Bad Luck and Trouble, Page 27

  faster. She finished her calls and fidgeted with impatience. Kept glancing over at the speedometer.

  “Drive it like you stole it,” she said. “Which you did.”

  So he accelerated a little. Started passing people, including a medium-sized U-Haul truck lumbering west in the right-hand lane.

  Ten miles shy of Barstow, Dixon caught up with them and flashed her lights and pulled alongside and O’Donnell made eating motions from the passenger seat. Like helpless masochists they stopped at the same diner they had used before. No alternative for miles, and they were all hungry. They hadn’t eaten lunch.

  The food was as bad as before and the conversation was desultory. Mostly they talked about Sanchez and Orozco. About how hard it was to keep a viable small business going. Especially about how hard it was for ex-military people. They entered the civilian world with all the wrong assumptions. They expected the same kind of certainties they had known before. The straightforwardness, the transparency, the honesty, the shared sacrifice. Reacher felt that part of the time Dixon and O’Donnell were actually talking about themselves. He wondered exactly how well they were doing, behind their facades. Exactly how it all looked on paper for them, at tax time. And how it was going to look a year from then. Dixon was in trouble because she had walked out on her last job. O’Donnell had been out for a spell with his sister. Only Neagley seemed to have no worries. She was an unqualified success. But she was one out of nine. A hit rate a fraction better than eleven percent, for some of the finest graduates the army had ever produced.

  Not good.

  You’re well out of it, Dixon had said.

  I usually feel that way, he had replied.

  All that we’ve got that you don’t is suitcases, O’Donnell had said.

  But what have I got that you don’t? he had replied.

  He finished the meal a little closer to an answer than before.

  After Barstow came Victorville and Lake Arrowhead. Then the mountains reared in front of them. But first, this time to their right, were the badlands where the helicopter had flown. Once again Reacher told himself he wouldn’t look, but once again he did. He took his eyes off the road and glanced north and west for seconds at a time. Sanchez and Swan were out there somewhere, he guessed. He saw no reason to hope otherwise.

  They passed through an active cell and Neagley’s phone rang. Diana Bond, all set to leave Edwards at a moment’s notice. Reacher said, “Tell her to meet us at that Denny’s on Sunset. Where we were before.” Neagley made a face and he said, “It’s going to taste like Maxim’s in Paris after that place we just stopped.”

  So Neagley arranged the rendezvous and he kicked the transmission down and climbed onto Mount San Antonio’s first low slopes. Less than an hour later they were checking in at the Dunes Motel.

  The Dunes was the kind of place where no room went even close to three figures for the night and where guests were required to leave a security deposit for the TV remote, which was issued with great ceremony along with the key. Reacher paid cash from his stolen wad for all four rooms, which got around the necessity for real names and ID. They parked the cars out of sight of the street and regrouped in a dark battered lounge next to a laundry room, as anonymous as four people could get in Los Angeles County.

  Reacher’s kind of place.

  An hour later Diana Bond called Neagley to say she was pulling into the Denny’s lot.

  54

  They walked a short stretch of Sunset and stepped into the Denny’s neon lobby and found a tall blonde woman waiting for them. She was alone. She was dressed all in black. Black jacket, black blouse, black skirt, black stockings, black high-heeled shoes. Serious East Coast style, a little out of place on the West Coast and seriously out of place in a Denny’s on the West Coast. She was slim, attractive, clearly intelligent, somewhere in her late thirties.

  She looked a little irritated and preoccupied.

  She looked a little worried.

  Neagley introduced her all around. “This is Diana Bond,” she said. “From Washington D.C. via Edwards Air Force Base.”

  Diana Bond had nothing with her except a small crocodile purse. No briefcase, not that Reacher expected notes or blueprints. They led her through the shabby restaurant and found a round table in back. Five people wouldn’t fit in a booth. A waitress came over and they ordered coffee. The waitress came back with five heavy mugs and a flask, and poured. They each took a preliminary sip, in silence. Then Diana Bond spoke. She didn’t start with small talk. Instead she said, “I could have you all arrested.”

  Reacher nodded.

  “I’m kind of surprised you haven’t,” he said. “I was kind of expecting to find a bunch of agents here with you.”

  Bond said, “One call to the Defense Intelligence Agency would have done it.”

  “So why didn’t you make that call?”

  “I’m trying to be civilized.”

  “And loyal,” Reacher said. “To your boss.”

  “And to my country. I really would urge you not to pursue this line of inquiry.”

  Reacher said, “That would give you another wasted journey.”

  “I’d be very happy to waste another journey.”

  “Our tax dollars at work.”

  “I’m pleading with you.”

  “Deaf ears.”

  “I’m appealing to your patriotism. This is a question of national security.”

  Reacher said, “Between the four of us here, we’ve got sixty years in uniform. How many have you got?”

  “None.”

  “How many has your boss got?”

  “None.”

  “Then shut up about patriotism and national security, OK? You’re not qualified.”

  “Why on earth do you need to know about Little Wing?”

  “We had a friend who worked for New Age. We’re trying to complete his obituary.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Probably.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But again, I would appeal to you not to press this.”

  “No deal.”

  Diana Bond paused a long moment. Then she nodded.

  “I’ll trade,” she said. “I’ll give you outline details, and in return you swear on those sixty years in uniform that they’ll go no further.”

  “Deal.”

  “And after I talk to you this one time, I never hear from you again.”

  “Deal.”

  Another long pause. Like Bond was wrestling with her conscience.

  “Little Wing is a new type of torpedo,” she said. “For the Navy’s Pacific submarine fleet. It’s fairly conventional apart from an enhanced control capability because of new electronics.”

  Reacher smiled.

  “Good try,” he said. “But we don’t believe you.”

  “Why not?”

  “We were never going to believe your first answer. Obviously you were going to try to blow us off. Plus, most of those sixty years we mentioned were spent listening to liars, so we know one when we see one. Plus, some of those sixty years were spent reading all kinds of Pentagon bullshit, so we know how they use words. A new torpedo would more likely be called ‘Little Fish.’ Plus, New Age was a clean-sheet start-up with a free choice of where to build, and if they were working for the Navy they’d have chosen San Diego or Connecticut or Newport News, Virginia. But they didn’t. They chose East LA instead. And the closest places to East LA are Air Force places, including Edwards, where you just came from, and the name is Little Wing, so it’s an airborne device.”

  Diana Bond shrugged.

  “I had to try,” she said.

  Reacher said, “Try again.”

  Another pause.

  “It’s an infantry weapon,” she said. “Army, not Air Force. New Age is in East LA to be near Fort Irwin, not Edwards. But you’re right, it’s airborne.”

  “Specifically?”

  “It’s a man-portable shoulder-launched surfa
ce-to-air missile. The next generation.”

  “What does it do?”

  Diana Bond shook her head. “I can’t tell you that.”

  “You’ll have to. Or your boss goes down.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Compared to what?”

  “All I’ll say is that it’s a revolutionary advance.”

  “We’ve heard that kind of thing before. It means it’ll be out-of-date a year from now, rather than the usual six months.”

  “We think two years, actually.”

  “What does it do?”

  “You’re not going to call the newspapers. You’d be selling out your country.”

  “Try us.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “As lung cancer.”

  “I don’t believe this.”

  “Suck it up. Or your boss needs a new job tomorrow. As far as that goes, we’d be doing our country a favor.”

  “You don’t like him.”

  “Does anyone?”

  “The newspapers wouldn’t publish.”

  “Dream on.”

  Bond was quiet for a minute more.

  “Promise it will go no further,” she said.

  “I already have,” Reacher said.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Like rocket science?”

  “You know the Stinger?” Bond asked. “The current generation?”

  Reacher nodded. “I’ve seen them in action. We all have.”

  “What do they do?”

  “They chase the heat signature of jet exhaust.”

  “But from below,” Bond said. “Which is a key weakness. They have to climb and maneuver at the same time. Which makes them relatively slow and relatively cumbersome. They show up on downward-looking radar. It’s possible for a pilot to outmaneuver them. And they’re vulnerable to countermeasures, like decoy flares.”

  “But?”

  “Little Wing is revolutionary. Like most great ideas, it starts with a very simple premise. It completely ignores its target on the way up. It does all its work on the way down.”

  “I see,” Reacher said.

  Bond nodded. “Going up, it’s just a dumb rocket. Very, very fast. It reaches about eighty thousand feet and then it slows and stops and topples. Starts to fall back down again. Then the electronics switch on and it starts hunting its target. It has boosters to maneuver with, and control surfaces, and because gravity is doing most of the work, the maneuvering can be incredibly precise.”

  “It falls on its prey from above,” Reacher said. “Like a hawk.”

  Bond nodded again.

  “At unbelievable speed,” she said. “Way supersonic. It can’t miss. And it can’t be stopped. Airborne missile defense radar always looks downward. Decoy flares always launch downward. The way things have been until now, planes are very vulnerable from above. They could afford to be. Because very little came at them from above. But it’s different now. That’s why this is so sensitive. We’ve got about a two-year window in which our surface-to-air capability will be completely unbeatable. For about two years anyone using Little Wing will be able to shoot down anything that flies. Maybe longer. It depends how fast people are with new countermeasures.”

  Reacher said, “The speed will make countermeasures difficult.”

  “Almost impossible,” Bond said. “Human reaction times will be too slow. So defenses will have to be automated. Which means we’ll have to trust computers to tell the difference between a bird a hundred yards up and Little Wing a mile up and a satellite fifty miles up. Potentially it will be chaos. Civilian airlines will want protection, obviously, because of terrorism worries. But the skies above civilian airports are thick with stacked planes. False deployment would be the norm, not the exception. So they’d have to turn off their protection for takeoff and landing, which makes them totally vulnerable just when they can’t afford to be.”

  “A can of worms,” Dixon said.

  “But a theoretical can of worms,” O’Donnell said. “We understand Little Wing isn’t working very well.”

  “This can go no further,” Bond said.

  “We already agreed.”

  “Because these are commercial secrets now.”

  “Much more important than defense secrets.”

  “The prototypes were fine,” Bond said. “The beta testing was excellent. But they ran into problems with production.”

  “Rockets or electronics or both?”

  “Electronics,” Bond said. “The rocket technology is more than forty years old. They can do the rocket production in their sleep. That happens up in Denver, Colorado. It’s the electronics packs that are giving them the problems. Down here in LA. They haven’t even started mass production yet. They’re still doing bench assembly. Now even that is screwed up.”

  Reacher nodded and said nothing. He stared out the window for a moment and then took a stack of napkins out of the dispenser and fanned them out and then butted them back together into a neat pile. Weighted them down with the sugar container. The restaurant had pretty much emptied out. There were two guys alone in separate booths at the far end of the room. Landscape workers, tired and hunched. Apart from them, no business. Outside on the street the afternoon light was fading. The red and yellow neon from the restaurant’s huge sign was becoming comparatively brighter and brighter. Some passing cars on the boulevard already had their headlights on.

  “So Little Wing is the same old same old, really,” O’Donnell said, in the silence. “A Pentagon pipe dream that does nothing but burn dollars.”

  Diana Bond said, “It wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

  “It never is.”

  “It’s not a total failure. Some of the units work.”

  “They said the same thing about the M16 rifle. Which was a real comfort when you were out on patrol with one.”

  “But the M16 was perfected eventually. Little Wing will be, too. And it will be worth waiting for. You know which is the world’s best-protected airplane?”

  Dixon said, “Air Force One, probably. Politicians’ asses always come first.”

  Bond said, “Little Wing could take it out without breaking a sweat.”

  “Bring it on,” O’Donnell said. “Easier than voting.”

  “You should read the Patriot Act. You could be arrested for even thinking that.”

  “Jails aren’t big enough,” O’Donnell said.