Strike Zone (12 page)

A knock at the door interrupted her.

“Come,” said Dog.

Mack Smith opened the door. The major looked a little tired, walking rather than bounding as he normally did. When he saw Cortend he blanched.

“You wanted to see me, Colonel?”

“Yes, come in, Mack. Colonel, this will only take a minute.”

“Of course,” said Cortend, getting up. As she left, she gave Mack the look one might use to dismiss a whipped dog.

“Watch her, Colonel,” said Mack as the door was closed. “She's evil.”

“I'm sure she's just doing her job,” Dog said.

“No.”

Mack didn't offer any other explanation. Dog decided it wasn't worth pursuing—it was pretty clear that Cortend got off on intimidating people. Smith ordinarily wasn't easy to intimidate; maybe he'd ask her for some pointers when she came back in.

That would be the day.

“I need a political officer,” Dog told Mack. “A liaison, actually.”

“How's that?” asked Mack.

“We're deploying to Brunei, first thing in the morning,” Dog told him. “I'll go into details if you're in. Otherwise, good night.”

“Colonel, is she coming?”

“Colonel Cortend? No. Her investigation's here.”

“Sign me up,” said Mack, so relieved he looked as if he'd won the lottery.

“We have to leave at 0400.”

“Whatever. I'll scrub toilets if you need it. Just take me with you.”

Dreamland Personnel Building Two
2105

B
Y THE TIME
she got back to her apartment, Jennifer's hands were shaking so badly that she had trouble with the lock. Inside, she dropped her glass as she filled it with water from the faucet in the kitchenette; fortunately, it was plastic and didn't break, rebounding instead across the room.

The expression on his face when he saw her—anger and surprise . . . 

Hate?

No, he couldn't hate her. He couldn't.

Did he think she was a traitor? How could he think that?

What had Dog been doing with that she-bitch Cortend? Had he put her up to this?

Dog?

It couldn't possibly be. There was no way. No way.

But Cortend was in his office.

Of course she was. Dog was the base commander; there were a million reasons for her to be there.

Dog, everyone, thought she was a traitor.

She was just tired, overwrought.

The bitch Cortend was playing with her mind.

Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

She wasn't a traitor. She wasn't.

That had to be what they were thinking. Even Dog?

Even him.

The phone rang. Jennifer took a step toward it, then stopped.

What if it was Cortend, asking for more questions?

God no, she told herself. No more. Not tonight.

She let the phone ring until it stopped. As she stared at it, she realized her hand and shirt were wet, and so was the floor, but she couldn't remember why.

II

Paradise

Negra Brunei Darussalam
(Kingdom of Brunei, Abode of Peace)
9 September 1997
0900

“A
COUPLE OF
hours in paradise and already you're sleeping late,” Zen told Lieutenant Kirk “Starship” Andrews as the young Flighthawk pilot sat down at the table across from him. Starship's breakfast tray contained two large cups of coffee and nothing else.

“My body's still back in Dreamland,” mumbled Starship.

“You sure it's not with the hospitality people?” said Lieutenant James “Kick” Colby, the other Flighthawk pilot Zen had taken on the deployment.

“It wants to be,” said Starship.

“Natives are off-limits,” said Zen. “You can look but you cannot touch. Got that? And be careful how you talk to them.”

“How about the State Department liaison?” asked Kick. “She's hot.”

“Out of your league,” said Zen.

“Mack Smith's eyeing her already,” said Starship.

“Oh there's serious competition,” said Kick.

“I'll take one of the waitress babes,” said Starship, lifting his gaze toward the buffet at the front of the room. Six of the most gorgeous women in Asia stood at attention behind the table. Zen had his back to them, but he could practically feel the warmth of their smiles beaming across the room.

The Dreamland pilots and crew were being housed at a hotel just outside the airfield where they'd set up operations. “Mess” consisted of a lavishly appointed private room—thick tablecloths, hand-woven silk rugs, paint that seemed to contain speckles of gold—on the ground floor of the hotel. The room was part of a restaurant that back in the States would rate four stars—the wine list was a little too restricted to make five.

For breakfast, the Dreamland personnel—crew dogs and officers alike—had sorted through an all-you-can eat array of various meats, cooked-to-order eggs and omelets, a pyramid of exotic fruits, and enough donuts, rolls, and pastries to make a small town diabetic.

Zen had chosen his usual oatmeal and bananas, though he had made a concession to local tastes by sampling the pinkish-green juice. It was sweet, but tomorrow he'd go for the orange.

The coffee, however, was a real keeper. He might have to arrange for a pipeline back home when the mission ended.

“So are all the deployments like this?” asked Kick. He'd come to Dreamland from an assignment as a Hog “driver,” piloting A-10As. The story went that his nickname came from early flight training, when he needed a kick to get going; if so, that need had long since disappeared.

“What do you mean?” asked Zen. “In terms of food?”

“The hotel rooms, the women. Everything.”

“Usually it's cots and tents,” said Zen. “Brunei's just a special place.”

Starship and Kick had been with the program only a short time; neither man had logged a hundred hours with the robot aircraft. But Fentress had been the only other pilot with real experience. While the two youngsters had their drawbacks, both could handle a single plane reasonably well, and consistently scored high in the simulations and exercises. It was time for them to take the next step.

“Paradise,” mumbled Starship.

“You have a hangover, Lieutenant?” asked Zen.

“Uh, no, sir. Whacked on the time difference, though. My body thinks it's yesterday.”

“Tomorrow,” said Kick. “Nine o'clock is five o'clock last night tomorrow.”

“Huh?” asked Starship.

“I'll give you an example. 2200 here is 0600 at Dreamland, same day. 0900 here would be 1700 there—but they're back a day. So while we're out on a day patrol, they're sleeping. 1200 is 2000 yesterday there. Or 2300 in Washington, D.C.”

Starship blinked at him. “You do weather and traffic, too?”

“Fifteen hours' difference. Would be sixteen, except the States are on Daylight Saving Time,” said Kick. “You know it's Saving, not Savings?”

“Eat hardy, gentlemen,” Zen said, pushing away from the table. “We brief at 1000, and we're in the air at 1300. And watch the alcohol, Starship. Those clubs are not officially sanctioned. No matter what Mack Smith says.”

Brunei IAP, Field Seven
0910

B
OSTON SLID HIS
hand along his M-16A3 and rolled his head on his neck. He figured he didn't hate guard duty any more than the next guy—but that meant he hated it pretty bad.

From what the others on the Whiplash team were telling him, guard duty was about all he was going to be doing for the next six months. He hoped they were just busting his chops because he was the team nugget, or new guy. He'd clearly drawn the worst assignment—he'd been standing out here since four
A.M.
local, and had another hour to go.

And when that was over, he wouldn't be hitting the sack—he was supposed to report to the Whiplash trailer, known as Mobile Command, and get himself educated on the high-tech communications gear they used. Whiplash team members were expected to act as communications specialists during the deployment.

All that SF training, and basically he was a radio operator and a guard dog.

In fact, he wasn't even a guard dog. The real sentries were high-tech sensor arrays placed at the edge of the field where they were assigned. The arrays were monitored in the trailer (at the moment, Egg Reagan had the con). A special computer screened video, infrared, motion, and sound detectors. Those inputs could be piped into Boston's Smart Helmet, supplementing the helmet's own infrared, short-range radar, and optical sensors.

The thing was, the helmet was pretty damn heavy and hot besides. Fortunately, Egg had told him it wasn't necessary to wear it; he'd alert him to any problem. The helmet was clipped to his belt.

Boston wasn't the only flesh-and-blood sentry. A battalion of Brunei soldiers blocked access to the area Dreamland had been assigned. There was also an honor guard—a mixed unit built around British Gurkhas, a storied unit of foreign troops that had originated in Nepal—which conducted a ceremonial changing of the guard on the apron twenty yards away every fifteen minutes, or so it seemed.

“Yo, Boston, trucks coming,” said Egg in his earbud.

“Another ceremony?” asked Boston. His mike was clipped to the top of his carbon-boron bulletproof vest; it was sensitive enough so that he could whisper and be heard over the Dreamland com system.

“Negative,” said Egg. “These are customized SUVs. Not military.”

“I hear them,” said Boston. He brought his gun up, though there was no way any intruder could get by the Brunei soldiers, whose weapons included several antitank missiles.

Unless, of course, they stood back and let the trucks pass.

“What's this?” Egg said in his ear.

The first truck—a large black Chevy Suburban with a block of lights across the top and enough chrome to make a drug dealer jealous—roared straight toward Boston.

“If he doesn't stop, I'm taking him out.”

“Careful. I think they're VIPs,” said Egg.

“If he doesn't stop, I'm taking him out,” repeated
Boston. He drew back, squaring as if to fire.

The driver of the SUV slammed on his brakes and swerved, stopping a few yards away. Two other SUVs pulled in alongside.

The doors of the vehicles flew open together. Men in lightweight civilian suits emerged from the trucks. Bruisers all, they were clearly bodyguards, with vests under their jackets.

“No weapons,” said Egg, giving him the read from the monitor.

“If you say so,” said Boston.

A short, slightly paunchy man stepped forward from the other side of the middle vehicle. He was obviously a local, and was wearing what seemed to be relatively expensive clothes.

“Hello,” said the man with a jovial smile.

“I'm sorry,” said Boston, his voice hard enough to make it clear that was a lie. “No one is allowed past this point. No one.”

The man laughed.

“Sir, no one is allowed past this point,” said Boston. “Not even the sultan.”

“Oh well,” laughed the man. “I'm just his nephew.”

Thoroughly confused, Boston had the man covered. Someone else got out of the SUV from the other side.

“Colonel Bastian is on his way,” said Egg. “Oh, I see now—that's Mack Smith.”

“Who's Smith?” Boston said.

“Major Smith—he's ours. The guy getting out of the SUV. Colonel Bastian brought him as a political officer.”

The somewhat bedraggled man came out from around the truck and approached Mack.

“It's all right,” he told Boston. “They're with me.”

“Sorry, sir,” said Boston. “I have very strict orders. No one gets past me. I'm authorized to shoot,” he added, as Mack continued to within a few feet of him.

Smith squinted at him. “You know who this is?”

“The sultan's nephew, sir.”

“A prince,” said Mack. “His Royal Highness Pehin bin Awg. Very, very important man in Brunei.”

“I don't doubt it, sir. But he's not coming past unless my orders change.”

“You really going to shoot?” asked Mack, taking another step forward.

“Bet your ass. Sir.”

“Jeez.”

Bin Awg laughed. “No need for an upset, Mack. We can come back another time.”

“Colonel Bastian's at the gate,” said Egg.

“Sir, my colonel is on his way,” Boston told bin Awg. “I apologize, but my orders are very explicit.”

“Let's have breakfast, then come back,” the prince said, turning back to his vehicle. “Come on, Mack.”

Smith frowned. Boston caught a whiff of perfume, stale cigarettes, and even staler alcohol as the major walked back to the SUV.

“That was really Smith?” asked Boston.

“The one and only.”

Aboard EB-52
Pennsylvania
, South China Sea
Near the Vietnamese coast
10 September 1997
1430

“A
CTION AT
D
A
Nang,” the EB-52's copilot, Kevin McNamara, said over the interphone, the Megafortress's onboard communications system. “We have two MiG-21s taking off. We're tracking. You have the data.”

Starship felt his throat constrict. His hand involuntarily tightened on the control yoke, even though he didn't have control of the plane yet.

“Hawk leader copies,” said Zen. “They have two more coming, huh?”

“Looks like it.”

“Should we go ahead with the handoff?” asked Starship, sitting next to Zen on the Flighthawk control deck. They had just begun the prehandoff checklist before the MiGs scrambled from the Vietnamese airfield about a hundred miles to the northeast.

“Absolutely,” said Zen. “You all right?”

Five minutes earlier, Starship would have told him that he'd never felt better in his life. Aspirin and the Brunei coffee had helped him get over the banger of a headache he'd had this morning, a hangover obtained courtesy of a few whiskey sours with Major Smith after the official reception.