Strike Zone (9 page)

“As unlikely as that may be,” said Zen.

“Start working on a detailed deployment plan,” said Dog, ignoring the bite in Zen's voice. “I'll talk to Jed and get the wheels in motion. It may take a while to get approval.”

“This may not work,” said Stoner.

“Don't be a pessimist,” said Zen. He wheeled himself backward and spun toward the door at the right side of Dog's office, which had been widened so his wheelchair could easily fit through.

“I'm just being realistic,” said Stoner, standing.

He went to open the door for Zen, but the major had already gotten it himself.

“Play nice, boys,” said Dog as they disappeared.

Dreamland Visiting VIP Office Two
1350

“N
AME.
”

“Minnie Mouse.”

The technician handling the lie detector suppressed a grin.

“Name,” repeated Colonel Cortend.

“Jennifer Gleason.”

“Age?”

“What's yours?”

“Age?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Um—” said the technician, raising his finger.

“I'll be twenty-five next month.”

“The needle was okay, but I saw the, I mean I knew the answer was wrong,” said the technician.

Cortend folded her arms. “Continue.”

“This needn't be an adversary procedure,” said Danny, standing near Cortend.

“Thank you for your advice, Captain. Miss Gleason—”

“Ms. Gleason.”

“Miss Gleason, how long have you been at Dreamland?”

“You could at least call her by her proper name,” hissed Rubeo. “She's a doctor. Her Ph.D. was a
brilliant piece of work. Classified need-to-know, I might add.”

Rubeo had passed his own lie detector test earlier, which obviously had put Cortend in a bad mood. The colonel ignored him.

“Miss Gleason,” insisted Cortend, “how long have you been at Dreamland?”

Jennifer realized that Cortend was trying to rattle her. She also knew the best thing to do was simply answer the questions and get on with her life. But something inside wouldn't let her do that. She was just so put out, so angry with it all, that she had to fight back somehow.

“I've been here too long, obviously,” she said. Then she answered the question, remembering the day in 1993 when as a freshly minted computer Ph.D.—she would go on to get another degree in applied micro circuitry, her weaker discipline—she had come off the Dolphin transport. General Brad Elliott had taken time from his schedule to show her around some of the base, and it was his tour that had cinched her decision to come here.

Poor General Elliott. A brave man, a true hero.

He'd been persecuted by people like Cortend. He was honored in the end, but it was too late for him by then—the brass had kicked him out.

The brass and people like Cortend.

“I asked, what is your specialty?” said Cortend.

“Long or short version?”

“Short.”

“Just the unclassified portions, Jen,” said Danny, clearly trying to play nice guy. “Just sum it up.”

“Computers. Mostly software, but on occasion I do
hardware. I could have gotten around the lockout easily. If I were a scumbag traitor.”

“Just answer the questions, Miss Gleason.”

“I'm trying.”

Cortend asked a short series of questions regarding Jennifer's education background and her contributions to the Flighthawk program. The questions skipped around, but none was particularly difficult, and in fact Jennifer had answered all or almost all the day before for one of the technical people assigned to Cortend's team. But yesterday they had seemed informational; now even the simplest question felt like an accusation.

“June 7, 1993,” said Cortend.

“Excuse me?” asked Jennifer.

“June 7, 1993. What does that date mean to you?”

Jennifer shook her head. “Should it mean something?”

“Where were you that day?”

“Here?” said Jennifer.

“Let me refresh your memory,” said Cortend. She walked over to the side of the room and returned with a folder. “You were in Hong Kong.”

“A conference?” Jennifer stared at Cortend.

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I honestly can't remember where I was.”

“Your memory seems very convenient.”

“It's not.”

Cortend made a snorting sound, a kind of animal chuckle that seemed to signify some sort of personal victory. “You don't remember attending a conference in Hong Kong in June 1993?”

“I've attended many conferences.”

“How about September 1994?”

Jennifer turned to Danny. He had a worried look on his face.

“Another conference?” asked Jennifer.

“Did you obtain permission to attend those conferences?” asked Cortend.

“She doesn't
need
permission,” snapped Rubeo.

“Did you register with the Department of Defense and your superiors here that you were attending those conferences?”

Jennifer saw Rubeo muttering under his breath.

“This interview is completely voluntary,” said Danny.

“I don't really remember,” said Jennifer.

“So you didn't,” said Cortend. “You're best off being honest with me, Miss Gleason.”

“Ms.”

“Oh, yes. Mizz Gleason. Excuse me. Let's be precise. Where were you that day? And what did you do?”

“I don't remember. I know that sounds lame,” Jennifer added, realizing immediately that saying that only made her sound even lamer.

Cortend seemed to grin ever so slightly before continuing.

White House
1703

J
ED
B
ARCLAY TOOK
his place in the Oval Office nervously, sitting between Arthur Chastain, the secretary
of defense, and Jeffrey Hartman, the secretary of state. Jed had been here dozens of times, but today felt different. Not because of the subject matter; the appearance of the UAV Dreamland had dubbed the ghost clone had enormous implications, true, but Jed thought the plan for drawing it out that Colonel Bastian had outlined to him made a lot of sense. He also felt that it was unlikely another spy was at the base, though admittedly the fact that he knew most of the important players there might be blinding him.

What was bothering him was the fact that he was at the meeting in place of his boss, Philip Freeman, the national security director, who had been hospitalized with pneumonia.

Jed would have been at the meeting even if Freeman was well; Dreamland was his portfolio. He might even be sitting in this chair. But somehow, being here
officially
as Freeman's replacement—temporary as it was—unnerved him.

He stuttered as he said hello to the President. Martindale smiled and started talking about a football game the week before that Yale, Jed's alma mater, had lost.

Jed smiled and tried to say something along the lines of “can't win them all.” But what came out was “k-k-k-k.”

The President laughed, maybe thinking he was joking, and moved on to start the meeting. Jed reached into his briefcase and passed out the executive summary of the Dreamland plan, then fired up his laptop for a PowerPoint presentation, which he planned to present on the twenty-one-inch flat screen he'd brought with him. But the President stopped him.

“No slides, Jed,” said Martindale, who put more stock in honest opinions than zippy pie charts. “Tell us why this is important.”

“Well, um—” started Jed.

“If the Chinese have robot aircraft as capable as the Flighthawks,” said Admiral George Balboa, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, “they could conceivably use them to achieve first-strike capability in a war against Taiwan and even us. The UAVs are very difficult to detect unless you're looking for them, and even then they can be close enough to initiate an attack before the defenses are alerted.”

Ordinarily, Jed might have bristled at Balboa's taking over his presentation. But now he was grateful. In any event, the admiral was merely stating one of Jed's own arguments.

“Yes,” said Jed. He didn't stutter, a major victory.

Maybe he'd get through this after all. Why was he so unnerved? His boss would be back in a few days.

“The problem with this plan,” said Balboa, “is that it doesn't go far enough. We need the Navy involved—if there is a UAV we have to take it out. Right away.”

“That m-m-might be premature,” said Jed.

“Nonsense.”

“Provoking the Chinese at this point is risky business,” said the secretary of state. “The meeting with the Taiwanese is set for two weeks from now. The rapprochement should take priority.”

“Why?” said Balboa bluntly. “Why is it in our interests?”

Hartman's face turned beet red. “Peace is always in our interest.”

“It depends on what the terms are,” said Chastain.

If Freeman were here, Jed thought, he would be mediating between the blustery Balboa and the more reticent Hartman. He'd also be pointing out that finding the UAV and dealing with it need not interfere with the summit between the two Chinas.

So why didn't he say that?

He should.

Jed opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“What do you think, Jed?” asked the President.

“I, well—if the operation is run exactly the way Colonel Bastian outlined it, sir, it won't provoke the Chinese any more than any routine mission would.” Jed took a breath and then pressed his fingers together, one of the tricks he had learned in high school when the stutter first became an issue. If he didn't think about it, it wouldn't be a problem.

The trick was not to think about it.

“I don't think that, um, that the secretary of state is proposing that we stop gathering intelligence on the Chinese, or that we leave Asia,” said Jed.

“Of course not,” said the secretary of state.

“So this—if it were, say, wrapped up in routine maneuvers, in an exercise that they would be interested in, or that anyone who might have the ghost clone was interested in, I would think that would work.”

Jed glanced up and saw that Martindale was looking directly at him. He floundered, turning his eyes back down to the floor before continuing.

“The, uh, the ASEAN, the ASEAN exercises are set to begin in two days. My thinking was that the Dr-Dreamland plan might fold into that, or we could use the maneuvers as a cover somehow.”

“The Navy was ordered to take a low profile. We've only allocated a frigate.” Balboa cleared his throat, obviously warming to the idea. While as the head of the JCS, Balboa was technically in charge of all the services, rare was the operation he didn't believe should be spearheaded by the Navy. “We could get some assets there, a carrier, have some patrol craft. Yes. A P-3 in an Elint role, and we have two Vikings that have just been overhauled precisely for this sort of mission.”

“Why don't we just send the fleet?” said Chastain.

“We could do that,” said Balboa, somehow missing the sarcasm in the defense secretary's voice.

“Jed?” prompted the President.

“I did some checking and, um, there was originally a request for B-52s in the exercises,” Jed told them. “So we could grant it and, uh, the Megafortresses could go in their place.”

“There is a bit of an issue with the Dreamland people,” said Balboa. “Some folks feel Colonel Bastian and his people are cowboys who need to be reined in.”

“That's not fair,” snapped Jed.

Balboa turned and stared at him. Jed realized that his dislike of Dreamland, born from a general prejudice against anything connected with the Air Force, had been fanned into a virulent hatred because of the Piranha affair. While the Navy had played an important role in preventing war, the Dreamland people were the ones actually taking the bullets, and for some reason that bugged him.

“I didn't say it was fair, young man. I'm just saying it's the view.” Balboa shifted in his seat, turning back toward the President. “We still haven't reached a decision on where the command should be located. Technically,
Colonel Bastian doesn't answer to anyone at the moment. Except, of course, to the commander-in-chief.”

“I haven't reached a decision,” said the President.

He smiled, as if apologizing for telling a fib. Jed knew that the ambiguous situation served Martindale very well and was therefore likely to continue indefinitely. Under the present arrangement, Dreamland's Whiplash special operations team, its cutting-edge aircraft, and all its whiz-bang weapons answered directly to the President, with only one NSC staffer in between—Jed. All military personnel ultimately answered to the President as commander-in-chief, of course, but the chain of command could be torturous. As things presently stood, Martindale could use the Dreamland people as his own attack squadron, sending them to hot spots around the globe with a direct phone call.

“This plan calls for them to be based in the Philippines again,” said Hartman, changing the subject. “The government there is still upset over the handling of the guerrillas we encountered. We need an alternative base.”

“The, uh, uh—” Jed wanted to protest about the alleged guerrillas, who had turned out to be simply displaced villagers, but his tongue tripped and he couldn't get it out. The Dreamland people had insisted on protecting them until their identities could be proven; they were catching grief for doing the right thing.

“All right,” said the President. “Where else? Taiwan?”

“Not Taiwan,” said Hartman. “Far too provocative. What about Brunei?”

“Brunei?” asked Chastain.

“The sultan is looking for signs of friendship and pushing for access to more weapons,” said the secretary of state. “This might be a good gesture.”

Jed started to object. “It's f-far from—”