Strike Zone (10 page)

“It is far from China,” said the President. “But according to the CIA, China may not be the country operating the clone at all. Besides, I'd like to show our friend the sultan that we value his alliance.”

The President's tone suggested that the meeting had come to an end. He glanced around the room, then looked back at Jed.

“Jed, set this up. I want Dreamland deployed as part of the ASEAN exercises—give it a cloak of respectability.”

“Yes, sir,” said Barclay

“We'll supply a liaison,” said the secretary of state. “There are important protocols. The sultan has to be handled with a certain amount of—”

The secretary stopped, glancing at Balboa. Jed realized that he was going to say “tact,” then realized that might imply that Colonel Bastian had none.

Obviously, he didn't want to give Balboa the satisfaction.

“Protocol,” he said instead.

“Fine,” said the President, rising to end the meeting.

Dreamland Personnel Building Two
1805

D
OG DECIDED TO
swing around to Jennifer's apartment on his way back to Taj. He hadn't seen much of her since getting back from Hawaii, and felt guilty about it; while he'd been in Honolulu he'd learned that his ex-wife was planning on moving to Las Vegas.
He knew he had to tell Jennifer about it, let her know that however awkward it might be, it was only that—awkward. Dog didn't hate his ex-wife. The truth was he had never really hated her, even when she asked for a divorce. Whether he'd ever loved her or not—well, that was a question best contemplated over a very long set of drinks.

He did love Jennifer. He was sure of that.

Dog jogged down the short set of steps to the hallway leading to the apartments, which spread out right and left. As he started down the hallway, he saw two members of his Whiplash team standing guard in front of Jennifer's door, Sergeant Liu and Sergeant Bison.

“What's the story here?” the colonel asked.

“We're under orders not to let anyone in or out,” said Liu.

“Whose orders?” asked Dog.

“Colonel Cortend,” said Liu.

“Since when do you take orders from Cortend?” Dog asked him.

“Sir, Captain Freah told us to stand guard here. The colonel—Colonel Cortend is sending over a detail to inspect the quarters, and it's to be secured until then.”

“What?” said Dog. “What the hell is going on here, Sergeant?”

“Sir, Captain Freah didn't explain.”

The sergeant wasn't being disrespectful, but it was clear from his demeanor that he wasn't going to yield.

“Is Ms. Gleason inside?” Dog asked.

“No, sir.”

Dog controlled his anger—though just barely. “Do you know where she is?”

“No, sir.”

“Carry on, Sergeant,” he said, turning on his heel. He walked back to the entrance of the building, resisting the temptation—again just barely—to grab a radio from one of the security detail and radio Freah. He walked outside and started toward Taj when he saw two black SUVs approaching with their blue lights flashing. Danny was in the lead truck—sitting behind Cortend.

“Captain Freah,” said Dog as the door to the truck opened. “A word.”

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

J
ENNIFER 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

“T
HERE'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

M
ACK
S
MITH 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.