Strike Zone

by Dale Brown

  “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

  JED BARCLAY 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 gene
ral 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—”

  “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

  DOG 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 rig
ht; 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

  JENNIFER 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.