informed.”
Blitz killed the connection.
“McIntyre on one. And the President wants to know when you’ll be back in D.C.”
“Better ask the pilot.” Blitz took a sip of the water. It reminded him of being on vacation — which reminded him he hadn’t taken a vacation in three years. “McIntyre?”
“Professor, this place is hell.”
“I’m not interested in cosmology, McIntyre. How close are these people to war?”
“Couldn’t tell you. I just got into Delhi. You know what the temperature is?”
“You’re whining an awful lot.”
“I am, yes.”
“Did you start on those bases?”
“Well, no. Not yet.”
“Get an update at the embassy, then get moving. There’s an Indian general who’s offered you a plane. Take advantage of it.”
“How did the tests go?” McIntyre asked, tacitly surrendering.
“Jolice hit a home run. Then we had bad weather and canceled the other two shots.”
“Really?” said McIntyre.
“There were so many delays, it was agreed to scrap them. Only the Jolice people were upset,” said Blitz. “We’ve rescheduled the tests for a week and a half from now. We’re moving them up to Test Area D, south of the Aleutians. I don’t want a vendor circus ever again.”
“Is Jolice going to take part?”
“Absolutely,” said Blitz. “I want to make sure their hit wasn’t a freak shot.”
“Did they complain?”
“Oh yes.”
“They’ve come out of nowhere, missile-wise,” said McIntyre.
“You think they screwed with the tests?” asked Blitz.
“I don’t see how. But I’m with you about rerunning the tests.”
Until now Jolice’s claim to fame was manufacturing very small parts in rocket motors. Some of the other partners were fairly major players: Ferrone Radiavonics, for example, had done a great deal of work on Cyclops. But Jolice and the rest were newcomers in the ABM field.
“A minor problem, compared to India,” Blitz told him. “Keep me informed. I want you to check in six hours from now.”
“But it’s four in the morning here,” managed McIntyre before Blitz clicked off the line.
The national security advisor picked up his glass of water and took another sip. Three more lines were lit with waiting calls.
“Line two is your friend from New York, Kevin Smith, wondering about that ball game next Monday,” said Mozelle. “The Yankees?”
Blitz grimaced. Smith had field box seats right behind the dugout. But there was no way he’d get a chance to get to New York with everything that was going on.
“Better tell him we’ll reschedule,” said Blitz. “Who’s on two?”
Chapter 2
The northern Wyoming airport had been a military base back in the sixties. All that remained were a few low-slung hangars dating from the forties or fifties. Even from the distance, it was clear that weeds had overgrown the runway — though the expert on forward air fields Fisher had persuaded to accompany him explained that wouldn’t be a real problem. The pavement itself was in good condition, clear of debris and not even dusty, as if it had been swept recently.
Which Fisher thought very possible.
“You could put a C-17 down on this,” said the sergeant, walking along the cement with him. The Air Force Special Tactics or Special Forces squadron member was trained in combat control tactics, or landing aircraft in hostile or potentially hostile areas near the front lines. A lanky Texan with a scar on his cheek, Sergeant Bowman preferred Marlboros to Camels but didn’t turn down free-bies. “You might even get a loaded C-5A off. Nice long runway. Good shape.”
“You think it’s been used lately?” asked Fisher as they walked toward what had once been a hangar area.
“Well, something’s been in and out: We know that just from what the sheriff was telling you,” said Sergeant Bowman. “But uh, pinpointing it to a 767—that all’s detective stuff.”
“Where we going to find one of those?” said Fisher. He bent down to examine a spot on the pavement.
The local sheriff had told him that the strip had been used by pot smugglers during the nineties. The sheriff claimed he’d put a stop to it; Fisher figured that meant his price had started eating too far into the overhead.
There had been two reports of low-flying jets in the general area called in to the dispatcher three nights before, which would be the night after Cyclops’s disappearance. They’d actually sent a car out but of course found nothing.
“Fuel truck was there,” said the sergeant. He walked to a stained spot near the cement about twenty feet away.
“When?” asked Fisher.
Sergeant Bowman got down on the pavement. “Recent. Real recent.”
“Well, don’t taste it.” Fisher walked to the edge of the pad, then around toward the wall of the large building that sat at the corner of the ramp. The weeds weren’t all that high and a few were brushed back, but whether a truck had driven over them recently was anybody’s guess.
Fisher took a fresh cigarette out and lit up. The main entrance to the base was up a road to his left. They’d seen another service road farther south when they’d been in the air. There were all sorts of tracks running across a spot at the north side: ATVs, it looked like.
The next-door neighbors were a good twenty or thirty miles away. They had to be interviewed, even though it was unlikely as hell they knew anything.
The sheriff had offered his help. That’d be a laugh, almost as big as the one he’d get when he called the local Bureau office, surely undermanned, for help.
Fisher studied the tip of his cigarette. Was the dry air affecting it, or were his Indian friends doing something to make them burn faster?
The large hangar in front of him had no doors, but its roof was intact. Fisher walked to it and went inside.
The floor was so clean, it could have been vacuumed.
Undoubtedly was.
“Pilot wants to know how we’re doing,” said Bowman, who was wearing a radio headset.
“Tell him we’re ready to go,” said Fisher. “And ask him if he saw a good place for a burger.”
“Are you part of the investigation or what?” demanded Gorman as Fisher got off the helicopter back at North Lake.
“Both,” he told her.
“You can’t just go around commandeering helicopters, Andy. You’re part of a team. There’s a procedure.”
“Yeah, well, listen, Jemma, I found out where our plane’s been, or was, for a couple of days. Bitch of it is, I was about three days too late.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Maybe more — hard to tell. I’m thinking we can get those guys to do that thing with the contrails and radars again, only change the area. Then we backcheck that against the legitimate flights, because this was
