“Your orders were issued under a different set of circumstances,” said Blitz. “In any event, we have to find it first.”
He glanced at the wall clock. He was due upstairs to talk with the President about India and Pakistan in five minutes. He’d bring this up as well — recommend a search without the strike option.
“I intend to find the aircraft, sir,” said Gorman. “But when I do, wouldn’t it make sense to be in a position to retrieve it immediately?”
“What about a smaller task force?” said General Richards.
“We would prefer overwhelming force,” said Gorman.
“In case of any contingency. On the other hand, a small strike force, operating with Cyclops Two, could be used for a pinpoint operation.”
“We haven’t heard from the FBI,” said Anthony. “What does Andy Fisher think of all this?”
“Mr. Fisher was the one who figured out where the airplane had been taken,” said Gorman.
“Oh? Let’s hear him, then.”
“I’m afraid he’s not available,” said Gorman. “Mr. Fisher tends to work according to his own schedule.”
“Speaking of schedules, I’m afraid the sand has run out of my egg timer,” said Blitz. “I think we should press ahead with the search but hold any attack option in reserve.”
“I think Cyclops Two and the Velociraptors should be prepared for a mission,” said General Richards. “We’ll formally take the aircraft over this afternoon from NADT.”
The others murmured agreement. Blitz saw no point in objecting.
“I’m meeting with the President in a few minutes,” he told the others. “I’ll bring it up with him.”
Chapter 9
Out of other options, Fisher resorted to a tactic he had learned from an old hand on his first week as an FBI field agent: guile. He phrased his request for a helicopter in such a way as to make the request sound as if he wanted to retrace the probable path from the test area to the abandoned base, something not even Jemma Gorman could object to. But as soon as the MH-60 Blackhawk got over the Canadian border, Fisher leaned forward into the cockpit area with his red-lined topo map.
“What we really want to do,” he said over the headset they’d given him, “is head up north, to the point where they found that plane part, and work up from there. I want to look at this wedge here, these lakes especially.”
“That’s not our flight plan,” said the pilot.
“Yeah, I know. You allowed to smoke in here?”
“Not really.”
“Even if I open the windows?”
A half hour later the helicopter passed over the plateau where the 767’s part had been found. The area was marked out with small triangular flags but was no longer guarded.
“So what exactly are we looking for?” asked the pilot as they flew along the western leg of the triangle Fisher had marked out.
“Damned if I know,” said Fisher over the interphone circuit. “But I’ll tell you if I see it.”
“Pretty country,” said the crew chief, standing near him at the side door.
“Yeah,” said Fisher.
“You know, some of this area has been gone over quite a bit,” said the crew chief. “We went over it ourselves.”
“Yeah,” repeated Fisher. “I want to get further north, though. How deep you think that lake is?”
“Couple hundred feet, I bet. Real deep.”
“What I think I’m looking for is something very deep with a deserted road nearby for access.”
“You looking for a hunting lodge?”
“Maybe,” said Fisher. “Actually, an abandoned place would be perfect. Road doesn’t have to be much. Enough to get a couple of trucks in.”
“Hmmm,” said the chief.
“That mean you remember something like that?”
“Means I could use a smoke too.”
There were two reasonable candidates, both at least fifty miles farther north than the search grid, but both on line with where the part had been found. One sat in a crevice between two rocky peaks and had a paved road around the bottom quarter. But there were cabins a few miles south with a view of the road, so Fisher opted for the other site. A flat area emptied out of a road and on the lake at the southeast; they put the helicopter down there.
Fisher got out of the chopper and walked up the road, which looked like a logging trail cut through the woods. There were a few stacks of brush alongside it; the cuts looked weathered, though none of the people in the helicopter had been Boy Scouts and so they couldn’t tell how old they were. The trail ran a hundred yards to a macadam road.
Fisher stood at the turnoff, smoking a Camel pensively. There were tire tracks at the edge of the road. He paced off the width, deciding the trail was roughly twenty feet wide — more than enough to get a flatbed down.
But if there was anything in the water, it was fairly deep. And there was no debris on the shoreline.
Back by the lake, the crew members were sitting on the rocks, dangling their feet in the water. The pilot stood gazing over the surface.
“So?” he asked Fisher when he returned.
“Could be,” said Fisher.
“Could be what?”
“Nothing or something. Hard to tell.”
“If the plane crashed in the lake, wouldn’t there be debris on the surface?” asked the chief.
“I did see a candy wrapper,” said Fisher. “But then again, Canada’s always coddled litterbugs.”
Chapter 10
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?”