But it could do it. One of the early simulations as well as a war game exercise had outlined almost exactly the same mission.
For a brief moment Bonham returned to the Air Force careerist he’d once been, aware not only of the importance of the mission but the difficulties involved in getting the job done. Above everything else was a strong desire to succeed, to accomplish the job; logic came after the emotion, a plan to succeed.
And then came something darker and deeper — something that had been part of his makeup as an officer but suppressed.
Bonham saw that he had an opportunity that could not be thrown away. He didn’t have a plan yet — he was far from a plan — but he sensed there would be one.
“We can do it.”
“Actually,” said Blitz, “it will be an Air Force operation, not NADT’s. That’s why I’m asking for your assessment.”
“War Game Bosnia 2,” said Bonham, naming the exercise. “We took out a SpecOps helicopter team. You’d want the Velociraptors as backups, just in case, but it’s doable. Very, very doable.”
The war game had taken place during the previous administration, but Blitz was no doubt aware of the outcome. He murmured vaguely.
“We can have Cyclops Two ready. It is ready. And the Velociraptors,” said Bonham. “We’ve been scrambling the team for Colonel Gorman; this just involves shifting priorities.”
“It’s not going to be your operation,” said Blitz again.
“I understand that.”
“I’d like to speak to Colonel Howe.”
“Of course. It will take some time to locate him,” said Bonham.
“Our discussions — this doesn’t represent a final decision,” said Blitz.
“Of course not,” said Bonham, his mind seeking ways to make sure it was.
Chapter 14
Howe watched from the sidelines as Gorman and her people refined their plans to find Cyclops One. It was impressive, a veritable air and sea armada that could cover several thousand square miles of the Russian Far East. If her plan had been approved, fully half of the available assets — and a good portion of the unavailable ones — in the northern Pacific, Hawaii, and on the West Coast would have been thrown into the project.
Twice, the people at the Pentagon sent her back to the drawing boards. Through it all, Cyclops Two and the three F/A-22Vs remained out of the mission plan, apparently because of objections from the top. Only the Cyclops test monitor aircraft, an RC-135 whose test equipment could presumably be modified to help detect the laser plane, was in the mix.
Howe would accept that. He could fly aboard the plane as an advisor to the task group. It wasn’t what he wanted — he wanted to be in the Velociraptor, he wanted to nail Meagan himself — but he could accept it.
The memories that had haunted him over the past few days had retreated now behind the flames of a burning house. He saw his anger at being betrayed as a physical thing, something consuming the past and leaving it in ashes. He would get her; he would bring her back.
And yet, for all his rage and hatred, part of him didn’t believe it could be true. Part of him thought she would never ever do this — never give up her country. Rogers, maybe, or even one of the weapons people, but not Megan. Part of him thought they must have killed her to do this.
Megan was rich enough to do anything she wanted, but she had become a pilot and gone to NADT because she believed she could contribute something. She wanted to make the world safer; she saw Cyclops as exactly that kind of program, something with far-reaching implications.
Had her whole spiel been bull?
The lasers were one-of-a-kind products, hand-built, worth hundreds of millions of dollars. The two they had had taken more than twenty-four months to construct, and there weren’t any others in the pipeline.
He’d get her.
As finally approved by the Pentagon, Gorman’s plan called for a Special Forces unit to stand by while a pair of Rivet Joint ELINT gatherers and U-2s conducted offshore surveys of the Russian Far East, concentrating on the area where the Mystic Bs were operating from. Additional satellite assets were being ordered into place over that part of Russia, and two fresh teams of interpreters were being assigned to help look for clues about the planes. The NSA was reviewing intercepts from the area over the period to hunt for clues to the plane’s disappearance; a Navy spy vessel that worked with the agency was being directed into the area.
“Make love to me,” she said. “Make love to me.”
After Gorman’s plan was finally settled, Howe went about checking on the myriad administrative tasks associated with Cyclops. Crisis or no crisis, there were innumerable details to be checked, initials to be scribbled, E-mails to be acknowledged. His mind squared his emotions off into the corner, and while he felt as if he were missing part of himself, he managed nonetheless to go about the routine business with what he at least thought was a veneer of reasonable calm.
Howe worked his way over to the Testing Lab 2, where a team had begun working on the modifications necessary for the monitoring aircraft. Firenze and a knot of scientists huddled at the far end over some hastily arranged tables; a row of workstations duplicated part of the RC-135’s readouts, allowing them to test their changes.
Firenze, though the youngest in the group, was by no means the strangest; that honor went to one of the two experts in digital compression and communication techniques used by the shared avionics system. The two engineers were both about 350 pounds and dyed their close-cropped hair matching shades that varied according to some scheme Howe had never managed to decipher.
Firenze put up his hand as Howe came in. Howe waited while he finished whatever business he was going over with the others. When he came over, he seemed to shy away a little, as if he were a kid apprehensive about being punished for something he’d done.
“We’re looking at a tough timetable on the Monitor,” Howe told the scientist, using the RC-135’s nickname. “I just wanted to make sure the technical people are going to be ready. Just see if there’s anything that needs to be done.”
“Sure.” Firenze pulled out a PDA and popped up a scheduling screen, which took several different Gantt charts and compiled them into a hieroglyphic decipherable only by the scientist. He went through the different major tasks, assuring Howe that the aircraft and personnel would be ready shortly.
“What about Cyclops Two?” Howe asked.
“I didn’t think it was part of the operation,” said Firenze.
“It’s not. I’m just wondering, if the aircraft were needed, if it would be ready. And the Velociraptors.”
“You have to talk to the maintainers,” said Firenze. “But there’s no technical reason on my side to keep Cyclops Two on the ground.” The scientist gave him a funny look. “Bird One, though — that’s still mine. Until we figure out what was wrong with it.”
“I thought it was cleared following the tests the other day,” said Howe.
“I have some ideas I want to check out.” Firenze’s phone began to play the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The scientist grabbed it from his belt. “Gotta get this call,” he said, retreating to the other side of the long lab room.
Howe’s own beeper went off a few seconds later, with the code showing that Bonham wanted to talk to him. Rather than finding a phone, he went back across the base and down into the main bunker. He ran into Bonham as he was walking toward the control room.
“There you are. Good,” said Bonham, abruptly turning around and heading back toward his office.
Howe felt a little uneasy as he trailed behind; the former general was walking faster than he ordinarily did, frenetic energy practically oozing from him.