Was Gorman just protecting her turf? Or something else?
Bonham’s death, Megan, Gorman pulling strings…Who could Howe trust?
Himself. Timmy.
Fisher?
Not necessarily, but maybe.
Not Gorman, certainly.
McIntyre?
Maybe McIntyre. Although it might be possible that the shoot-down and rescue had all been set up.
It was a snake maze, one question suggesting a dozen others.
Howe tried to push away the questions and doubts, concentrating on planning the mission. With the tests now roughly twenty-four hours away, he presided over a briefing session to go over the basic layout of his plan with Gorman and her team leaders. The main furniture in his borrowed office consisted of a pair of desks that seemed to date from the discovery of aluminum as a workable metal; he pushed them together as a crude map table and had the others crowd around while he outlined his skeletal game plan. Gorman, flanked by two stone-faced intelligence officers, stared at the map impassively, listening as he went over the main points of the mission.
One thing he had to give Gorman: She had serious resources at her beck and call. All of the assets she’d amassed for the surveillance around Russia were available for the mission. That meant not only a radar plane and a full squadron of F-15s but three air tankers and assorted support personnel. She also had Army Special Forces units ready for any contingency.
Definitely a first-team operation, though whether it was on his side or not was an open question.
They set up the mission carefully. The RC-135 and F/A-22Vs, along with any support craft detailed to them, would be part of the overall test operation, though their actual role was “covered” by a story that they were conducting tests of the F/A-22V radar systems in conjunction with the missile firings, not looking for lasers. The cover was unlikely to fool anyone who knew much about the aircraft, or what was going on, but given the fact that Cyclops One had not even been officially “found” in China yet — or Canada, for that matter — it would at least give a spokesman something to tell the press if asked.
In summary, the plan was extremely simple: The RC-135 with its monitoring gear would fly a figure-eight pattern around an arc at the northwest side of the test area, which Howe had concluded would be the most likely place for a laser plane to fly, given the location of the Navy ships launching the cruise missile targets and monitoring the tests. Gorman’s two telemetry gathering aircraft would also be airborne, positioned to cover a northern approach to the test site.
“I want a Special Forces strike team in the air with you, ready to follow the aircraft,” said Gorman when he finished going through the highlights. “The laser plane has to land somewhere. We take it as soon as it lands.”
“What if it goes back to Russia? Or China?”
“Then we’ll take it there.”
“It’s not going to be in Russia. Or China.”
Howe looked up from the table. Andy Fisher had arrived and was standing at the door with one of Gorman’s security policemen, looking as if he’d just wet his pants.
“Tell my buddy here he’s not getting detention, Jemma,” said Fisher.
Gorman nodded and the man retreated.
“You don’t have to worry about Russia or China,” said Fisher, coming over to the map.
“So where should we be?” Gorman asked sarcastically.
“Jeez, Jemma, you want me to do everything for you? Hey, Colonel,” Fisher said to Howe. “Sorry I couldn’t answer your phone calls — I was too busy getting shot at. Crimped my schedule.”
“Another satisfied ex-lover,” said Gorman, “or just someone who objected to you smoking?”
“Act still needs some polish, Jemma, but you’re getting there.”
Fisher bent over the map, putting his nose so close to the paper he could have sniffed it. He studied it for a long time, then looked up. “That dotted line there is you?” he asked Howe.
“Yes.”
“Long flight, no?”
“It is,” said Howe.
Fisher snapped back up straight so fast, Howe thought he’d get a nosebleed.
“You’re going to fly around out there the whole time?” Fisher asked.
“Pretty much.”
Without saying anything else, the FBI agent left the room.
Of the many human activities Fisher did not fully comprehend, the insertion of polished steel into cork surely rated among the most mysterious. The preliminaries themselves were relatively transparent: One wound up the body with appropriate consumption of alcohol. But the unleashing of the steel — what was this, some primitive throwback to prehistoric hunting?
As a trained detective, Fisher knew only one way to discover the secret of this arcane art: He went to the dart line in the base club and asked one of the participants to explain.
After getting his attention by tapping his back.
“Shit, you made me miss the dartboard completely,” said the man, a Special Forces captain named Kenal Tyler.
“Guess I owe you a beer,” said Fisher. “Come on and I’ll pay up.”
“Damn it,” Tyler groused as the Air Force major he’d been playing retrieved the darts and went to the line. He nonetheless walked over toward the bar, where Fisher was catching the attention of the airman who served as bar-keep.
“Make it a pitcher,” said Tyler. “I have to keep my boys happy.”
“Not a problem,” Fisher told him. “I’m Andy Fisher. FBI.”
“So?”
“You’re leading one of the assault teams tomorrow. I want to come with you.”
“What?”
The bartender came over with the glasses of beer Fisher had ordered, then went back to get the pitcher. Tyler’s “boys”—all sergeants who looked to be in their thirties and older than the captain — drifted over to see what was going on.
“I was looking at the way they plotted out the mission, and you guys are going to make the arrest,” said Fisher. “So I want to be there.”
The captain gave him a dubious look, then left to take his turn at darts. One of the sergeants — a tall, skinny black guy with a Midwestern accent named Daku — asked if Fisher was
“Probably,” said Fisher. “You here to subpoena me?”
“You were with Duke and his team,” said the sergeant. “Right? In Kashmir?”
“My summer vacation.”
The sergeant started laughing, then told the others that Fisher had been involved in the rescue of McIntyre. “He got a truckload of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee flown into Afghanistan. Met them on the tarmac,” added the sergeant.
“If you’re going to have coffee, go for the best,” said Fisher.
“Did you get doughnuts too?” asked one of the soldiers.
“Boston Cremes. I thought they weren’t stale enough,” said Fisher. “But you know, war zone, you make sacrifices.”
“Hey, Captain, is Fisher riding with us?” asked Daku when Tyler came back.
“We don’t need no FBI guy watching over us,” said the captain. “Aren’t you supposed to be on Colonel Gorman’s plane?”
“Do I look like a masochist?”
“This guy’s all right,” said the sergeant, who proceeded to give a thumbnail account of Fisher’s Kashmir adventure.
“This true?” Tyler asked. “You worked with Duke?”
“Duke’s all right,” said Fisher. “For a guy who doesn’t smoke.”
