Liu, an Air Force officer, realized how far that would push the flight crews and kept shaking his head as they traced the expected flight area on the map. There was no way to provide proper relief crews for the main elements of the mission: Howe, Timmy, and the crew of Cyclops Two were going to have to fight through their fatigue for the marathon mission.
Liu’s borrowed command center had been a recreation room twenty-four hours before; the general and Howe stood over a large Ping-Pong table as they reviewed the tasking order and other data relating to the mission. Other officers gradually filtered in, and what had started as an informal brief took on a more comprehensive tone, complete with a weather report from one of the general’s staffers. Liu, shorter than Howe and a bit pudgy, was a roll-up-the-sleeves kind of guy, and gave the impression he could run out on the tarmac and drive the fuel truck himself if the ground crew turned up a man short.
Captain Atta Habib, the commander of Cyclops Two, arrived just as the briefing was breaking up. He’d left some hours ahead of Howe, but his slower aircraft naturally had taken longer to arrive.
Habib looked as if he’d run the entire way. His eyes drooped and he seemed to be tottering on his legs. Howe didn’t even bother recapping the latest intelligence reports; he told Atta to go and hit the sack.
“That sounds like a good idea,” Liu added over Howe’s shoulder. “As a matter of fact, I think it should be an order for all flight personnel.”
“I wanted to check on the weapons for the Velociraptors,” said Howe.
“Taken care of, Colonel. Go get some rest. Now. We have just under twenty-four hours before this thing goes off.”
Chapter 2
At some point in every investigation, it became necessary to journey to the heart of enemy territory, to brave destruction in the quest for the truth. You could gird your loins with body armor, arm yourself with all manner of weapons, but in the end, it came down to two things: luck, and timing. Luck could not be controlled. Timing, however, could be managed. Fisher, relying both on precedent and clandestine reconnaissance, adjusted his plan accordingly and plunged into the abyss, also known as FBIHQ.
Thanks to his careful preparation — and luck — he made it over to his destination in the great bowels of the enemy camp without incident. In the deepest, dankest basement corridor, in an area once reserved for industrial waste — or worse — he found his quest: Betty McDonald, a true believer, pure of soul and smoky of lungs.
“Cut the bullshit, Andy,” said Betty, who headed a forensic accounting team that worked on national security projects but was actually assigned to the government crimes section of the Criminal Investigation Division, probably because someone had hit the Tab button incorrectly when preparing the last organizational chart. Betty had helped Fisher several times in the past and apparently didn’t have the pull to be permanently unassigned from such duty.
That or she’d lost the paperwork in the pile that flowed from various portions of her desk.
“Just tell me what you want,” she said as he closed the door to her office, battling a bag filled with shredded paper. The remains inside the clear bag looked suspiciously like candy wrappers.
“I’ll take a cigarette for starters,” said Fisher.
“You can’t buy your own cigarettes?”
“On what they pay me?”
Betty’s laugh sounded something like the snort of a hippopotamus.
In a good way.
She rose from her desk and went to the lateral filing cabinets, where a large air-filtration machine sat. She poked the side and the smoke-eater began to whirl.
“You don’t really think that does any good, do you?” asked Fisher, taking a cigarette from her.
“Keeps the boss happy,” she said, sitting back at the desk. She opened the top drawer after she lit up, taking out a bag of Tootsie Rolls, which she habitually chewed while smoking. The combination kept her teeth a healthy black.
“Did you get those financial profiles?” Fisher asked.
“No.”
“Didn’t DOD send over those authorizations?”
“I got the data you asked about, Andy. They’re not financial profiles. They’re barely disclosure statements. Do you have any idea of what we do down here?”
“Besides the orgies?”
Another hippo snort. “If you’re looking for bribes, you want to go over to U-Rent and get a metal detector,” she told him. “You’ll have better luck digging up coffee cans in their backyards.”
“You’re getting funnier, Betty. You really are.”
“It’s the nicotine talking.” She reached down into the nether regions of her desk, digging out a file she had had prepared for him. NADT mandated annual security checks for all its personnel, and the checks routinely included credit reports as well as asset listings. A member of Betty’s team had gone over the data.
“If they know their accounts are being checked, they’re unlikely to hide any money there,” said Betty, handing over the information. “We did comparison sheets where the records were deep enough. Three years.”
“Boring as hell, huh?”
“Your missing pilot’s rich. I’d like to be in her will.”
“So I hear. These are the same forms they had out at North Lake?”
“You’ve seen them already?” Betty’s tongue nearly got tangled in her candy. “God damn it, Andy, you know how short-staffed I am?”
“So, how rich is York, anyway?”
Betty began rattling numbers through the smoke rings, calming somewhat. The family was among the top thousand in the country, depending on how their holdings were valued. On the one hand, she had no close relatives — her parents were dead and she had no sisters — but on the other hand her “real” money was parked in trusts.
“You can’t even tell how rich these people are from the statements,” said Betty. “That’s my point. They’re basically the same bullshit forms Congress uses, and you know how revealing they are.”
“Like your shirt.”
While Betty inspected her clothes, Fisher looked at the sheets, which — contrary to what he had insinuated — were somewhat more detailed than the data available at North Lake. York’s included a long list of trusts that she had an interest in.
“Can you find out what these trusts hold?” he asked.
“After you get the subpoenas and double my personnel line, sure.” Betty popped another Tootsie Roll. “Overtime pay would be nice too.”
Fisher leaned forward. There was a cup of coffee at the edge. Something appeared to be growing in it; otherwise, he might have taken a sip.
“I have this other idea,” he said. “But it’s a long shot.”
“What idea of yours isn’t?”
Fisher reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a three-page list of names. “These are the companies that are involved in Cyclops,” he told her. “Just the weapons part. I was wondering if we could get an idea of any relationships they have.”
“What are you, a marriage counselor?”
“Watching Jay Leno is really paying off for you, Betty.”
She took the list and immediately started to frown. “Are these all private companies?”
“I don’t know. What’s the difference?”
“Well, for starters, it’s as hard getting information on private companies as it is for individuals.”
“So, it’ll be a snap, huh?” Fisher took a long draw on the cigarette. Betty smoked no-name cigarettes, and this particular one reminded him of horse dung. But insulting her would not be particularly productive. “There may be paperwork over at DOD that lets us look at their financial records.”