“A Greek monster,” quipped Chafetz.

Breanna smiled indulgently. Her solution would actually help the Navy, but she didn’t expect to be thanked for it.

“The admiral knows his myths,” she said. “Medusa is six months ahead of schedule. In fact, as you’ll see at the demonstration next week—those of you who are going out to Dreamland—it’s completely operational. Or would be, if we had more Sabres.”

“We will have a dozen by the end of the year,” said General Garvey.

“And that program is on schedule and on budget,” Breanna offered quickly, not wanting to seem as if she was criticizing Garvey. “Along the way, we’ve made some improvements to Medusa’s human input unit. It’s now as compact as the units in Sabres. Which gave us an idea.”

While talking, she had booted up her laptop. The computer found the secure local network, signing itself on automatically. Breanna glanced down and double-clicked on a PowerPoint icon. A pair of video screens began to rise from the center of the conference room tables.

“We’d like to propose a new aircraft as part of the control solution. Some of you will be familiar with it.”

A jet came on the screen. It looked like a cousin of the F–22, perhaps by way of the YF–23 and a Bird of Prey. Black, with an oval double wing at the tail and stubby fins at its side, it was two-thirds the size of a Raptor, as the next slide demonstrated.

“The Tigershark?” asked Chafetz. “A Navy plane?”

Wallace cleared his throat.

“Actually, that began as an Air Force project,” he said. “But it’s dead. The company’s bankrupt. No more aircraft can be built.”

“At the moment, we have all we need,” said Breanna. “There are three aircraft. They could all be given over to the program. That’s one more than you need, at least for the next two years.”

Three Tigersharks had been built and tested three years before. The aircraft was seen first as a replacement for the F–22, and as a possible fifth generation fighter for the Navy.

One had even appeared at a pair of air shows, as its maker—a small company formed by former Boeing and Lockheed engineers—tried to convince the military and Congress to award a contract for its development. Unfortunately, the wheels of government moved very slowly. While everyone agreed the plane was a winner, it couldn’t win funding for production in the tight budget. While Congress promised to consider it the next fiscal year, the debt-ridden company had folded. Its assets were put up for sale to pay creditors.

At that point the Office of Technology had stepped in, purchasing the aircraft, some spare parts, and all of the design work. The Tigershark now belonged to the Office of Technology.

“How the hell do you see in that thing?” asked one of the admirals.

“Screens,” said Garvey. “They provide a better view than your eyes would.”

Breanna pressed the button on her pointer. A close-up of the body appeared, revealing lines for the cockpit access panel. The next slide showed a breakaway of the body, revealing the cockpit itself. The pilot’s seat was pitched as if it were a recliner.

“We needed a high-performance aircraft to help us test Medusa,” explained Breanna. “The Sabres weren’t ready, and of course there are always questions about unmanned airplanes in test regimes. In any event, one of the aircraft had been disassembled for some tests, and adding Medusa to the rebuild was not very difficult. We decided we would use it. The results have been so spectacular that it makes sense to show you what we have. You’re scheduled to view the system tests with us in Dreamland next week—this is just an added bonus.”

“Hmph,” said Chafetz. Although he sounded unconvinced, he also seemed to be calculating the benefits.

“Why not just put the unit in an F–22?” asked Wallace. “If I might play devil’s advocate.”

“That’s doable,” said Breanna. “Though we would have to completely gut and rebuild the plane.” She shrugged. “The Office of Technology doesn’t own any of those, and the subcontractor wasn’t in a position to commandeer one.”

That drew a few laughs.

“This looks like just a backdoor way of getting the Tigershark into the budget,” said Admiral Chafetz.

“It is one argument for it,” admitted Breanna. “No one has ruled out the plane. They just weren’t ready to fund it.”

“I’d like to see it make headway in this Congress,” said Wallace with disgust. Then he glanced at Breanna. “Present company and their relatives excepted.”

“I haven’t spoken to Senator Stockard at all about this,” said Breanna hastily.

“Well you should,” said Admiral Garvey. “Because it’s a hell of an idea. When is the demonstration again?”

6

Berlin

During his relatively short career with the CIA, Nuri Lupo had worked with a variety of foreign agencies, sometimes officially, sometimes unofficially. He’d had varying degrees of success and cooperation, but by far his worst experiences had come when working with the FBI, which he’d had to do three times.

The Berlin assignment made four. The Bureau could not be bypassed for a number of reasons, all of them political.

Actually the most important wasn’t political at all: Reid had told him to work with the Bureau. Period.

“To the extent possible,” said Reid. “Which means you will, at a minimum, make contact. Before you arrive. If not sooner.”

FBI agents were, in Nuri’s experience, among the most uncooperative species on the planet, at least when it came to dealing with the CIA. The two agencies were natural rivals, partly because of their overlapping missions in national security and espionage. But sibling rivalry wasn’t the only cause of conflict. G-men—and -women—regarded “spy” as an occupation somewhere lower than journalist and politician. From the Bureau’s perspective, the CIA sullied every American by its mere existence.

It was also no doubt galling that Agency field officers had expense accounts several times larger than FBI agents.

Nuri tried to use the expense account to his advantage, but had to use all of his persuasive skills merely to get the FBI agent, a middle-aged woman whose gray pantsuit matched her demeanor, to have breakfast with him as soon as he arrived in the city.

“I’ve already had breakfast,” insisted Elise Gregor as they sat down in the small café a short distance from the airport. “And I don’t want any more coffee.”

“Have a decaf,” said Nuri, trying his best to be affable.

“Just tell me what you want.”

“I just need background,” said Nuri. He stopped speaking as the waiter came over, switching to German to order.

“Eggs with toast, American style,” said the waiter in English far superior to Nuri’s German.

“That’s it,” said Nuri.

The putdown was regarded as some sort of triumph by Gregor, who practically beamed as she told the waiter in German that she would have a small orange juice. Nuri considered whether he ought just to leave, but the FBI might be of some use at some point in the investigation, and closing the door now didn’t make sense.

Well, maybe it did. How much help could they possibly be?

“German’s not one of your languages, is it?” Gregor asked as the waiter left.

“I can speak a little.”

“Very little.”

I’d like to see you handle Arabic, thought Nuri. Or Farsi. Or maybe a subdialect of Swahili.