Cyclops One - Страница 42

Was it even Indian? He might actually be over the line in Pakistan. The border in Kashmir wasn’t very well defined, and now there might not be a line at all.

McIntyre walked for a long while, his head gradually stooping closer to the ground. Finally he heard noises. Thinking it was another truck, he climbed over the stones at the side of the road and hid in a small depression a short distance away. Minutes passed without anything appearing, and he finally realized the sound wasn’t getting any louder. It seemed to be an engine of some sort, but it was standing still.

A large boulder stood on the slope across the road from him. Thinking it might give him a vantage to see ahead, he slipped back across the road and clambered up the slope. But the rock was higher than he’d thought, and tired and battered as he was, he couldn’t get to the top, not even when he put down the rifles. He settled for sidestepping across the slope below it, pushing through the bushes to see.

Something orange flashed in the distance.

A tiger.

He reached for a rifle, realizing belatedly that he had left them on the ground. He took a step and then the tiger sprang forward, charging him from the distance.

McIntyre tried to run but quickly lost his balance and slid down the rocks. He covered his head, cowering against the dirt and scrubby vegetation, waiting to be torn apart.

Except that he wasn’t; the tiger had stayed where it was.

It wasn’t a tiger. There were no tigers here, or other large cats; even the snow leopards had long ago fled, leaving man as the only predator. The orange was a piece of cloth, and as he walked toward it he realized it wasn’t even orange but yellow. It was draped over a bush, and it wasn’t moving.

McIntyre looked past the cloth and saw a building in the distance, set back near a clearing. This, he thought, might be a good place to arrange the pickup, though he’d have to scout it first, see if there were people nearby. He checked his watch: He had a half hour left before he was supposed to call.

The bushes in the back didn’t provide much cover, but the building looked run-down and possibly abandoned. McIntyre gathered his courage and walked down a shallow slope toward what seemed to be the back or a side wall, studying two large metal housings on the roof. There was no sound, and he could see no vehicles nearby. The highway swung around somewhere ahead, passing in front of the building.

The door must be on that side. Here there were only windows, one boarded, the other’s glass covered with a thick layer of grime.

McIntyre edged to the left side of the structure. There were two windows. A car or truck passed; he crouched before it came into view and couldn’t see it.

He tried to come up with a plan, but his brain wouldn’t supply one. What would the occupants do if a man with a rifle — two rifles — appeared at the front door, his clothes torn and covered with blood?

Shoot him, or run for their lives.

But then again, if no one was here, it would be a perfect place to stay and wait for a rescue.

McIntyre hunched on his knees, thinking. Finally he pushed up from the crouch, walking toward the building with the guns still in his hands.

When he was about twenty feet away, he tried to run. After a single step his right thigh muscle began to spasm. He managed to reach the wall and hurled himself against the blocks, catching his breath before edging toward the front corner.

A metal door was set into the front wall about a third of the way down. The road was visible through some trees to his left.

McIntyre steadied the rifle in his right hand, glancing at his finger on the trigger. Then he knocked on the door with his left hand as hard as he could manage, and stepped back.

No one answered. He tried again, stepped back farther this time. The third time he used the butt end of the rifle, the other gun swinging awkwardly off his shoulder. When no one answered, he reached for the handle.

The door was heavy and opened toward him rather than inward. Slapping his side against the door to hold it open, he stood against the darkness, anger inexplicably mixing with his fear and exhaustion; with a rush he went forward into the building, not so much ready for anything as resigned to it.

There was no one inside.

The building housed some sort of machine shop. A pair of desks sat in the front, separated from the work area by some filing cabinets and open space.

There were phones on both desks. McIntyre went over and picked one up.

A dial tone.

A dial tone! He wouldn’t have to rely on the satellite phone and the draining battery.

But didn’t the fact that the dial tone worked mean the building wasn’t abandoned?

Was it a trap? Was someone watching him?

McIntyre put the phone back down and walked through the rest of the building. There was a washroom in the back. He opened the tap and put his face under the faucet. The warm water tasted metallic and moldy at the same time, but he was so thirsty he gulped it down.

When his thirst was quenched, he realized he was a few minutes late for his phone call. He went back to the front and took out the satellite phone.

Brott picked up before the first ring ended.

“We think we know where you are,” he told him. “We’re going to arrange a rescue, but it’s not easy. It’s chaos over there. There’ve been several riots.”

“Get someone here,” said McIntyre. He sat down on the floor against the desk. “Get somebody here.”

“We’re working on it. You have to relax.”

As McIntyre struggled to control his response, the door began to open.

Chapter 12

Blitz had the answer ready, but Byrd would not call on him. The others were droning on about terrorist threats, the need for force on the ground, the fool’s gold of technology. Finally he could stand it no more: He stood up from the desk and found himself in the middle of the circle. The others were dressed as he had known them in college, in jeans mostly, but he was in the suit he’d been wearing in the White House a few hours before. Instantly he was self-conscious. Byrd looked at him, waiting.

And so he started.

“Nation-on-nation violence can be halted. We’ve done so for the first time,” he said. The words sounded strange in his ears, as if he were talking through a tube. “Terrorism remains a difficult problem, but the impact there also will be great, with more pinpoint attacks. Imagine fighting the Intifada with the ability to eliminate individual bomb-making facilities with absolute certainty. Imagine the 1996 attack on the Al Qaeda camp in Afghanistan with Cyclops rather than cruise missiles. The attack on the World Trade Center never would have occurred.”

Byrd nodded, then asked, “What does that mean for those who possess the weapon?”

Blitz had thought of this at some length, mostly from the perspective of what they should do if an enemy obtained its own version. But for some reason his brain refused to formulate an answer.

“Does the selectivity mean the weapon will be used more often, or less?” asked Byrd. “And is either beneficial?”

Again, Blitz had thought of this; the answer, he thought was obvious: the weapon did not need to be used to be effective, but its use must be as carefully controlled as the nuclear bombs had been. But he couldn’t speak.

“Well, Dr. Blitz?”

What was the alternative, he wanted to know. Do nothing? They had been right in India: Millions of people owed their lives to that gamble. That good could be measured unambiguously.

Blitz began to stutter.

“Dr. Blitz?”

Blitz pushed his head upward from the desk as the classroom disappeared. He was in his office; he’d fallen asleep, exhausted, waiting for word about McIntyre.

One of the military liaisons was standing at the door.

“Dr. Blitz?”

“Go ahead. I’m sorry, I was dozing.”

The aide nodded. It was a little past three in the morning.

“Mr. McIntyre just called again. We have a good location. The Pentagon people are trying to contact the task force working with Colonel Howe.”

“Good.” He rose, stretching some of the fatigue away. “I’ll go over to the Tank as soon as I can.”

Chapter 13

Howe and Timmy climbed through thirty thousand feet, circling upward over Chinese territory as the MV-22 finished collecting the last member of its team and set course back to Afghanistan. It would stay low for a little under two hundred miles, threading its way through the mountains and valleys to avoid any possible detection by radar. At that point it would climb and skirt into eastern Pakistan and then over into Afghanistan.

Though much faster than a helicopter, the Osprey was still a propeller-driven aircraft, and flying low through the unforgiving terrain was not something that could be rushed. It would take close to an hour to reach the relative safety of the Pakistani border.

Timmy proposed to fill that time with a song.

“What sort of song?”

“I was thinking something by Limp Bizkit,” joked the wingman.

“If you try that, I’m going to order silent com,” said Howe.

“Don’t you think there ought to be an M3 hookup in these?” asked Timmy. “Actually, a karaoke rig. That’s what we need. I’m going to talk to Firenze about that when we get back.”

Laughing in spite of himself, Howe was just about to suggest that Timmy sing “Old MacDonald” when the AWACS supervisor radioed, requesting that he switch to a new frequency. The moment he keyed in, an Army lieutenant colonel at the Pentagon introduced himself by saying they had found their man.