Strike Zone (33 page)

Miss Kelly, the State Department rep, was waiting near the door.

“Good morning, Colonel,” she said. “Breakfast?”

“No thanks. I have to check in with my people,” he told her.

“I wanted to apologize for being brusque the other day,” she said.

“Not necessary,” said Dog.

“I wonder if I could have a word,” she said, touching his arm to stop him and then glancing at the bodyguard detail.

“Fire away,” said Dog.

“The sultan would like a demonstration,” said Miss Kelly. “He's heard so much about the Megafortress from his nephew, the prince—they would greatly appreciate a ride.”

“I thought Mack was entertaining them,” said Dog.

“He is,” said Miss Kelly. “But he made it clear that a ride, uh, a flight, was up to you.”

“I'll bet he did.”

“He's looking for a liaison and has asked Major Smith if he might stay on.”

“I have a mission here,” said Dog, starting back into motion. “Mack can deal with him.”

“I have a mission here as well,” said Kelly, who had trouble keeping up in her heels. “I will call Washington.”

“I'll give you a quarter.”

T
HE COFFEE AT
the Dreamland Command trailer had been made hours before, and to compare the burned-out dregs to crankcase sludge would have been to defame engine oil everywhere. Boston volunteered to make a fresh pot; Dog made a mental note to add a personal commendation to the sergeant's file at the earliest convenience.

He was on his second cup of coffee when Ray Rubeo's face snapped onto the screen from Dream Command. Rubeo's familiar frown was back, and even before the scientist stepped aside to reveal the others in the control room, Dog knew Jennifer was back.

But what in God's name had she done to her beautiful long hair?

“Good to see you back where you belong, Ms. Gleason,” he said.

She didn't answer; it wasn't clear that she had even heard.

“We're sifting through a forest of radio transmissions,” said Rubeo, giving the latest update. “We're still a distance from figuring it out.”

“Anything new on the bomb factory?”

“The video cameras that were placed show nothing unusual,” said Rubeo. “They've continued their standard security sweeps.”

“We have to assume they know something's up,” said Stoner, who was in Taipei. “But we do have people watching both on land and out in the harbor, and there's nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Even if the assessment is right and they do have a bomb, we haven't found the delivery system yet,” said Dog.

“Sure we have,” said Jennifer. “The UAVs.”

“They're not big enough,” said Zen, who was on the circuit from
Penn
, on the ground in Taiwan.

“You're looking at their UAV as if it were a Flighthawk,” Jennifer said. “It isn't. From the analysis that I've seen—and admittedly I've been out of the loop for a few days . . . ”

She paused. Dog could see her frown.

“From what I've seen,” she continued, “the ghost clone should be able to go further with a heavier payload. It's been used up until now for reconnaissance, but reengineering it for a different role is child's play. If I were building a long-range nuclear cruise missile, I'd start with an airframe like the ghost clone's. It's not quite as stealthy as a B-2, but it's damn close. And it's small to begin with.”

“Then why not use a cruise missile?” asked Zen.

“It is a cruise missile,” said Jennifer. “With longer range and a heavier payload. The thing is, if my technology isn't good enough to build a very small nuke, this may be easier.”

“We are speculating,” said Rubeo.

“Sometimes speculation isn't wrong,” said Jennifer staring into the video camera.

Washington, D.C.
13 September 1997
2103

A
FTER A LONG
day of meetings, Jed Barclay's eyes felt as if they'd screwed themselves deep into his skull. The NSC had scheduled a meeting for ten
P.M.
, but he
and his boss had been summoned by the President to the White House for a private briefing ahead of the session. While not unprecedented, the move underlined how serious the situation was. The meeting in Beijing was now less than twenty-four hours away. The vice president had just arrived in the capital.

Jed and Philip Freeman were ushered up to the private quarters, where the President was changing after returning from an appearance in Bethesda. No matter how many times he came here, Jed still felt a feeling of awe. He was walking where Lincoln had walked, taking the same stairs Madison had used to look for his wife when the British were marching up the hill. They were shown to the East Sitting Hall near the Queen's Bedroom, one of Martindale's favorite conferencing spots. Jed pulled over the ornate wood chair so that it was catty-corner to the couch and opposite his boss's seat, anticipating that the President would sit on the couch. The drapes had been drawn across the large fan window that dominated the room; lamps on both sides of the couch cast a yellowish light around, reflecting in the chandelier above.

Jed closed his eyes for a moment, wondering what it would have been like a hundred and fifty years before. Lincoln strode through, looking for his clerk, calling him: “Nicolay! Nicolay!”

Mrs. Lincoln wandered behind him, fretting over her sick son Willie, not yet dead . . . 

“Sleeping on us, Jed?” boomed the President, coming in.

“No way,” said Jed, springing upright.

The President patted him gently on the back, pulling
over his own seat rather than taking the sofa. His chief of staff and several other aides, along with members of the Secret Service, had trailed him to the end of the hall, standing back to give them a modicum of privacy.

“They have a bomb, or they may have a bomb?” asked the President, immediately cutting to the heart of the issue.

“We're not sure,” said Freeman.

The folder in Jed's hands contained the latest estimate—it was really more like a guess—of what had happened, fingering Iran rather than Korea as the likely source. Small amounts of material—enough for one or two bombs—were possibly unaccounted for.

The estimate, courtesy of the CIA, was three sentences long. The argument that had led to those three sentences was continuing over at Langley.

“How can we be sure what they have?” asked Martindale.

“We have to go in and find out,” said Freeman.

“Jed?”

“I would agree, sir. Dreamland—Colonel Bastian is preparing a plan to cover that contingency, if you order it.”

Martindale nodded.

“I would note,” said the national security advisor, “that at the moment there's no concrete evidence supporting the construction of a bomb. We have circumstantial findings only.”

“Two weeks ago there was no evidence there was an advanced UAV,” said the President. “Will Colonel Bastian have his plan ready for presentation at the NSC meeting?”

“I believe he will,” said Jed.

“Good.” Martindale got up. “Ties are getting better, Jed.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dreamland Command Trailer, Brunei
14 September 1997
1103

T
HE BRIEFING WITH
the NSC went about as well as Dog had expected, meaning that it didn't go particularly well at all. A mission to inspect the site further was authorized, but most of the members of the NSC were skeptical that the weapon even existed. Dog couldn't really blame them; all he really had to go on was the fact that his scientists thought it was there, and while that was good enough for him, it wasn't particularly surprising that it wasn't good enough for Washington.

Dog's plan called for securing the site if a weapon was found. That, of course, would create real complications—Taiwan was an ally, but the operation, at least at present, was to be conducted without the country's government or military knowing about it. It had to be that way, since it wasn't yet clear what if any connections Chen might have that would tip him off.

Assuming that he did in fact have a weapon.

“Have you located their robot plane?” asked Admiral Balboa after Dog finished his briefing.

“We're still trying to figure it out.”

“Thank you, Colonel. We'll take it from here,” said Freeman. “Keep us advised.”

The connection broke. Dog resisted the temptation
to punch out the video tube. No matter what he did, it would never be enough for Balboa.

He got up, glancing at his watch. He needed to do about twenty million things, including get the latest Dreamland updates and prep a flight to Taiwan so he could support the mission.

But he also wanted to find out what the hell Mack was doing.

“Boston?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Find Mack Smith and bring him to me. Fetch Lieutenant Andrews as well.”

“On my way, sir.”

 

M
ACK
S
MITH WAS
enjoying yet another retelling of his exploits when the beautiful if stuck-up Miss Kelly entered the reception hall, trailed by a member of the Whiplash security team. Though the tall, bulky sergeant wore civilian clothes, he was instantly recognizable as a Dreamland trooper by his swagger and bulk.

“Miss Kelly, a pleasure,” said Mack. “Very sharp suit, Sergeant,” he added to her escort. “Boston, right?”

“Sir, Colonel Bastian wants to see you yesterday.”

“If he wants to see me yesterday, he'll have to settle for videotape, won't he? Or maybe fly back to Dreamland. I think with the dateline it's yesterday there when it's today here.”

“Yes, sir. I need Lieutenant Andrews as well.”

“Starship,” said Mack, calling over to the other end of the lounge. Starship emerged from the small pack of European women he had been fraternizing with. “The master beckons.”

T
WENTY MINUTES LATER
, Dog interrupted his latest update from Ax to give Starship the sort of stare no lieutenant should ever have to endure from his commander.

It made an impression—for about half a second. Then the lieutenant's fighter jock smile returned.

“Where the hell have you been?” the colonel demanded.

“Sir, you had told me to, uh, see if there was anything Major Smith needed. And so I went to it.”

“That was yesterday, Starship. Did you get that handle because your head was out in orbit?”

“Nah.”

“Go get your gear, and get over with the Flighthawk personnel and make sure your aircraft is ready to fly.”

“All right! Kick ass.”

The lieutenant slapped his hands together, twisted on his heel, and practically ran from the trailer.

“As for you, Major, we're under a Whiplash order,” Dog told Mack. “We have an operation tonight.”

“Great.” Mack stood, but then a quizzical look appeared on his face. “What am I flying?”

“Nothing. You're going to stay at the trailer to liaison with us.”

“Liaison?” said Mack. “But—”

“We have some Air Force security police heading over from the Philippines to pull security, but they're not cleared to enter the trailer. You got that? It's just you. They have to take a leak, they have to go across the street.”

“You want me to act as communications sergeant? I mean, all I'm doing is babysitting the gear?”

“You have the general idea, Mack. The security detail
will be armed and under orders to shoot if there are any problems. Nobody in and out.”

Mack's face had turned white.

“I'd like you in uniform before they get here,” Dog added. “I believe you have about ten minutes.”

Outside Taipei
1105

C
HEN
L
O
F
ANN
had known there were enough parts for another UAV.

The bomb was another matter.

“It was created five years ago,” explained Professor Ai. “Your grandfather foresaw the day when this would occur. The Russians were desperate, and opportunity presented itself. Even so, it has taken considerable work. The bomb has only been ready within the past month.”

“Your visits to your aunt?”

“I regret that I found it necessary to lie to you,” said Ai, bowing his head slightly as a gesture of remorse. Chen Lo Fann knew it was a sham, and said nothing.

“The bomb will kill the people in the target area, but not damage the buildings,” said the scientist. Fann knew Ai was exaggerating slightly—buildings very close to the blast would be damaged and possibly destroyed by the neutron bomb his grandfather had had built. Still, unlike a “normal” atomic weapon, the large cylinder before him would cause relatively little damage to the capital.

Should he use it?

His concerns had nothing to do with the deaths the
bomb would cause—he cared nothing for the communists, who clearly deserved to die. While undoubtedly many innocent victims would be caught up in their destruction, their deaths were completely justifiable, an honorable part of the necessary equation. Regrettable, lamentable—but necessary.

Chen's concern was with what would happen next. The communist military leaders who survived would no doubt wish for revenge.

Would the Americans step in and prevent it?

He was unsure.

And if they did, then what?

An uneasy truce? Things would continue as they had for the past fifty years.

That would be an even greater failure.

Perhaps he should wait, and try and build other bombs, enough to obliterate every last communist.

Chen Lo Fann thought of his grandfather, whose body he had just come from cremating.

The letter in the old man's desk—a letter Ai knew of, though he seemed not to have read—directed that the meeting between the two heads of state be stopped at all costs.