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
D uring 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