The Cyclops Initiative (36 page)

They now belonged, every one of them, to Charlotte Holman.

Thanks to the secretary of defense's getting her inside the air force base, she could take over any or all of the military drones whenever she pleased.

Had she been greedy, had she commandeered all the Creech drones airborne that night, she would have been detected right away. Fighter jets with human pilots would have been scrambled to take the drones down, and within an hour or two the threat would be eliminated.

But she was not greedy or careless or stupid. She and Paul Moulton had worked all this out quite carefully. In the end she chose only two drones, releasing the rest of them from her clutches. All but two of them would perform their scheduled patrols and then return to their bases without doing anything suspicious.

Of the two she did commandeer, one was an MQ-­9 Reaper, a slightly larger, slightly heavier descendant of the old Predator class. This Reaper carried a single Hellfire missile slung under its belly, and its single, ever-­vigilant eye was tasked with watching the skies around Washington, D.C. Holman sent the machine a program to replace its existing flight plan and it accepted the change without comment. For the moment, its controllers in Nevada would remain unaware that it no longer belonged to them. They would only get a few minutes' warning once the new program went into effect.

The second drone that Holman chose was something a little more special. An MQ-­1C Gray Eagle, one of the newest and most advanced UAVs in the fleet. The Gray Eagle was designed to stay aloft for as long as thirty-­six hours without refueling, hiding miles up in the sky where it couldn't be seen before swooping down at the last minute like its namesake to deliver death from above. This one was outfitted with four GBU-­44/B Viper Strike guided bombs that could use GPS to find their targets with a level of precision Hellfire missiles could never beat. It also had an electronics package to combat enemy jamming countermeasures.

This particular Gray Eagle was tasked with keeping station well out at sea east of Washington, cutting long circles over the most commonly used shipping lanes. Its purpose was to intercept any foreign threats that might try to harass American cargo vessels. It would serve this purpose as expected, to the letter, for nearly twenty-­four hours to come. At a specified time, however, it would switch off its control transponders and follow a simple program, a few dozen lines of code, that Paul Moulton had written weeks ago.

Holman waited for the Gray Eagle to confirm that it had uploaded her new program and filed it away in its long-­term memory. Then she cut the link between her computer and the servers at Creech. Just to be safe, she erased all her own logs and then uninstalled the proprietary software she'd used to contact the drones.

Once that was done, no one could ever prove she'd been in contact with the Reaper or the Gray Eagle. Of course, it also meant she couldn't change their programs now even if she wanted to. From this point, there was no turning back.

TOWSON, MD: MARCH 25, 16:59

Wilkes came back after an hour's nap and grabbed a ­couple of pistols from the supply they'd taken from Contorni. “You've got all the details straight?” Chapel asked him.

The marine rolled his eyes. “Still not sure why we don't just kill Holman. But, yeah, I know what I'm supposed to do. And you're the boss.”

“I outrank you. And Hollingshead needs us to do it this way,” Chapel insisted.

Wilkes just nodded and headed out. From the window of the room, Chapel watched him grab a taxi and head north on the highway. “Okay, we just have to trust he'll do his part. Angel—­are you ready to go?”

“Sure,” she told him. “There's an Internet café about two miles north of here. I can do everything from there.”

He nodded. “If you suspect, even for a second, that they're on to you, that the NSA knows you're online—­”

“I've learned my lesson,” she told him. “And I know how to cover my tracks.”

“Okay. Stay in the other room until it gets dark. Then get to work.”

“Got it,” Angel said. But she didn't leave immediately. Instead she searched his face with her eyes, as if she needed to know something desperately important.

“Something on your mind?” he asked.

She frowned. “I know you'd do a lot to save the director,” she said.

“Sure,” he replied.

“I want you to know—­if it was me, I would die for him. If I could, I would take the bullet.”

Chapel thought for a moment before responding to that. “I hope he knows how loyal you are.”

She shook her head. “I need to know if you would do the same.”

Chapel glanced over at Julia. She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“You mean, am I willing to put myself in danger to protect him?” Chapel asked.

“No,” Angel said. “I mean, if it comes down to trading your life for his, will you do it?” She looked away from his face. “I know it's a strange question. But I—­I've got my reasons for asking. For wanting him to be safe.”

“We all want him to be safe,” Julia said. “I only met him once, and I still want that. Are you asking Jim—­”

“Chapel knows what I'm asking.”

And Chapel thought maybe he did. He tried to think of the best answer to give her. “He's my commanding officer,” he told her. “I've sworn to obey him and to protect him to the utmost of my abilities. He's a man I admire, too. Someone I believe in. So . . . yes. The answer to your question is yes.”

Angel said nothing more. She just nodded and stepped outside, closing the door gently behind her.

Once she was gone, it was just Chapel and Julia in the motel room. “What was that all about?” Julia asked.

“No idea,” Chapel said, which wasn't strictly true. He had
an
idea. It just seemed too crazy to credit.

Julia shook her head. “Whatever. We've got some time before we move out. When was the last time you ate something?” she asked.

Chapel looked away from the window and frowned. “Not sure.”

She grabbed a plastic bag from the bed and lifted it in the air. “Sandwiches,” she said. “Straight from the local gas station.” She opened her eyes very wide. “Yum.”

“In the army we learned the secret of eating bad food. You just tell yourself it's fuel for your body. That it'll make you less tired all the time.”

“And does that work?”

“No. But it gives you something to talk about besides how crappy the food is,” Chapel told her.

She laughed and tossed the bag of sandwiches at him. It wasn't a great throw, and he had to lunge out of his chair to make the catch. Which turned out to be a lousy idea. Down on the floor on one knee, he had to hold himself perfectly still until the dark spots cleared from his vision and he could breathe easily again.

“What is it?” Julia asked, kneeling next to him. “Talk to me.”

“Just . . . a wave of pain,” Chapel told her. “Nothing too serious.”

“From your bullet wound?”

He gave her a weak smile. “I might have been a little acrobatic when we went to get the guns. I kind of had to tackle a guy.”

Julia helped him up onto the bed and then started unbuttoning his shirt. “I'll take a look. I don't think you opened my sutures, but let's see.”

“I'm fine,” he told her. It was even true. The pain had passed, and he was breathing all right again. Nothing to worry about.

She got his shirt off and then she unwound the bandage around his midriff. She palpated the wound and then she looked up at him. “I think you're okay,” she said.

“I could have told you that much.” He stood up and unlatched his artificial arm. Inside the shoulder there was a retractable cord that allowed him to plug it into any wall socket to charge its batteries. He had it set up on an end table before he'd even thought about what he was doing. It just needed a charge. It hadn't even occurred to him that Julia might be freaked out by watching him do that. But of course she'd seen him do it before, back when they lived together.

This time, though, she came over and studied the arm as if she'd forgotten it wasn't real. “Are these bullet holes?” she asked.

He bent over it with her and prodded at the silicone flesh. “I guess so.”
The Vulcan cannon back in the warehouse,
he thought. He'd thought it was just a miracle he hadn't been torn to pieces. It was hardly the first time the arm had saved him from otherwise certain death. “Huh.”

She turned and looked at him. After a second, he started to move away, but she grabbed his face and held on.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Memorizing what you look like. So if you get killed tonight, I won't forget.”

“Julia,” he said, “you can't think like that. I can't make you any promises that I'll be okay, but—­”

“Shush,” she told him. “I wasn't looking for any. I know what you're going to do tonight. I know it's dangerous. I also know it has to be done.”

“I know that I've hurt you in the past,” he told her. “Disappearing on missions when you couldn't even know if I was alive or dead. That's no way to live, and—­”

“Are you even listening to me?” she asked.

He focused on her eyes. “Yes,” he said.

“I'm saying it's okay.” She let go of his face. “You're right. It sucks. The not knowing. The waiting for you to come back. Taking your shirt off and finding new scars all over you.” She rubbed at her eyes. “I don't like it. But it's the price I have to pay for being in love with you.”

He leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

“I've been asking myself,” she said, “what would have happened if that asshole Moulton hadn't come between us. Whether I would have broken up with you on my own. I mean, that was a real possibility.”

Chapel closed his eyes. “I told you then, I would do anything you wanted. I would take a desk job. I would come home every night at six and cook you dinner.”

“If I wanted that, there are plenty of guys in the world who could give it to me,” Julia told him. “No. I wanted you. And I still do. Jim—­I made a lousy mistake when I broke up with you. Will you have me back?”

“You know I will,” he told her.

He kissed her, deeply, putting his arm around her shoulders. Pulling her close to him, unable to contain what he was feeling.

She reached down and unbuttoned his pants.

TOWSON, MD: MARCH 25, 17:12

She turned her head to the side and he kissed her neck, his lips grabbing at her pale skin, his tongue darting out to touch the freckles in the vee where the top button of her shirt was open. She reached up and opened her shirt farther. He slipped his hand up inside her shirt from the back and slipped the catch of her bra.

That made her laugh. “Most guys can't do that with two hands,” she said.

“Practice,” he told her.

She shimmied and shrugged and her bra fell down across her arms. Her breasts spilled out before him, just as he remembered them, firm and beautiful. He kissed the tops of them, touched his lips to her nipples until she shivered. She reached down inside his pants and grabbed his cock and it stiffened instantly. He buried his face in the warmth of her stomach, kissing around her belly button, making her laugh again. Reaching down, he unbuckled her belt, but clearly she didn't have the patience to let him strip her. Jumping off the bed, she danced on one foot as she kicked off her jeans, then pulled down her panties in one quick yank so that she wore nothing but the open shirt.

He reached for her, but she pushed him back onto the bed. “Lie down,” she told him. His hand stole between her legs, but she slapped it away. “No need for that,” she said. “I'm ready. Just relax and let me do this, okay?”

“Sure,” he said, smiling up at her.

She pulled his pants off, one leg at a time, nearly falling over as they came free, positively giggled as she jumped up on the bed and kissed his chest, then his hip. Bending low, she kissed the tip of his cock, then opened her lips and took him deep into her mouth. She knew exactly what that did to him and he groaned, his head tilted backward against the pillows, his hand grasping at the sheets. Apparently he was more than ready, too—­if she didn't stop that he was going to come in her mouth, but he didn't want that, he wanted more. He reached down and grabbed at her.

“Enough,” he gasped. “No more—­”

She pulled away and laughed and then swung one leg up over him until she was straddling him, her hands planted on his chest. She slid her hips backward, then a little forward, her wetness gliding along the length of him and he ached to be inside her. He needed this, needed the confirmation of what she'd said, that they could start again. That they could be partners again.

She kissed him, deeply, her breasts crushed against his chest. Then she sat back up. Reaching behind herself, she grabbed his cock.

“Just tell me you'll love me forever,” she said. “That's all I'm going to ask.”

“Always,” he told her.

She lifted away from him for a second, then sat down again and his cock slid inside her, so deep inside.

“Oh, God,” she breathed. “I almost . . . forgot how . . . how good . . .”

“Yeah,” he groaned.

He expected her to thrust against him, to grind her hips against his body, but instead she just stayed there, hovering on top of him, his cock just inside of her, so hard he could barely stand it. Then she moved with excruciating slowness, sinking down until he went deeper and deeper, the tiniest bit at a time. His eyes opened wide and he saw her shaking, her shoulders quivering with how good she must be feeling. Her eyes were closed but her mouth fell open, red hair framing her perfect lips.

“Oh, Jim,” she said. “Can you—­is this—­okay?”

She slid just the barest fraction lower on him, but every slight motion, every tiny increment was so much more intense than he expected it to be. “I'm fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “You just—­you do what you need.”