Strike Zone

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.

‘We can do it,’ said Zen. ‘We just have to hustle.’

‘I know it’s impossibly short notice, but those are our orders,’ said Dog. ‘I’m going on the mission myself, and will serve as one of the Megafortress pilots. Major Catsman will stay here and take care of the farm. Questions?’

The colonel paused for his usual quarter of a second before slapping his hand on the desk and rising.

‘Let’s do it, then.’

‘Colonel, what’s the story with Jennifer Gleason?’ asked Major Alou. ‘Is she under arrest or something?’

‘Jennifer?’ said Zen, taken by surprise.

Dog turned to Danny Freah.

‘Jen is being questioned about possible security violations,’ said Danny.

‘What violations?’ asked Zen.

‘I can’t get into details,’ said Danny. ‘Look, my advice for everyone is to simply cooperate and answer whatever questions that come up. It’s just an informal inquiry, not an investigation.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ said Zen. He turned to Dog. ‘Jennifer? A spy? Shit.’

Dog started to say something, but Danny interrupted. ‘Colonel Bastian can’t comment on anything in any way that would be considered prejudicial.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ said Zen.

Dog put up his hand. ‘All right. Obviously, because of what we do we’re under special scrutiny. All of us, not just Jennifer.’

‘I wanted her along to handle the computers and whatnot,’ said Zen. Technical staff often accompanied the Dreamland team on missions, even those in combat zones.

‘You better find someone else,’ said Danny. ‘At least for a couple of days.’

‘Colonel?’

‘Is she essential for the deployment?’ asked Dog.

‘Not essential. But –’

‘At this point, I think Danny’s right. Once Colonel Cortend is finished talking to her I’m sure she’ll be fine to come back.’

Two hours later, Dog finally finished squaring away everything that needed to be squared away before he left with the rest of the team for Brunei. He needed to get sleep – if takeoff time didn’t slip, he’d be briefing his flight in a couple of hours. But more important than sleep, he wanted to talk to Jennifer.

He wanted to call her. In theory, there was no reason not to.

It might not look good, however, not if there had been a real violation of security protocols. As unit commander, he would eventually have to deal with the matter.

He could recuse himself, of course. Probably he had to.

Or just put an end to the whole thing.

No doubt if he did that, Dreamland’s enemies would seize on it as ammunition for something – what exactly, he wasn’t sure.

He reached for the phone. No harm in calling her, for cryin’ out loud.

He dialed the lab but then remembered that she had no computer access; Danny had had to cut it off as soon as he learned about the possible security breach, as minor as it was. He paused, trying to remember her apartment number without going to the directory.

When he dialed it, her voice mail answered.

Maybe she was taking this harder than he thought.

Or maybe she was out partying.

Before Dog could leave a message, there was a knock on the door. He looked up and saw Colonel Cortend spreading her frown across the threshhold, trailed by a Dreamland security team and several of her aides. He put down the phone and waved her inside.

‘Captain Freah said you’d be here,’ said Cortend, sitting in the chair nearest his desk.

‘I often am,’ said Dog. ‘I understand you’ve been questioning my people.’

‘I’ve questioned several of your people, yes. On an informal basis. They’ve all volunteered to cooperate.’

Dog let that particular fiction pass.

‘Let’s get to the marrow on this,’ said Cortend. ‘There’s no need for fencing.’

‘I’m a right-to-the-marrow guy myself,’ said Dog. He slid back in his seat, knowing that Cortend had come to ask about Jennifer.

And perhaps exactly because that thought occurred to him, he glanced toward the door and saw her standing behind Cortend’s aides, frozen, as if she’d taken a step inside before spotting them.

Was she really there? Or was it some strange trick of his imagination.

‘Lieutenant Colonel Bastian,’ snapped Cortend.

‘Excuse me a second,’ said Dog, rising. He turned his attention to Cortend for just a moment as he got up, and by the time he looked back at the door she was gone.

Gone?

Dog walked out into the outer office, past the reception area and then into the hall.

It was empty. The elevator was open.

Hallucination?

No, she’d definitely been here. Somewhere.

Jen would have taken the stairs. She’d seen Cortend’s people or the back of her head, and split.

Wise move, really. Too bad he couldn’t do that.

Dog walked back to his office. This time he pulled the door closed behind him.

‘Sorry about that. Where were we?’

‘You are seeing Ms. Gleason, are you not?’

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

‘Colonel, let me remind you – ‘

‘I’m not denying that I see her. But for the record, my personal life is my personal life.’

‘Ms. Gleason is a civilian employee under your supervision,’ said Cortend. ‘As a matter of law and regulation, it would be possible for her to charge you with sexual harassment.’

‘Has she?’ said Dog.

‘She has not.’

‘You don’t really think she’s a spy, do you?’ he said, tiring of her games. His voice was considerably more level than he felt.

‘I try not to form judgments before I finish my job,’ said Cortend. ‘I understand the situation might be difficult for you.’

‘And?’

‘I have a number of technical questions that I’d like answered,’ said Cortend, completely changing the subject.

Capitulation?

Or another one of her tactics?

‘They have to do with compartmented areas, and I need to know what can be broached and what can’t be,’ Cortend continued. ‘If you wish, it can wait until morning.’

She didn’t get up, and it was clear she wouldn’t until he answered the questions.

‘I have orders from the President. We’re deploying at 0400.’

If Cortend was impressed, she gave no hint.

‘We’ll discuss it informally first,’ she told him. ‘Then I can bring my people in. I want to be careful to delineate the areas, as my report will be read by –’

A knock at the door interrupted her.

‘Come,’ said Dog.

Mack Smith opened the door. The major looked a little tired, walking rather than bounding as he normally did. When he saw Cortend he blanched.

‘You wanted to see me, Colonel?’

‘Yes, come in, Mack. Colonel, this will only take a minute.’

‘Of course,’ said Cortend, getting up. As she left, she gave Mack the look one might use to dismiss a whipped dog.

‘Watch her, Colonel,’ said Mack as the door was closed. ‘She’s evil.’

‘I’m sure she’s just doing her job,’ Dog said.

‘No.’

Mack didn’t offer any other explanation. Dog decided it wasn’t worth pursuing – it was pretty clear that Cortend got off on intimidating people. Smith ordinarily wasn’t easy to intimidate; maybe he’d ask her for some pointers when she came back in.

That would be the day.

‘I need a political officer,’ Dog told Mack. ‘A liaison, actually.’

‘How’s that?’ asked Mack.

‘We’re deploying to Brunei, first thing in the morning,’ Dog told him. ‘I’ll go into details if you’re in. Otherwise, good night.’

‘Colonel, is she coming?’

‘Colonel Cortend? No. Her investigation’s here.’

‘Sign me up,’ said Mack, so relieved he looked as if he’d won the lottery.

‘We have to leave at 0400.’

‘Whatever. I’ll scrub toilets if you need it. Just take me with you.’

Dreamland Personnel Building Two 2105

By the time she got back to her apartment, Jennifer’s hands were shaking so badly that she had trouble with the lock. Inside, she dropped her glass as she filled it with water from the faucet in the kitchenette; fortunately, it was plastic and didn’t break, rebounding instead across the room.

The expression on his face when he saw her – anger and surprise …

Hate?

No, he couldn’t hate her. He couldn’t.

Did he think she was a traitor? How could he think that?

What had Dog been doing with that she-bitch Cortend? Had he put her up to this?

Dog?

It couldn’t possibly be. There was no way. No way.

But Cortend was in his office.

Of course she was. Dog was the base commander; there were a million reasons for her to be there.

Dog, everyone, thought she was a traitor.

She was just tired, overwrought.

The bitch Cortend was playing with her mind.

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

She wasn’t a traitor. She wasn’t.

That had to be what they were thinking. Even Dog?

Even him.

The phone rang. Jennifer took a step toward it, then stopped.

What if it was Cortend, asking for more questions?

God no, she told herself. No more. Not tonight.

She let the phone ring until it stopped. As she stared at it, she realized her hand and shirt were wet, and so was the floor, but she couldn’t remember why.

II

Paradise

Negra Brunei Darussalam (Kingdom of Brunei, Abode of Peace) 9 September 1997, 0900

‘A couple of hours in paradise and already you’re sleeping late,’ Zen told Lieutenant Kirk ‘Starship’ Andrews as the young Flighthawk pilot sat down at the table across from him. Starship’s breakfast tray contained two large cups of coffee and nothing else.

‘My body’s still back in Dreamland,’ mumbled Starship.

‘You sure it’s not with the hospitality people?’ said Lieutenant James ‘Kick’ Colby, the other Flighthawk pilot Zen had taken on the deployment.

‘It wants to be,’ said Starship.

‘Natives are off-limits,’ said Zen. ‘You can look but you cannot touch. Got that? And be careful how you talk to them.’

‘How about the State Department liaison?’ asked Kick. ‘She’s hot.’

‘Out of your league,’ said Zen.

‘Mack Smith’s eyeing her already,’ said Starship.

‘Oh there’s serious competition,’ said Kick.

‘I’ll take one of the waitress babes,’ said Starship, lifting his gaze toward the buffet at the front of the room. Six of the most gorgeous women in Asia stood at attention behind the table. Zen had his back to them, but he could practically feel the warmth of their smiles beaming across the room.

The Dreamland pilots and crew were being housed at a hotel just outside the airfield where they’d set up operations. ‘Mess’ consisted of a lavishly appointed private room – thick tablecloths, hand-woven silk rugs, paint that seemed to contain speckles of gold – on the ground floor of the hotel. The room was part of a restaurant that back in the States would rate four stars – the wine list was a little too restricted to make five.

For breakfast, the Dreamland personnel – crew dogs and officers alike – had sorted through an all-you-can eat array of various meats, cooked-to-order eggs and omelets, a pyramid of exotic fruits, and enough donuts, rolls, and pastries to make a small town diabetic.

Zen had chosen his usual oatmeal and bananas, though he had made a concession to local tastes by sampling the pinkish-green juice. It was sweet, but tomorrow he’d go for the orange.

The coffee, however, was a real keeper. He might have to arrange for a pipeline back home when the mission ended.

‘So are all the deployments like this?’ asked Kick. He’d come to Dreamland from an assignment as a Hog ‘driver,’ piloting A-10As. The story went that his nickname came from early flight training, when he needed a kick to get going; if so, that need had long since disappeared.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Zen. ‘In terms of food?’

‘The hotel rooms, the women. Everything.’

‘Usually it’s cots and tents,’ said Zen. ‘Brunei’s just a special place.’

Starship and Kick had been with the program only a short time; neither man had logged a hundred hours with the robot aircraft. But Fentress had been the only other pilot with real experience. While the two youngsters had their drawbacks, both could handle a single plane reasonably well, and consistently scored high in the simulations and exercises. It was time for them to take the next step.

‘Paradise,’ mumbled Starship.

‘You have a hangover, Lieutenant?’ asked Zen.

‘Uh, no, sir. Whacked on the time difference, though. My body thinks it’s yesterday.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Kick. ‘Nine o’clock is five o’clock last night tomorrow.’

‘Huh?’ asked Starship.

‘I’ll give you an example. 2200 here is 0600 at Dreamland, same day. 0900 here would be 1700 there – but they’re back a day. So while we’re out on a day patrol, they’re sleeping. 1200 is 2000 yesterday there. Or 2300 in Washington, DC’

Starship blinked at him. ‘You do weather and traffic, too?’

‘Fifteen hours’ difference. Would be sixteen, except the States are on Daylight Saving Time,’ said Kick. ‘You know it’s Saving, not Savings?’

‘Eat hardy, gentlemen,’ Zen said, pushing away from the table. ‘We brief at 1000, and we’re in the air at 1300. And watch the alcohol, Starship. Those clubs are not officially sanctioned. No matter what Mack Smith says.’

Brunei IAP, Field Seven 0910

Boston slid his hand along his M-16A3 and rolled his head on his neck. He figured he didn’t hate guard duty any more than the next guy – but that meant he hated it pretty bad.

From what the others on the Whiplash team were telling him, guard duty was about all he was going to be doing for the next six months. He hoped they were just busting his chops because he was the team nugget, or new guy. He’d clearly drawn the worst assignment – he’d been standing out here since four A.M. local, and had another hour to go.

And when that was over, he wouldn’t be hitting the sack – he was supposed to report to the Whiplash trailer, known as Mobile Command, and get himself educated on the high-tech communications gear they used. Whiplash team members were expected to act as communications specialists during the deployment.

All that SF training, and basically he was a radio operator and a guard dog.

In fact, he wasn’t even a guard dog. The real sentries were high-tech sensor arrays placed at the edge of the field where they were assigned. The arrays were monitored in the trailer (at the moment, Egg Reagan had the con). A special computer screened video, infrared, motion, and sound detectors. Those inputs could be piped into Boston’s Smart Helmet, supplementing the helmet’s own infrared, short-range radar, and optical sensors.

The thing was, the helmet was pretty damn heavy and hot besides. Fortunately, Egg had told him it wasn’t necessary to wear it; he’d alert him to any problem. The helmet was clipped to his belt.

Boston wasn’t the only flesh-and-blood sentry. A battalion of Brunei soldiers blocked access to the area Dreamland had been assigned. There was also an honor guard – a mixed unit built around British Gurkhas, a storied unit of foreign troops that had originated in Nepal – which conducted a ceremonial changing of the guard on the apron twenty yards away every fifteen minutes, or so it seemed.

‘Yo, Boston, trucks coming,’ said Egg in his earbud.

‘Another ceremony?’ asked Boston. His mike was clipped to the top of his carbon-boron bulletproof vest; it was sensitive enough so that he could whisper and be heard over the Dreamland com system.

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