Strike Zone (6 page)

“I understand there's some sort of computer coding that is the same?”

Dog gave the President a brief overview of the latest analysis. “Very similar,” he concluded. There was no sense being anything less than candid.

The President said nothing for a few moments. “I'm also told that there's a chance that your gear was mistaken. The information came from the aircraft that was shot down.”

“Yes, sir. But we believe the data was very good.”

“How is your daughter?” asked the President, changing the subject.

“She's doing very well. Should be out of the hospital any day now.”

“If she's anything like her father, she'll be back on active duty in a week,” said the President.

Dog smiled. In fact, he had talked to Breanna earlier in the day, and she insisted she would be back home next week.

Home being Dreamland, of course.

“I want you to get to the bottom of the situation right away,” the President said. “I want you to find out who has the other aircraft. Given the volatility of Asia right now, a weapon such as the Flighthawk would greatly complicate the chances for peace.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I realize there's a possibility the design was stolen,” said Martindale. “That has to be explored as well.”

Dog nodded silently to himself. The President was being tactful, but nonetheless making it clear that he was on top of the situation. Dog admired that—even though the implications might not be pleasant.

“We will, sir.”

“You've done well, Tecumseh. We've spent much of the evening reviewing your work in the South China Sea. Another home run. No matter what the Navy says. I won't forget. But let's get this other matter straightened out.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dog told the President, but Martindale had already hung up.

Dreamland Lecture Center Two
5 September 1997
0845

M
AJOR
J
EFF
“Z
EN”
Stockard rolled his wheelchair next to the free console in the small auditorium, trying not to spill his coffee. He was surprised and relieved that he wasn't late. While he didn't have to worry about getting a place—the station was specially designed for a wheelchair, and he was the only one on the base in one—he hated having everyone stare as he wheeled himself in.

“Hey, Zen,” said Major Alou, one of the Megafortress pilots. “How's Bree?”

“Claims she'll be home next week,” said Zen.

“Yeah, what's she doing? Soaking sun on the beach.”

“That and taking hula lessons,” said Zen.

Alou laughed and sat down.

Breanna had told Zen last night that she was ready to come home but the doctors wouldn't release her. Doctors meaning her mother, who by some bad fortune happened to be a muckety-muck on the hospital surgical staff. Worse—much worse—said mother was taking a position at Medici Hospital just outside Las Vegas, which would put her within interference range of her favorite—and only—daughter.

It wasn't that Zen had a bad relationship with his mother-in-law. He had no relationship, and would have preferred it that way. It was bad enough that Breanna's father ran Dreamland. Now he was going to have her mother looking over his other shoulder.

Not that the Dog was a bad commander, or that
he interfered with their personal lives. It was just—claustrophobic.

Ray Rubeo and Jennifer Gleason entered the room wearing deep frowns. Rubeo scowled habitually; the muscles in his face refused to unclench even when he ate. Jennifer, though, could be counted on for a cheery smile even after working for sixty straight hours. The appearance of the “ghost clone”—and the implications that someone had sold Flighthawk secrets to a foreign government—obviously had her deeply troubled. The scientists took seats at the consoles a row down from him, Jennifer forcing a smile as she sat.

Colonel Bastian entered, trailed by Danny Freah and Mark Stoner, a CIA officer who had worked with Dreamland during the Piranha deployment.

Zen didn't particularly like Stoner. He had to fight to prevent a frown from clouding his face as the spook looked at him and nodded. He managed to nod back, then took another sip of coffee, hoping the caffeine would chase off his bad mood.

“And you must be Major Stockard.”

Zen spun his head around and found a tall, thick-shouldered woman eyeing him. She wore a visitor's badge on her uniform and stood so straight he could almost see the broomstick extruding from her behind—obviously the colonel from the Air Force Office of Special Investigations.

“People call me Zen,” he told her.

“Yes,” said Colonel Cortend, her tone implying that there were a large number of insane idiots in the world that couldn't be accounted for. “I'd like to speak to you after this conference a little later. My inquiries
are informal, though cooperation is advised. Strongly advised.”

“Not a problem.”

“I understand you're the project officer on the Flighthawks?”

“That's correct,” answered Zen, meeting her icy tone with one of his own.

“I've been reviewing the personnel attached to the project,” she told him. “Quite a collection.”

It was clear she didn't mean it as a compliment.

“You bet your ass it is,” said Zen. He turned his attention to the front of the room.

“T
HE SIMULATION YOU'VE
just seen represents our best guess as to the capabilities and configuration of the ghost clone,” said Dog. “As you can see, it's very, very similar to a first-generation Flighthawk. As such, it could be used for a variety of purposes. Air-launched from a bomber, or even a civilian transport, it could attack an urban area with a variety of weapons. It would be difficult to see on radar.”

Dog hit the remote control to restore the lighting.

“We have two tasks. We have to find the clone, figure out who's operating it and what its actual capabilities are. And number two, we have to determine if our own security has been breached. We'll have help,” said Dog, brushing past the implication that a traitor was among them. “Most of you are familiar with Mr. Stoner, who is an expert on Asian technology and high-tech deployment. He was responsible for identifying the Indian sub-launched weapons.”

Dog turned toward Colonel Cortend, who was beaming laser animosity from both eyes.

“And Colonel Cortend has joined us from the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. For those of you who haven't dealt with OSI before, they're a thorough, professional group,” said Dog.

The flattery, of course, only deepened her glare.

“I expect everyone will cooperate to the fullest of their ability,” added Dog, looking toward Rubeo. The scientist had already lodged a complaint about the investigator, who apparently had arrived unannounced at his quarters at 0700 for an interview.

“Questions?” said the colonel, knowing his tone would ward any off. He gave them three seconds, then dismissed them.

Dreamland Computer Lab One
1100

“S
O YOU ALONE
are responsible for the coding?”

Jennifer flicked the hair back behind her ear. “Of course not,” she told Cortend. The colonel had two bleary-eyed technical experts and a pair of bright-faced lieutenants standing behind her, but none of them had uttered a peep.

“I work with a team of people,” said Jennifer. “Depending on which project and what we're talking about, the team could have a dozen or more people. Six people handled the compression routines for C
³
.”

“C
³
is?”

“The computer system that helps fly the Flighthawks. The communication sequences have to—”

“And any of these six people could have given the secrets away.”

“No one gave the secrets away,” said Jennifer.

“Someone did, my dear. Someone.”

“Let me explain how the compression works. See, the algorithms themselves aren't necessarily secret—”

“Everything you work on is secret,” said Cortend. She rose. “I think we have enough for now. We'll be back.”

“Peachy,” muttered Jennifer beneath her breath.

M
AJOR
M
ACK
“T
HE
Knife” Smith adjusted his swagger as a quintet of officers came out of the computer lab. Mack had recently returned to Dreamland after a series of temporary assignments had failed to get him the squadron command he so ardently desired—and, in his unprejudiced opinion, deeply deserved. He accepted a position as temporary test officer for a project dubbed Micro-Mite, a twenty-first century fleet of interceptors no larger than cruise missiles that would use energy beam weapons to bring down their opponents.

Or maybe lasers, or railguns, or some as-yet unperfected Flash Gordon zap weapon. That was the beauty of the assignment—four weeks of blue-sky imagining with a bunch of pizza-eating eggheads, who would spit out sci-fi concepts for him to consider as they worked feverishly over their laptops on simulations. They were all recent grads of MIT, RPI, and Berkeley—or was it Cal Tech? In any event, the pimple-faced pizza eaters looked to him as the voice of reality and experience. With his combat experience and superior flying and fighting skills, he was their god, and they bowed down before him.

Figuratively, of course. Which was the way he wanted it. For alas, while there were six females among
the chosen, the eggheads' bodies were no match for their brains. Even mixing and matching their best attributes would still leave the composite far short of Jennifer Gleason, Dreamland's resident brain babe. He was in fact on his way to see her now, hoping she might be available to give his acolytes a few pointers about the value of working with the military. They really didn't need to hear another pep talk—he had that under control himself—but it would give Mack an excuse to admire her assets—er, abilities—for a good twenty minutes or more.

Mack had tried several times to steer her into his quarters for an up-close examination of her charms. Of late, though, he'd had to settle for watching from afar. Jennifer was seeing the base commander, and even Mack knew better than to cross the boss, especially when he required Dog's connections and good word to help steer him toward the command he deserved. With any luck, Dog would come through and deliver him a tasty squadron post in the next week or so. The colonel's star was rising in Washington, and surely he owed Mack a bit of largesse.

“Halt,” said a tall, rather striking if formal woman at the rear of a three-man formation that had buzzed into the hallway.

She had been speaking to the drones behind her, but Mack momentarily thought the command was meant for him. Taken by surprise, he stopped and gazed at the woman, realizing with his connoisseur's eye that, if properly undressed, this frame and face might be fittingly attractive. It was tall for a woman, with shoulders that were admittedly manly. But the starched trousers sheathed long, undoubtedly athletic legs, and
there was no hiding the voluptuous breasts standing guard above the slim waist.

“Can we help you?” barked the breasts' owner.

“You must be from OSI,” said Mack. He extended his hand. “Mack Smith.”

“Major.”

The drones hovered, unsure whether their master was being greeted or attacked.

Mack gave them nods—lieutenants, mere children—then turned toward their leader.

“I'm available for background,” Mack told her. “I've been here awhile. I know where the bodies are buried.”

“I see.”

She looked him over. Mack pushed his shoulders back.

“Perhaps we'll arrange something,” said the officer, turning to go.

“What was your name?” he asked.

“It's Colonel Cortend,” whispered one of the underlings.

“First name?” said Mack.

Cortend whirled around. “Why would you need to know my first name?”

“For future reference,” said Mack.

The colonel frowned in his direction, then turned and set off so quickly that her minions had difficulty keeping up.

Mack felt his face flush. By the time he started moving again, his palms were so sweaty that he had to wipe them on his pants, and he was so obsessed with Cortend that he forgot what he'd come to see Jennifer about.

Dreamland, Flighthawk Hangar Offices
1300

“N
O WAY THIS
is a Chinese Project,” Stoner told Zen as the briefing session broke up. “No way.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'd know about it.”

Zen, Rubeo, and several of the other civilian experts involved in the Flighthawk project had just finished giving Stoner a comprehensive briefing on the technologies involved in the U/MF-3. They had emphasized three areas—materials, propulsion, and communications—which until the discovery of the clone had appeared to be Dreamland monopolies.

“I've dealt with the Chinese,” said Zen. “They're pretty damn competent. I wouldn't underestimate them.”

“I'm not underestimating them. I just don't think they did this. Consider their aircraft technology. Their most advanced aircraft is the Shenyang F-8IIM. It's basically a very large MiG-21. If they were able to construct lightweight carbon fiber wings, for example, they'd be building something closer to the F-22.”

“So who? The Russians?”

“They're much more capable than anyone gives them credit for,” said Stoner. “I wouldn't rule out the Indians either. You saw their sub-launched cruise missile. That was a pretty serious weapon.”

“The technology here is more advanced,” said Zen.

“In some ways, certainly.” Stoner folded his arms. “What about the Japanese?”

“The Japanese?”

“Forget the technology a minute,” said Stoner.
“Look at the way the craft was used. It wasn't taking part in the battle. It was watching what was going on. It was a spy plane. It stayed far away from the action.”