Debt of Honor - Tom Clancy [362]
"We never see anyone now," the rental agent said when Nomuri finally got back, just after sunset. "May I offer you some tea?"
"Dozo," the CIA officer said. He took his tea with a friendly nod. "It's wonderful here."
"You were wise to come this time of year." The man wanted conversation more than anything else. "In the summer the trees are full and beautiful, but the noise from these things"—he gestured at the ranks of cycles—"well, it ruins the peace of the mountain. But it supports me well," the man allowed.
"I must come back again. Things are so hectic at my office. To come here and feel the silence."
"Perhaps you will tell some friends," the man suggested. Clearly he needed the money to sustain him in the off-season.
"Yes, I will certainly do that," Nomuri assured him. A friendly bow sent him on his way, and the CIA officer started his car for the three-hour drive back to Tokyo, still wondering why the Agency had given him an assignment calculated to make him feel better about his mission.
"Are you guys really comfortable with this?" Jackson asked the people from SOCOM.
"Funny time for second thoughts, Robby," the senior officer observed.
"If they're dumb enough to let American civilians roam around their country, well, let's take advantage of it."
"The insertion still worries me," the Air Force representative noted, looking by turns at the air-navigation charts and the satellite photos. "We have a good IP—hell, the navigational references are pretty good—but somebody's gotta take care of those AWACS birds for this to work."
"It's covered," the colonel from Air Combat Command assured him. "We're going to light up the sky for them, and you do have that gap to use."
He tapped his pointer on the third chart. "The helo crews?" Robby asked next.
"They're working on their sims now. If they're lucky they'll get to sleep on the flight over."
The mission planning simulator was real enough to fool Sandy Richter's inner ears. The device was halfway between his youngest son's new Nintendo VR System and a full-up aircraft simulator, the oversized helmet he wore identical with the one he used in his Comanche, but infinitely more sophisticated. What had begun with a monocle display on the AH-64 Apache was now like an I-MAX-theater view of the world that you wore on your head. It needed to be more sophisticated yet, but it did give him a view of the computer-generated terrain along with all his flight information, and his hands were on the stick and throttle of another virtual-helicopter as he navigated across the water toward approaching bluffs.
"Coming right for the notch," he told his backseater, who was actually sitting beside him, because the simulator didn't require that sort of fidelity. In this artificial world, they saw what they saw regardless of where they were, though the backseater sitting next to him had two additional instruments.
What they saw was the product of six hours of supercomputer time. A set of satellite photographs taken over the last three days had been analyzed, folded, spindled, and mutilated into a three-dimensional display that looked like a somewhat grainy video.
"Population center to the left."
"Roger, I see it." What he saw was a patch of fluorescent blue which in reality would have been yellow-orange quartz lighting, and out of deference to it he increased altitude from the fifty feet he'd followed for the past two hours. He eased the sidestick over, and the others in the darkened room, who were observing the flight crew, were struck by the way both bodies tilted to deal with the g-forces of a turn that existed only in the computer running the simulation. They might have laughed except that Sandy Richter was not somebody you laughed at.
From the moment he crossed the virtual coast, he climbed up to a crest and ran along it. That was Richter's idea.