Strike Zone (32 page)

Gradually, things ratcheted back down. As Dog waited for
Penn
to return to base, the screen flashed with an urgent, coded communication from Dream Command marked eyes only. He punched in his password, and leaned to the eyepiece so the computer could confirm his identity by checking his irises. Natalie Catsman's face flashed on the screen.

“Colonel, the site that Captain Freah inspected today, we don't believe there is a UAV there, or any aircraft. It's only remotely possible that it's ever been there,” said Catsman. “But—”

She stopped, turning around to someone in the situation room.

“But what?” said Dog.

“Shed Two appears to be a fabrication factory for bombs. Possibly nuclear,” said Catsman.

“Nuclear?”

“Dr. Rubeo has someone with him who can explain.”

Rubeo came on the screen, along with a physicist from one of Dreamland's weapons labs. Together, they gave the colonel a ten-minute executive summary of the
types of machinery needed to construct a high-yield nuclear device, typically known as a neutron bomb.

“We're not sure of this, absolutely not sure yet,” emphasized the physicist, Dylan Lyon. “Until we have direct access to the devices, there's no way of knowing for sure. However, combined with the plutonium reading—”

“Plutonium reading?” asked Dog.

Rubeo cut in, explaining what Danny's detector had picked up.

“Guys, bottom-line this for me,” said Dog, cutting the scientist off as he began talking about sieverts and rad counts.

“Bottom line, you have an apparently private company with the technology and the wherewithal to make a nuclear device,” said Catsman. “And the company owner doesn't particularly like the Communist Chinese, or the current president of his own country.”

Washington, D.C.
1100

J
ED
B
ARCLAY HAD
just started to sift through the latest CIA briefing paper on South Asia when the secure phone in his small NSC cubicle buzzed.

“Jed, this is Colonel Bastian. We have to update the President.”

Jed tried to work out where the nuclear material had come from as the colonel ran down the evidence the Dreamland team had passed along. Iran, North Korea, and Russia were the probable candidates, though none was a perfect fit.

Korea, probably. They were desperate for money and would sell to anyone.

Assuming there was a weapon. He cradled the phone as he spoke, quickly booting his personal computer into the restricted access intelligence network known as SpyNet and searching the Asian pages for anything new. The update was dominated by the arrival of the vice president in Beijing ahead of the summit.

“There hasn't been a threat,” said Jed. “There'd be blackmail of some sort. If someone had a weapon and didn't want rapprochement, say, they'd threaten to use it.”

“I think you're way too optimistic, Jed. I think these people might just go and blow people up. Forget about blackmail. They'd worry about the weapon being taken.”

“Good point. I'm going to have to go to the boss right away on this. The whole NSC,” said Jed. “I need everything you have.”

“They're expecting your call at Dreamland. Major Catsman has a team assembled to brief you. Jed—I think if they do have a weapon, the summit will be an inviting target.”

“I was just thinking that. It starts tomorrow.”

“Exactly my point.”

Dreamland, Computer Lab One
0900

R
UBEO SLAMMED HIS
hand down on the counter area, barely missing the computer keyboard but upsetting the nearby cup, which shattered on the floor, sending a spray of hot coffee onto his pants.

“Figures,” muttered the scientist.

“Problems, Ray?”

Rubeo turned and found Major Catsman with her arms folded in the doorway.

“Major.”

“You all right, Ray?”

“Peachy.”

Catsman smirked, then walked over to the pot of coffee on the nearby counter and helped herself. She made a face with her first sip.

“Wow,” she said.

“Yes,” muttered Rubeo, who had made the coffee himself. He might have the equivalent of several Ph.D.'s, but none was in home economics.

“Your people just finished briefing Mr. Barclay. Dylan was very good. Thank you.”

“Yes,” muttered Rubeo.

“They may want you to talk to the President himself.”

“Fine.”

“Problems?”

Rubeo liked Catsman; she was intelligent, quick on her feet, and unlike some of the career military people, pretty easygoing about working with civilian scientists. He had worked with her several years before on the Megafortresses prior to Major Cheshire's arrival. Still, Rubeo wasn't in the habit of sharing personnel concerns with bluesuits, with the exception of Colonel Bastian.

“There are always problems,” he muttered.

“New theories on the ghost clone? Or the weapon?”

“I have plenty of theories,” he said. “Putting them into action is the problem. I could use about twenty more people.”

“Maybe Jennifer Gleason could help.”

“Hmph,” he said.

“Hmph?” said Catsman.

“Ms. Gleason is thinking about leaving us,” said Rubeo, almost in spite of himself.

“But she was cleared by Danny, and Colonel Cortend.”

“Yes, well, she's rethinking her future.”

“Don't we need her here?”

Catsman might be a good officer to work for and with, but there was still a block there; she couldn't quite understand that dealing with geniuses wasn't like flipping on a computer. And Jennifer Gleason was a real genius.

Ironically, until this security blowup, she'd been among the least temperamental geniuses he knew.

Excluding himself, of course.

“Of course we need her,” said Rubeo.

“Have you asked her to come back to duty?”

Rubeo realized that he hadn't
asked
her to come back. He'd just assumed that she would when she was ready.

“Want me to talk to her?” asked Catsman.

“No thank you, Major,” snapped Rubeo, jumping up from the console.

He was actually surprised when Jennifer answered his loud rap on the door.

“It's me, Jennifer. I'd like to talk to you.”

“Door isn't locked.”

Rubeo put his hand to the knob hesitantly and turned it. Jennifer, dressed in a gray T-shirt and jeans, sat on the couch across from the entrance to her small apartment.

She looked different.

“What have you done to your hair?” asked Rubeo.

She touched the ragged edge above her right ear,
smiling faintly. The jagged edges made it clear she had cut it herself.

“Latest look,” she said.

“You look like Joan of Arc,” he said.

“Maybe I'll have visions soon.”

“Hmph.” Rubeo felt his arms hanging awkwardly by his sides. He shoved them into his pockets. “I've been working on an idea for tracking the clone and possibly taking it over. But there's so many systems involved, I'm having trouble pulling it together.”

“Good,” she said, making no move to get off the couch.

“I was wondering about your help.”

A quizzical look crossed her face, as if she didn't understand the words.

“I'll help,” she said, still making no move to get off the couch.

“Are you still going to leave?”

“I haven't made up my mind,” she said.

Coming from anyone else, Rubeo would have interpreted the statement as hinting at blackmail. But Jennifer wasn't like that.

“Teaching—I don't think you should waste your time,” he said.

Jennifer smiled. “Someone taught me.”

“Well, yes. But in your case . . . ”

“Let's go get some breakfast. Blue room?” she said, referring to one of the all-ranks messes.

“Fine,” said Rubeo, following her out.

 

J
ENNIFER PICKED UP
the long strip of bacon and eased it into her mouth, savoring the salty tang. She hadn't eaten for days. She hadn't eaten bacon in months if not
years; her breakfast ordinarily consisted of yogurt and an occasional oatmeal.

“Good?” said Rubeo, sitting across from her at the table.

“Delicious. Go on.”

Rubeo wanted to use the electronic signal gathering capabilities of
Raven
to intercept the control frequencies used by the unmanned plane and take it over.
Raven
carried gear ordinarily used to jam radars, and they could link the Flighthawk control units into it to supply the proper code.

Couldn't they?

“Probably. Of course, if we interfere and don't get the encryption right, the UAV will probably go into native mode,” observed Jennifer. The Flighthawks were programmed to act that way if interfered with. “The first thing you have to do is straighten out the hooks between C
³
and the
Raven
systems—that's a real tangle. I mean, you may not even be able to do it physically.”

“I have Morris working on it.”

“Morris?”

“Well, you weren't available,” said Rubeo. “The team from the Signal Group is helping him.”

Jennifer picked up another piece of bacon and stabbed it into one of her eggs. She scooped up the yolk with the bacon like a spoon and pushed it into her mouth.

“Have you tried checking the data against the NOSS system?” Jennifer asked. She was referring to a network of quasi-stationary Sigint satellites used to gather radio signals around the globe. The abbreviation stood for Naval Ocean Surveillance System.

“Why?”

“You could use that to track down whatever they're
using as a base station. Then you'd know where they were operating from and you could physically take them out of the picture. All that data has to be available. You can backtrack from that. You really haven't done that yet?”

Rubeo frowned. He hadn't thought of it, but being Ray, he wasn't going to admit it.

Jennifer stood, then reached down and grabbed the bacon off her plate. “Let's get to work, Ray. What have you been doing for the past few days anyway?”

Taiwan
14 September 1997
0300

S
TONER DECIDED TO
go back to Taipei; he wanted to talk to his people back at Langley as well as see what else the local agents had dug up on Chen Lee and his companies. Though dead tired, Danny insisted on going along, and so he was awake when Dylan Lyon called him from Dreamland to tell him what his survey with the IR viewer had found. The physicist began grilling him about the site. Danny really couldn't supply much more information than what the sensors had already transmitted, but he answered their questions patiently, describing the exterior of the site and everything he'd seen.

Danny stayed on the phone as they switched from the helicopter to their rented car, and only concluded the conversation a few blocks from their destination. That gave him just enough time to call down to Brunei and tell Bison to get the team ready to move out; he
anticipated Colonel Bastian would want another recon at the recycling plant, and this time he was going in with full gear.

Dog had already beaten him to it.

Stoner drove to a building owned by the American-Asian Business Coalition on Hsinyi Road not far from the American Institute, which handled American “concerns” in Taiwan on an officially unofficial basis. Despite the late hour, the coalition building was ablaze with lights, and Danny wondered if anyone in Taipei believed that the coalition was anything other than a front for the CIA.

Stoner led the way downstairs to a secure communications center. In contrast to the Dreamland facilities, the unit was primitive, amounting to a set of encrypted phones and two computer terminals that had access to a secure network. The decor wasn't even up to the command trailer's standards: The walls were paneled with a wood veneer so thin it looked like plastic; the industrial carpet on the floor was old and ragged.

Stoner pulled out a rolling chair from the conference table at the side of the room and swung it next to the desk with the phone bank. He swept his hand for Danny to take a seat, then made the connection back to Langley. When it went through, Stoner gestured for Danny to pick up a nearby phone. A case officer named James Pierce came on the line, updating them on information he'd gotten from Dreamland and the NSC liaison, Jed Barclay. That segued into a discussion of the capabilities of the government forces of Taiwan, and conflicting estimates of Chen Lee, his business empire, and the possible capabilities of his companies.

“There are dissenting views,” said Pierce. “But at this point, the best guess is that the government knows nothing about the UAV project. And if this is a nuke, they know nothing about it.”

“You sure?” asked Danny.

“The real expert's sitting next to you,” said Pierce, meaning Stoner. “But there are no intercepts from known CKKC units indicating any sort of operational control on the aircraft, let alone any indication of experimental work, no unit movement, nothing,” said Pierce. “The NSA group working on it for us has gone over it pretty well. And as for nukes, forget it. We're pretty wired into the government; we'd know. Believe me.”

Danny wasn't sure whether Pierce meant what he said literally or figuratively.

“The best evidence that they don't have one is a conversation three weeks ago between the president and the defense minister debating whether they should start a program and what it would cost,” added Pierce. “It was partly that debate that led the president to make his overtures toward China.”

Brunei
0600

D
OG'S FOUR OR
five hours of fitful sleep made him feel more tired than ever. He cut himself shaving, then burned his finger on the in-room coffeemaker. His mood was so foul that even a message on his voice mail system at Dreamland that Cortend had returned to the Pentagon “and contemplated no formal report” failed to put a bounce in his step as he walked from his hotel
room to his elevator. Instead, his brisk stalk warned off the security detail escorting him, even the normally loquacious Boston, heading the team. The men stood at stone attention during the brief ride to the lobby, fanning out as the door opened—as much to stay out of the boss's way as to protect him.