Still, a smoke was a smoke, and it didn’t make sense to miss a nice hit of nicotine because a Neanderthal was breathing down your neck. Fisher was already late for the meeting he was supposed to be at, and it was doubtful that the others on the task force would allow smoking there. Not that he would let that sort of thing bother him under normal circumstances, but this being a military matter, there was bound to be a full complement of uniformed types with guns available to enforce even the most egregious government usurpation of personal smoking rights.
The jet’s tires squealed loudly as they hit the runway. The plane settled onto the concrete with a slight rocking sensation, but Fisher had no trouble firing up the end of the cigarette.
“You ought not smoke,” growled the sergeant, sitting two rows back. “Pilot’ll have a fit.”
“He owns the plane?”
The sergeant threw off his seat belt and came forward, looming over Fisher.
“Thinks he does, the prick.”
Without a word Fisher handed the sergeant the pack. Both men were midway through their second cigarettes when the Gulfstream finally rolled to a stop. A lieutenant barely old enough to shave was waiting for Fisher with a driver and a Humvee.
“Welcome to North Lake, sir,” said the lieutenant as Fisher shambled down the steps, overnight bag slung over his shoulder. The man stood at attention, hand seemingly stapled to his forehead.
“You looking for change or a salute?” said Fisher, taking a final drag from the cigarette as he reached the tarmac.
“Uh, no, sir.” The lieutenant made a stiff grab for his bag, but Fisher held it tightly. It had most of his smokes; no way he was letting go of it.
“Where’s the water?” asked Fisher.
“Sir?”
“If this is North Lake, where’s the water? All I saw were mountains coming in.”
“Uh, I’m not following. The water supply is a well.”
“Deep subject.”
“Oh yes, sir.” Still playing puppy, the lieutenant jerked around and ran to open the back door of the Hummer for him. Fisher got into the front instead.
“I think we’re running behind,” Fisher told the airman at the wheel. “Let’s kick some butt.”
The driver complied, nearly sending the lieutenant through the back window as he whipped around on the blacktop. Fisher slumped against the door, starting another cigarette.
The base had been laid along the saddle of two mountains; what wasn’t concrete was rock. Two small hangars sat at the far end of the runway. A large concrete mouth yawned beyond them, the low-slung opening narrowing the profile to a secure hangar. Three small, pillboxlike structures sat about a hundred yards beyond it. They didn’t seem big enough to house latrines.
“Have a good flight?” asked the lieutenant from the backseat as they pulled toward the pillboxes.
“I didn’t puke,” said Fisher. “That was a plus.”
They stopped about ten feet from the smallest structure, a dark brown box of cement maybe seven feet wide and a little taller. A steel door sat in the middle. It reminded Fisher of the entrance to the rooftop stairwell in Brooklyn where he’d lost his virginity at age fourteen.
“The Ritz, sir,” said the driver.
As Fisher slid out of the vehicle the lieutenant went over and flipped the cover on a panel at the center of the door, revealing a small numeric keypad. He punched a set of numbers, then pressed his palm against a reddish-black square directly below. The door slid open.
“You’ll have to press your palm against the sensor on the doorjamb,” said the lieutenant as Fisher started to follow him.
“Which?”
“See the gray blotch there?” The lieutenant pointed toward the side. He added apologetically, “Once I’m in, I can’t step out or the door will slam and everything will freeze.”
Fisher sighed, then laid his palm against the sensor so it could be read.
“Um, and the cigarette, sir: I’m afraid there’s no smoking.”
“Alarms?” asked Fisher.
“And sprinklers.”
Fisher eyed him suspiciously. The kid’s peach fuzz was too obvious for him to be lying. Reluctantly the FBI agent finished the Camel and tossed it as he stepped through the doorway.
An elevator waited beyond the threshold. “More security downstairs,” said the lieutenant as they started downward. “They’re going to want to search your bag. And you’ll be escorted everywhere.”
“They know I’m one of the good guys, right? See, my white hat’s back home and it seems like a real pain in the ass to run back and get it.”
The lieutenant’s laugh sounded tinny against the pneumatic rush of the plunging elevator. “Yes, sir. But the nature of the project, and then with yesterday’s, er, incident…”
“I’ve been through this sort of thing before, kid,” said Fisher. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
They did have more security downstairs — a lot more. The narrow hallway was lined with Air Force security personnel holding M16 rifles with thick laser scopes at the top. There were at least six video cameras in the ceiling, and two sets of crash gates. Farther along, four men in civilian clothes guarded the entrance to a corridor that led to the main sections of the underground complex. The men looked like linebackers preparing to blitz a rookie quarterback.
“Jesus, what the hell are you guys expecting?” Fisher said as his bag was inspected for a second time.
“What are you expecting?” said a voice from down the hall. “The scan in the elevator showed you brought a dozen cartons of cigarettes and no change of underwear.”
“I ain’t planning on crapping my pants, Kowalski,” said Fisher. “I’m not part of the DIA.”
“You wouldn’t last in the DIA,” said Kowalski, appearing from down the hall. The Defense Intelligence Agency officer had worked with Fisher several times before.
“Oh, I’d make it — just get a double lobotomy and I’d fit in fine,” said Fisher.
“Yuck, yuck. Same old Fisher.”
“Same old Kowalski. Same old frumpy brown suit,” said Fisher, taking his bag back. “Add any ketchup stains since England?”
“Come on, they’re starting. Stay close to our friend here,” added the DIA officer, thumbing toward a large Air Force security type in battle dress with a flak vest and a very large gun holster at his side. “You can’t go anyplace without a minder no matter who you are. It’s worse than Dreamland. By the way, Jemma Gorman’s running the show.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, that was about her reaction when she heard you were coming.”
Jemma Gorman — officially, Air Force Colonel Jemma Gorman, special aide to the Air Force chief of staff temporarily assigned to the Office of Special Investigations — was holding forth in front of a wall of white erase boards as Fisher entered the small amphitheater briefing area behind Kowalski. Her reaction to Fisher’s arrival was friendlier than he expected: She ignored him, continuing her lecture without stopping.
“The planes disappeared precisely eighteen hours and fifteen minutes ago,” she told the audience of military and civilian investigators. “In that time we have conducted a thorough search of the continental United States. Neither Cyclops nor the missing F/A-22V landed at an airport in North America. We have two working theories. Theory One: There was some sort of catastrophic event. The planes collided, or something similar. They crashed—”
“Gee, you think?” said Fisher, just softly enough for her to pretend she didn’t hear. Gorman continued speaking, her eyes focused on some hapless speck of dust in the back of the room.
“—and because of the difficult weather conditions, locating them has been delayed.” Gorman pulled down a large map at the front — she’d always been good at visual aids — and indicated that the search area was mountainous and currently obscured by severe weather, which wasn’t supposed to break for several more hours. “You’ll note that a good portion of our grids are in Canada,” she said, segueing into a summary of the arrangements with the Canadians. Their major concern seemed to be the possible effects of the search on the local moose, rumored to be in rutting season.