Strike Zone (24 page)

“What'd he do, take your head off?” said Danny.

“He was going on about, um—well, you don't really want to hear it.”

“Accused you of being part of the Inquisition?”

Jed laughed. “That part was a compliment compared to everything else. I, uh, really don't have time
to uh, deal with him, but I need a favor. Not a favor really, but—”

“Tell me what you need, Jed, and I'll get it.”

Jed explained that he needed yet another update on the ghost clone for a meeting with the President scheduled in a half hour. Danny realized that, besides being angry about Jennifer, Rubeo was probably pissed that he had to keep updating Washington every few hours. But that was tough nuggies.

Besides, the news about Jennifer would put him in a better mood.

“He'll have to get me via sat phone. But I really need the latest. Really.”

“Jed, I will personally make sure that Dr. Ray calls you. I will hold a gun to his head and make sure. I'm going right there now.”

“Um, uh, that wouldn't, uh, be, uh—”

“It's a joke, Jed. He'll call.”

Ten minutes later, Danny walked through the Megafortress hangar, down the long ramp that led to the elevators. He put his hand flat on the reader and waited for the car. When the door opened, Colonel Cortend and two of her lieutenants nearly flattened him.

“Colonel, just the person I wanted to talk to,” said Danny. “Looks like Ms. Gleason is off the hook for those minor security violations.”

“No security violation is minor,” said Cortend.

Danny explained what had apparently happened, and told her that the FBI agent would be getting in touch with her.

“Good,” said Cortend, in a tone so severe Danny momentarily regretted that he wasn't wearing body armor.
She glanced at her minions, who snapped to and rushed to open the door ahead—even though it was operated by a motion detector.

Downstairs, Danny found Ray Rubeo talking to himself as he pounded the keys on one of his computers.

“Hey, Doc,” said Danny.

“Hmph,” said Rubeo.

“I have good news about Jennifer,” said Danny, summarizing what Jed had told him.

“Did you tell it to the hangman?”

Danny stifled a smirk. “If you're referring to Colonel Cortend, yes I did.”

“Did she understand it?”

“What's to understand?”

“Precisely.
Precisely.”
Rubeo slashed at the computer keys, then hit a combination at the top to save his work. “You don't want to read this,” he said, getting up.

“Top secret?”

“It's a letter to my congressman about idiots and numbskulls,” said Rubeo.

“Present company excepted?”

“I tried to explain the significance of what's been found about the clone so far,” said Rubeo. “I started with the very basics—completely different aircraft. I didn't even get to the transmission. Do you know what she told me? Do you know what she told me?”

“Uh, good job?”

“She told me that this was compartmentalized information, and she wasn't authorized to hear it. Not authorized to hear it! Not authorized to hear it!”

“Hey, uh, Doc, go easy, all right? I don't know how good my CPR is.”

Rubeo shook his head. Volcanoes appeared calmer before eruptions.

“I believe in security too,” he said. “You know that. You understand that. You've been here—you know what kind of operation we run. But. But—”

“Sure,” said Danny.

“This is obscene. This is harassment. I don't think she's coming back. She'll resign.”

“Who? Cortend?”

“Jennifer Gleason.” Rubeo's entire body shuddered.

“Look, Jennifer is off the hook for those meetings. The paperwork was misplaced. As for the rest of this, well, obviously we have to look very carefully, but—”

“Listen. I'm going to explain what they're doing. Just nod your head if you don't understand,” said Rubeo. “Humor me. The reason the code is similar to ours is because it
is
ours—we're receiving a mirrored stream of data. Not all our data, just little bits. Their actual code uses an encryption that's twenty years old. They were using it when most of the scientists here were in diapers.”

Before Danny could say anything, Rubeo marched over to a table lined with printouts. His fingers flew over them as he explained what he had found. Danny didn't quite catch it all—Rubeo made a big deal out of signal erosion curves and then somehow segued from that into how canon law made torture necessary during the Middle Ages because two eyewitnesses were always necessary for a conviction in the absence of a confession. But the bottom line was clear: No one at Dreamland was a traitor.

No one.

“The mirroring process is interesting in
and of itself,” continued Rubeo. “It's a real-time technique that uses a sampling sequence we haven't seen before. There have been only two papers published on it, and they're both several years old. Either the person behind the clone read those papers—or he wrote them.”

“Great,” said Danny. “Give me copies.”

Rubeo blinked at him. “You understand what I'm saying?”

“No, but I get the gist. Can you get me those papers?”

“Gladly,” said Rubeo. Somehow, his customary sarcasm seemed to lack the bite it had once had. It seemed almost—friendly. “You do read Chinese, don't you?”

“Chinese? As in the People's Republic of China?”

“No. As in Taiwan. The papers were written there by a man named Ai Hira Bai. If his name is any indication, he has both Chinese and Japanese ancestors, but he lived or lives on Taiwan. An adamant enemy of the communists. And a man who hasn't been heard from since shortly after the last paper was published. There are no academic listings of him anywhere.”

“Interesting.”

“Even more interesting is the fact that his expenses to the conference were paid by a company owned by a man named Chen Lee. A billionaire who hates the communists and who has access to a wide range of technology.”

“How do you know this?”

“Well, if Colonel Cortend isn't going to investigate anything beyond her nose, don't you think someone better?”

White House, Washington, D.C.
2130

P
RESIDENT
M
ARTINDALE HAD
a state dinner scheduled to honor the ambassador from France, who was retiring and returning to Paris after a decade's worth of service in America. The President, whose relations with France were as testy as that of any administration since John Adams's, was only too happy to throw a big party for the departing buffoon.

The dinner also allowed him the opportunity to get off on a good foot with his successor, a Mademoiselle Encoinurge. Encoinurge was an improvement in several respects, not least of all physically, and the President found it necessary to engage in a little personal diplomacy. This made it difficult for him to sneak away as planned, and so Jed Barclay and the others who were supposed to be meeting with him were ushered upstairs to wait. The secretaries of defense and state had been at the meeting and were dressed in tuxedoes. Jed, wearing his best pinstriped suit and a brand-new tie, felt underdressed. They were sitting in the dark and ornate Treaty Room on the third floor, next to the Lincoln Bedroom. A massive chandelier hung down from the center of the room like a beehive on fire. Though sturdy, Jed's wooden chair creaked as he sat in it; it was at least a hundred years old, and he worried that he might break it if he got up too quickly.

Nonetheless, he jumped to his feet as President Martindale bounded into the room, several strides ahead of two aides and Admiral Balboa, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

“Gentlemen, Jed, good; we're all here then. I'm
looking forward to better relations with France,” the President told the secretary of state. “The ambassador actually seems to have a head on her shoulders.”

“It'll make up for China,” said Hartman.

“One step at a time. Would you like to brief us on the situation?”

“The Chinese are still officially blaming us for shooting down their aircraft,” said the secretary of state. “But the premier was impressed that you called the ambassador and is willing to take your call on the matter sometime this afternoon. We're still working on the details. Jed's pictures helped.”

Jed felt his face flush slightly.

“Good work, Jed,” said the President. “Maybe we'll tell Mr. Freeman to stay in bed another week.”

“Uh—”

“Philip is feeling much better,” Martindale told the others. “I think he just didn't feel like having anything to do with France tonight. All right, back to China.”

“The premier is in a conciliatory mood,” said Hartman, picking up where he had left off. “Or at least he's prepared to be, if you say you're in favor of the summit between him and the president of Taiwan.”

“I am.”

“He'd like a sign of encouragement. He may suggest you attend.”

“That's not going to happen,” said Martindale.

“The vice president? He's in Japan.”

The President frowned. “Let's think on that. Jed, what else do we know about the clone?”

“I have some data from Dreamland,” said Jed. He reached for his briefcase. “I just have to boot up my laptop, and, uh—”

“No, let's skip the presentation,” said Martindale. “Give us an overview. Quick one. I have to get back.”

Until that moment, Jed hadn't thought about his stutter—and hadn't stuttered hardly at all. Now that he was on the spot, however, it came back with a vengeance.

“Well, um, we, uh, know from the wing configuration it's, uh, different than ours,” he said. “The experts have some, uh, more, uh, more technical data to go through, and they still have a lot of questions. But at the moment it looks slower, like maybe 450 knots—”

“Whose is it?” asked the secretary of state.

Jed shook his head. “Dr-Dr-Dreamland is still working on it. We have Space Command and NSA r-reviewing sensor data in the area, and that's under way. But the first review of the earlier sighting didn't yield anything, so we're not sure what will come up.”

He had to get rid of the damn stutter or no one would trust anything he said. It made him sound like too much of a jerk. Fortunately, Jed had some handouts summarizing the data Dreamland had compiled, and he passed them out.

“So it's not as capable as our craft?” asked Chastain.

“Well, it depends on your cr-criteria,” said Jed. “The experts think it's not as f-f-fast. But it can carry a heavier load, which would mean a couple of things.”

“Did the Chinese get all this information?” asked Balboa.

“No,” said Hartman. “They know there was another craft involved. And that we're trying to track it.”

“If they believe us,” said the admiral, “and that's a big
if
, then we're in race with them to find this thing. Because if they grab it—”

“The Dreamland people will get there first,” said Martindale. He rose. “Right, Jed?”

“They're getting closer.”

“Close doesn't count,” said Balboa. “We need results. Now.”

Dreamland
1900

D
ANNY KNOCKED ON
the door to Jennifer's small apartment twice without getting an answer. He turned and looked at the two airmen who had accompanied him, then reached into his pocket for the master key he'd brought along. He was just about to insert it in the door when a faint voice asked from inside who it was.

“Captain Freah,” he told her. “Hey, it's Danny, Jen. Can I come in?”

She didn't answer.

“Jen?” he said.

He heard her footsteps and then her hand at the chain, pulling it open. She stood in the doorway wearing a bathrobe, though below it she had on jeans and a sweatshirt.

She'd cut her hair.

God, had she cut her hair—it looked as if she'd hacked it off with a knife.

Danny decided it was best to ignore it. He tried not to stare.

“Hey, you're off the hook. Completely,” he told her. “Those conferences—we got information from the FBI and the security review at the time that clears you completely. Are you okay? Can I come in?”

She didn't answer, turning away instead. Danny glanced back at his men in the hall, then stepped inside by himself, closing the door behind him.

“Colonel Bastian's been trying to get ahold of you,” he told her. “And Chief Gibbs. How come you don't return their calls?”

“How do you know I don't return their calls?” she said, twisting around in a fury. “Do you have a tap on my phone? You think you can just listen in to anything you want any time you want?”

Danny was authorized by the security regulations covering Dreamland to do just that, but this clearly wasn't the time to say so. “Of course not.”

She pursed her lips. The lower one started to quiver.

“Jen, I know this has been tough for you. It's been tough for me,” said Danny.

“You don't know what it's like to be considered a traitor,” she said.

“You're right,” he said. “It's got to suck.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She frowned, but then she started to cry. Danny found himself hugging her awkwardly, patting her back, telling her it would be okay.

Southeast Thailand
12 September 1997
1650

E
VEN THOUGH HE
hadn't had much sleep last night, Boston found it impossible to nap on the plane. While he had a special set of headphones to drown out the sound of the engines, the small plane shuffled up and down every so often, just enough to keep him awake. He spent his time leafing through a book he'd brought along and trading audio tapes with Bison, who unfortunately seemed to like the Grateful Dead considerably more than Boston would have thought possible.