by Dale Brown
“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 idenity 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
“There’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 conferences — 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
Mack Smith 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.
Their loss, obviously.
Cortend turned in his direction as he approached. Ordinarily he liked his women a little shorter, but she was definitely worth the climb.
“Hello, Colonel,” he said. “How goes the hunt?”
Cortend stopped. Her brown eyes focused on him with all the intensity of a Sidewinder homing in on a hot tailpipe.
“You are?”
“Smith — Mack. Remember? Hey, my friends call me Knife.”
She’d do for dinner.
“You like Vegas?” he asked.
“Las Vegas?”
“City of sin. Listen, I’m just on my way to hit a shower, then I’m going to split for dinner in the capital of sin. Come on with me and I’ll show you around. I know some clubs that’ll blow you away. The food is fantastic. You like to gamble?”
“Mack Smith,” said Cortend. She pronounced each consonant in his name.
“That’s me. Call me Knife. Kind of a nickname.”
She turned to one of her captains. “Is he on the list?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“In the truck, Smith. We have some questions for you.”
Mack laughed. Cortend didn’t.
“Yeah, well, maybe another time,” he said, shaking his head. But as he took a step toward the building, he found two of the lackeys blocking his w
ay. At the same time, two of the security men got out of one of the SUVs.
“What’s the story here, sugar?” Mack said.
Cortend walked over to Mack. They were about the same height — but suddenly Cortend seemed to tower over him.
“The story, sugar, is that I have some questions for you to answer, and you will answer them now. Got it?”
“But I’m kind of busy.”
“You’re refusing to cooperate on a purely voluntary basis?”
The way she said the words made it clear to Mack that talking with her was about as voluntary as income tax. Still, he wasn’t going to let some good-looking but hard-ass colonel screw up his night off.
“I wanted to take a shower,” he said.
“I doubt it will make you smell any better,” said Cortend, heading back toward her vehicle.
Outside Taipei, Taiwan
7 September
1100 (2000 Dreamland, 6 September)
Chen Lo Fann waited on the bench in the antechamber, soothing his troubled mind by staring at his surroundings. He had spent considerable time here as a boy, racing through his grandfather Chen Lee’s house; under ordinary circumstances, those memories would soothe him.
They failed to now. In fact, the more he stared, the further those days became, faded pages from a discarded book.
Chen Lo Fann had failed in his mission to provoke a war between China and India. The weight of that failure sat heavily on him, blocks of iron pressing him from every direction. Fann might believe in the endless surging of the universe, but it offered little consolation, for he must now face the one man he loved and feared above all others, and admit his failure.
Time passed; he did not note it.
One of Chen Lee’s secretaries stood before him. Without saying anything, Chen Lo Fann rose and followed the man through the hallway to the office where Chen Lee waited.
The old man stood gazing out the window. Taipei sat in the distance, a dirty gem in the rough land the old man had helped make prosperous. The old clock in the corner of the office ticked, slowly counting to itself as Chen Lo Fann waited for his grandfather to speak.
“Your mission failed,” said Chen Lee finally.
“Yes, Grandfather,” said Fann.
“History is a terrible force,” said the older man, still looking through the window. “It cares for no individual. It is like the ocean wave in that way. And yet it can be turned.”
Chen Lo Fann gazed at the back of his grandfather’s white head. The old man had given him many lessons here, allowed him to watch and listen. Fann’s education in America was nothing compared to those lessons.
“I have a second plan,” said Chen Lo Fann. “The ASEAN exercises can be disrupted.”
Chen Lee had clearly thought of this already, because he answered without his usual pause to consider.
“Simply disrupting them will not be enough. An attack must be provoked.”
“If the Americans participate,” said Chen Lo Fann, “I will succeed.”
The old man said nothing. Chen Lo Fann realized he had made the same promise in the matter of war between the communists and India.
“If the meeting is not canceled, we shall have to take graver action,” said Chen Lee. “Be prepared.”
He turned back to the window.
“Yes, Grandfather,” said Chen Lo Fann. He bowed, then left the room.
Dreamland Commander’s Office
2050
Zen rolled himself inside the office, surprised to find that everyone else was already there. Stoner had started the brief on the mission without him.
Zen banged against an empty chair getting in; no one seemed to notice.
“Major Stockard can give you the hard details,” said Stoner, nodding toward him. “Basically, we get their attention by flying near their territory, and then make like we’re testing a new weapon. The weapon is just a Hellfire missile with an ELF transmitter, but it’s different enough to attract attention. So if the clone is a spy plane, it’ll be worth checking out. You want to take over, Zen?”
“You’re doing fine.”
Stoner ticked off a list of areas to probe, starting with China and then moving to Vietnam — it was possible the Russians were using that country as a base. The ASEAN exercises were taking place about two hundred miles to the east of northern Vietnam.
“We’re going to locate in Brunei,” interrupted Colonel Bastian. “I realize it’ll be a haul, but the facilities are first-rate. There’s no doubt about that,” said the colonel.
Dog added by way of explanation that Dreamland would be fulfilling a secondary diplomatic mission by being located in Brunei. It was clear to Zen that Dog didn’t particularly like that part of the assignment, but he soldiered on with it, noting that the kingdom was constructing a new military air base near the international airport in the capital. The facilities would be made available to Dreamland, carte blanche. The sultan was rolling out the red carpet, a gracious host.
“The State Department is sending a babysitter,” added the colonel. “There’s some protocol crap we have to deal with. It won’t get in your way, I promise.”
The colonel ran down a tentative schedule on deployment — first thing tomorrow morning.
Really first thing: 0400.
Everyone in the room was used to dealing with rapid deployments, but 0400 was going to be tight, and Zen watched the concern rise on Major Alou’s face. Alou, who would be in charge of the Megafortresses, had to round up full crews for two aircraft, get support people in place, move supplies, fuel.
“Major Alou, problem?” asked Dog.
“What the hell language do they speak in Brunei, anyway?”
Everyone laughed.
“Malay and English,” said Stoner. “You’ll be able to get by very well with English.”
“Zen, problem?” asked Dog, turning to him. “I know you were looking for a deployment next week.”
Zen shrugged. He’d already told two of his best Flighthawk trainee pilots to stand by. Rounding up the maintainers and other technical people would be a pain — but not particularly out of the ordinary. Most of the key people wore pagers when they were off campus, for just such a contingency.
“We can do it,” said Zen. “We just have to hustle.”
“I know it’s impossibly short notice, but those are our orders,” said Dog. “I’m going on the mission myself, and will serve as one of the Megafortress pilots. Major Catsman will stay here and take care of the farm. Questions?”
The colonel paused for his usual quarter of a second before slapping his hand on the desk and rising.
“Let’s do it, then.”
“Colonel, what’s the story with Jennifer Gleason?” asked Major Alou. “Is she under arrest or something?”
“Jennifer?” said Zen, taken by surprise.
Dog turned to Danny Freah.
“Jen is being questioned about possible security violations,” said Danny.
“What violations?” asked Zen.
“I can’t get into details,” said Danny. “Look, my advice for everyone is to simply cooperate and answer whatever questions that come up. It’s just an informal inquiry, not an investigation.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Zen. He turned to Dog. “Jennifer? A spy? Shit.”
Dog started to say something, but Danny interrupted. “Colonel Bastian can’t comment on anything in any way that would be considered prejudicial.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Zen.
Dog put up his hand. “All right. Obviously, because of what we do we’re under special scrutiny. All of us, not just Jennifer.”
“I wanted her along to handle the computers and whatnot,” said Zen. Technical staff often accompanied the Dreamland team on missions, even those in combat zones.
“You better find someone else,” said Danny. “At least for a couple of days.”
“Colonel?”
“Is she essential for the deployment?” asked Dog.
�
��Not essential. But—”
“At this point, I think Danny’s right. Once Colonel Cortend is finished talking to her I’m sure she’ll be fine to come back.”
TWO HOURS LATER,dog finally finished squaring away everything that needed to be squared away before he left with the rest of the team for Brunei. He needed to get sleep — if takeoff time didn’t slip, he’d be briefing his flight in a couple of hours. But more important than sleep, he wanted to talk to Jennifer.
He wanted to call her. In theory, there was no reason not to.
It might not look good, however, not if there had been a real violation of security protocols. As unit commander, he would eventually have to deal with the matter.
He could recuse himself, of course. Probably he had to.
Or just put an end to the whole thing.
No doubt if he did that, Dreamland’s enemies would seize on it as ammunition for something — what exactly, he wasn’t sure.
He reached for the phone. No harm in calling her, for cryin’ out loud.
He dialed the lab but then remembered that she had no computer access; Danny had had to cut it off as soon as he learned about the possible security breach, as minor as it was. He paused, trying to remember her apartment number without going to the directory.
When he dialed it, her voice mail answered.
Maybe she was taking this harder than he thought.
Or maybe she was out partying.
Before Dog could leave a message, there was a knock on the door. He looked up and saw Colonel Cortend spreading her frown across the threshhold, trailed by a Dreamland security team and several of her aides. He put down the phone and waved her inside.
“Captain Freah said you’d be here,” said Cortend, sitting in the chair nearest his desk.
“I often am,” said Dog. “I understand you’ve been questioning my people.”
“I’ve questioned several of your people, yes. On an informal basis. They’ve all volunteered to cooperate.”
Dog let that particular fiction pass.
“Let’s get to the marrow on this,” said Cortend. “There’s no need for fencing.”
“I’m a right-to-the-marrow guy myself,” said Dog. He slid back in his seat, knowing that Cortend had come to ask about Jennifer.
And perhaps exactly because that thought occurred to him, he glanced toward the door and saw her standing behind Cortend’s aides, frozen, as if she’d taken a step inside before spotting them.
