Текст книги "Retribution"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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So it was amazing—dumbfounding, even—that when Major General Terrill “Earthmover” Samson (aka Terrill the Terror, in some circles) was appointed to be Dreamland’s new commander, Ax did not know it until several hours after the fact. Worse—far worse, as far as he was concerned—he didn’t know that Samson had decided to forgo protocol and play a surprise visit to the base several days ahead of schedule until Samson was well on his way.

In fact, Ax learned this so late that he didn’t arrive at the helicopter landing strip until the general and his staff were 152

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stepping out of their helicopter under the watchful eyes of the base security team. It was an intelligence failure of monumental proportions, though Ax would not be at leisure to contemplate its implications for several hours.

“General Samson, good to see you sir,” he shouted loudly.

“You’re, uh, several days ahead of schedule.”

“I move on my own schedule,” growled Samson.

“Yes, sir. Major Catsman is waiting for you.” Ax stiffened and pumped a textbook salute, as stiff and proper as any he had delivered in the past ten years—which was damning with faint praise, since he had perhaps saluted twice.

Samson returned it with a scowl.

“Why isn’t the major here herself, Chief?” demanded the general.

“Begging the general’s pardon, but there’s a Whiplash action under way. Things get a little—hectic.”

Samson frowned. Ax smiled ever so faintly in response, then turned his head toward the two airmen he had shang-haied to carry the general’s bags. Within a few minutes he had the security team placated and the general and his people en route to the Taj Mahal, the nickname for the base’s administrative center.

Samson’s arrival at the Taj caused another stir. In order for him and his aides to tour the base, biometric measurements and readings had to be taken from all of them. Samson balked, saying it was a waste of his time.

“Only about ten minutes per person,” said Ax. “It’s standard procedure.”

“Do you get major generals visiting this base often?”

“We’ve had a few,” said Ax.

Samson started for the elevator that stood at the center of the lobby. He got in, as did his aides. Ax stayed in the lobby.

“The thing is, sir, if you’re not in the computer, it won’t allow you access. You can get in the elevator car, but it won’t go down. And now that you’re in there, it won’t move until you’re out. I can get this straightened out.”

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Samson didn’t believe Ax until he had pressed all of the buttons and nothing happened.

“It will only take a few minutes,” said Ax. “If you’ll just come over to the security station …”

Samson stalked over to Security, nearly as angry as he’d been at the landing dock. His aides followed.

Or attempted to.

“I’m afraid—and no offense, sirs,” said Ax, making sure to spread one of his better chief ’s smiles across the arrayed majors and captains, “under a Whiplash order, you’re supposed to be confined to the non, um, technical parts of the base. Strictly speaking, you shouldn’t even be here in the Taj.

We can do some temporary passes, but your access is going to be limited.”

“What the hell kind of rule is that?” said Samson.

“Begging the general’s pardon, but it would be a similar situation if somehow a busload of visitors had deposited themselves into his F-111 cockpit during his mission over Hanoi as a captain. Or when he personally led the squadron over Pan-ama. The general would have been so busy dealing with the enemy, that even the presence of well-meaning onlookers, no matter their rank, would have been a distraction.”

Samson frowned. For a moment Ax wondered if he had found the proverbial exception to the old chiefs’ rule that it was impossible to lay it on too thick for a general.

“All right,” said Samson finally. “Let’s get the lay of the land for now,” he added, speaking to his entourage. “Stay wherever you’re supposed to stay.”

The men nodded in unison, as if their heads were connected by hidden wires.

“As for this other thing, though,” said the general, to Ax again, “I don’t see the purpose.”

Ax finally realized why Samson was objecting to the biometric recordings.

“The process, General, is pretty straightforward. You step into a small booth and the computer takes its readings. No human intervention. The information is encrypted right away, 154

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and isn’t even accessible to the operator. Security precaution, in case someone was trying to duplicate your biometrics.”

“Well, let’s get on with it, then,” said Samson.

“Step over this way, sir,” said one of the security sergeants, leading Samson to a spot on the floor where a laser and weight machine would record his measurements.

Lieutenant Thomson pulled Ax aside.

“Why’d you say that about the operator? He can see the measurement. What would be the sense of hiding it?”

“General’s getting sensitive about his weight,” whispered Ax. “Too many nights on the chicken and peas circuit.”

Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

over the Indian Ocean

0800

NO MATTER HOW MUNDANE THE MISSION, HOW ROUTINE THE

f light, f lying an aircraft always gave Dog a thrill. It was the one thing he could count on to raise his heartbeat, the jolt that pushed him no matter how straight and slow the flight.

Whether it was a Cessna or an F-22 Raptor, simply folding his fingers around the control yoke of an aircraft filled Tecumseh Bastian with a quiet passion.

He was going to need it. He sensed that the crew resented his replacing their captain. They were too well disciplined and professional to do anything to jeopardize their mission, of course, and Dog knew that he could rely on them to do their best when and if things got hot. But the quick snap in their voices when he asked a question, the forced formality of their replies, the lack of takers when he offered to get coffee and doughnuts from the galley—a thousand little things made it clear that he might have their respect and cooperation, but not their love.

Then again, in his experience, love could be overrated.

“Flighthawks ready to start their pass,” reported the copilot, Lieutenant Sullivan.

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“Roger that. Flighthawk leader, proceed.”

“Thanks, Colonel,” said Starship downstairs. “I hope we’ll find something.”

“Me too.”

They had laid out their course north through the search area where Breanna and Zen were thought to have parachuted, hoping to put the long leg to some use.

It had been Englehardt’s suggestion.

“Flighthawks are at fifty feet, indicated,” said Sullivan.

“Ocean appears empty, as indicated by radar.”

Was Breanna really gone? Dog struggled to push away the feeling of despair. He had a job to do. He couldn’t afford a moment of weakness.

“How are we looking, Airborne?” he said, trying to focus on his mission.

“Only friendlies, Colonel,” said Sergeant Rager at the airborne radar.

“Very good,” said Dog.

“Waymarker in zero-one minute,” said Sullivan, noting they were approaching a turn that would take them away from the search area. “Colonel, you want to extend the search?”

For the first time since they’d boarded the plane, Sullivan’s voice sounded almost normal.

“Much as I’d like to, Sully, I’m afraid we have other business,” said Dog. “Starship, we’re coming up to our turn.”

Dreamland

1930

“GENERAL, I’D HEARD YOU WOULD BE VISITING SOMETIME

next week.”

“You heard wrong,” snapped Samson. He frowned at the scrawny major, then looked past her toward the massive screen at the front of the room. According to the legend, the display showed a swath of land in Pakistan as it was being surveyed in real time by one of Dreamland’s Flighthawks.

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The scale and clarity were unlike anything Samson had ever seen, even at the Pentagon. He could literally count blades of tumbleweed, or whatever the desert vegetation was called.

“This is part of the search for the disabled warheads,”

added the major. “We’re providing assistance to the team assembled by the Seventh Fleet.”

“Yes,” said Samson. He turned his attention to the rest of the situation room, which the Dreamlanders called Dreamland Command. Workstations were set up theater style, descending down both sides of a center ramp toward the screen.

Each desk was big enough for five or six operators, though in no case were there more than two people working at them.

Most had a single person. With only two exceptions, the operators wore civilian clothes, appeared less than kempt, and were clearly not military—including a gorgeous blonde Samson had trouble taking his eyes off of.

No wonder Bastian wanted to keep this all to himself, he thought. The place was the military equivalent of the world’s biggest entertainment center.

“With all due respect, sir,” said a tall, skinny man in a tone that suggested exactly the opposite, “I’d request that you didn’t look too closely at the displays or question the scientists.”

“You’d request what?”

“Frankly, you shouldn’t be in this room at all, not during a mission.”

“Who the hell are you?”

The man fidgeted, his fingers moving up to his earlobe nervously. Samson was startled to see that he had an earring there.

An earring!

And he was trying to kick him out?

“Who are you?” demanded Samson again.

“Ray Rubeo. I’m the head scientist. And I’m afraid that while your security clearance may allow you to observe the operations themselves, it does not cover the specific weapons that are being tested as part of the operations. As a result—”

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“Weapons tests?”

Rubeo frowned at him. “General, you really should leave.

This is not a good time.”

“Now listen, mister—” began Samson.

“That would be Doctor. ”

“I don’t give a shit if you’re a brain surgeon.” Samson turned to Catsman. “Major, what the hell is this?”

“Ordinarily, no one is permitted inside Dreamland Command during an operation,” she said.

“I’m your new commander. Do you understand what that means?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“If you’re interfering with the mission,” said Rubeo,

“you’re going to have to leave. The President controls Whiplash missions once the order is given, not the Air Force.”

“Who made that rule up? Bastian?”

“The procedures predate him,” said Rubeo testily. “Check Presidential Order 92-14.”

Samson turned to Catsman, whose face had turned crimson.

Samson folded his arms, trying to control his anger. He was tempted—sorely tempted—to have the room cleared.

But interfering with the mission was the last thing he wanted to do—especially since he could then be blamed for anything that went wrong. He forced himself to be silent, and stayed just long enough to keep his dignity and authority intact. Then with an abrupt “Carry on,” he left the room.

An atoll off the Indian coast

Date and time unknown

THE SHALLOW WATER AT THE WEST OF THE ATOLL DIDN’T

seem to hold any fish. As he moved toward the southern end of the atoll, Zen spotted some seaweed growing a few feet from the sand. He pushed into the water and got a surprise—one of the rocks began to move.

It was a turtle, about two feet long, with a brown and white 158

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oval-shaped shell. Zen froze for a moment, unsure what to do. By the time he had unsheathed his knife, the turtle was gone.

There must be more turtles here, he thought. Or maybe some fish this one was feeding on.

Zen stopped moving and focused on the water. When he was sure there was nothing in front of him but seaweeds and rocks, he moved to his left, pushing through the water gingerly.

Nothing.

The most difficult part of being a fisherman was patience.

Zen had the patience of a fighter pilot—which was to say, none.

He slid onto his side, pushing along in the water. Something moved to his right. He leaned over toward it.

Another turtle, this one only twelve or fourteen inches.

Zen swatted at it with his knife, but the creature dove away. Mud and rocks swirled up in a cloud. He fished in the water, then pulled back as the turtle’s beak suddenly appeared.

The turtle squirted away. Zen lunged and managed to get his left hand under it. He flung it upward, sending it crashing against a group of rocks closer to shore.

Pulling himself through the rocks and water as the turtle flailed upside down, he raised his knife, then stopped, paralyzed by the small creature’s struggle. Then his own instinct for survival took over and he plunged the knife straight down into the underside of the turtle’s shell.

The blade penetrated, but the turtle continued to struggle. It snapped its beak wildly, cutting the air as if it were its enemy.

Zen tried to pull the knife from the turtle but it was stuck.

Unsure what to do, he let go of the knife. When he did, the creature slipped off into the water. Zen grabbed the handle of the knife as the turtle sank and threw the creature, blade and all, onto the rocks. It landed sideways, propped there, still struggling when he reached it.

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Dazed and confused, its life ebbing, the turtle craned its neck in the direction of the water. Zen circled behind the animal, then took hold of its leg, dragging it farther ashore.

The leg felt slimy and cold. It was a live thing, pushing against him, and once again Zen was paralyzed.

But he had to eat, and so did Bree. He picked up the leg and dashed the turtle against the rocks, smacking it so hard the shell cracked open. Then he grabbed a nearby rock and pounded it on the hilt of his knife, driving the weapon into the animal. Finally the creature stopped struggling, its life over.

Exhausted, Zen let the rock drop from his hand. Then he turned his attention back to the water, wondering if it might be possible to swim back to the pup tent rather than crawl.

As he did, something caught his eye.

A small boat was approaching, less than a hundred yards away.

Dreamland

1945

MAJOR CATSMAN AND THE SMILING CHIEF MASTER SERGEANT

tried to placate General Samson, suggesting he try dinner in the VIP dining room, but Samson wasn’t buying the bullshit they were selling. He was filled with rage toward the arro-gant and ignorant scientist who’d threatened to have him booted– booted! —from Dreamland Command.

Undoubtedly this had been done at Colonel Bastian’s be-hest, Samson thought, since it was inconceivable that a mere civilian scientist would have the audacity.

What really irked him, however, was the fact that the military people hadn’t intervened. The world had truly turned upside down here.

Samson had thought that there might be room for Bastian under his command. Clearly, that was not going to work. The incident in Dreamland Command aside, Bastian’s outsized ego was on clear display when Samson entered his office.

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It was outfitted with well-polished cherry furniture fit for a king.

“When I was a lieutenant colonel,” muttered Samson to his aides as he surveyed the office, “I had a tin desk.”

“Begging the general’s pardon,” said Ax. “The colonel inherited this from the last commander, who was a major general. Rather than—”

“He’s disinherited. As of now, this is my office.”

“You’re moving in?” said Catsman.

“Major, what did you think my purpose in arriving here today was?” said Samson. Catsman was also high on his list of people to be replaced.

“Sir, we were under the impression—”

“Which impression is that?” thundered Samson.

Catsman seemed lost for words. “General Magnus, when he was in your position—”

“General Magnus had many things on his plate,” said Samson. “I am not him. Dreamland is my baby now. I saw no reason to wait several weeks before coming out here.”

“Well no, sir. I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Samson turned to Ax. “Find some men to move Bastian’s things to a secure location.”

“Uh …”

“How long have you been a chief master sergeant, Mr.

Gibbs?”

“We’ll get right on it, General.”

Maybe he can stay, thought Samson. Having someone around who knew where all the latrine keys were kept might be handy.

WHILE IT WAS OFTEN SAID THAT THE WHEELS OF GOVERNment moved slowly, Major General Terrill Samson did not.

Even though it was nearly midnight back in Washington, he got on the phone and did what he could to kick the paperwork into gear to move the transition forward and, most important, update the Whiplash order so it named him personally.

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Then he decided to call the National Security Advisor personally to discuss his new command. If Bastian could work closely with the White House, so could he.

Thinking he would simply leave a message with the over-night staff, Samson was surprised to find that Freeman was working. But as soon as he was put through, he was met with more questions than answers.

“How many warheads have been recovered?” demanded Freeman. “What’s the status?”

“I’m not up-to-date on all of the operational details,” said Samson, caught off guard. “Generally, I let my people in the field—I give them full rein.”

“Well, when are we getting an update? I realize Colonel Bastian is busy, but the President needs to know. He’s addressing the General Assembly at the UN first thing in the morning.”

“Understood.”

“The President wants every warhead recovered. We want that accomplished before news of the operation leaks. It has to proceed quickly.”

“Of course,” said Samson. “I can assure you we’re working on it. We’re going to do it.”

“Good.”

“There is one thing,” said Samson. He told Freeman, as delicately as he could manage, that some “legal types” had advised him that Whiplash orders should be directed to him so that the proper chain of command could be followed. This would facilitate the process—“speed up the operation,” said Samson.

“Why is that an issue at this moment?” said Freeman.

“It’s not an issue,” said Samson quickly. “Legal types, though—you know the red tape that can get involved.”

“Dreamland is about avoiding red tape.”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll look into having the order reissued,” said Freeman.

“If it’s necessary.”

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“I’m told it is. The lawyers—if you could have my name there specifically, instead of Bastian’s …”

“I’ll have someone work on it,” said Freeman.

Aboard Dreamland Bennett,

over the Indian Ocean

1100

“HAWK TWO REFUELED,” STARSHIP SAID, PULLING THE RObot aircraft away from her mother ship.

As far as the pilot was concerned, the differences between the first generation and the upgraded U/MF-3D

Flighthawks were generally subtle. The increased controllable range was the most noticeable change; depending on the altitudes, and to a lesser extent the atmospheric conditions, the Flighthawk could now operate at full throttle two hundred nautical miles from the Megafortress. The autonomous programming had also been improved, allowing the pilot to tell the computer to attack an opponent beyond the controllable range, then rendezvous along a vector or at a specific GPS point. The Flighthawk’s ground attack modes had also been upgraded, as had its capacity to carry small bombs and ground-attack missiles, a capability jury-rigged into the earlier models.

But it was still a robot. As Starship steered his two Flighthawks over the Indian desert toward their designated search area in Pakistan, he found himself longing to be behind the stick of a real airplane, like the F/A-18 he’d flown down to Diego Garcia in.

Robot planes were the future of the Air Force. But they just didn’t give you the same kick in the pants the heavy metal did.

He brought Hawk Two down through a thin deck of clouds, accelerating as he pushed toward a thousand feet. They were nearing the northern edge of a search zone designated as RETRIBUTION

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I-17, after the warhead that supposedly had crashed here. He was over Pakistan, and though marked on the maps as desert, the area was far from uninhabited. He saw a cluster of small houses on his left as he leveled off. There was no activity, however; he was in the zone affected by the T-Rays.

Starship checked quickly on Hawk One, which was flying an automated search pattern to the west. That area was much more desolate, without even a highway in sight as the Flighthawk trundled along at five hundred feet, moving at just under 200 knots.

Unlike Zen, Starship preferred controlling the Flighthawks from the standard control panels rather than using one of the flight helmets. He could see more at a glance, and had no trouble zoning out the rest of the noise around him.

He punched a preset to flip his main screen back to Hawk Two, then nudged the joystick to nose the aircraft downward.

Just as he dropped through six hundred feet he spotted what looked like a large skid mark in the earth about five hundred yards to his right. The computer flagged it as well, sounding a tone in his headset.

Starship leaned Hawk Two gently onto her right wing, dropping his speed as he headed for the end of the ditch. He was moving too fast, however, and before he could get a good look was beyond his target. He came back around, lower and slower, and this time saw what looked like a garbage can half wedged in the earth.

“Colonel, I have something.”

“Roger that, Flighthawk leader. Give us the GPS points.”

Starship tapped the object on the screen, locking the data into the computer before transferring it. He put Hawk Two into an orbit around the warhead, then took control of Hawk One to begin a new search.

“Looking good, Starship,” said Dog a few minutes later.

“Dreamland Command confirms that’s warhead I-17. One down, five to go.”

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On the ground in southeastern Pakistan 1120

“WE’RE JUST ABOUT WRAPPED UP HERE, COLONEL,” SAID

Danny, using his portable mike pack instead of bothering with the smart helmet. “We should be leaving for I-8 in about thirty minutes.”

“We’ve found I-17,” Dog told him. “It’s a little farther north than the projections show. There are some settlements nearby.”

Danny checked the paper map as well as his global positioning device. The device had been found about twenty miles outside of the projected landing points, the first time the projections had been wrong.

It looked to him as if the villages could be easily avoided.

However, there was a highway just a mile northwest of the site; they’d be in full view when they landed.

Danny debated whether they could afford to wait until nightfall, when villagers would be less likely to interfere.

Weighed against that was the possibility that the warhead might be discovered before they got there.

Since it was close to the village, it seemed likely that someone had already seen it. The area was in the zone affected by the T-Rays, and isolated to begin with. Maybe the villagers had no one to tell.

“I think we’re best off sticking with the present plan, and go after I-17 at dusk,” Danny finally told the colonel. “Would it be possible to keep it under surveillance in the meantime?”

“Doable.”

“One other thing, Colonel—I’m wondering if we could bring up a few more men from the Whiplash detail, along with more of our gear. The Marines are great, but they’re stretched kind of thin. Admiral Woods wants everything found and out ASAP.”

“We only have three men to run security at Diego Garcia as it is,” said Dog.

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“The only thing they’re doing there is watching the lizards.”

Dog knew that it wasn’t quite the no-brainer Danny made it out to be. While Diego Garcia was among the most secure bases in the world, some of the gear the EB-52s carried was so classified the Navy security people would not be authorized to enter the hangars. While the chances of a problem were remote, any resulting security violation would have severe consequences for the commander.

“All right,” said Dog finally. “Get them up there.”

“Thanks, Colonel.”

An atoll off the Indian coast

Date and time unknown

THE BOAT WAS SURPRISINGLY SMALL, MORE LIKE A LOG IN

the water than a canoe. Zen flattened himself on the rocks, watching as it made its way across the shallow lagoon toward the area where he’d spotted the first turtle. Whoever was in the boat didn’t seem to notice him.

He considered slipping into the water but decided that he’d make too much noise. There was no way to escape—unless he was extremely lucky, eventually he would be spotted.

He’d never done very well depending on sheer luck to get by. And maybe he wanted to be found. He needed to get help for Breanna. No one was answering his radio hails; the person in the boat was the only alternative.

The Megafortress had been attacked by Indian planes and missiles, but maybe they thought they were going after a Chinese or Pakistani aircraft. The military wasn’t necessarily antagonistic toward Americans; on the contrary, the Indians had often helped U.S. forces, at least before this conflict.

Maybe the person in the boat would be friendly. Maybe the Indians didn’t hate Americans and this Indian could be persuaded to contact someone without telling the authorities.

But he knew it didn’t matter, because Breanna was going to die if he didn’t get help.

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She might even already be dead.

Zen shook his head, chasing the idea away. Then he stood.

“Hey!” he yelled, waving his hand. “Hey! Over here!”

The figure in the boat turned his head in Zen’s direction, but the boat kept moving, crossing in front of him.

“Hey,” repeated Zen. “Help,” the word “Help” coming from his mouth as a bare whisper.

He was too proud to ask for help, too proud to admit defeat.

Breanna would die because of his ego.

“Hey!” Zen yelled. “Help! Help!”

The boat slowed, then began to turn in his direction. The oarsman was short, small—young, Zen realized, a teenager or even younger.

Zen pushed himself around and sat, arranging his useless but bruised and bloodied legs under him. They seemed to ache ever so faintly. He hadn’t experienced the phenomenon in quite a while. He’d been told it had to do with reflex memory stored deep in his brain and nerve cells.

The boat was so shallow it got within a foot or two of the shoreline before beaching. A boy of perhaps nine or ten knelt in the bottom. His oar looked more like a battered stick than a paddle. He stared silently at Zen, perhaps five yards away.

“Hello,” said Zen. “Can you help me?”

The boy looked at him quizzically.

“Do you speak English?” asked Zen. He’d assumed that everyone in India did, though this was not actually true.

“English?”

The boy nudged his stick against the rocks but did not reply.

“I’m American,” said Zen. “USA.”

“Sing sons?” asked the boy.

Zen didn’t understand.

“I’m a pilot. My plane had trouble and crashed,” he said.

“I—there’s another pilot. We need to contact our base.”

“Singsons? Simsons.”

“You mean the TV show?” asked Zen. “The Simpsons?”

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“You know Simpsons?”

“Bart Simpson?”

The boy’s eyes grew wide. “You know Bart Simpson?”

“Watch him all the time.”

“Bart?”

“We’re good friends,” said Zen. “Can you help me?”

The young man looked at Zen suspiciously, then jabbed his stick against the rocks and quickly pushed away.

“Hey, come back,” said Zen. “Don’t go. Don’t go.”

But the kid had already turned around and was speeding away.

“Well, that worked,” muttered Zen. “Maybe I should have told him Homer was my uncle.”

Dreamland Command

2300

RAY RUBEO GOT DOWN ON HIS KNEES SO HE COULD GET

closer to the computer screen.

“You’re sure this is where they discovered warhead I-17?”

he asked.

“That’s the GPS reading from the Flighthawk,” the operator told him. “I verified it off the Megafortress.”

“You look like you’re praying, Ray,” said Major Catsman, coming down the ramp toward him.

“I may be, Major.” Rubeo frowned at the map. “We’ve found one warhead outside of the search parameters.”

“And?”

Rubeo sighed. There was no explaining things to some people.

“It’s not possible for it to be outside of the search area,” he told Catsman, rising.

“Well, obviously it is.”

“Yes. That’s my point,” said Rubeo. “What we have here is all math—Newton’s laws applied. We know exactly where the missiles should have fallen if the T-Rays worked as we 168

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think they did. So the only possible conclusion is that the T-Rays did not work in that manner. The T-Rays must not have disabled all the systems on the missing missiles. My guess is that the engines didn’t shut down when we believed they did.”

“Are you sure?”

“It will be useful to examine the missile at I-17,” said Rubeo. “Maybe there is some shielding of some components and not others. Perhaps the T-Rays do not work as we believe they do. There is always a distance between theory and reality, Major. The problem is to measure that distance.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I’d like one of our people to look at it closely.” Rubeo picked at his earlobe.

“Danny Freah will be securing it.”

“With all due respect to Captain Freah, I don’t believe his expertise lies in the area of electronics. I was thinking of Ms.

Gleason. She is twiddling her thumbs on Diego Garcia. She would be of more use there.”

“All right.” Catsman folded her arms. “Did you have to piss General Samson off so completely, Ray? Couldn’t you have been just a little more polite?”

“I don’t do polite.”

“You should learn,” said Catsman, turning away.

Diego Garcia

1300

JENNIFER GLEASON TAPPED GENTLY ON THE SMALL LAPTOP

as she rose. Wires snaking from the computer connected to a missile a few feet away. Tom Crest, one of the weapons engineers on the Anaconda team, looked up from one of the circuit boards in the warhead assembly.

“Still?” he asked.

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some sort of error that has to be coming from the hard-ware.”

“I’ll be damned if we can find it. It doesn’t come up more than one time out of a thousand.” Crest got up from the missile. “Jeez, it’s hot. You mind?”

He put his thumbs under the bottom of his T-shirt, gesturing.

“Go ahead and take it off,” said Jennifer. “If you don’t think you’ll get sunburned.”

“Nah.” Crest pulled his shirt off, revealing a surprisingly tan and fit torso. For an engineer, Jennifer thought, he was pretty good-looking.

Not that she was looking.

“I wonder if maybe one of the software revisions on the microcode was done erroneously,” she said. “You’ve checked everything else.”

“That was checked weeks ago.”

“Maybe the check was wrong. You’ve looked at everything else.”