Free Cyclops One by Jim DeFelice

Stephen Klose is from the NSA. He doesn’t have a job title.”
    That was obviously meant as a joke, since all of the Air Force people whose evaluations she could affect laughed. Klose came forward with an ultra-serious face, launching into the usual NSA bullshit about what he was going to say being “VSK”— very secret knowledge was the actual term the crypto-dweebs used at their dark castle in Maryland. VSK must not be used in any way that a normal human being might actually use it, and had to be permanently erased from the listeners’ brain cells upon the end of its period of usefulness, which by definition had already passed.
    Klose then launched into a fairly technical ramble, which meandered through various alphanumerics before his tongue stumbled on the words a code variant common in high-level VPO connection communications.
    “Whoa fuck,” said Kowalski with more than his usual eloquence. “You’re telling us the Russians stole the plane?”
    “No. There was, uh, uh spying operation, and the transmissions came from them,” stuttered Klose amid gasps from the service people and titters from everyone else. “We’d have to decrypt the transmissions to be sure. We’re working on that. But given previous patterns, we’re reasonably sure.”
    Klose rambled on about possible Russian motivations, clicking different maps and pictures onto the large screen. The spy plane’s route had been tracked: It was nearly a thousand miles away.
    “It’s picking up telemetry with a towed antenna probe,” said Klose.
    “Can it?” asked someone from the safety of the back row.
    Klose shrugged. “Not effectively. But maybe. Definitely maybe. The capabilities—”
    “So, basically, you’re just pulling our puds here,” said Fisher.
    “Mister Fisher.” Gorman’s hiss was so perfectly snake-like, Fisher expected her tongue to poke him in the eyes. That hideous thought sent him back to his coffee, which, though considerably cool, was still pleasantly acidic.
    Klose added a few technical details about the probable strength of the radio that had transmitted the signals, an explanation that involved sine curves and something about amplitude. The bottom line was that the Russians were probably aware that something had happened, but thus far there was no evidence that they had had anything to do with it. A thousand miles was, after all, a thousand miles.
    “Fits with your stolen-plane scenario,” Kowalski told Fisher out in the hall when they broke for coffee.
    “Nah,” said Fisher.
    “The Dragon Lady thinks so,” said Kowalski. “Didn’t you see her eyes glowing when Klose started talking about the intercepts?”
    “What Dragon Lady?” said Jemma, coming up behind them.
    “Colonel Gorman,” said Kowalski, “I think you mis-heard.”
    “I’m sure I didn’t.” Her glare drove the DIA agent away. “Andy, if we start looking in those lakes, can you head the team?” she asked.
    “What lakes?”
    “Bonham is pushing the theory that the plane is in one of the lakes. He wants to start close to the base, then work north.”
    “He’s in charge?” said Fisher.
    After he got the frown he expected, he added, “How does it fit with the Russian theory?”
    “What Russian theory?”
    “Klose’s.”
    “That wasn’t a theory,” said Gorman. “The Russians were monitoring the flight. It’s just information.”
    “You think they caused the malfunction?” asked Fisher.
    The idea actually seemed not to have occurred to her. “I don’t know.”
    “Well, I don’t think so,” Fisher said.
    “Andy, don’t do that.”
    “What?”
    “You float out an idea and then clam up. I can’t tell if it’s serious or not.”
    Fisher shrugged. “Neither can I.”

Chapter 10

    Howe applied full military power, rocking the F/A-22V upward as the first phase of the check flight was completed. The readouts were green and glowing; the engine absolutely purred and the jet seemed eager to erase any doubt that she was fit.