we've gone in nanoteclmology. We'll be lucky if the French decide to abstain. That leaves just the British. And I'm not sure how far the prime minister can go right now to give us political cover. His control over Parliament is tenuous at best.”
“Then we'll have to veto it ourselves,” Ouray realized. His jaw tightened. “And that will look bad. Really bad.”
Castilla nodded grimly. “I can't imagine anything more likely to confirm the world's worst fears about what we're doing. If we veto a Security Council resolution on nanotech, we'll immediately lend credibility to the Lazarus Movement's most outrageous claims.”
Still driving his rented Mustang, Smith pulled away from the Truman Gate guardhouse and headed south through the sprawling air base, passing Little League baseball fields crowded with teams and cheering parents on the right. It was near the end of the season, and the local championships were in full swing.
Following the directions the Air Force security police had given him, he made his way through the maze of streets and buildings and arrived at a small parking lot near the flight line. Peter Howell's white Buick LeSabre pulled in next to him.
Smith climbed out of the Mustang and slung his laptop and a small travel bag over one shoulder. He tossed the keys onto the front seat and left the door unlocked. He saw Peter following his example. After they were gone, one of Fred Klein's occasional couriers would arrange for the safe return of the two rental cars.
Commercial passenger aircraft in bright colors thundered low overhead, taking off and landing at precisely regulated intervals. Kirtland shared its runways with Albuquerque's international airport. Heat waves shimmered out on the concrete, and the sharp tang of jet fuel hung in the hot air.
A large C-17 Globemaster transport in pale gray U.S. Air Force camouflage sat on the tarmac with its engines already spooling over. Jon and Peter walked toward the waiting jet.
The loadmaster, a senior Air Force noncom with a square, hard face and permanently furrowed brows, came to meet them. “Is one of you guys Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Smith?” he asked after looking down at the clipboard in his hand to make sure he got the name and rank right.
“That's me, Sergeant,” Jon told him. “And this is Mr. Howell.”
“Then if you'll both follow me, sir,” the loadmaster said, after a long, dubious look at Smith's civilian clothes. “We've only got a five-minute window for takeoff, and Major Harris says he ain't disposed to lose his spot and wind up sitting in line behind a goddamned bunch of airborne buses full of tourists.”
Smith hid a rueful grin. He strongly suspected the C-17 pilot had said considerably more than that on hearing that he was making an unscheduled cross-country flight — solely to ferry one Army light colonel and a foreign-born civilian to the Washington, D.C., metropolitan area. Once again, Fred Klein had waved Covert-One's magic wand, this time working through contacts inside the Pentagon's bureaucracy. He and Peter followed the C-17 crewman into the aircraft's cavernous cargo bay and then up onto the flight deck.
The pilot and co-pilot were waiting for them in the cockpit, already running through their last preflight checklist. Both had active heads-up displays, HUDs, fixed in front of them. On the control console below the windshield four large multi-function computer displays flashed through a variety of modes, showing the status of the engines, hydraulics, avionics, and other controls.
Major Harris, the pilot, turned his head when they came in. “Are you gentlemen ready to go?” he asked through gritted teeth, emphasizing the word “gentlemen” to make plain that was not the word he would have preferred to use.
Smith nodded apologetically. “We're set, Major,” he said. “And I'm sorry about the short notice. If it's any consolation, this is a genuinely critical mission — not just a glorified VIP jaunt.”
Slightly mollified, Harris jerked a thumb at the two observer seats right behind him. “Well, strap yourselves in.” He leaned across to his co-pilot. “Let's get this crate moving, Sam. We're on the clock now.”
The two Air Force officers busied themselves with the controls and brought the big plane rumbling out onto the apron, taxiing slowlv toward the main runway. The roar of the C-17's four turbofan engines grew even louder as Harris pushed the throttles forward with his left hand.
After Jon and Peter buckled themselves in, the loadmaster handed them each a helmet with a built-in radio headset. “Air-to-ground transmissions are pretty much it as far as in-flight entertainment goes,” he told them, raising his voice over the howl of the engines.
“What? You mean there are no stewardesses, champagne, or caviar?” Peter asked with a horrified look.
Almost against his will, the C-17 crewman grinned back. “No, sir. Just me and my coffee, I'm afraid.”
“Fresh-brewed, I trust?” the Englishman asked.
“Nope. Instant decaf,” the Air Force sergeant replied, smiling even more broadly. He vanished, heading for his own seat down in the aircraft's cavernous cargo bay.
“Good lord! The sacrifices I make for queen and country,” Peter murmured with a quick wink at Smith.
The jet swung through a sharp turn, lining up with the long main runway. Ahead, a Southwest Airlines 737 lifted off and banked north. “Air Force Charlie One-Seven, you are cleared for immediate takeoff,” the tower air traffic controller's voice crackled suddenly through Smith's radio earphones.
“Roger, Tower,” Harris replied. “Charlie One-Seven is rolling now.” He shoved the four engine throttles all the way forward.
The C-17 accelerated down the runway, gaining speed fast. Jon felt himself pressed back against the padding of his seat. Less than a minute later, they were airborne, climbing steeply over the patchwork of houses, freeways, and parks of Albuquerque.
They were flying at thirty-seven thousand feet somewhere over West Texas when the co-pilot leaned back and tapped Smith on the knee. “There's a secure transmission for you, Colonel,” he said. “I'll switch it to your headset.”
Smith nodded his thanks.
“I have a situation update, Colonel,” Fred Klein's familiar voice said. “Your target is also aloft and heading east for Andrews Air Force Base. She's approximately four hundred miles ahead of your aircraft now.”
Jon worked that out in his head. The C-17 had a cruise speed of roughly five hundred knots, which meant Kit Pierson's FBI executive jet would touch down at Andrews at least forty-five minutes before he and Peter could hope to arrive there. He frowned. “Any chance of delaying her? Maybe have the FAA put her plane in a parking orbit until we can get down?”
“Alas, no,” Klein said crisply. “Not without tipping our hand entirely. Arranging this flight was tricky enough.”
“Damn it.”
“The situation may not be as dire as you think,” Klein told him. “She has a confirmed meeting at the Hoover Building first and there's an official car standing by to take her straight there. Whatever else she plans isn't likely to take place until later, which should give you time to pick up her trail in D.C.”
Smith thought about that. The head of Covert-One was probably right, he decided. Although he was pretty sure that Kit Pierson's real purpose in returning to Washington went far beyond simply delivering a personal high- level briefing for her Bureau superiors, she was going to have to play the game as though it were.
“What about the vehicles and gear I requested?” he asked.
“They'll be waiting for you,” Klein promised. His voice sharpened. “But I still have some very serious misgivings about involving Howell so closely with this operation, Colonel. He's a bright fellow… maybe too bright, and his fundamental loyalties lie outside this country.”
Smith glanced at Peter. The Englishman was staring out the cockpit side windows, seemingly wrapped up in watching the vast panorama of drifting cloud masses and seemingly endless flat brown countryside over which they were flying. “You'll have to trust me on this one,” he told Klein softly. “Back when you signed me on to this show, you told me you needed mavericks, self-starters who didn't quite fit into everybody else's neat little tables of organization. People who were willing to buck the system for results, remember?”
“I remember,” Klein said. “And I meant it.”
“Well, I'm bucking the system right now,” Smith said firmly. 'Peter is already basically focused on the same problem we are. Plus, he's got skills and instincts and brainpower we can use to our advantage.'
There was silence on the other end for several seconds while Klein digested that. “Cogently argued,
