Megan had betrayed Bonham as well. He presented a calm exterior, but inside he’d be roiling.
Howe wanted to pound her. Pound her.
Unless she was a victim. Unless she hadn’t been lying to him.
How could she have lied? She hadn’t felt as though she’d been lying.
“We have a chance,” said Bonham, ushering him through the outer office.
“What chance?” asked Howe. “What about?”
“The national security advisor is going to talk to you about an operation involving Cyclops Two in India.”
Howe reached for the seat in front of the desk, listening as Bonham told him of the situation in southern Asia. As Bonham laid it out, the mission itself sounded very similar to one of the scenarios in their early trials.
“It’s a chance to redeem the program,” said Bonham. “If we can pull this through…any fallout from these Russians, or whatever the hell happened to Cyclops One…it won’t touch us. Your career will be saved. Don’t tell me you’re not thinking about that, Tom. I know you are.”
His career was so far from his thoughts that Howe didn’t answer.
“I don’t know the operational details,” said Bonham. “I’m not sure there are any. They’re going to keep me out of the loop, I’m sure, because I’m not — because NADT is strictly development. I understand that. But could the Velociraptors fly shotgun with Cyclops Two? What’s their status?”
Almost against his will, the details of what Howe would have to do to undertake such a mission began turning through his mind. He started a list of whom he’d need — an intelligence officer first thing. Weapons people…
The main people were already in place on the Cyclops side, and the Velociraptors.
Support — tankers, AWACS, patrols for them. Reconnaissance. He’d need a lot of backup.
SAR.
“Tom, call Dr. Blitz,” said Bonham, turning the phone toward him, then reaching over and punching the numbers. “Here, I’ll get the connection.”
Three different checkpoints blocked the road off the mountain base. Bonham made a point of lingering at each one, stopping and chatting with the guards as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He’d changed into jeans and nondescript clothes, which was standard procedure for anyone leaving the base via the highway. He was also driving a civilian pickup with Montana plates, also standard procedure. It was not unheard-of for him to go off base while he was out here; he usually took off a few hours every visit, loading fishing gear into the back of the pickup. The gear was there now, and if anyone had asked he would have mentioned a stream about fifty miles from where the base road met the highway, a stream where he often fished.
No one asked. And no one followed when he turned off the highway and onto the dirt road leading to the stream. He got out, put on his waders, and then went into the water. The first sting of the creek brought a rush of blood to his chest and upper body; he walked upstream ten or twelve yards, then set out a cast.
If casts were only measured by distance, it would have been perfect; his fly sailed in a long, high arc for what seemed like forever. But it plopped hard into the water, too dead to fool a fish, too loud to be anything but a piece of bait. He might just as well put a cut-up rubber worm on the hook.
No matter. Bonham reeled in slowly and cast again. The fly went even farther this time and landed even harder. He tried again, arms jittery, his mind too filled with other things, too distracted to relax.
Bonham stayed in the stream near the deep part of the channel for more than a half hour, listening to the water and the stillness around him. Several times he thought he heard someone coming up the road behind him, but it was only the thumping of his heart.
Finally he strode out of the water and went back to the truck. He packed away his gear slowly, then opened the small case where he kept his flies. He touched each specimen carefully, hoping the ritual might relax him.
It did not.
Back on the road, Bonham turned left instead of right, heading toward a McDonald’s about five miles away. He stopped and went in, using the rest room. When he came out, he paused at the public telephone booth. As if acting on impulse, he squeezed in and threw a quarter down the slot. Then he punched an 800 number.
It took a while for the number to connect. When it did, he said firmly, “I have a new plan. It has to be followed precisely and quickly. It’s not perfect, but it will divert attention. Things can be left open-ended.”
The person on the other end of the line said nothing as Bonham continued to talk. There was a simple acknowledgment when he was done. Then Bonham hung up and went to buy a Big Mac before returning to the base.
Chapter 15
What was presented to Megan wasn’t so much a plan as an idea, and a difficult one at that. To pull it off she’d have to fly her aircraft to the very edge of its endurance limit. There was a single field available for her to refuel at, and while the foreigners there would be well paid to forget her presence, there would be no way of controlling any future complications.
On the other hand, she recognized the dilemma.
This would not only draw attention away; it would allow her to complete her mission despite the delays and fresh demands.
Was that still important?
The augmented ABM system was. It was part of her goal, her real goal, and she would do anything to make it a reality.
The first time her uncle told her his story about flying over Tokyo during World War II—how old was she? nine? and by then he was in his seventies—from the moment that he told her that story, her purpose had crystallized.
We can end war.
Not naïvely, not by putting your head in the sand or throwing away your guns, as the Quakers would urge. Her father’s father had made that mistake, and where had it led?
To three hundred feet over Tokyo, flying through clouds of acrid smoke, flesh and bricks on fire below, the roar of your engines not loud enough to drown out the babies’ cries.
Because of weakness. Had Hoover challenged Japan in the beginning, in China, the outcome would have been different.
Her father saw that, and her uncle. They even agreed that if Congress had acquiesced to Roosevelt’s rearmament — had they gone beyond his requests — the Japanese never would have dared.
But give her uncle and the others credit: The American bomber crews in World War II did what had to be done. She would too.
“What are we doing?” demanded Rogers.
Megan hit the Delete button and confirmed, then looked up from her computer terminal.
“Why are you in my room?” she demanded.
“I want to know what was going on.”
One thing she had to give him: He didn’t try to make himself attractive.
“We’re going to plan a new mission,” she said. “It will eliminate the complications.”
“Will I get paid?”
“Of course,” she said, oddly comforted by his avarice. “Extra. Help me plan.”
Chapter 16
Fisher had almost made it to the helicopter when the evil sibyl’s gaze fell upon him. The landscape turned purple and a hideous howl filled his ears. The earth would lie fallow for seven years.
“Mr. Fisher!”
A curse formed on his lips but went unuttered; he didn’t want to lose the grip on his freshly lit cigarette. Instead, Fisher pretended he hadn’t heard anything and continued toward the waiting airplane.
It was no use. Gorman had the angle and appeared in front of him with twenty yards to go. Fisher threw on the brakes lest he touch her and melt.