Threat Level Black (4 page)

Ten years before, Applegate, Arizona, had been a pristine patch of sand and tumbleweed populated only by the wind. Now it was a pristine patch of high-tech factories punctuated by macadam and people who smiled a lot, undoubtedly because they had just cashed their latest stock options. The factories had been built by a collection of new-wave defense contractors; as far as Fisher could tell from the backgrounder he’d been given, the companies specialized in making things that didn’t actually work—and taking a very long time to prove it.

The airport terminal looked like a pair of trailers piled one on top of the other, with a few windows added for light and structural integrity. Fisher walked inside with the other dozen people from the airplane, noting the No Smoking signs and strategically placed ashtrays filled with pink-colored sand. This seemed to Fisher the work of a particularly perverse antismoking group: Not only did they want you not to smoke but they harassed you with Day-Glo colors.

Then again, it could be part of a guerrilla movement intent on undercutting the antis by mocking their weaponry. Or, worse, it occurred to Fisher that the sand might mask some nefarious incendiary device lurking just below the surface of ash. Deciding the matter needed more investigation, Fisher took out his cigarette pack and lit up, tossing a match into the tray to see if it was flammable.

“You can’t smoke inside,” whined someone behind him.

Fisher glanced left and right without finding the source of the voice.

“Fisher, right?”

Something bumped his elbow. Fisher looked down into the gnomelike face of a forty-year-old woman. The face was attached to a body that barely cleared his belt. Fisher was tall—a bit over six feet—but not
that
tall. This woman defined vertically challenged.

“I’m Fisher.”

“Special Agent Katherine Mathers,” said the woman, jabbing her hand toward his. “And you can’t smoke in here.”

“That’s good to know,” said Fisher. He took another drag. “Are we walking to where we’re going, or is there a car?”

“I’ve heard about you,” said Mathers. She frowned and headed across the reception area, all eight feet of it, toward the exit. Fisher caught up outside at the curb, where Mathers was waiting behind the wheel of a 1967 puke-green Ford Torino.

“Nice car,” he said, getting in.

“Oldest Bu-car in existence,” she said, using the accepted slang for a Bureau-issued vehicle. If she hadn’t, he might have thought of asking to see her ID.

“No smoking,” she told him.

“No?”

“No.”

He was almost at the butt anyway, so Fisher rolled down his window and tossed it.

“You do that again and I’ll have to bust you for littering,” said Mathers. “We’re very ecology-conscious here.”

“I could tell from the car you were driving.”

Mathers stomped on the gas pedal—or, rather, the three wooden blocks taped one atop another on the gas pedal. The Torino lurched away from the curb, smoke and grit flying.

“Can you see where you’re going?” Fisher asked the other agent.

“I heard you were a wiseass.”

“That’s me.”

“I can see fine,” said Mathers, whose head would not have been visible from outside the car. “They brief you or what?”

“You got some guy who met some other guy who knows someone who built an E-bomb for North Korea and wants asylum,” said Fisher.

Mathers shook her head. “First of all, the guy’s a gal.”

“Okay.”

“Second of all, the gal met the scientist himself, not someone else. There’s only two players.”

“That’s a relief. I was afraid we’d have to use zone coverage. Now we can just go man-to-man.”

“What are you going to do?” Mathers asked.

“After we stop for some coffee, I’m going to talk to the guy who’s a gal,” said Fisher. “And we’ll take it from there.”

“We don’t have no fancy bullshit coffee here,” said Mathers, in a tone that made Fisher forgive not only her driving but the business about smoking in the car. “Just stuff that’ll burn a hole in your crankcase.”

“The only kind I drink,” said Fisher.

The e-mail that had brought Fisher to Applegate consisted of exactly two words:

O
UT
,
PLEASE
.

Attached was a technical diagram of an E-bomb—or, as the technical people preferred to call it, “an explosive device intended to render a disruptive magnetic pulse.”

The e-mail had been sent to Amanda Kung. While Kung worked at a defense-related company, neither she nor the company had anything directly to do with E-bombs—or any weapons, for that matter. The company built UHF radios that could fit on pinheads, undoubtedly seeking to exploit the burgeoning market of seamstresses who needed walkie-talkies.

According to Mathers, the connection between Amanda and the Korean who had sent the e-mail was personal: They had met in China during a conference two years before and occasionally corresponded electronically.

“Love thing?” Fisher asked as they drove toward the complex on a road that might be charitably described as a succession of bumps interrupted by gullies. Fortunately, Fisher had equipped his coffee cup with a safety shield; when you found java this bad, you didn’t want to spill a drop.

“Could be love. Probably just curiosity: how the other half lives, that kind of thing,” said Mathers. “Typical flighty-scientist kind of thing. Women. You know what I mean.”

“Sure.”

“So, did you really commandeer a C-17 over the Pacific to make a bust?”

“Gross exaggeration,” said Fisher. “I won the C-17 in a game of darts.”

Mathers smiled. “You’re an inspiration.”

“Don’t get giggly on me, Mathers.”

She veered from the pothole-strewn highway onto what looked like a dust-swept field. The Torino growled as they took another turn, the engine chuttering while the air filter chewed on some pebbles.

And then, like a scene from a Charlton Heston movie, the dust cleared and a four-lane concrete road appeared. The Bu-car settled down as they approached the building where Amanda Kung worked, K-4 Electronics. A quartet of khaki-clad guards with German shepherds met their car. The two FBI agents were instructed to get out of the vehicle and the car was searched before being allowed to proceed. Inside the gate, they were met by a six-foot-five protosimian who pointed to a parking space and gave them coded tags to wear.

“Computer system figures out if you’re inside and don’t have a tag on,” warned Mathers.

“What’s it do, vaporize you?”

“Very possibly.”

Inside the building, the agents were met by a personal minder, another large athletic type Fisher thought he might recognize from WFW reruns. He led them to a private room where Amanda Kung was waiting.

As a member of the high-tech community, the company had a certain image to maintain and therefore did not call the room a room but rather a “cell.” It looked very much
like
a room, at least to Fisher, though the decoration was not in keeping with the ultra–high-tech style of the rest of the building. Twenty-feet-by-twenty-feet-square, it had thick red carpet, leather-upholstered furniture, wainscoted walls, and paintings of various dogs. Kung explained that this was because the firm had begun its existence by making special radio collars for an invisible K-9 fence before branching out into the more lucrative defense field.

There were a number of dog jokes attached to the explanation of the company’s history. Fisher made it through the first—
We’re the only business that succeeded after going to the dogs
—then decided to cut Kung off and ask if she could tell him about the Korean.

“I met Dr. Park two years ago at a conference in China,” said Kung. Short and thin, Kung had the female dweeb look down, with thick glasses beneath uneven bangs. Her purple blouse hurt Fisher’s eyes. “He is an engineer working on electrical generation projects.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s what he told me. I got the idea that he might know more, because of the sessions he was at. And then I got that e-mail.”

“Want to go to Korea?” asked Fisher.

“Korea?”

“North Korea. I have some frequent-flier miles to redeem. Supposed to be pretty nice in February. They put out fresh mud.”

“I don’t know.” Kung looked at Mathers.

“You want to help your friend, don’t you?” said Mathers, apparently ignoring the ESP signals Fisher had beamed into her brain.

“He’s not really my friend,” said Kung. “He’s just an engineer I met.”

“Well, he thinks of you as his friend,” said Mathers, stubbornly impervious to mental suggestion.

Kung pursed her lips.

“You’re not married, right?” asked Fisher.

Kung’s lips turned white. “He’s going to Moscow the day after tomorrow,” she said.

“Moscow?” asked Fisher.

Kung unfolded a piece of paper and slid it across the table to Fisher. “This came this morning.”

HELLO AMANDA

G
OING TO
M
SCW
. C
AN YOU GET ME OUT
? B
EST CHANCE
T
HURS
. P
LEASE
I
HAVE INFORMATION
.

Fisher took the e-mail and looked at the header that showed the path the message had taken:

----------------- Headers -----------------

Return-Path:

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EE10”

There were various ways the actual route an e-mail took could be hidden, and the agent recognized one of the remailers as a kind of semianonymous clearinghouse in Asia that he’d seen in the course of another investigation.

“Can I keep this?” asked Fisher.

“Sure.”

Fisher got up. “Well, think about going,” he said.

“Where?”

“Korea,” said Fisher.

“Why Korea if he’s going to be in Moscow?” asked Mathers.

Fisher decided the time was right for the ultimate weapon and unleashed the double-dog–drop-dead stare. Mathers’s breath caught in her chest and she swallowed whatever sentence had been lurking in her mouth.

“That’s all you want to know?” asked Kung.

“Pretty much,” said Fisher.

He stopped at the door. “I do have one other question,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Do you have a smoking area?”

“That was your entire interview?” asked Mathers as they walked back to the car.

“Yeah.”

“I have to say, your interrogation style leaves a lot to be desired.”

Fisher went around to the passenger’s side, waiting while Mathers fiddled with the locks. The car was searched once again as they left. The search was thorough enough for Fisher to smoke two whole cigarettes and start on a third before having to get back in the car.

“I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t smoke in the car,” said Mathers. Her voice was so sincere that Fisher almost considered putting the cigarette out.

“Could you at least roll down the window?” asked Mathers.

Fisher could do that, and did.

“I shouldn’t have criticized you,” she said as they drove away. “I’m sorry.”

“Not a problem.”

“But if those were the only questions you were going to ask, why bother coming out here in the first place?” asked Mathers.

“Boss wanted me out of Washington,” Fisher told her.

“You figured the people at the company are listening in,” said Mathers a few miles later.

“I’m sure they were,” said Fisher.

“You don’t think you can trust them?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“So, what do we do? Go to Moscow? Talk to her at home?”

“We find a place with really bad chili dogs and have some lunch,” Fisher told her. “I haven’t had a good case of heartburn in more than a week.”

Howe pushed himself down into the cockpit, listening as the NADT contract pilot gave him a few last-minute instructions on the Iron Hawk’s handling. Jeff Storey, the other pilot, was a former Navy man under contract as a test jock; Howe had met him a few times before. Storey was going to fly wing in a second plane while Howe took the Iron Hawk for a short familiarization hop, part of the campaign arranged by Dr. Blitz to convince him to take the NADT director’s job.

Howe had started early that morning with a tour of the headquarters building, where every single female employee appeared to have been instructed to wear the shortest dress imaginable. Following the flight, he would be taken to lunch at one of the area’s best restaurants. A briefing on more NADT programs was planned for late afternoon, and then he was supposed to join two senators for dinner.

Howe was actually looking forward to the flight. His aircraft combined a host of different technologies that, apart from its aeronautical abilities, demonstrated what NADT could mean to the military. But he was interested primarily in feeling the strain of gravity against his chest, and the giddy rush that the experienced pilot still felt when he goosed the throttle. He hadn’t been at the stick of a jet in months.

Howe’s aircraft had ostensibly started its life as a McDonnell Douglas T-45, an extremely airworthy and capable aircraft used by the U.S. Navy as a jet trainer but versatile enough to serve as a multirole fighter for foreign air forces. NADT had taken the basic airframe and reworked it for its own purposes. Among the many obvious changes were longer wings shaped in a modified delta, forward winglets near the fuselage that helped maneuverability, and a reworked cockpit area. While the new cockpit allowed only one pilot, not the two common in a normal trainer, it included a “bathtub” of titanium and a carbon-fiber compound designed as a kind of bulletproof armor to protect the pilot. The idea was that the Iron Hawk would be especially survivable on a close–air-support mission, where it might come under ground fire while swooping down to support troops.

Less noticeable improvements included the more powerful engine, the large-capacity fuel tanks, and an improved radar/synthetic sight system called AMV.

AMV
stood for
advanced military vision
and was at least potentially a quantum leap over normal radar. In its most basic modes, it combined phased-array, millimeter-wave, and microwave devices and input from multispectral and hyperspectal image sensors—optical, infrared, and near infrared viewers to synthesize a radar “picture.” The combined sensors gave it a far wider detection span than what was possible with radars normally installed in tactical fighters; a B-2 bomber could be seen at about fifty miles.
Seen
was an appropriate word, because the technology that was used to integrate the sensors also allowed the computer to draw a three-dimensional picture of the detected object. In the Hawk, the image was presented on a flat, two-dimensional multicolor screen, but the system could be mated to a 3-D hologram display similar to that being developed for the F/A-22V.

AMV had several modes that would be familiar to any interceptor pilot since the advent of solid-state avionics. It could sweep a wide area, track particular planes while continuing to search for others, and target an aircraft at long and close range using all of its sensors. It included a system to “cue” a pilot in a dogfight, essentially telling him when to fire. But the radar capabilities also allowed synthetic close-up modes, useful for a number of applications. For example, an airplane suspected of smuggling large amounts of drugs or weapons could be “scanned” at about five miles. In layman’s terms, the system provided a detailed “X-ray” of the interior. The computer interpreter attached to the system could assess what it was looking at quickly and then present the information to the pilot transparently. It not only could tell an F-15C from an F-15E but detail the target aircraft’s fuel and ammunition states. AMV had potential for police uses as well: It could scan a smuggler’s aircraft and detect bales of marijuana, for example.

Perhaps the real breakthrough was the size of the unit: It was small enough to be carried by the Hawk, which had given over part of its fuselage and undercarriage to the antenna pods and sensors, but otherwise still looked like the compact airframe it had begun life as.

There were still a number of bugs to work out. One of the most annoying was the failure of the software routines that filtered out things like birds at long distances; a single bird would occasionally blink onto the screen as a red triangle “unknown,” staying there for a few seconds before the computer satisfied itself from the flight pattern that it was in fact a bird, rather than a cleverly disguised missile or aircraft. Nonetheless, AMV had major potential for the future.

The Iron Hawk itself was just a tester, but NADT was preparing to propose the plane as a lightweight attack aircraft, versatile enough to serve as a backup interceptor. In theory it could replace both the A-10A and F-16, with much of the toughness of the former and all of the adaptability of the latter. It could take off and land on short runways with a full load of bombs, withstand several direct hits by 23mm flak guns, pull 10 g’s without coming apart, and accelerate to just over the speed of sound in a hair-breadth. As a dogfighter, it couldn’t match the F/A-22 or even an F-15, but it cost considerably less. All of that made the aircraft exceptionally attractive.

But Howe wasn’t here to evaluate the plane, just to get a look at NADT’s toys.

Maybe
his
toys?

At a half-million dollars a year, he could afford his own plane. And a nice house, and nice vacations, and whatever the hell else he wanted.

“Bottom line, flies just like a T-45 with a full load of fuel,” Storey told Howe. Storey was flying an identical plane. “Takes off smooth—you’ll swear you were in a trainer. It’s that easygoing. Very forgiving, very friendly. But it still goes like a champ.”

Howe gave him a thumbs-up and began familiarizing himself with the cockpit. Despite the NADT upgrades, the basics were recognizable descendants of the Navy’s Cockpit 21 program—a McDonnell Douglas designed arrangement that featured multifunction displays and a layout perfected during in the late 1980s and 1990s. Aside from some updated GPS and radio gear, the main improvements concerned the radar and weapons systems the Hawk was meant to test. He soon had Hawk One snugged and tiptoeing toward the flight line.

NADT leased space at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland; the arrangement allowed it to make use of the finest facilities in the world. The Air Force also provided some of the security around its three hangars—though regular Air Force personnel were not admitted into the compound area, and in fact would have been subject to court-martial if they dared even approach the external fences. It was a sweetheart deal for NADT, demonstrating not only how important the private agency was but also showing the vast resources it could call on if necessary. The people maintaining the plane Howe sat in included veteran mechanics and other technical people who’d gained experience in the military, and the engineers who had actually designed the systems were available for consultation.

Besides the Hawks, two other NADT aircraft were housed here. Howe happened to be familiar with both. One was an F-15E that had been used to test some of the systems later installed in the F/A-22V Velociraptor. The other was a knockoff of the Russian Sukhoi S-37/B Berkut—a two-seat, next-generation version of the super plane built by NADT from specifications obtained by the CIA.

The S-37/B had been Howe’s introduction to NADT; he’d come to the D.C. area on a special temporary duty assignment specifically to fly the aircraft. The project had been so secret that only two men had been trained to fly the aircraft, Howe and Tim Robinson.

Timmy had lost his life in the Cyclops project.

The Sukhoi sat under a tarp in the far corner of the hangar, mostly forgotten now that its mission had been completed and it had yielded its data to the CIA and Air Force. Howe powered up and rolled away from the hangar.

“I’m not taking this job,” he reminded himself as he waited for the tower to give him clearance. “It’s not what I want to do. And besides, it’s a desk job.”

Although there were fringe benefits: He felt one of them as he accelerated into the sky.

“Hawk One, this is Two,” said Storey as they tracked out into the small rectangle they’d been given to fly in. “I’d say you’ve flown before.”

The two aircraft moved over the Atlantic, passing through a thick bank of clouds.

“Clear skies,” remarked Storey as they burst above and ahead of the weather. It was as if the sun had disintegrated the curtain of clouds; the sky seemed so clear you could look up through the canopy and spot the angels polishing the stars.

Howe pushed his wing down and began a gentle bank, riding the Hawk southward in a lazy orbit. The stick responded easily, the aircraft eminently predictable despite all its mods and miles. One thing he had to give NADT: They knew what they were doing.

If he took the NADT post, he could do this whenever he wanted.

If he really wanted to fly, why had he left the Air Force in the first place?

Hell, he could find a job as a contract pilot somewhere. Anywhere, just about. Work as a test pilot.

Maybe that was the slot he should take at NADT, not boss man.

Turn down the chance to be rich?

Maybe the money had corrupted Bonham. Wasn’t money the root of all evil? Or was it your own soul where the problem was?

Half a million bucks a year—more, potentially lots more, when you threw in bonuses and stock options and all the perks. Maybe it was a drug you couldn’t resist.

As they neared the end of the cleared range, Storey started talking up the plane, mentioning some of the improvements in engine technology. As a general theme, the engineers had substituted new materials for the traditional metals, seeking to make the power plants lighter and yet tougher at the same time. Howe knew the real question wasn’t whether the materials were usable but rather whether it would be practical—as in affordable—to use them in full-scale production. Even the military had financial constraints, and just because you could make something smaller, faster, and lighter didn’t mean it was cost-effective to do so.

Howe started a series of maneuvers, doing inverts and sharp cuts, rolling out and climbing, diving toward the ocean and whipping back upward, doing his best impression of a 1920s barnstormer. While admittedly the Hawk couldn’t match those old biplanes for sheer warp-ability, it could slash around the sky fairly well. He managed some tight angles and high g’s, felt the restraints press against his body and the blood rush from his head despite the best efforts of his flight suit.

The maneuvering forward airfoils and the variable-attack edges on the main wings gave the smallish Hawk some serious advantages in a close encounter with an enemy fighter. Howe found himself almost wistful for the days of cannon-punctuated furballs, close-in dogfights as much decided by the skill of the engineers who constructed the aircraft as the pilot himself. Today a dogfight would typically end without the planes even seeing each other; an American fighter pilot was equipped and trained to down his opponent before the enemy’s radar even picked him up.

Forget the romance. There was no arguing against the idea of beyond-visual-range combat. The goal was to shoot down the enemy and live to tell about it, and a great deal of work had gone into making that happen.

Reality and fantasy veered in different directions. Reality: The NADT job would be a pain in the ass. He’d be a paper pusher. And maybe worse: They’d expect something for their half-million big ones.

“All right, Hawk Two, let’s head back,” said Howe.

“Roger that. I’ll tell the folks back home to warm up the car.”

As Storey clicked off, Howe caught part of a transmission from a ground controller querying a light aircraft back near the coast. It was flying toward a restricted area north of Washington, D.C. Something in the controller’s tone caught Howe’s attention; he glanced at the radar screen and located the plane about twenty-five miles to the southeast.

The plane failed to respond to the queries. About sixty seconds later a ground controller vectored an Air National Guard flight toward the aircraft to check it out. Howe called in to ask what was going on.

“NADT Test Flight One, we have an aircraft refusing to answer hails or directions at this time,” snapped the controller.

“We’ll check it out for you. We’re closer than Guard Sixteen,” he said, referring to the F-16 that had been vectored to check out the plane.

The controller hesitated but then acknowledged. Howe and Storey selected max thrust—the Hawks had no after-burners—and changed course for the intercept.

The small low-winged monoplane was flying a straight-on path toward the Capitol building. A bomb-laden plane on a suicide flight? Or a lost civilian with his radio out?

Howe’s augmented radar system painted the light plane to his right as he approached. A new controller added data about the plane. The pilot was off his filed flight plan by several miles.

Howe and Storey tried hailing the pilot on the civilian frequencies and an emergency channel but got no response. In the meantime the Air National Guard F-16 was galloping toward them with orders authorizing the pilot to shoot down the plane.

As he cut the distance between them to under five miles, Howe flipped through the radar modes into Close Surveillance to scan the interior of the aircraft.

“NADT Hawk Flight One, advise your situation,” said the Air National Guard pilot.

Howe told him he thought he could get a look at the cockpit.

“You’re not going to make it in time,” said the other pilot, who naturally assumed that Howe would have to fly alongside the other plane at very close range, matching his speed and altitude, to see what was going on.

A blue bar at the top of Howe’s radar image screen alerted him that he was now close enough to get a good view of the plane. “Interior image,” he told the computer. The two planes were still about two and a half miles apart.