Cyclops One (2 page)

He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe. Everything Thomas Howe had ever been furled into a bullet at the center of his skull. His head fused to his helmet and for a brief moment his consciousness fled. His heart stopped pumping blood and his body froze.

In the next moment something warm touched the ice.

Megan. Smiling, last night on the bed.

It was only a shard of memory, but it made his heart catch again.

Gravity slammed Howe against the seat as he fought to regain control of the plane. Bile filled his mouth and nose; it stung his eyes, ate through the sinews of his arms. He pulled back on the stick, but the plane didn’t respond.

He wanted to cough but couldn’t. The helmet pounded his skull, twisting at the temples. The F/A-22V threatened to whip into a spin. He pushed the stick to catch it and jammed the pedals.

Nothing worked.

The Velociraptor’s control system had gone off-line. That ought to have been impossible.

Engines gone.

Backup electricity to run the controls should automatically route from the forced-air rams below the fuselage.

Nothing. Too late.

Out, time to get out!

But the engines were still working. He could feel the throb in his spine.

Out—get out! You’ll fly into the ground.

The computer controlled the canopy. If it was gone, if that was the problem, he’d have to go to the backup procedure.

Set it. Pull the handle.

Out!

The controls should work. Or the backups. Or the backups to the backups.

Howe hit the fail-safe switch and clicked the circuit open manually.

Nothing.

Out!

Howe forced his head downward and forced himself to hunt for the yellow handle of the ejection seat. The blackness that had pushed against his face receded slightly, enough to let him think a full thought. Without control of the plummeting plane, he was no more than a snake caught in the talons of an eagle; the yellow handle was his only escape.

The fingers on his right hand cramped hard around the stick at the right side of the seat. He looked at them, trying to will them open.

They were locked around the molded handle. He looked at them again, uncomprehendingly: Why were they not letting go?

He pulled back on the stick, then pushed hard to each side several times. If the controls worked, the plane would shake back and forth violently, trying to follow the conflicting commands. But it did nothing.

A black cone closed in around his head.
Let go,
he told his hand.

Finally his fingers loosened. He reached for the ejection handle, wondering if the F/A-22V had started to spin. He could no longer tell.

Augering into oblivion.

Something stopped him as his gloved finger touched the handle. He looked up and saw the large hulk of the Boeing bearing down straight at him.

Instinct made him grab the stick again. It was a useless, stupid reaction in an uncontrollable airplane; if he pulled the eject handle, he might at least save himself. The dead controls had no way of stopping the collision.

Except that they did. The F/A-22V responded to his desperate tug, pushing her chin upward and steadying on her left wing. The 767’s tail loomed at the top of the canopy for a long second, the stabilizer an ax head above his eyes. Then it disappeared somewhere behind him.

Two very quick breaths later Howe had full control of the plane. He wrestled it into level flight. He called a range emergency—it was the first thing he could think to say—then tried to hail Cyclops.

Empty fuzz answered.

“Bird One to Cyclops,” he repeated over the frequency they had all shared. Ideas and words blurred together, his mind several steps behind his instincts; he couldn’t sort out what he needed to say, let alone do. “Two? Williams, where are you? Cyclops? Bird Two? No joy! Shit—lost wingman! Break off! Shit.”

Howe sent a long string of curses out over the radio before finally clicking off to listen for a response. He put his nose up, trying to get over the weather. Worried that he would hit either his wingman or the Boeing, he kept his gaze fixed on the sky over the heads-up display until he broke through the clouds. Only then did he look back down at his instruments.

Everything was back, everything. All systems were in the green. The only problem seemed to be the radar: completely blank.

The techies would pull their hair out over this one. He reached for the radar control panel on the dash, manually selecting search and scan mode. The auxiliary screen flashed an error message listing several circuit problems.

Then it cleared. The screen tinged green before flashing a light blue, the color of empty sky.
NO CONTACT
appeared in the right-hand corner. His position indicator showed he was now over Canada, just north of the intended test area.

Howe keyed the self-test procedure for his radar. As it began, he tried reaching Cyclops again.

“Bird One to Cyclops. Hey, Megan, you hear me or what?”

Howe waited for her to snap back with something funny. He felt ashamed of his anger now.

“Bird One, this is Ground Unit Hawk. What the hell is going on up there?”

“I had a major equipment flakeout,” he told the ground controller at the I-HAWK station. “Controls just disappeared. Looks like I still have a problem with my radar. Until your transmission I thought my radio was gone as well. I can’t reach Cyclops or my wingman.”

“Neither can we.”

“Give me a vector,” he said, twisting his head around to look for the planes.

“Negative. We don’t have them on our radar.”

“What?”

“We have you and that’s it. Cyclops and Bird Two are gone. Completely gone.”

Timing was everything. Light up too soon, and either the attendant would notice or the smoke alarm would go off. Too late, and he’d miss at least two drags on the Camel.

Andy Fisher fingered his lighter as the Gulfstream dropped into its final approach to the runway. On a commercial flight, the most the stewardesses would do if he lit up now was tsk-tsk on the way out. But this was an Air Force plane, and the attendant wasn’t exactly a piece of eye candy: The sergeant looked like he could bench-press the plane. He also reeked of health freak, and had frowned when the FBI Special Agent asked for a refill after his fourth cup of coffee.

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.

“In addition to assets from the project team directed by General Bonham and NADT, USAF has conducted and will continue to conduct the search,” she added. “Major Christian is our lead on that aspect. He will keep us updated on the progress.” Gorman glanced sternly toward the second row, where an Air Force officer nodded grimly. Her own expression grew even graver, her brows furrowing on her forehead. “The other theory, Theory Two, is that the planes have been stolen. Unlikely. But we will exhaust that possibility in parallel to the search. Mr. Kowalski will head that team.”

“Pet,” said Fisher in a loud whisper. Kowalski, who had sat in the row in front of him, bobbed his head backward but said nothing.

“Kevin Sullivan from Aerodynamics Linx will head the technical team. We’ll have a subsection on sabotage to rule it in or out; Major Yei from CID will take the lead, along with the technical team headed by Al Biushi. You may remember Mr. Biushi from the NASA project last year. The malfunctions on the F/A-22V that landed have yet to be explained,” said Gorman. Her hands jabbed the air as if she were a conductor signaling the cannon for the
1812 Overture.
“That will be a priority for the Velociraptor technical team, which will be headed by Jack Meiser from Locker Aircraft.”

Fisher pulled his cigarette pack from his pocket and slumped back in his seat, unwrapping the cellophane as Gorman went through administrative information about meeting places and quarters. Anyone else would leave this sort of minutiae to an aide or even a handout, but Gorman’s hands worked into a frenzy and she actually smiled while reciting, from memory, the telephone extensions of the various subgroups assigned in the base’s encrypted phone system.

The cellophane wrapper stuck at the corner of the pack. Fisher pulled it off with a loud flourish; one or two of the people in front of him shot nasty looks over their shoulders, as if he’d set off a stink bomb.

“Howard McIntyre from the NSC will be joining us from Hawaii via closed circuit this afternoon,” said Gorman sharply, a buried Brooklyn accent filtering into her words. “Most of you know Mr. McIntyre, but for those of you who don’t, he is the assistant to the national security advisor in charge of technology. He’s flying to Hawaii for the augmented-ABM tests, which are due to start tomorrow, but he’s also been tasked to keep the President updated. As you can well imagine, the White House is extremely interested in what’s going on here. I don’t have to tell you all how sensitive this is, not only in terms of national security, but politically. Especially politically. I expect all of you to be discreet.”

She looked directly at him as she said that.

“Discreet—my middle name,” said Fisher in a whisper. “Hey, Kowalski, who’s Bonham?”

“Retired two-star Air Force general who heads the National Aerospace Development and Testing Corporation, which is NADT,” whispered Kowalski. “The big boss of the project. NADT’s a contract agency with serious clout. They’ve developed a half-dozen weapons including the modified F/A-22s, and they’re responsible for testing and refining a bunch more, including Cyclops. Part of the drive to privatize non-warfighting military functions and save some cash. Bonham’s the main man.”

“Yeah, but get to the good stuff. What kind of underwear?”

“That’s more your department, but I’d guess boxers.”

“What about the little boss?”

“You mean Howe?”

“Sure.”

“Almost bought it in the chase plane.”

“Prime suspect.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Who else is important?”

“Guy named Williams in the other chase plane. Gone. Air Force. Never heard of him.” Kowalski stopped to look at his notes. “Lady named, uh, Megan York.”

“Air Force?”

“Contract test pilot. Works directly for NADT, like just about everybody else here. She’s about thirty. Supposed to be a dish. Haven’t seen the photos yet.”

“Put me in for the eight by ten. What kind of underwear does she wear?”

Gorman frowned severely in their direction, then looked back to her groupies in the front row. “I’m in the process of requesting more people for the monkey work. Again, I remind you: Everywhere you go on this base, you go with security. You know the drill. Questions?”

“I have one,” said Fisher quickly. “Where’s the smoking lounge?”

“For those few of you privileged not to know Special Agent Andrew Fisher, that is him in the rumpled gray suit. He is our lone representative from the FBI, assigned to be as annoying as possible. Obviously the Bureau does not believe this is a very important case. Agent Fisher likes to play class clown, though fortunately today he has left his red nose and floppy shoes at home. He will act as FBI liaison and attempt to grab as much glory as he can, while at the same time doing nothing more than drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, though not in that order.”

“I thought grabbing glory was your job,” said Fisher innocently.

Gorman gave him some dagger eyes, then turned to answer other questions from the assorted teacher’s pets. The only one that interested Fisher was the one she shrugged in answer to: Why hadn’t the emergency locator beacons on the downed planes been picked up yet?

The answer was, there were no locator beacons. Because of the nature of the project, the planes flew without ident gear that would identify them if properly queried. They didn’t have black boxes or any of the otherwise useful gear that would, presumably, have made them easier to find. In fairness, all the monitoring gear they were carrying for the trial exercises would ordinarily be more than enough to supply pinpoint positions in the case of an emergency. But whatever had blanked the systems in all the planes had made them impossible to track as well.