fifty feet above a trail through a valley. Bushes began to rise in the terrain about twenty yards to his right, gradually becoming thicker until the entire valley was covered in lush green.

McIntyre picked up the guns from his chest and got to his feet. He slid a few yards, walked a bit, then gave way to his momentum and began trotting down the hill. For a second his aches, pains, and bruises disappeared. He reached the bottom of the hill and caught his breath, hyperventilating slightly. His head remained clear.