Cyclops One af-1

by Jim DeFelice

  It tugged at her, though. If duty was more important than love, why did every part of her inside feel choked?

  Eliot had said something in “East Coker,” his meditation on religion, about your beginning being your end, fate set as duty and meditation. It had been his answer for The Waste Land.

  Not her answer, but a comfort nonetheless.

  She remembered reading The Waste Land to Tom once, joking with him at first, then growing serious. The end of the poem came to her now as she stared at her destiny. Eliot had ended by repeating the Sanskrit word for peace, as if he’d had a premonition of Julius Robert Oppenheimer standing at the atomic bomb test, invoking the god of destruction in an effort to find peace.

  Peace.

  It was possible.

  Shantih.

  Peace peace peace.

  One of the Russian paratroopers jostled against her. The man had slid his pistol back into his holster.

  The second she saw it, she threw her whole body toward it.

  * * *

  Luksha saw the bodies tumbling together out of the corner of his eye. He spun toward them, not yet comprehending as the boat slapped hard against the waves. Then he realized that the American was grabbing for his sergeant’s gun.

  He pressed the trigger of his rifle. The first slug hit her in the side and spun her toward him. There was an explosion: She’d taken the gun from the holster. He fired again, finger nailed on the trigger.

  * * *

  Red and black and cold, cold — the smoke over the city as it burned filled her nose with the acrid scent of things dying, objects burning that were never intended to burn: rocks, dirt, human flesh.

  It would never happen again. War had been made obsolete.

  Megan felt herself falling into the black abyss. At the last second she recognized it as peace, and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  Fisher saw the bodies falling, one into the back of the boat, the other into the water.

  “Aw shit,” he said out loud. He threw his cigarette into the ocean. “There goes my case.”

  The others were silent as they slowed and pulled over to the lifeless body. He reached over and pulled her up with one hand, sliding her onto the boat. He knelt down and, for form’s sake, checked her pulse to make sure she was dead.

  * * *

  Howe got his plane down with maybe three ounces of fuel left in the tanks. A planeload of Marines landed right behind him; two minutes after they touched down another group of SF soldiers from Gorman’s task force came in a Hercules. Though tired as hell, he found himself supervising the operation to secure the Russian aircraft; not only did it seem flyable but the C-17 pilot had checked it out and thought—knew—he could get it off the ground and down to Kadena himself. It seemed a better option than waiting for the Russians to send reinforcements over the horizon, especially once the troopers found that there was fuel in the underground tank farm.

  There were also charges set to explode. Taking no chances, the demolition experts made everyone move to the far side of the atoll while they neutralized them.

  Which meant that Howe had a good view when the boat with Megan landed. Tyler called for a stretcher, and for a second Howe thought she was alive. His heart began to pound; then her arm dropped off the side, and he realized he didn’t have to worry about what he would say to her or how he would feel when she walked past.

  “Sucks,” said Fisher, walking up from the small dock where they’d tied up.

  “Yeah,” said Howe. “Sucks.”

  Part Seven

  CONSPIRACY THEORY

  Chapter 1

  Howe leaned against the wall, so tired he worried that he might actually fall asleep. Then suddenly he remembered where he was — the hallway of the White House — and he snapped back up, ramrod straight, or at least as close to it as he could manage.

  McIntyre, standing a few feet away, gave him an odd look. “You all right?”

  “Just tired,” said Howe.

  “Relax. President’s a great guy.”

  Howe glanced over at the Secret Service agent standing at the end of the hallway. Two men Howe didn’t know took up a spot behind him in the hall, nodding as if they recognized him. Howe nodded back.

  Dr. Blitz had met him a few hours earlier. He had been full of praise for Cyclops, talking about how revolutionary it was, how important it would be. Big things were happening, the national security advisor said; there seemed even to be an opening for peace finally between Israel and the Palestinians.

  “Peace in the Middle East — what a concept,” said Blitz.

  He’d been sincere, but it sounded like something Timmy would say.

  Howe had met his wingman’s parents yesterday at the memorial service. The mother seemed pretty stoic; it was his father who was nothing but tears, gripping the folded-up flag.

  There’d be no memorial service for Megan. Her immediate family were all dead and Howe hadn’t heard whether the body had even been claimed.

  Maybe he’d do that.

  McIntyre turned toward him, motioning with his head. Howe realized the door to the office had opened; he followed inside, where the President met him in front of his desk. Blitz and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff were standing at the side, beaming.

  “Colonel, very good.” The President’s grip was strong. “Excellent job. Excellent.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Mac, are you looking after him?”

  “Oh yes, sir.”

  “I just wanted to congratulate you personally, thank you for a tremendous effort.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You married, Colonel?”

  “No, sir,” said Howe. Where once he would have added, “Divorced,” in a tone that suggested he’d sworn off women and relationships completely, he surprised himself by shrugging and thinking that he just hadn’t found the right woman; someday he might.

  Maybe.

  As the President started saying something about the last time he’d been out to Montana during his campaign, Howe realized they wouldn’t talk about the Cyclops weapon or the ABM test or even General Bonham.

  “Sir, excuse me,” he said finally. “Cyclops, and the ABM system — are we safer?”

  “Safer?” The President had been taken completely by surprise.

  “Dr. Blitz said he thought they were going to bring peace.”

  Everyone looked at Blitz.

  “I think Cyclops, and the ABM system, our present system and the augmented ABMs — they’re not a way to end war,” said the national security advisor. “They’re not even a chance to alter the future. But they are a path we can take — one we have to take — to our better natures.”

  It sounded like a speech. Howe looked back over to the President. D’Amici smiled. His eyes seemed to open a little wider, as if he were reading Howe’s face, looking there to see what it was he needed to hear.

  “I think we have an opportunity here. And it’s due to you and your efforts,” said the President. “People will remember your contribution.I’ll remember it.”

  Howe nodded, even as one of the President’s aides showed him to the door.

  * * *

  McIntyre waited in Blitz’s office in the West Wing, around the corner from the President’s. He’d seen Howe off, then gone inside and sat close to the door where he couldn’t be seen from the hall. He knew it was better to wait here than in his office. He’d made up his mind and wanted no distractions.

  Blitz finally appeared around three o’clock.

  “Mac,” he said, surprised as he walked into the office.

  “Professor. Can I talk to you?”

  The national security advisor took a look at his secretary, then signaled for McIntyre to follow him inside. He closed the door behind him.

  “The investigation’s going to move ahead very smoothly,” said Blitz as he sat down. “NADT’s been shut down. Jack Hunter’s got over a hundred men on the case now. You know, there’s a possibility even the
secretary of state was involved.”

  McIntyre said nothing, listening as Blitz outlined the administration’s plans to reorganize the Defense Department and services, cutting out the independent agencies and companies, returning to a more traditional structure. The speech sounded a little too well rehearsed, including a few talking points that would likely make their way to the Sunday talk shows, but it was irrelevant now. Besides, McIntyre was convinced of his boss’s basic integrity and honesty.

  Then again, he’d been convinced of his own as well.

  “I have a confession,” he said when Blitz finally paused.

  Blitz’s face blanched.

  “It has nothing to do with Jolice or any of that,” said McIntyre quickly.

  Blitz instantly looked relieved. “Yes?”

  “I killed somebody when I was on the ground in Kashmir.”

  “What?”

  McIntyre explained as slowly and carefully as he could.

  “Well…,” said Blitz when he was done.

  McIntyre rose. “I’m resigning. It’s all right.”

  “It sounds like it was an accident, under very difficult circumstances,” said Blitz.

  “Thanks for saying that, Professor. Thanks.” He reached into his pocket and took out the envelope with his formal resignation, sliding it quietly on the desk before he left.

  Chapter 2

  Megan York’s death did not help the investigation, but it didn’t blow it, either. Knowing about the island base not only gave the investigators a shot at tracking through the tangle of dummy and legitimate corporations that had been employed by the core conspirators, it also gave them real charges to use for leverage in the investigation — charges that could be cited in subpoenas and court orders. Bonham’s murder was another promising avenue, assuming the trail team on Borg didn’t lose the hit man as he hunted for his impersonator.

  There were, however, indications that the conspirators were several steps ahead. Despite the flood of agents Hunter had sent to swarm over Jolice and its associated companies, several of its key officers could not be located. Only one board member so far had been interviewed: an eighty-eight-year-old resident of a nursing home in upper Michigan. Megan York’s cousin, Congressman Taft, would clearly be hung out to dry, but he was already represented by the best criminal defense lawyers in D.C. Most unpromising of all, Fisher’s boss had personally taken over the FBI side of the investigation.

  Luckily for Fisher, he was not among the “hundreds and hundreds of agents working the case.” Hunter’s math had to be divided by three, at least. The boss had notified him that he was needed on more important investigations, which undoubtedly would turn out to be as far away from this one as possible.

  Not that he was going to complain. The interesting stuff was all done; from here on out it was just shoe polish and brown-nosing.

  Fisher leaned back in his seat, listening as Jemma Gorman finished filling in the rest of the team at the secret base in Montana on what was going on. In the world according to Jemma, the entire universe had been saved by one female colonel who refused to give up.

  As Jemma yammered on, Fisher thought about Megan York. He had decided, mostly based on what Howe had told him, that she had been sincere about wanting the weapons developed because they might end war. That wasn’t true of the others — greed and power pretty much ruled the day, as always — but it was an interesting exception, the sort of thing that made the rule. Fisher hadn’t run up against altruism as a motive for treason before; it would make for the kind of story that could get you a few drinks at the old agents’ home when the Social Security money ran out.

  “And I think it would be appropriate, now that we’re wrapping up, to give credit where credit is due,” said Gorman. “Andrew — Mr. Fisher — if you can take your face out of that coffee mug, we’d like to give you a hand. Your work consistently led the way.”

  Fisher looked at her. She actually seemed sincere.

  “I think I’ll wait for the medal,” said Fisher.

  Gorman shook her head. The rest of the room laughed.

  “Beer’s on,” said somebody, and they began filing out to find the mess, where there was indeed free beer.

  “I meant it,” said Gorman, coming over.

  Fisher stood slowly. “Yeah, well, I got most of it wrong all along,” he said.

  “It’s the end that counts.”

  “Uh-huh. You were almost right about the Russians.”

  “So you’re saying I’m not a nincompoop, huh?” Gorman folded her arms.

  “Seventy percent of intelligence is genetic,” said Fisher.

  “What’s your excuse, then?”

  “Touché.” He reached into his pocket and pounded on the new pack of smokes.

  “No comeback? No repartee? What happened? Somebody put decaf in your coffee?” asked Gorman.

  Fisher opened the pack and pulled out a cigarette. A whiff of butane, a hint of smoke, a hit of nicotine — his fatigue vanished.

  “So, you going to Mom’s for Thanksgiving?” asked Gorman.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Fisher said. “You?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m coming in the Sunday before.”

  “My flight’s Saturday. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Thanks.” Gorman smiled at him, then took a step to leave. “See you there.”

  “Not if I see you first.”

  “Very funny, little brother. You ought to be a comedian.”

  “You do it so well I’d never want to compete,” said Fisher, blowing a perfect ring of smoke into the air.

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