Cyclops One Read Online Free
Author: Jim DeFelice
investigators. “In that time we have conducted a thorough search of the continental United States. Neither Cyclops nor the missing F/A-22V landed at an airport in North America. We have two working theories. Theory One: There was some sort of catastrophic event. The planes collided, or something similar. They crashed—”
“Gee, you think?” said Fisher, just softly enough for her to pretend she didn’t hear. Gorman continued speaking, her eyes focused on some hapless speck of dust in the back of the room.
“—and because of the difficult weather conditions, locating them has been delayed.” Gorman pulled down a large map at the front—she’d always been good at visual aids—and indicated that the search area was mountainous and currently obscured by severe weather, which wasn’t supposed to break for several more hours. “You’ll note that a good portion of our grids are in Canada,” she said, segueing into a summary of the arrangements with the Canadians. Their major concern seemed to be the possible effects of the search on the local moose, rumored to be in rutting season.
“In addition to assets from the project team directed by General Bonham and NADT, USAF has conducted and will continue to conduct the search,” she added. “Major Christian is our lead on that aspect. He will keep us updated on the progress.” Gorman glanced sternly toward the second row, where an Air Force officer nodded grimly. Her own expression grew even graver, her brows furrowing on her forehead. “The other theory, Theory Two, is that the planes have been stolen. Unlikely. But we will exhaust that possibility in parallel to the search. Mr. Kowalski will head that team.”
“Pet,” said Fisher in a loud whisper. Kowalski, who had sat in the row in front of him, bobbed his head backward but said nothing.
“Kevin Sullivan from Aerodynamics Linx will head the technical team. We’ll have a subsection on sabotage to rule it in or out; Major Yei from CID will take the lead, along with the technical team headed by Al Biushi. You may remember Mr. Biushi from the NASA project last year. The malfunctions on the F/A-22V that landed have yet to be explained,” said Gorman. Her hands jabbed the air as if she were a conductor signaling the cannon for the 1812 Overture. “That will be a priority for the Velociraptor technical team, which will be headed by Jack Meiser from Locker Aircraft.”
Fisher pulled his cigarette pack from his pocket and slumped back in his seat, unwrapping the cellophane as Gorman went through administrative information about meeting places and quarters. Anyone else would leave this sort of minutiae to an aide or even a handout, but Gorman’s hands worked into a frenzy and she actually smiled while reciting, from memory, the telephone extensions of the various subgroups assigned in the base’s encrypted phone system.
The cellophane wrapper stuck at the corner of the pack. Fisher pulled it off with a loud flourish; one or two of the people in front of him shot nasty looks over their shoulders, as if he’d set off a stink bomb.
“Howard McIntyre from the NSC will be joining us from Hawaii via closed circuit this afternoon,” said Gorman sharply, a buried Brooklyn accent filtering into her words. “Most of you know Mr. McIntyre, but for those of you who don’t, he is the assistant to the national security advisor in charge of technology. He’s flying to Hawaii for the augmented-ABM tests, which are due to start tomorrow, but he’s also been tasked to keep the President updated. As you can well imagine, the White House is extremely interested in what’s going on here. I don’t have to tell you all how sensitive this is, not only in terms of national security, but politically. Especially politically. I expect all of you to be discreet.”
She looked directly at him as she said that.
“Discreet—my middle name,” said Fisher in a whisper. “Hey, Kowalski, who’s Bonham?”
“Retired two-star
“Gee, you think?” said Fisher, just softly enough for her to pretend she didn’t hear. Gorman continued speaking, her eyes focused on some hapless speck of dust in the back of the room.
“—and because of the difficult weather conditions, locating them has been delayed.” Gorman pulled down a large map at the front—she’d always been good at visual aids—and indicated that the search area was mountainous and currently obscured by severe weather, which wasn’t supposed to break for several more hours. “You’ll note that a good portion of our grids are in Canada,” she said, segueing into a summary of the arrangements with the Canadians. Their major concern seemed to be the possible effects of the search on the local moose, rumored to be in rutting season.
“In addition to assets from the project team directed by General Bonham and NADT, USAF has conducted and will continue to conduct the search,” she added. “Major Christian is our lead on that aspect. He will keep us updated on the progress.” Gorman glanced sternly toward the second row, where an Air Force officer nodded grimly. Her own expression grew even graver, her brows furrowing on her forehead. “The other theory, Theory Two, is that the planes have been stolen. Unlikely. But we will exhaust that possibility in parallel to the search. Mr. Kowalski will head that team.”
“Pet,” said Fisher in a loud whisper. Kowalski, who had sat in the row in front of him, bobbed his head backward but said nothing.
“Kevin Sullivan from Aerodynamics Linx will head the technical team. We’ll have a subsection on sabotage to rule it in or out; Major Yei from CID will take the lead, along with the technical team headed by Al Biushi. You may remember Mr. Biushi from the NASA project last year. The malfunctions on the F/A-22V that landed have yet to be explained,” said Gorman. Her hands jabbed the air as if she were a conductor signaling the cannon for the 1812 Overture. “That will be a priority for the Velociraptor technical team, which will be headed by Jack Meiser from Locker Aircraft.”
Fisher pulled his cigarette pack from his pocket and slumped back in his seat, unwrapping the cellophane as Gorman went through administrative information about meeting places and quarters. Anyone else would leave this sort of minutiae to an aide or even a handout, but Gorman’s hands worked into a frenzy and she actually smiled while reciting, from memory, the telephone extensions of the various subgroups assigned in the base’s encrypted phone system.
The cellophane wrapper stuck at the corner of the pack. Fisher pulled it off with a loud flourish; one or two of the people in front of him shot nasty looks over their shoulders, as if he’d set off a stink bomb.
“Howard McIntyre from the NSC will be joining us from Hawaii via closed circuit this afternoon,” said Gorman sharply, a buried Brooklyn accent filtering into her words. “Most of you know Mr. McIntyre, but for those of you who don’t, he is the assistant to the national security advisor in charge of technology. He’s flying to Hawaii for the augmented-ABM tests, which are due to start tomorrow, but he’s also been tasked to keep the President updated. As you can well imagine, the White House is extremely interested in what’s going on here. I don’t have to tell you all how sensitive this is, not only in terms of national security, but politically. Especially politically. I expect all of you to be discreet.”
She looked directly at him as she said that.
“Discreet—my middle name,” said Fisher in a whisper. “Hey, Kowalski, who’s Bonham?”
“Retired two-star
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