well. I can’t reach Cyclops or my wingman.”
“Neither can we.”
“Give me a vector,” he said, twisting his head around to look for the planes.
“Negative. We don’t have them on our radar.”
“What?”
“We have you and that’s it. Cyclops and Bird Two are gone. Completely gone.”
Chapter 2
Timing was everything. Light up too soon, and either the attendant would notice or the smoke alarm would go off. Too late, and he’d miss at least two drags on the Camel.
Andy Fisher fingered his lighter as the Gulfstream dropped into its final approach to the runway. On a commercial flight, the most the stewardesses would do if he lit up now was tsk-tsk on the way out. But this was an Air Force plane, and the attendant wasn’t exactly a piece of eye candy: The sergeant looked like he could bench- press the plane. He also reeked of health freak, and had frowned when the FBI Special Agent asked for a refill after his fourth cup of coffee.
Still, a smoke was a smoke, and it didn’t make sense to miss a nice hit of nicotine because a Neanderthal was breathing down your neck. Fisher was already late for the meeting he was supposed to be at, and it was doubtful that the others on the task force would allow smoking there. Not that he would let that sort of thing bother him under normal circumstances, but this being a military matter, there was bound to be a full complement of uniformed types with guns available to enforce even the most egregious government usurpation of personal smoking rights.
The jet’s tires squealed loudly as they hit the runway. The plane settled onto the concrete with a slight rocking sensation, but Fisher had no trouble firing up the end of the cigarette.
“You ought not smoke,” growled the sergeant, sitting two rows back. “Pilot’ll have a fit.”
“He owns the plane?”
The sergeant threw off his seat belt and came forward, looming over Fisher.
“Thinks he does, the prick.”
Without a word Fisher handed the sergeant the pack. Both men were midway through their second cigarettes when the Gulfstream finally rolled to a stop. A lieutenant barely old enough to shave was waiting for Fisher with a driver and a Humvee.
“Welcome to North Lake, sir,” said the lieutenant as Fisher shambled down the steps, overnight bag slung over his shoulder. The man stood at attention, hand seemingly stapled to his forehead.
“You looking for change or a salute?” said Fisher, taking a final drag from the cigarette as he reached the tarmac.
“Uh, no, sir.” The lieutenant made a stiff grab for his bag, but Fisher held it tightly. It had most of his smokes; no way he was letting go of it.
“Where’s the water?” asked Fisher.
“Sir?”
“If this is North Lake, where’s the water? All I saw were mountains coming in.”
“Uh, I’m not following. The water supply is a well.”
“Deep subject.”
“Oh yes, sir.” Still playing puppy, the lieutenant jerked around and ran to open the back door of the Hummer for him. Fisher got into the front instead.
“I think we’re running behind,” Fisher told the airman at the wheel. “Let’s kick some butt.”
The driver complied, nearly sending the lieutenant through the back window as he whipped around on the blacktop. Fisher slumped against the door, starting another cigarette.
The base had been laid along the saddle of two mountains; what wasn’t concrete was rock. Two small hangars sat at the far end of the runway. A large concrete mouth yawned beyond them, the low-slung opening narrowing the profile to a secure hangar. Three small, pillboxlike structures sat about a hundred yards beyond it. They didn’t seem big enough to house latrines.
“Have a good flight?” asked the lieutenant from the backseat as they pulled toward the pillboxes.
“I didn’t puke,” said Fisher. “That was a plus.”
They stopped about ten feet from the smallest structure, a dark brown box of cement maybe seven feet wide and a little taller. A steel door sat in the middle. It reminded Fisher of the entrance to the rooftop stairwell in Brooklyn where he’d lost his virginity at age fourteen.
“The Ritz, sir,” said the driver.
As Fisher slid out of the vehicle the lieutenant went over and flipped the cover on a panel at the center of the door, revealing a small numeric keypad. He punched a set of numbers, then pressed his palm against a reddish-black square directly below. The door slid open.
“You’ll have to press your palm against the sensor on the doorjamb,” said the lieutenant as Fisher started to follow him.
“Which?”
“See the gray blotch there?” The lieutenant pointed toward the side. He added apologetically, “Once I’m in, I can’t step out or the door will slam and everything will freeze.”
Fisher sighed, then laid his palm against the sensor so it could be read.
“Um, and the cigarette, sir: I’m afraid there’s no smoking.”
“Alarms?” asked Fisher.
“And sprinklers.”
Fisher eyed him suspiciously. The kid’s peach fuzz was too obvious for him to be lying. Reluctantly the FBI agent finished the Camel and tossed it as he stepped through the doorway.
An elevator waited beyond the threshold. “More security downstairs,” said the lieutenant as they started downward. “They’re going to want to search your bag. And you’ll be escorted everywhere.”
“They know I’m one of the good guys, right? See, my white hat’s back home and it seems like a real pain in the ass to run back and get it.”
The lieutenant’s laugh sounded tinny against the pneumatic rush of the plunging elevator. “Yes, sir. But the nature of the project, and then with yesterday’s, er, incident…”
“I’ve been through this sort of thing before, kid,” said Fisher. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
They did have more security downstairs — a lot more. The narrow hallway was lined with Air Force security personnel holding M16 rifles with thick laser scopes at the top. There were at least six video cameras in the ceiling, and two sets of crash gates. Farther along, four men in civilian clothes guarded the entrance to a corridor that led to the main sections of the underground complex. The men looked like linebackers preparing to blitz a rookie quarterback.
“Jesus, what the hell are you guys expecting?” Fisher said as his bag was inspected for a second time.
“What are
“I ain’t planning on crapping my pants, Kowalski,” said Fisher. “I’m not part of the DIA.”
“You wouldn’t last in the DIA,” said Kowalski, appearing from down the hall. The Defense Intelligence Agency officer had worked with Fisher several times before.
“Oh, I’d make it — just get a double lobotomy and I’d fit in fine,” said Fisher.
“Yuck, yuck. Same old Fisher.”
“Same old Kowalski. Same old frumpy brown suit,” said Fisher, taking his bag back. “Add any ketchup stains since England?”
“Come on, they’re starting. Stay close to our friend here,” added the DIA officer, thumbing toward a large Air Force security type in battle dress with a flak vest and a very large gun holster at his side. “You can’t go anyplace without a minder no matter who you are. It’s worse than Dreamland. By the way, Jemma Gorman’s running the
