“As part of a global defense system, sure.” Howe stared into Fisher’s face; he didn’t react. “Look what we did in India.”
Fisher still said nothing.
“I don’t know. It can change things, strategies, make some weapons obsolete. Look, I’m not a peace freak, okay? I just think it’ll change things. It already has. A lot of people owe their lives to it.”
“What about the new ABM system?” asked Fisher. “What’s the deal there?”
“Same thing. The whole system works together. You need a lot of interlocking layers. The augmented ABM system allows us to deal with things we don’t have advance warning on. We could strike cruise missiles over the sea: You see, the standard ABM system, the one Congress already approved, can’t hit cruise missiles. This is a big improvement.” He sipped the coffee. “You don’t think it will work, do you?”
“I think most of the things that happen in the world happen because of one of two things,” said Fisher, pulling on his cigarette. “Greed and lust. Plenty of greed involved here, if the project goes through.”
“Megan wasn’t like that.”
Fisher shrugged. “She didn’t have to be.” He picked up his coffee cup, debating whether to ask for another cup. When you found sewage swill like this, you really wanted to load up. But they were running a little late.
“What motivates Bonham?” he asked the pilot.
Howe shrugged. “I don’t know. He buys into it, I guess. We don’t really discuss philosophy.”
“Not money?”
“He wants to be defense secretary someday,” said Howe.
“What do you think about talking to him?”
“When? Now? It’s after eleven.”
“Yeah. If we’re lucky we can catch him in his jammies.”
Chapter 5
Bonham turned on the TV and flipped over to ESPN as he pulled off his jacket and tie. The swirl of parties and receptions over the past forty-eight hours — the whole hail-fellow-well-met routine — was an intoxicating diversion, but it was only that. Segrest and a number of the others were determined to use the weapon for the second stage of augmented-ABM tests, set to begin in a few days. They were trying to isolate him, maneuvering behind his back.
He’d sent Megan York a long, coded E-mail telling her to carry through with the dismantling of the weapon immediately. Her one-word acknowledgment had been uncharacteristically short. There was no way, however, to safely contact her or the others on the island.
ESPN cut to a commercial; he’d have to wait for the scores.
Bonham slipped off his shoes. His paranoia was starting to get the better of him. Things had gone incredibly well, and his idea to set up the Cyclops One crash in India had worked out even better than he had hoped. The satellites had been able to definitively identify the strike on the Indian missiles as a laser discharge, and the investigators would spend months if not years trying to somehow connect the Pakistanis to the theft. In the meantime NADT was getting all the credit for Cyclops Two’s performance, and despite the tarnish of the theft Bonham’s stock was rising proportionately.
He would have preferred burying the plane in the lake by remote control as planned. But this was the next best thing. The loss of the Velociraptor and the delays in the ABM tests had complicated everything.
Segrest was being greedy. They had achieved so much — why did some people always want even more?
ESPN SportsCenter came on, leading with a story Bonham didn’t want to hear: The Red Sox had lost again. They now trailed the hated Yankees by two games.
The doorbell relieved his anguish.
At this hour the security people at the gate ordinarily would insist on a visitor calling ahead. But there were several people they knew well enough to send right through, and Bonham indulged in a brief fantasy that one had decided on delivering a midnight pick-me-up in person.
Colonel Howe’s voice punctured the fantasy as Bonham reached the door.
“General Bonham, this is Tom Howe. I need to talk to you.”
“Tom.”
Bonham pulled open the door. Next to Howe was the annoying FBI agent, Andrew Fisher.
“Come in,” Bonham said, trying to remain the gracious host. “Why didn’t you call ahead?”
“We didn’t want to wake you if you were sleeping,” said Fisher.
A lie, obviously. But why?
Pain-in-the-ass Fisher — why hadn’t he been reassigned yet?
Bonham led them back up to the den, killing the TV and offering drinks. They declined but he got a Scotch for himself, retrieving a few cubes of ice from the kitchen.
Howe sat ramrod straight in one of the chairs. Fisher sprawled against the corner of the sofa, his feet up on the table.
“Do you know where the Cyclops laser weapon is?” asked Fisher.
Bonham took a sip from his drink. “Is that a trick question?”
“Mr. Fisher’s not convinced that the weapon from Cyclops One was destroyed in the crash,” said Howe.
Bonham felt a twinge of panic. It was hard enough dealing with Fisher, who at least had a reputation as an eccentric and maverick. Howe not only was smart but had access to people who would listen to what he said. Bonham steadied himself with a sip of the Scotch, letting the bitterness sting at the insides of his mouth. He sat back down and closed his eyes momentarily, as if fighting off fatigue.
“As far as I know,” said Bonham, “the preliminary findings from the task force assigned to the disappearance of the plane is going to reflect — well, it’s going to say that it crashed in China after a fire aboard, which blew up the laser fuel.”
“There’s no evidence of that,” said Fisher.
“No?” Bonham knew that there was — they had very carefully worked out what the crash would “look” like — but it was not difficult to act surprised. “Did the Chinese get there first? Or the Indians?”
“Maybe the laser wasn’t there to begin with,” said Fisher.
Bonham looked at Howe and smiled, as if they were in on the joke together. “Well, I guess the satellites and Cyclops Two’s sensors were wrong, then.”
Bonham walked over to the chair and sat down. The more he heard of Fisher’s theory, the easier it would be to discredit it, though the agent had already given him more than enough ammunition.
“There was definitely another laser fired,” said Howe. He looked at Fisher, who was still staring at Bonham.
“So, was there another plane?” asked Bonham. “Chinese? Russian? I guess Russian wouldn’t work, because they’re allies of the Indians. Unless they were being altruistic. Possible, I guess.
Howe looked over at Fisher. Fisher, suddenly seeming very reluctant to talk, shrugged again.
Howe rose abruptly. He was angry, though characteristically he controlled his emotion so well that only someone like Bonham, who’d dealt with him for a while, recognized it. “I’m sorry we bothered you, General.”
“No, no, listen, I want to hear what you think,” said Bonham. “Have a drink.”
“It’s late,” said Howe.
Fisher remained on the couch.
“Tell me your theory,” Bonham told him. “Where is the laser if it didn’t crash?”
The FBI agent pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”
Bonham hesitated, but only for a moment. He had clearly discredited Fisher in Howe’s eyes, but it would still be useful to know what Fisher was thinking. He balanced that against his growing revulsion of the agent.
“Go ahead,” he told him.
“Maybe I better not,” said Fisher. He unfolded himself from the couch. “Probably bother your wife.”
