Strike Zone (26 page)

He realized he'd lost the M-84 stun grenade a half second before it exploded.

 

B
OSTON HIT THE
dirt so hard his teeth slammed into his tongue. The pain made him scream; he jumped to his feet, head spinning in the dust. Someone grabbed him from behind, and he shoved his elbow hard into his side, fishing for his ruck and the submachine gun.

“Come on, come on,” yelled the man who'd grabbed him. “The airport. Come on.”

Stoner.

As Boston started to run, the bark of a heavy machine gun resonated off the nearby walls.

 

A
S SOON AS
Dog heard the gunfire and explosions in the distance, he turned and ran back toward the airplane and Bison, who was standing guard near the wing.

“I'll get the engines going and turn around so we can take off,” said Dog. “Get them aboard.”

He didn't wait to hear an answer. He clambered into the cockpit, just barely patient enough to bring both engines on line before spinning the aircraft around. As he did, he caught sight of two figures running across
the open field behind the blockhouse. Bison ran toward them, firing at something in the distance.

“Come on, damn it,” Dog yelled.

The plane stuttered, its brakes barely holding it down.

“Move! Move!”

 

B
OSTON TURNED AND
saw a jeep bouncing across the edge of the road behind him. A machine gun had been mounted in the rear.

He leveled his MP-5 in the bastard's direction and emptied the clip. The front of the truck exploded and the vehicle flipped over, the gunner jumping out.

“In! Go!” Stoner yelled, pulling him toward the borrowed King Air.

Bison jumped up into the open rear doorway. Stoner yelled something, then threw himself inside the plane.

Boston took a look back. Two men were moving at the far end of the runway.

One was dragging a small sewer pipe with him.

No—he had a shoulder-launched missile.

The Whiplash trooper stopped, slapping a new magazine into his gun. By the time he had it ready to fire—no more than a few seconds later—the two men had disappeared.

There was a block building near the end of the runway.

The plane began moving behind him, but Boston couldn't worry about it now—he couldn't let the bastards shoot his people down. He heard the engines revving as he started toward the building.

Where'd the bastards go?

Ordinarily, he would have taken the corner slowly—ordinarily, he would have had a squad with him, flanked the SOBs, maybe used grenades and machine guns and every piece of ordnance known to modern man.

But there wasn't time for finesse.

Boston ran to the side of the building, finger edged against the trigger of his gun.

He saw them, the oversized blowpipe on the shoulder of the taller man.

Boston fired his MP-5 as the missile launcher exploded. For a moment, he saw everything stop; for a split second, he was part of the museum tableau, a display in Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum.

And then everything turned red. Then black.

 

D
OG HAD ALREADY
started down the runway when Bison yelled that Boston had gone back. He had too much momentum to stop; instead, he took the plane off the end of the runway, winging back quickly to land.

As he legged around, he saw smoke rise in a misshapen cloud, covering the building near the end of the runway.

He steeled himself for the worst as he touched down.

It took forever for Bison and Stoner to get out of the plane. When he saw they were out, Dog took off the brakes and trundled around once more, heart pounding—not because he worried that more guerrillas or whoever they were would appear, but because he dreaded having lost another man.

It was his fault. He could have worked with the Thai government. He should have.

He'd chosen not to because it would have involved politics and bullshit and delay.

His impatience had cost him a man.

Where the hell were the others?

“Go!” yelled Stoner finally, rushing into the forward cabin. “Go!”

“Boston?”

“Go!”

Bison appeared behind the CIA officer. “He's okay. He just can't hear. The SA-7 flew into the side of the building and exploded. He shot the bastard just as he fired, and the missile went off course.”

Dog punched off the brakes and slammed the engines to full power.

Brunei
1800

“A
FTER YOU GET
a little more experience under your belt,” Mack told Starship, “you'll see exactly what I'm talking about.”

“I don't know, Major.”

“Call me Mack, kid.”

Mack smiled at the young pilot. Even though the kid had the bad luck to be working for Zen, Starship was all right. Balls-out Eagle jock, just like Mack.

Well, not quite as good a pilot. But who was?

“Single-malt Scotch,” said Mack, raising his shot glass as he continued the young man's education. They were sitting in a reception room that was part of Prince bin Awg's lavish home. A butler had shown them here, and then vanished. “This is what real drinking is about.”

“Guess I can't argue with that,” said Starship, downing his glass.

“Sip. Sip,” said Mack. “Like you're going to be doing it for a while.”

“You sure we're allowed to be drinking his Scotch?”

“Why do you think they parked us in this room?” said Mack, refilling the glasses. “You don't understand Eastern hospitality, kid. It's subtle, but it's immense.”

“Immense and subtle at the same time?”

“Drink up.”

“There you are, Mack,” said the sultan's nephew, entering the room. “And you've brought Lieutenant Andrews.”

The prince ignored Mack's gesture toward the Scotch—he himself was an abstainer.

“The sultan wants you to attend dinner tonight,” said bin Awg. “He has been thinking over things.”

“Always up for dinner with the big guy. Right, Starship?”

“Um, I really have to get back.”

“No, no, Lieutenant, you come along as well,” said the prince. “Major Smith, His Majesty has a special surprise for you.”

“What's that?” asked Mack.

“He's going to ask you to take charge of the air force.”

“Which air force?” said Mack.

“Our kingdom's. We wish to modernize, and with a man of your stature, this could be easily accomplished.”

Mack began to protest that he was happy as a member of the U.S. Air Force.

“But I'm sure we could make you happier,” said the prince. “The sultan will be able to work things out with your government, of course. We would merely
borrow you. I believe a somewhat similar arrangement was made with General MacArthur and the Philippines, prior to the World War. That might be the model.”

MacArthur?

Head of the Brunei air force?

Why not?

“Well, it's an interesting idea,” said Mack.

“Of course, you would be free to choose your own staff,” said bin Awg.

“Starship can be chief of staff,” said Mack.

“Um,” said Starship.

“Please, there's much time to work on the arrangements directly,” said the prince. “Your secretary of defense is an old friend of the sultan's. I'm sure he could arrange—what would you call it? A furlough?”

“I don't know,” said Starship.

“And the arrangements would be quite generous,” said bin Awg.

“Maybe I oughta talk to Colonel Bastian,” said Starship.

“By all means. Mack?”

“Sign me up,” said Mack, thinking of how many babes he might be able to get on staff.

Taipei, Taiwan
1900

H
EADS TURNED AS
Chen Lee walked slowly into the large reception hall. He smiled and nodded at the government dignitaries and businessmen, making his way slowly through the crowd.

His granddaughter's silk dress rustled against his leg as they walked. He did not actually need Kuan's support, but her presence was always a balm to him, making more palatable the false smiles and lies that he found it necessary to countenance. The fidelity of his family strengthened and comforted him; a mortal man could hope for no greater achievement than the unqualified love of his offspring, and the girl's willing presence at his side signified how truly rich he was.

“They are bowing to you, Grandfather,” whispered Kuan. “They know you are a great man.”

Chen Lee did not answer. He would not trouble the girl with the harsh reality that most of these men would be glad to see him pass on. They were appeasers, willing to sell their souls to the devil communists. For what? A few pennies and false promises. They were fools, and none so hardy as the president, who was holding court at the far end of the room, behind a phalanx of sycophants and bodyguards. Chen Lee waded in the other direction—let the president come to him, he decided.

Chen Lee had not heard from his grandson Chen Lo Fann, but he knew the young man's mission had failed. The Chinese had lost three aircraft—Fann's doing, no doubt—but aside from their usual hotheaded rhetoric, there had been no move against the United States, and no action to prevent the coming summit.

Chen Lee could not believe it. Had the generations that followed him become so weak, so puerile, that they did not recognize an act of war when they saw one? Did men wear dresses as well as false smiles now?

“Mr. Chen Lee, it is a great honor that you are here,” said the British cultural attaché. The reception was ostensibly being held to commemorate the arrival of a British acting troupe in the capital, though of course it had many other purposes.

“You are too kind,” Chen said humbly.

The attaché introduced him to another British citizen, Colonel Greene, who smiled benignly. Chen Lee turned and began to survey the crowd. Greene attempted to start a conversation by saying that the politics in the country had entered a difficult stage.

“Yes,” said Chen Lee. It was necessary to be polite, but he did not want to encourage the foreigner.

“A shame so many people do not realize the danger of the situation,” said Greene.

Chen Lee turned and looked at the colonel. He was dressed in civilian clothes, so it was impossible to tell if the title was honorary or not. The British seemed to be so overrun with retired colonels that they were exporting them to Asia by the planeload.

“Even the Americans seem blinded by the talk of peace,” said Greene.

“The Americans have been allies for a long time,” said Kuan. She had accompanied her grandfather to enough occasions such as this that she knew he wanted the foreigner drawn out.

“The Americans are endorsing the meeting in Beijing, and doing everything to keep it on schedule,” said Greene.

“And how is that?” asked Kuan.

“They've told the communist pigs they were not responsible for the shooting down of the rescue aircraft
in the South China Sea. They claim to be investigating and will present evidence that it was someone else. There are various rumors.”

Kuan glanced at her grandfather. He did nothing—which she knew was a signal to continue.

“What sort of rumors?” she asked.

“The initial crash was an accident, yes,” said Greene. “But the other plane—it seems doubtful.”

“Who would have been involved?”

“Not Taiwan, I would think.”

“We are not aggressors.”

“Of course not.”

“You are very well informed, Colonel Greene,” Chen Lee said.

The colonel smiled. It was obvious now that he was part of British intelligence, though Chen Lee had never heard of him before.

“I am not so well informed as I would hope,” said Greene. “But one hears rumors and has questions. And I for one would never trust the communists.”

“Perhaps the British shot down the aircraft to disrupt the meeting in Beijing,” said Chen Lee, staring into the colonel's eyes.

“Her Majesty's government is in favor of the meeting. Unfortunately.”

Chen Lee smiled.

“So who would want to disrupt it?”

“It's not so much a question of whom,” said the colonel, “but how. The Americans were the only ones in the area, from what I've heard.”

“Then perhaps the Americans are better allies than I've been led to believe,” said the old man.

Dreamland Command Trailer, Brunei
2100

“T
HE MATERIAL COULD
have been a byproduct from any chip manufacturing process,” Rubeo told Stoner over the secure video link as the others looked on in the trailer. “You will need more proof.”

“I have people working on running down the ownership and digging through contracts,” said Stoner. “What's important is that they could have made advanced chips there. These weren't for VCRs.”

“Gallium arsenide is not wasted on entertainment applications.”

“A company owned by a man named Chen Lee was apparently behind the factory when it was set up,” said Stoner. “I'm looking into it right now, but I don't know what if anything we can run down. Chen is one of the most common names in Taiwan.”

“Taiwan?” asked Rubeo.

“Yeah.”

“Chen Lee is a prominent businessman—he hates the communists.”

“They all do,” said Stoner.

“Yes.” The scientist scowled. “There's a Taiwanese scientist who's done considerable work on the mirroring system I believe was used in the intercepted transmissions. And he has a connection to Chen Lee, whom any Internet search will show is one of the most ardent anticommunists in Taiwan and a very rich, rich man.”

“Is the clone the scientist's?”

“You're the investigator, not me, Mr. Stoner. Doing your legwork is getting a little tiresome.”

“I'm sure it's appreciated,” said Colonel Bastian.