Strike Zone

by Dale Brown

  Professor Ai had found that his presence on the deck helped the process, as the crew inevitably moved even faster. There was little danger that the craft would sink, but the longer it sat in the unfriendly salty water, the more maintenance it required. Already the coating of its composite hull and skin had to be reapplied every second or third flight.

  Dragon Prince had lowered a boat earlier to help in the recovery. It approached the small robot plane now, helping as the hoist was secured to its fuselage. Within minutes, the crank on the edge of the ship began to groan.

  Professor Ai had wanted to name the robot plane Xi Wang Mu after the goddess in Chinese mythology who was said to be the Queen Mother of the West. She was the patron of immortality, a beneficent figure.

  To most. Professor Ai, however, knew that the earliest texts mentioning Xi Wang Mu referred to her as a monster—part human, part tiger. She ruled over demons and the plague answered her command. The kinder image had evolved over the centuries.

  Ai Hira Bai’s own history had drawn him to the story of Xi Wang Mu. It was not a coincidence that his middle name was Japanese—Ai had been born during the Japanese occupation of Manchuria during World War II. His father had died shortly after his birth—or at least that was what his mother had been told. A native of Shanghai, she had returned to the city after the war. But her neighbors and relatives considered her a collaborator and would have nothing to do with her; in her anguish she had fled the country after the war. She had worked hard to raise her son, though she had died before he reached twenty.

  Ai wanted war not to liberate the stolen provinces, but as a measure of vengeance. Soon, he thought, he would have it.

  As long as the communists reacted as they should, interpreting the destruction of the innocent SAR flight as a wanton act by the Americans. Professor Ai did not particularly care for the Americans either, though he did not hate them as he hated the Mainlanders.

  “A successful mission,” said Chen Lo Fann nearby.

  The professor nodded to the young man. “Now it is up to the mongrels to play their role.”

  “Yes,” said Chen Lo Fann.

  Alexandria, Virginia, near Washington, D.C.

  0640

  JED BARCLAY HEARD the phone ring and realized something big was up—it was his encrypted line, installed at the NSC director’s request in his home office.

  Since Jed lived in a one-room studio apartment, his home office was also his bedroom, family room, and dining area, so he didn’t have to lean far from his foldout couch to grab it.

  “Barclay,” he said, not quite awake yet.

  “Jed, the Chinese are claiming that we’ve shot down one of their planes,” said his boss. “Get over to the White House right away.”

  “Shot down one of their planes?”

  “Find out if it’s true while you’re at it. Call me back. I’m still confined to bed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  AN HOUR LATER, Jed walked through the West Wing basement flanked by a pair of Secret Service agents. With the help of Colonel Bastian and briefings from the NSA and CIA, he had managed to pull together a pretty fair understanding of what had happened. Unfortunately, understanding the situation and being able to do something about it were two different things.

  “Barclay,” said Admiral Balboa, spotting him in the hallway outside the situation room. “What the hell is that cowboy Bastian up to now?”

  “He’s not up to anything,” Jed told the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Whoever is operating the ghost clone shot down a Chinese flying boat while it was trying to make a rescue. They’re trying to provoke a war.”

  “Gentlemen, let’s discuss this in the situation room,” said the defense secretary, coming in behind them. “Come on.”

  Balboa grimaced but said nothing. The secretary of state and the President were already inside, along with the other service chiefs and the head of the CIA. Balboa’s broadside had a positive effect on Jed—he got through his quick overview of the situation with only a single stutter.

  “The Chinese are on alert now. They’re threatening to retaliate,” he said, turning to Jeffrey Hartman, the secretary of state. “You might, uh, want to cover that.”

  “Actually, I have some fresh data on the Chinese units that are standing by,” said General Victor Hayes, the Air Force chief of staff. “As well as ours.”

  Jed stole a glance at the President. Some months before, Kevin Martindale had threatened the Chinese with war over Taiwan. He’d backed the threat up with covert action, and only the Chinese really knew how close the world had come to a nuclear exchange. But that conflict seemed justifiable and even reasonable, the result of a series of aggressions and countermoves by America.

  This was almost an accident—a crazy, chaotic accident.

  Or not. Whoever was operating the ghost clone wanted war. World War III.

  “How much do the Chinese know?” asked Martindale.

  It took Jed a second before realizing the President was speaking to him.

  “We don’t think they know about the ghost clone at all. Circumstantially—we were there at the time. I, uh, uh, if it were me… ” Jed’s voice trailed off. His tongue was threatening to revolt again.

  “Go on, Jed,” said the President calmly.

  “I would reach the same conclusion the Chinese did,” said Jed. “B-b-because based on the evidence they have, we did it.”

  “Maybe we should add to their evidence,” suggested Martindale.

  “Tell them about the UAV?” asked Chastain.

  “Why not?” said the President. “Jed, what do we have?”

  “We have video of the c-c-collision itself, and of the shootdown. Radar stuff, sensor data. Uh, but, but—”

  Jed felt them all staring at him.

  “Very sensitive,” he continued, managing to blurt out the words. “Giving them all the information we have would show the Flighthawks’ capabilities. And, uh, the, uh, uh, Raven’s, the Elint c-c-capable Megafortress.”

  “I doubt they’ll believe us at this point anyway,” said the secretary of state. “Or rather, that they’ll admit that they believe it.”

  “My feeling is we should just ignore their threats,” said Balboa. “They’re just flexing their muscles. They won’t move against us.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” said the President. “At the moment, I don’t feel like taking a chance. Jed, prepare the data, minimize the exposure to our technology. They know we have good sensors; we won’t give away the store by letting them see a blurry shot or two. Let Defense review it before it comes over to me. Once I have it, I’ll decide whether to use it or not. Jeffrey, get the Chinese ambassador and have him meet me in my office. I’ll clear all my other appointments.”

  The President rose and started to leave the room. But when he got to the door, he stopped and turned back.

  “And Jed—tell Colonel Bastian he’s past due on finding out who’s operating this so-called ghost clone.”

  Dreamland Command Trailer, Brunei

  2320

  DOG STARED AT the video screen, where a very tired Ray Rubeo updated the latest information from the team studying the Raven’s intercepts back at Dreamland. The members of the team had been able to sketch a tentative model based on the captured telemetry and video. The aircraft was roughly the length of a Flighthawk, but with a radically different airfoil; in fact, it looked closer to a Boeing design dating before the Flighthawks and originally intended as a one-off to test low-cost stealth concepts. The flight data suggested that the aircraft’s top speed was slower than the Flighthawk’s, but the analysis had concluded there were two cannons aboard, and the fuselage was wide enough to carriage a good-sized air-to-ground missile.

  “The difference in the physical design should eliminate any suspicion of spying by the physical team,” added Rubeo at the end of his brief. He seemed to be alone in the Dreamland Command Center, except for a skeleton crew. “Perhaps that will act as an enticement for our inquisitor to leave a
t least those people alone.”

  “Come now, Ray, Colonel Cortend can’t be that bad,” said Dog.

  “The colonel has completely changed my opinion of the Spanish Inquisition,” said Rubeo. “I now recognize it was a charitable organization.”

  “What’s controlling it?” asked Zen, who was sitting next to Stoner behind Dog in the trailer’s communications center. “Where’s its control aircraft? We never saw it on the radar.”

  “That remains a mystery,” said the scientist. “We are working on it, Major.”

  According to the information from Raven, the only aircraft that had been in the area were Chinese—and it didn’t make sense that they had shot down their own plane.

  “Ray, what’s the possibility that the clone is being controlled from a ship?” asked Dog.

  “At this point, I wouldn’t rule anything out.”

  “The closest ship was that civilian vessel that searched the area of the crash,” said Zen. “We overflew him. There’s no way he launched the clone, let alone recovered it.”

  “We’ll look into all of the ships that were in the area,” said Rubeo. “But if they’re controlling it from a vessel, they’re using a system we don’t know about.”

  No kidding, thought Dog. He started to ask if anyone else had anything when Stoner interrupted.

  “Doc, getting back to the UAV for a second. You said it would have a lot of computing power aboard, right?”

  “Yes, Mr. Stoner. Considerable computing power.”

  “Gallium-arsenide chips?” asked Stoner. “Custom- made?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I think I know where they were manufactured,” said Stoner. “I’d like to check it out. I need some information on what to look for.”

  “You want a course in chip manufacturing?” said the scientist in a tone even more sour than usual.

  “What the machines would look like, the plans, byproducts, that sort of stuff.”

  “Do you have six months? You’re asking for a graduate seminar.”

  “I have a plant that supposedly manufactured chips used for VCRs. I want to see if it could have done anything else.”

  “VCRs,” said Rubeo. “Might just as well look for vacuum tubes.”

  “Ray, maybe Jennifer can give Mr. Stoner a few pointers,” said Dog.

  “Jennifer is not available,” said Rubeo. “She’s confined herself to quarters. She says she’s sick.”

  “What?”

  “In any event, her security status is still in doubt. She’s not allowed to use the computers, and she can’t go into sensitive areas. Which would preclude her from using the command center.”

  “Is she all right?” asked Dog.

  Rubeo put his lips together in one of his twisted scowls. Dog resisted the urge to press further—he didn’t want to mix his personal concerns with business.

  Still, it was difficult to keep quiet. The briefing dragged on a bit, with updates on the Chinese military—every unit was on standby alert, and there were threats from Beijing about war. The top leaders were all blaming America for the shootdown.

  “At the moment, we’re grounded,” said Dog. “We don’t want to incite the Chinese any further.”

  “I hope somebody’s going to tell these jokers it wasn’t us,” said Zen.

  “Washington will,” the colonel told him. “But they have to be careful about how much information they can give the Chinese about our own systems. Too much and we may jeopardize future missions.”

  “Too little and these idiots will start shooting the next time they see us,” said Zen.

  “Yeah, right now all they’re doing is trying to run into you,” said Stoner.

  The CIA officer was so deadpan it took a second for everyone to realize he meant it as black humor and start to laugh.

  AFTER THE SESSION broke up, Dog tried again to get ahold of Jennifer. But she wasn’t answering the phone, either at her apartment or at the lab. He decided not to bother leaving a message—with the investigation still under way, it was bound to be misinterpreted.

  Most likely that was why she hadn’t bothered emailing or leaving a message on his personal voice mail. Come to think of it, they usually didn’t talk much during deployments anyway. She knew he was busy and didn’t want to bother him.

  Not that he considered talking to her a bother. Not at all.

  Hell, he’d really like to hear from her right now.

  Dog started to punch the numbers on the phone, thinking this time he’d leave a message and Cortend be damned, but then hung up.

  Personal concerns came after duty. If he couldn’t get his priorities straight, how could he expect anyone under him to?

  Club Paradise, Brunei

  12 September 1997

  0023

  “MACK SMITH.”

  “Colonel Bastian!” Mack nearly knocked over the table jumping to his feet, surprised—astounded—that Dog had tracked him to the small club on the outskirts of the city. He’d come with Stoner and was wearing civilian clothes.

  “Boy, you missed a hell of a dinner,” Mack told him.

  “Thanks for filling in for me. Can Mr. Stoner and I sit down?”

  “Colonel, of course. Ladies?” Mack gestured to the women who’d been fawning over him. As luck would have it, there were exactly three of them. Their eyes blinked as they did the math. One by one they took up positions.

  “Actually, we’d like to be alone for a while,” said Dog.

  Mack feared that the colonel was about to lower the boom for his accidental firing of the Badger’s machine gun. He told the women he’d see them later, then took a gulp of his drink as a final fortification against the inevitable onslaught.

  “You just missed Prince bin Awg,” said Mack, wishing he had left with his host.

  “The prince approves of this?” said Dog.

  “Oh sure.”

  “How about his uncle the sultan?” asked Stoner.

  “Well, uncles, fathers, you know how that goes. Right, Colonel?”

  Dog gave him a very disapproving frown.

  “I don’t know that I saw any alcohol touch the prince’s lips,” said Mack, sticking up for his host.

  “Mack, I need you to do me a favor. Or rather, I need the prince to do me a favor, I want you to help me ask him.”

  “A favor?”

  “We need to get to Thailand tomorrow, but not attract any attention,” said Stoner. “Bin Awg has a fleet of aircraft at his disposal. We’d like to use one.”

  “Is that all? Hell, not a problem,” said Mack.

  Was that really it? Was that all the colonel had come for?

  Mack felt as if he’d been plucked from a den of jackals and delivered back to paradise.

  Paradise being Brunei, of course. There was no more beautiful spot on the planet, especially if you were considered a national hero.

  “Can do, Colonel. How about the Badger? It’s like driving an old Caddy, swear to God. Pickup’s a little slack, but it’ll remind you of the fifties. Not that you were around in the fifties, but if you were, I mean. It’s a great plane.”

  “I don’t want a Caddy,” said Dog. “I understand he has a Beech King Air.”

  “Uh, I guess.”

  “That’s the plane we’d like to borrow.”

  The Beech King Air—formally known as Beech Model 100 King Air B100—was an extremely reliable and sturdy workhorse, an excellent design that could carry fifteen passengers fifteen hundred miles or more. It was relatively cheap to operate, and testimony to the solid design and production skill of “small” American aviation companies.

  It was also about as unspectacular a plane to fly as Mack Smith could imagine. A two-engined turboprop, the plane had been designed as a no-nonsense civilian flier, and that’s what it was. It wasn’t even a jet, for cryin’ out loud.

  “But, Colonel, I’m serious, you take the wheel of the Badger. You aren’t going to… ”

  Mack’s voice trailed off as he saw Dog’s scowl.
>
  “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Should I ask now, or do you want to wait for morning?”

  “Whatever’s better,” said Dog, rising. “We’ll be at the airport at 0800.”

  Aboard Brunei King Air 2, over the Pacific

  0854

  IT HAD BEEN a while since Dog had piloted a civilian turboprop, and while he couldn’t have asked for a more predictable and stable craft, his unfamiliarity with the plane did cross him up a bit. The King Air’s maximum takeoff weight was perhaps two percent of what the Megafortress could get off a runway with, and while there were clear advantages to the plane’s small size—its ability to land on a small, unimproved runway was specifically important here—the cabin nonetheless felt like an overloaded canoe to him. Still, it was obvious why the army had chosen the type in the early seventies as a utility and reconnaissance craft, and the solid state of the aircraft showed why it remained in the Army’s inventory when it could easily have been traded in for a newer model. The Garrett turboprops—fitted specially to the B100 model—hummed along in harmony as Dog and his team trekked northward across the ocean, their eventual destination a small airport in southern Thailand.

  The strip lay about a half mile from the fab plant Stoner wanted to check out. Besides the CIA agent, Dog had brought along two members of the Whiplash security team, Sergeant Bison and Sergeant Rockland. The plant was in an area near the Cambodian border where rebels had been reported over the past six months. It wasn’t even clear whether the plant was operating. Stoner had bought two small dirt bikes to use to get to the plant; they were stowed in the back of the plane.

  Clear skies and a calm sea meant flying was a breeze, and Dog’s hardest job was not getting too complacent at the wheel—or bored. There were only so many times he could check his instruments and look at the map to make sure he had the course nailed. Stoner, sitting next to him, wasn’t very big on conversation. Inevitably, Dog began thinking of Jennifer, who still hadn’t returned his calls.

  Was she more upset over this investigation business than he’d thought? Cortend surely was a pain in the ass, but Jennifer ought to understand that the colonel’s presence there was mostly a political thing; it wasn’t directed at her and eventually would go away. Whatever minor violations of the rules she had committed—if she had committed any—would be outweighed by her value to the program. Any baboon would realize that.