Strike Zone (23 page)

“We'll look into all of the ships that were in the area,” said Rubeo. “But if they're controlling it from a vessel, they're using a system we don't know about.”

No kidding, thought Dog. He started to ask if anyone else had anything when Stoner interrupted.

“Doc, getting back to the UAV for a second. You said it would have a lot of computing power aboard, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Stoner. Considerable computing power.”

“Gallium-arsenide chips?” asked Stoner. “Custom- made?”

“Perhaps.”

“I think I know where they were manufactured,” said Stoner. “I'd like to check it out. I need some information on what to look for.”

“You want a course in chip manufacturing?” said the scientist in a tone even more sour than usual.

“What the machines would look like, the plans, byproducts, that sort of stuff.”

“Do you have six months? You're asking for a graduate seminar.”

“I have a plant that supposedly manufactured chips used for VCRs. I want to see if it could have done anything else.”

“VCRs,” said Rubeo. “Might just as well look for vacuum tubes.”

“Ray, maybe Jennifer can give Mr. Stoner a few pointers,” said Dog.

“Jennifer is not available,” said Rubeo. “She's confined herself to quarters. She says she's sick.”

“What?”

“In any event, her security status is still in doubt. She's not allowed to use the computers, and she can't go into sensitive areas. Which would preclude her from using the command center.”

“Is she all right?” asked Dog.

Rubeo put his lips together in one of his twisted scowls. Dog resisted the urge to press further—he didn't want to mix his personal concerns with business.

Still, it was difficult to keep quiet. The briefing dragged on a bit, with updates on the Chinese military—every unit was on standby alert, and there were threats from Beijing about war. The top leaders were all blaming America for the shootdown.

“At the moment, we're grounded,” said Dog. “We don't want to incite the Chinese any further.”

“I hope somebody's going to tell these jokers it wasn't us,” said Zen.

“Washington will,” the colonel told him. “But they have to be careful about how much information they can give the Chinese about our own systems. Too much and we may jeopardize future missions.”

“Too little and these idiots will start shooting the next time they see us,” said Zen.

“Yeah, right now all they're doing is trying to run into you,” said Stoner.

The CIA officer was so deadpan it took a second for
everyone to realize he meant it as black humor and start to laugh.

 

A
FTER THE SESSION
broke up, Dog tried again to get ahold of Jennifer. But she wasn't answering the phone, either at her apartment or at the lab. He decided not to bother leaving a message—with the investigation still under way, it was bound to be misinterpreted.

Most likely that was why she hadn't bothered emailing or leaving a message on his personal voice mail. Come to think of it, they usually didn't talk much during deployments anyway. She knew he was busy and didn't want to bother him.

Not that he considered talking to her a bother. Not at all.

Hell, he'd really like to hear from her right now.

Dog started to punch the numbers on the phone, thinking this time he'd leave a message and Cortend be damned, but then hung up.

Personal concerns came after duty. If he couldn't get his priorities straight, how could he expect anyone under him to?

Club Paradise, Brunei
12 September 1997
0023

“M
ACK
S
MITH.”

“Colonel Bastian!” Mack nearly knocked over the table jumping to his feet, surprised—astounded—that Dog had tracked him to the small club on the outskirts
of the city. He'd come with Stoner and was wearing civilian clothes.

“Boy, you missed a hell of a dinner,” Mack told him.

“Thanks for filling in for me. Can Mr. Stoner and I sit down?”

“Colonel, of course. Ladies?” Mack gestured to the women who'd been fawning over him. As luck would have it, there were exactly three of them. Their eyes blinked as they did the math. One by one they took up positions.

“Actually, we'd like to be alone for a while,” said Dog.

Mack feared that the colonel was about to lower the boom for his accidental firing of the Badger's machine gun. He told the women he'd see them later, then took a gulp of his drink as a final fortification against the inevitable onslaught.

“You just missed Prince bin Awg,” said Mack, wishing he had left with his host.

“The prince approves of this?” said Dog.

“Oh sure.”

“How about his uncle the sultan?” asked Stoner.

“Well, uncles, fathers, you know how that goes. Right, Colonel?”

Dog gave him a very disapproving frown.

“I don't know that I saw any alcohol touch the prince's lips,” said Mack, sticking up for his host.

“Mack, I need you to do me a favor. Or rather, I need the prince to do me a favor, I want you to help me ask him.”

“A favor?”

“We need to get to Thailand tomorrow, but not attract any attention,” said Stoner. “Bin Awg has a fleet
of aircraft at his disposal. We'd like to use one.”

“Is that all? Hell, not a problem,” said Mack.

Was that really it? Was that all the colonel had come for?

Mack felt as if he'd been plucked from a den of jackals and delivered back to paradise.

Paradise being Brunei, of course. There was no more beautiful spot on the planet, especially if you were considered a national hero.

“Can do, Colonel. How about the Badger? It's like driving an old Caddy, swear to God. Pickup's a little slack, but it'll remind you of the fifties. Not that you were around in the fifties, but if you were, I mean. It's a great plane.”

“I don't want a Caddy,” said Dog. “I understand he has a Beech King Air.”

“Uh, I guess.”

“That's the plane we'd like to borrow.”

The Beech King Air—formally known as Beech Model 100 King Air B100—was an extremely reliable and sturdy workhorse, an excellent design that could carry fifteen passengers fifteen hundred miles or more. It was relatively cheap to operate, and testimony to the solid design and production skill of “small” American aviation companies.

It was also about as unspectacular a plane to fly as Mack Smith could imagine. A two-engined turboprop, the plane had been designed as a no-nonsense civilian flier, and that's what it was. It wasn't even a jet, for cryin' out loud.

“But, Colonel, I'm serious, you take the wheel of the Badger. You aren't going to . . . ”

Mack's voice trailed off as he saw Dog's scowl.

“I'm sure it'll be fine. Should I ask now, or do you want to wait for morning?”

“Whatever's better,” said Dog, rising. “We'll be at the airport at 0800.”

Aboard Brunei King Air 2, over the Pacific
0854

I
T HAD BEEN
a while since Dog had piloted a civilian turboprop, and while he couldn't have asked for a more predictable and stable craft, his unfamiliarity with the plane did cross him up a bit. The King Air's maximum takeoff weight was perhaps two percent of what the Megafortress could get off a runway with, and while there were clear advantages to the plane's small size—its ability to land on a small, unimproved runway was specifically important here—the cabin nonetheless felt like an overloaded canoe to him. Still, it was obvious why the army had chosen the type in the early seventies as a utility and reconnaissance craft, and the solid state of the aircraft showed why it remained in the Army's inventory when it could easily have been traded in for a newer model. The Garrett turboprops—fitted specially to the B100 model—hummed along in harmony as Dog and his team trekked northward across the ocean, their eventual destination a small airport in southern Thailand.

The strip lay about a half mile from the fab plant Stoner wanted to check out. Besides the CIA agent, Dog had brought along two members of the Whiplash security team, Sergeant Bison and Sergeant Rockland. The plant was in an area near the Cambodian border where
rebels had been reported over the past six months. It wasn't even clear whether the plant was operating. Stoner had bought two small dirt bikes to use to get to the plant; they were stowed in the back of the plane.

Clear skies and a calm sea meant flying was a breeze, and Dog's hardest job was not getting too complacent at the wheel—or bored. There were only so many times he could check his instruments and look at the map to make sure he had the course nailed. Stoner, sitting next to him, wasn't very big on conversation. Inevitably, Dog began thinking of Jennifer, who still hadn't returned his calls.

Was she more upset over this investigation business than he'd thought? Cortend surely was a pain in the ass, but Jennifer ought to understand that the colonel's presence there was mostly a political thing; it wasn't directed at her and eventually would go away. Whatever minor violations of the rules she had committed—
if
she had committed any—would be outweighed by her value to the program. Any baboon would realize that.

Maybe he should just come out and tell her that.

Of course, that was the one thing he
couldn't
do as her commanding officer. It would be interfering with Danny, who had to have absolute autonomy, absolute authority to do the
real
investigation, Cortend be damned.

Dog checked his course, then looked at his watch. Bin Awg had modified the aircraft to increase the amount of fuel it could carry; in theory, they could have flown directly to the strip at Nanorpathet. But that would leave them with few contingencies, and so he had decided to refuel at Songkhla in the southern
extension of Thailand on the Malay Peninsula. At 250 knots and better than eight hundred miles to go, it was going to be a long haul.

Maybe Mack had been right about taking the Badger.

Dreamland
11 September 1997
1800
(South China Sea, 12 September, 0900)

I
T WAS SO
obvious—so painfully obvious—that Rubeo very nearly smacked his head in derision as he realized it.

Most of the intercepted code was nonsense.

Not nonsense, exactly—mirrored bits of their own code, randomly sliced and diced, then spit back to camouflage the actual transmissions.

And that made all the difference.

Rubeo got up from the computer bank and walked to the counter where Mr. Coffee normally kept at least a half carafe warm. The fact that there was no coffee in the pot reminded him of Jennifer, and that in turn reminded him of his stupidity.

Not that telling Cortend what he had just now realized would stop the Inquisition. Cortend was the expression of a vast and infinitely stupid machine, the dark enemy of knowledge. It had stripped Oppenheimer of his status and fame. It had pursued Galileo; it had gotten Socrates to drink poison. Cortend herself was a puny ant, a cog in the machine of ignorance.

A bad cog in a machine that couldn't even serve a useful function, like making coffee.

Rubeo measured out some grains and filled Mr. Coffee with water. As the liquid began to hiss downward, he went back to his secure phone and called the Command Center, requesting to be put through to Colonel Bastian. But Bastian wasn't immediately available, according to the sergeant handling the communications system in the Whiplash trailer, aka Dreamland Mobile Command.

“I can get a patch through to his sat phone if you want,” said the sergeant.

“Oh never mind. Tell him to call me when he lands.”

“Here or there?”

“Whatever.” The sergeant started to say something but Rubeo didn't have time for him; he killed the line and dialed Danny in the security office.

“I want to talk to Captain Freah. This is Rubeo.”

“Uh, the captain's on another line and, uh, he's overdue at the handheld weapons lab to check out the updates to the Smart Helmets and some of the—”

“Tell him to see me when he's done playing with his toys,” said the scientist, slamming down the phone.

 

A
T THE VERY
moment Rubeo was slamming down the phone, Danny was fuming as well. He'd been on hold now for nearly five minutes, waiting for Jed Barclay to come back on the line. The NSC assistant had called Danny—then asked him to wait without saying another word.

“Sorry about that,” said Jed, finally coming back on the line. “My boss has been sick and they're running me ragged. This China crap—they're crazy over there.”

“What's up?” said Danny. He tried to be friendly but he knew there was a hard edge in his voice.

“Um, I wanted to tell you something, but, it's like, it's got to be off the record.”

“Yeah?”

“The official channels'll come later.”

“Let's go. What?”

“I talked to an FBI counterintelligence officer in charge of the Far East. Your scientist is off the hook.”

“How's that?”

“Jennifer Gleason did follow procedure but her name was misspelled and reversed in the records. Dr. Rubeo figured it out. And she was a student on the date of the first conference and there wasn't even a formal requirement for her to register.”

Danny wanted to reach through the phone and give Jed a high-five. But instead he gave the NSC official his standard security officer: “Are you absolutely sure about all this?”

“Yeah. Uh, like you'll get a paper report. I also told the FBI guy to contact Colonel Cortend. I figured she'd be really routing up people's butts.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot. Really. I really appreciate it,” said Danny.

“Listen, I got to go—could you pass a message to, uh, Dr. Rubeo?”