Strike Zone, page 8
Dog took two steps away from the walk and turned.
“Why are Jennifer’s quarters under guard?” asked Dog.
“She, uh, the investigation turned up some questions.” Danny spoke as if he’d just been to the dentist to have a pair of wisdom teeth pulled—and needed to go back the next day to have the other set removed. “Apparently, there were some conferences arranged by the Department of Energy that Jennifer neglected to fill out the proper forms on.”
“What?”
“I looked through the records myself.”
“That’s what this inquisition is about? Paperwork?”
“Technically, it’s a violation. At least. I have to check into it—”
“Do so,” snapped Dog, turning angrily toward the building.
Danny grabbed his arm.
“What the hell, Captain?”
“Colonel, we go back a bit, and I have a lot of respect for you. Tremendous respect, sir.”
Dog looked down at Danny’s hand, which was still grasped around his shirt.
“You can’t interfere,” said Danny. “You can’t—you can’t do anything that will look like favoritism.”
Dog continued to stare at his captain’s hand.
“You can’t interfere, Colonel. I’m talking to you man to man. Right now—if there’s a security break.”
“There wasn’t.”
“That’s really not for you to say at this point. Don’t you see?” Danny finally let go. “You can’t interfere, especially where Jennifer is concerned. You’re only going to make it seem as if there’s something to hide. It’ll be worse for her.”
“Worse than what?”
“Just worse.”
“Where is she?”
“Being interviewed.”
Part of him knew Danny was right. He couldn’t interfere—and hell, he didn’t want to. There was no need to. Contact violations—well, they couldn’t be ignored, certainly not. But undoubtedly there would be a good explanation. Jennifer was not a traitor.
No way.
“You asked me to investigate,” said Danny. “I am.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about, it’s Cortend,” said Dog.
“Colonel, with respect, sir—a remark like that really could be misinterpreted, especially by someone who was looking to misinterpret it.”
“I hate that tone of voice, Captain. I hate it.”
Danny stared at him. Dog couldn’t think of anything else to say. Danny was right; he had to consider how things looked—not because it might be bad for him, but because it might be bad for Dreamland. The last scandal here had nearly closed the place down.
And what would have happened to America if that had happened?
“All right, Danny. I wasn’t going to interfere with the investigation,” said Dog finally.
“I know you weren’t.”
A black Jimmy with a blue flashing light charged across the base, kicking up twin tornadoes of dust behind it. Dog and Danny turned and watched it approach.
“Got to be Ax,” said Danny.
“Yeah,” said Dog, folding his arms. Sure enough, Chief Master Sergeant Gibbs rolled down the window as the SUV slammed to a stop a few feet away.
“Colonel, Jed Barclay on the scrambled phone for ya,” said the chief, hanging out the window. “Real important.”
Dreamland Visiting VIP Office Two
1820
JENNIFER LEANED BACK against the chair, waiting while the captain questioning her sorted through his notes.
Her head felt as if it had begun to tilt sideways. She hadn’t eaten dinner, and lunch had been half of a chicken sandwich. Except for two trips to the restroom—escorted, though at least the security people had the decency to stay outside—she’d been in the room for nearly six hours. At least she wasn’t hooked up to the lie detector anymore.
She felt as if she’d fallen down the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland. Cortend was the Queen, yelling, “Off with her head, off with her head.”
Jennifer rubbed her arms, trying to get some circulation going. She needed to stretch—she needed to run, just get the hell out of this rabbit hole, where everything she said was turned upside down.
“You could make things easier,” said the captain.
“Excuse me?”
“Cooperate.”
“I am cooperating,” Jennifer told him.
“Why would you help the Chinese?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Don’t get mad. I’m trying to help you.”
“You’re not.” Jennifer sat up straight in her seat. “You think I’m a traitor, don’t you?”
The captain didn’t answer at first. “I think you might need help,” he said finally.
“Oh, so you’re going to be my friend, right?”
He made a show of sighing, as if she were the one being unreasonable.
“I’m not a traitor,” she said.
The word sounded so odd, so foreign, that Jennifer had to say it again.
“I am not a traitor.”
Until that point, tired and hungry, she’d been sustained mostly by anger. But now that foundation too slipped away. Jennifer Gleason had proven herself several times under fire, but this was something more fierce, more deadly. She’d never felt brave before—she’d just done what she had to do. It was easy almost, because she knew she could do it. She knew who she was—Jennifer Gleason, Dreamland scientist. And everyone at the base, everyone knew who she was. They trusted her, they liked her, and, in one case at least, loved her.
But the look in this man’s eyes told her that trust was gone. She felt her whole identity slipping through a crack in her ribs.
Jennifer Gleason: traitor.
She wasn’t. She knew she wasn’t. But she worried that no matter what she did, she’d never convince anyone else of that again.
Not her friends. Not even Dog.
“So, when you were in college,” said the captain, putting his papers down. “Tell me about your friends.”
“My friends?”
“You had friends?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
The captain pursed his lips.
“I don’t remember who my friends were,” she said honestly. “At this point, I don’t know if I have any friends at all.”
Dreamland Commander’s Office
1850
“THERE’S A JOINT exercise between Asean assets planned in the South China Sea, covering about a thousand square miles. More a goodwill exercise than actual combat training,” Jed explained. “B-52s were requested. You’ll go instead.”
“All right,” said Dog, listening as Jed filled him in on the arrangements for Brunei. A State Department rep was already en route to help smooth over any protocol matters. It had been suggested than an officer on his staff be appointed to liaison with the government.
“Brunei is not ideal,” Dog told him. “It’s a long way to operate it.”
“Yeah,” said Jed, who obviously agreed. “The President wanted you to locate there. It kind of interfaced with some State Department initiatives.”
“What would those be? Making nice to Brunei?”
Jed gave him an embarrassed laugh.
“All right. If we have to go there, we will,” said Dog.
“Listen, by the way, the Navy’s still kind of pissed at you. There’s a joke going around that an admiral has offered a reward for anyone who accidentally shoots down a Dreamland aircraft. At least I think it’s a joke.”
“Look, Jed, I have a lot going on over here.”
“I’m sorry. The, uh, the President authorized this ASAP, so he wants you there, uh, right away. The exercises actually start tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Well, the time difference, it’s like fifteen hours and that makes tomorrow today here—”
“We’ll get there,” said Dog, hanging up.
The phone no sooner hit the cradle than Rubeo walked in.
“The entire situation is piffle,” said the scientist between his teeth.
“Which piffle?”
“The Colonel Cortend show. Piffle. It’s a witch hunt. They hate scientists,” continued Rubeo. “I’ve seen this before. They railroaded Oppenheimer on trumped-up charges that he was a communist.” Rubeo snorted. “The man wins the war for them and they cashier him.”
Dog didn’t know the particulars about the Oppenheimer case, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask about them now.
“No one’s getting railroaded,” he said.
Rubeo shook his head, flustered by his anger. The scientist’s emotion had a strangely calming effect on Dog, as if Rubeo had somehow taken charge of being mad.
“You know they’re questioning Jennifer Gleason,” said Rubeo. “Questioning her. Her.”
“I’d heard some scuttlebutt,” said Dog.
“You’re supposed to register when you attend a scientific conference where outside government agents may be. They’ve lost the paperwork, and they’re hanging her for it.”
“They lost the paperwork, or it wasn’t done?”
“What does it matter?”
“It’ll make a difference,” said Dog.
“Then it was lost. Probably on purpose.”
Dog leaned back in his seat. Rubeo showed exactly how right Danny had been—going off half-cocked made the scientist look like a crazoid, and did nothing for Jennifer.
“They questioned her for hours, and took away her clearance,” said Rubeo.
Dog sighed. “I’m sure Captain Freah is just following procedure.”
“Oh please.”
“Did Jennifer answer their questions?”
“Of course.”
“Tell me about the conferences.”
Rubeo waved his hand in the air as if brushing away a fly. Then he sighed and began explaining in some detail the two scientific exchanges. One was on artificial intelligence and was rather broad; the other had to do with compression systems used in communications. The latter would have inevitably had applications for encryption and been subject to special scrutiny, though Rubeo thought it was more the fact that Jennifer might have come into contact with Chinese agents or spies that Cortend was focusing on.
“Chinese?” asked Dog.
“She asked specifically about Chinese. There were five hundred people at one of the conferencs—it’d be news if the Chinese weren’t there. It’s all piffle, Colonel. It’s a witch hunt.”
Outside Dreamland Personnel Building Two
1805
MACK SMITH WAS headed toward his base quarters after a game of tennis when he spotted Colonel Cortend heading toward her SUV, trailed by her flock of lackeys. He’d had a good session, demolishing a maintenance officer in straight sets. While Mack had played masterfully, his victory had taken a few minutes too long—he’d just missed inviting the women on the court next to him to dinner.
Their loss, obviously.
Cortend turned in his direction as he approached. Ordinarily he liked his women a little shorter, but she was definitely worth the climb.
“Hello, Colonel,” he said. “How goes the hunt?”
Cortend stopped. Her brown eyes focused on him with all the intensity of a Sidewinder homing in on a hot tailpipe.
“You are?”
“Smith—Mack. Remember? Hey, my friends call me Knife.”
She’d do for dinner.
“You like Vegas?” he asked.
“Las Vegas?”
“City of sin. Listen, I’m just on my way to hit a shower, then I’m going to split for dinner in the capital of sin. Come on with me and I’ll show you around. I know some clubs that’ll blow you away. The food is fantastic. You like to gamble?”
“Mack Smith,” said Cortend. She pronounced each consonant in his name.
“That’s me. Call me Knife. Kind of a nickname.”
She turned to one of her captains. “Is he on the list?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“In the truck, Smith. We have some questions for you.”
Mack laughed. Cortend didn’t.
“Yeah, well, maybe another time,” he said, shaking his head. But as he took a step toward the building, he found two of the lackeys blocking his way. At the same time, two of the security men got out of one of the SUVs.
“What’s the story here, sugar?” Mack said.
Cortend walked over to Mack. They were about the same height—but suddenly Cortend seemed to tower over him.
“The story, sugar, is that I have some questions for you to answer, and you will answer them now. Got it?”
“But I’m kind of busy.”
“You’re refusing to cooperate on a purely voluntary basis?”
The way she said the words made it clear to Mack that talking with her was about as voluntary as income tax. Still, he wasn’t going to let some good-looking but hard-ass colonel screw up his night off.
“I wanted to take a shower,” he said.
“I doubt it will make you smell any better,” said Cortend, heading back toward her vehicle.
Outside Taipei, Taiwan
7 September
1100 (2000 Dreamland, 6 September)
CHEN LO FANN waited on the bench in the antechamber, soothing his troubled mind by staring at his surroundings. He had spent considerable time here as a boy, racing through his grandfather Chen Lee’s house; under ordinary circumstances, those memories would soothe him.
They failed to now. In fact, the more he stared, the further those days became, faded pages from a discarded book.
Chen Lo Fann had failed in his mission to provoke a war between China and India. The weight of that failure sat heavily on him, blocks of iron pressing him from every direction. Fann might believe in the endless surging of the universe, but it offered little consolation, for he must now face the one man he loved and feared above all others, and admit his failure.
Time passed; he did not note it.
One of Chen Lee’s secretaries stood before him. Without saying anything, Chen Lo Fann rose and followed the man through the hallway to the office where Chen Lee waited.
The old man stood gazing out the window. Taipei sat in the distance, a dirty gem in the rough land the old man had helped make prosperous. The old clock in the corner of the office ticked, slowly counting to itself as Chen Lo Fann waited for his grandfather to speak.
“Your mission failed,” said Chen Lee finally.
“Yes, Grandfather,” said Fann.
“History is a terrible force,” said the older man, still looking through the window. “It cares for no individual. It is like the ocean wave in that way. And yet it can be turned.”
Chen Lo Fann gazed at the back of his grandfather’s white head. The old man had given him many lessons here, allowed him to watch and listen. Fann’s education in America was nothing compared to those lessons.
“I have a second plan,” said Chen Lo Fann. “The ASEAN exercises can be disrupted.”
Chen Lee had clearly thought of this already, because he answered without his usual pause to consider.
“Simply disrupting them will not be enough. An attack must be provoked.”
“If the Americans participate,” said Chen Lo Fann, “I will succeed.”
The old man said nothing. Chen Lo Fann realized he had made the same promise in the matter of war between the communists and India.
“If the meeting is not canceled, we shall have to take graver action,” said Chen Lee. “Be prepared.”
He turned back to the window.
“Yes, Grandfather,” said Chen Lo Fann. He bowed, then left the room.
Dreamland Commander’s Office
2050
ZEN ROLLED HIMSELF inside the office, surprised to find that everyone else was already there. Stoner had started the brief on the mission without him.
Zen banged against an empty chair getting in; no one seemed to notice.
“Major Stockard can give you the hard details,” said Stoner, nodding toward him. “Basically, we get their attention by flying near their territory, and then make like we’re testing a new weapon. The weapon is just a Hellfire missile with an ELF transmitter, but it’s different enough to attract attention. So if the clone is a spy plane, it’ll be worth checking out. You want to take over, Zen?”
“You’re doing fine.”
Stoner ticked off a list of areas to probe, starting with China and then moving to Vietnam—it was possible the Russians were using that country as a base. The ASEAN exercises were taking place about two hundred miles to the east of northern Vietnam.
“We’re going to locate in Brunei,” interrupted Colonel Bastian. “I realize it’ll be a haul, but the facilities are first-rate. There’s no doubt about that,” said the colonel.
Dog added by way of explanation that Dreamland would be fulfilling a secondary diplomatic mission by being located in Brunei. It was clear to Zen that Dog didn’t particularly like that part of the assignment, but he soldiered on with it, noting that the kingdom was constructing a new military air base near the international airport in the capital. The facilities would be made available to Dreamland, carte blanche. The sultan was rolling out the red carpet, a gracious host.
“The State Department is sending a babysitter,” added the colonel. “There’s some protocol crap we have to deal with. It won’t get in your way, I promise.”
The colonel ran down a tentative schedule on deployment—first thing tomorrow morning.
Really first thing: 0400.
Everyone in the room was used to dealing with rapid deployments, but 0400 was going to be tight, and Zen watched the concern rise on Major Alou’s face. Alou, who would be in charge of the Megafortresses, had to round up full crews for two aircraft, get support people in place, move supplies, fuel.
“Major Alou, problem?” asked Dog.
“What the hell language do they speak in Brunei, anyway?”
Everyone laughed.
“Malay and English,” said Stoner. “You’ll be able to get by very well with English.”
“Zen, problem?” asked Dog, turning to him. “I know you were looking for a deployment next week.”
Zen shrugged. He’d already told two of his best Flighthawk trainee pilots to stand by. Rounding up the maintainers and other technical people would be a pain—but not particularly out of the ordinary. Most of the key people wore pagers when they were off campus, for just such a contingency.
