Cyclops One

could be launched. In this case, the IP was 309 nautical miles from the actual target, and the maneuvers were mind-numbingly simple: The plane had to fly around a three-mile track at precisely 34,322 feet.

“We’re there,” said the copilot.

“Starting turn,” said Megan, tugging gently on the controls. She executed a very shallow bank, coming south about twenty degrees.

“Two F/A-18s,” said the weapons officer, whose screen interpreted passive intercepts from the radar warning receiver or RWR as it compiled target data.

“They have us?”

“Negative. Well out of range; they’re headed east.”

“Gun up,” said Megan.

“Gun up,” he said.

I’m ready now,she thought to herself.We’re ready. The delays had caused considerable complications, but they weren’t a factor now. Others would deal with them; she wouldn’t. Her job was here.

“We have target data,” said the laser operator. He exchanged a few words with his assistant, who was sitting next to him.

“On course,” said the copilot.

Megan took one last look at her instrument readings. She had to turn the aircraft over to the computer while the weapon was fired.

“Engines are in the green,” said the copilot. “We’re on beam.”

“Turning control over to the computer in zero-five,” said Megan. “Counting down.”

If it weren’t for the tone in her headset, she wouldn’t even have known that the computer had taken the plane. Megan leaned back, a spectator now on the most important flight of her life.

Second most important, maybe. The first had been the one when she’d stolen Cyclops One.

“Tracking target…. Calculated firing time is ten seconds,” said the laser operator.

Megan looked at the target screen as the seconds drained off. When the timer hit zero, a tone sounded in her earphones. It cut off about half a second later, replaced by a tinny static and then utter silence.

“We have a hit,” said the laser operator jubilantly.

“Yeah!” shouted the copilot.

“My control,” said Megan calmly, taking the helm back from the computer.

“Target destroyed!” The laser operator’s voice had gone up two octaves.

“Oh yeah,” said the copilot.

“Coming to course,” said Megan. “We have a long way to fly, gentlemen, and considerably more to do. I suggest you postpone your celebrations until we land.”

Part Two Complications

Chapter 1

Blitz put his head back on the couch, jostling the headset as the conference call continued. He’d been on the phone since boarding the 747 in Hawaii two hours ago, discussing the Indian-Pakistan situation with various analysts. Things had moved so fast, he wasn’t completely confident the two countries wouldn’t be at war by the time he touched down.

He was fairly certain of one thing, however: If they did go to war, it would be extremely nasty.

If the CIA and NSA were interpreting the most recent Orion Elint intercepts correctly, a unit of Indian paratroopers had just practiced blowing up a mock radar site several hours ago. The exercise had included live ammunition, helicopters, and aircraft.

In and of itself, the exercise wasn’t particularly interesting; everybody conducted live-fire exercises now and again to keep the snake-eaters tuned up. Nor was it more than simply alarming that the site had been set up to look like a specific Pakistani early-warning radar — one that the analysts said covered a key alley or path to Pakistan’s two suspected nuclear-missile launching sites in the far northeastern corner of the country.

What was truly ominous was the fact that the unit conducting the exercises could not be identified within the Indian chain of command. And that several Indian Air Force units had “disappeared” from their normal bases in the south and were believed to be in Kashmir.

Given political developments over the past few weeks, Blitz concluded that a small group of Indian military officers had decided to plan a preemptive strike against Pakistan’s nuclear forces. It was undoubtedly seen as a way to prevent the increasingly belligerent forces in the Pakistani military from trying to take advantage of the deteriorating political situation in India. The plan was a solid one: The special forces would take out the radar; Indian jets would come across the border a few minutes later. Within twenty minutes they would be at their targets — just before the missiles could be launched if a warning was received.

There was only one problem: The Pakistanis had secretly relocated two missiles to a base deeper in the country. Augmented by a booster shipped from China three weeks before, the missiles could obliterate any part of India.

The Indians obviously hadn’t picked up on it yet. Their preemptive strike would do just the opposite of what was intended: ignite a nuclear exchange, not head one off.

Blitz had just debated with the secretaries of state and defense what to do. State wanted to find some way to warn the Indians off. Defense wanted to do the same for Pakistan. Blitz argued that there was no way to do either without both compromising future intelligence-gathering operations and making the situation even more unstable.

They had to come up with something. The military analysts examining the plan believed it had been set up for a moonless night, the first of which was five days away.

“Professor?” Mozelle ducked her head around the partition across from the couch. “You wanted General Bonham. He’s on two.”

The other major headache.

“All right,” said Blitz. “Could you get me some water?”

“No coffee?”

“I think I’m going to give up caffeine.”

Mozelle rolled her eyes. Blitz went off coffee about once a month.

His earphones clicked, and General Bonham’s basso came on the line.

“Dr. Blitz, this is Bonham.”

“General, thanks, I know you must be busy. Where are we?”

“Still no change.”

“The President is asking about this,” said Blitz. “He wants a resolution.”

“I believe one’s in sight, sir. Colonel Gorman is optimistic. It is, technically, her ball game.”

Mozelle reappeared with a bottle of Pellegrino and a glass. She mouthed the words All I could find, then set the glass down on the table at his side. There were small indentations to hold the glass and bottle during turbulence.

“I understand that there’s a theory that the aircraft was stolen by the Russians,” said Blitz.

“There’s little to support that theory,” said Bonham. To his credit, his voice was remarkably even.

“The crash is still unexplained?”

“I’m afraid so. My technical people, and everyone who’s been sent here — we’re working on it around the clock. You can assure the President of that.”

“I’ll try,” said Blitz. Mozelle was once more at the partition. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me