Текст книги "Strike Zone"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

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Even so, Stoner and Danny went inside, going up to the fifteenth floor where a Taiwan magazine had its offices. They played tourist, Stoner claiming to work for a San Francisco publication Danny had never heard of but that somehow impressed the Taiwanese. After a few minutes it was clear to Danny that there was nothing of much interest here, and he practiced smiling and nodding. Stoner passed out a whole parcel of business cards; Danny realized from the looks he was getting that not having any was a serious faux pas.

“What’s with the cards?” Danny asked as they took the elevator down.

“Considered polite to exchange them,” said the CIA agent. “I have dozens for every occasion.”

He showed a few to Danny. They declared he was a magazine editor, electronics equipment buyer, engineer, and American trade representative. The backs of the cards had the information in Chinese characters.

“You sure you’re not schizophrenic?” said Danny, handing the cards back.

“Sometimes I wonder.” Stoner pocketed the cards. “Computer system is easy to access. They’re networked with an Ethernet. We can get in if we want.”

“You think it’s worth it?”

“At the moment, no. But now we can come back and get in easily. Once the system is bugged, the NSA whizzes can get into the printing plant.”

“Where’s that?”

“Our next stop.”

NEITHER THE PRINTINGplant nor the warehouse they looked at seemed very promising; the printing plant was in fact used for printing, and the warehouse held vegetables. Stoner pushed on, aware that the last site on his list was the most promising—it had a pier on the harbor front and sprawled over nearly a hundred acres.

It was also well guarded by fences, men, and dogs.

“This would be a perfect place,” said Danny, looking at the site through binoculars from a dock diagonally across the bay. “What the hell do they do there?”

“Recycle everything and anything,” said Stoner. “Electronics mostly. That shed at the far left had car batteries. They strip away the outer casings, reuse the lead and the acid as well. Those drums there are filled with sulfuric acid.”

“Lovely.”

“Oh yeah. Real environmental operation.”

Stoner pointed to two buildings at the right side of the facility, fenced off from the others by a double Page 155

row of razor wire.

“That’s where I think the operation might be, if it’s here. There’s a track up from the pier.”

“Pier looks shaky,” said Danny.

“Appearances can be deceiving. Can you get a scan?”

“We’re too far for the viewer. We have to get a lot closer.”

“Not a problem. We can get on that dock at night, go up to the fence. There’s no guard on the water side.”

“Not now, maybe,” said Danny. “What about at night?”

“We’ll have to find out,” said Stoner. “But if they’re not going to watch during the day, they probably won’t at night.”

“Man, I can smell the acid from here,” said Danny.

“Yeah. We stay away from the damn battery shed if we can.”

“I got to scan it.”

“Your call.” Stoner put down his glasses. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Let’s go get some shrimp.”

“ITHOUGHT WEwere getting something to eat,” said Liu when they stopped in front of the large warehouse building in the city’s southwestern district.

“We are,” said Stoner, getting out of the rental.

“This a restaurant?”

“In a way.”

Danny, Liu, and the driver followed Stoner up a set of cement steps to the side of the large metal building, passing inside to a small corridor lit by several rows of fluorescent lights. Tekno-pop boomed from beyond the plasterboard wall, the bass so loud the cement floor shook.

A woman sat on a stool in front of a large opening at the end of the hallway; at first Danny thought they’d been taken into a carnival. Stoner said a few words, first in Mandarin Chinese and then in English, before handing over some of the local money; in return, the woman passed out several fishing poles, empty baskets, and kids’ pails filled with what looked like small brown slugs.

“Bait,” said Stoner, handing a pail to each man. “Liver. I think. She had trouble with my Mandarin and I Page 156

couldn’t quite get her Taiwanese.”

“What is this?” asked Liu.

“We have to fish for our dinner,” said Stoner.

The driver was smirking. Danny followed him inside, where a large pool of foul-smelling water was surrounded by pink lawn chairs, about a third of them filled by Taiwanese “fishermen.” The water was filled with six-inch-long shrimp; the crustaceans were easy to hook, though pulling them out required a bit of wrist action. There were several ways to do this, which the nearby fishermen were eager to explain; Danny found his small basket quickly filling up with shrimp.

“On to the barbie,” said Stoner when each of the party had caught about a dozen or so. The warehouse was studded with charcoal barbecues; Stoner showed them how to skewer the creatures, snap off their claws with a knife, and then roast them alive, or at least nearly alive.

They washed dinner down with cans of beer, bought from one of the vendors.

“Lovely,” said Danny, eyeing his roasted dinner.

“It’s really tasty,” said Liu.

“So’s burnt toast.”

Stoner laughed, and got a few more ready for the grill.

Aboard Penn , over the South China Sea

1834

KICK HAD H AWKOne running five miles ahead of Penn and was just checking back with Major Alou about a contact when Pennsylvania was hailed by a flight of AIDC Ching-Kuos of the Chung-Kuo Kung Chuan—Republic of China Air Force, aka the Taiwan air force—patrolling the waters south of the island.

The AIDC Ching-Kuo came in two “flavors”—a single-seat tactical fighter, and a two-seat combat trainer. Developed with the help of Northrop and other U.S. manufacturers, the Ching-Kuo was a two-engine aircraft that might be favorably compared to a Northrop F-20 or advanced F-5E, able to top Mach 1.7 and with a combat radius of one thousand kilometers.

Major Alou altered the flight to the Megafortress, and Zen told Kick to let them know where he was as well. No sense surprising the allies, whose flight path would take them into visual range as they approached.

Both Taiwanese pilots spoke English very well, though Kick struggled somewhat to make out the words through the accent and vagaries of radio transmission. The two CKKC aircraft were flying southward toward the Megafortress at roughly thirty thousand feet, about five thousand below Penn’s altitude.

Kick plotted out an intercept in his head, mocking up how he would handle the two planes if they were Mainland Chinese. His altitude and tiny size gave him a decent advantage; he saw himself tucking his wing, slashing into a front-quarter attack on the lead plane before he even knew Kick was there, then lashing back around to take out the trailer. A “normal” aircraft would find the maneuver difficult at best, Page 157

but the small Flighthawk would have no trouble spinning back around for the second attack.

“Quite a plane!” exclaimed the CKKC leader, a Captain Hu, as they drew within visual distance.

“Thank you,” answered Kick.

The CKKC pilot began peppering him with questions about the aircraft’s performance. It soon became clear that he didn’t realize it was a robot.

“What should I tell him?” he asked Zen.

“Tell him you’re a UFO, recently enlisted in the U.S. Air Force,” joked Zen.

“Um—”

“I’m just pulling your leg,” said Zen. He clicked into the circuit and spoke to the CKKC pilot, giving some generic data that they were cleared to share. The existence of the U/MFs was no longer a secret, since they had seen action over the past year and even been written up in the aviation and general media.

“Wants to race you,” laughed Zen.

“Race?”

“He’d probably win. The AIDC Ching-Kuo is a good aircraft, very capable. No match for a Flighthawk, of course, but we won’t tell him that.” Zen’s tone changed. “All right, we’re about ten minutes from the coast. Best check with Major Alou about the landing details. I’m going to see if I can get ahold of Captain Freah and see how he’s doing.”

“Yes, sir,” said Kick, wincing as the word ‘sir’ left his mouth.

ZEN DOUBLE-CHECKEDthe plotted course as they headed toward the airfield. In general, he was pleased with Kick’s flying. The lieutenant was still a few notches behind Starship, but he did have potential, and undoubtedly his skill would grow as he became more comfortable with the aircraft.

“Zen, got a second?” asked Alou over the interphone.

“Always for you, Merce,” he laughed.

“Danny’s got a little job lined up for tonight, couple of hours from once it’s dark. Wondering if we can provide a little overhead reconnaissance.”

“That’s why we’re here,” said Zen.

“Okay. We’ll go ahead and land and get refueled, find some grub. Think they do takeout here?”

Kaohisiung

2101

DANNY COULD SWIMpretty well, but the mile from their small motorboat to the pier was Page 158

nonetheless a trial. The water stunk of oil and sewage. It felt like acid, boring its way past his wetsuit, through his skin, trying to disintegrate his bones. The wind whipped at the water and Danny lost his sense of direction; he knew he was moving forward, but it seemed as if his target kept moving away. By the time he finally drew within fifty yards of the pier, his shoulders were burning with the effort.

Odd sounds rushed into his ears, the whine of machinery and boats and other mechanical sounds jumbling with the lap of water against the docks. When he got near the end of the dock, he heard a sharp whistle and turned to find Stoner treading water a few feet away.

“How are you doing?” Stoner asked.

“I’m okay.”

“There’s a spot to get up on the shore over there, on the other side of the pier. A little dock they use for boats.”

“I thought we were going up here,” said Danny. “That was the plan.”

“There’s a light at the end of that wharf there. I saw it coming in. I’m afraid we’d cast shadows.”

Danny grunted, and followed as Stoner slid under the pier. He brushed his leg unexpectedly against the side of one of the pilings, and even though he knew it was just part of the dock, he instantly thought of sharks.

Stoner had already climbed out of the water by the time Danny reached the incline, which was lined with rotting pieces of wood. He hoisted himself up and crawled on the planks, pushing up from the harbor.

“Don’t get a splinter.”

“No shit.” Danny caught his breath a moment, then pulled up the waterproof sack he’d towed with him.

He exchanged his flippers for a pair of sneakers, then took the viewer from its cooled bag. Stoner, meanwhile, was scouting on shore, viewing the facility from a pile of old ropes and tires.

Danny settled in next to him and trained the viewer on the general area, getting a lay-of-the-land picture for the specialists. Stoner pulled out a sat phone to talk to Dreamland, confirming that the device was working.

“Target buildings are that way,” he said when Danny finished. “We go along that fence line right to the building. See the railroad track? We can walk right up it.”

“Don’t think the midnight express is running tonight?”

“Hope not,” said Stoner.

Danny pulled out his sat phone and hooked in the headset so he could talk to Zen.

“Whip One to Hawk Eyes,” said Danny. “Zen, how are we looking?”

“Twenty-twenty,” replied the pilot. “Just making another pass now. We have you and the spook down near the wharf. Six guards, up near the road. Uh, looks like there’s a couple in target building one, still just the one in building two.”

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“Thanks for the assist. We’re going to get closer and use the viewer.”

“Have fun. Hey, Liu told me you went shrimp fishing,” added Zen.

“An experience, believe me.”

“Beats McDonald’s.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Danny and Stoner climbed over an eight-foot fence to get to the railroad tracks, then walked along them to the razor wire fence separating the two buildings they wanted to inspect from the rest of the yard.

Rather than climbing the fence as they had planned, Stoner led the way to a large yard on the other side of the tracks dominated by piles of discarded computers and electronics gear. The piles gave them a good vantage on the first building and a decent though slightly obstructed look at the second.

“About a million dollars’ worth of computer parts here,” said Stoner as Danny climbed the largest pile.

The old PCs—some dated to the first IBM models—provided a surprisingly solid base for him to stand on.

“Just think of how much they cost new,” said Danny, pulling up the viewer and getting to work.

Over the Southern Taiwan Strait

2115

ZEN DID ANinstrument check on the Flighthawk as he looped south of the target area, confirming that the aircraft was in the green and in good shape. Zen had flown the U/MF so long now that he had an almost extrasensory feel for it; still, as he told his young charge sitting next to him, you couldn’t take anything for granted.

“There were twelve people near the gate on that last pass,” said Kick as Zen finished his check. “That’s six more than before.”

“Uh-huh,” said Zen. “Maybe we just missed them the last time.”

“Might be. But it looks to me like they came with two more cars.”

“Probably just a shift change,” said Zen. “But let’s take another look when we swing back.”

Kaohisiung

2117

DANNY STEADIED THEviewer, completing the last of the series. Stoner had gone down toward the buildings to do more reconnoitering; Danny packed the gear away and hooked back into the Dreamland circuit with his com device. Zen warned him a security patrol was approaching the area where they were.

“They’re on the other side of the building,” said Zen. “They have a pickup.”

“Thanks,” said Danny. He stared into the shadows at his left, waiting for Stoner to reappear. He missed his Smart Helmet—not only did it have an integrated night viewer with magnification, but he could have Page 160

popped up a screen showing where his team member was. He planted a pair of his video “bugs” in the ref-use pile, then added the transmitter to the collection of discarded CPUs.

Damn thing looked right at home.

The Dreamland techies confirmed that the gear was on-line.

“So what’s inside the buildings?”

“We’re still analyzing it,” said Charlie Tombs, who was back at Dreamland handling the data flow. “Go on and get out of there.”

No shit, thought Danny, but before he could reply, bright light filled the overhead sky. A siren sounded and someone back by the building began shouting.

“Back to the water! Go!” yelled Stoner, running toward him.

“What the hell?” asked Danny.

“Go! Go!” said Stoner, and as if to punctuate his command an automatic weapon began firing from back by the warehouses.

Over the Southern Taiwan Strait

2119

ZEN HAD ALREADYstarted to bank away from the target area when he saw the explosion. He tucked back eastward and almost immediately got a warning from the computer that he was flying at the edge of their control range.

“ Penn, I need you closer to our target area,” he said calmly.

“Hawk leader, we’re trying. We have a request from an air traffic controller and—”

“I need you closer,” insisted Zen. “Team may be under fire.”

“Understood,” said Alou.

Zen felt the big plane sway beneath him, lurching closer to the shoreline.

“The guards are coming around toward the dock area,” said Kick, watching from the other station.

“Let’s distract them,” said Zen. He pushed the Flighthawk downward, diving toward the buildings from about eight thousand feet.

“How?” asked Kick.

“Like this,” said Zen, starting to pickle the air-defense flares.

Kaohisiung

2120

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AS THE LIGHTshow sparkled directly over the road at the front of the complex, Danny put his head down and ran for all he was worth back toward the dock. Stoner was waiting for him at the eight-foot fence, an M203 grenade launcher in his hand.

“You can’t shoot that,” Danny yelled at him. “We’re under orders.”

“It’s smoke,” said the CIA agent. “Fog up their night gear.”

He pumped a few rounds into the area back by the computer piles, in effect laying out a curtain they could escape behind.

Danny felt his heart thump as they went over the fence and ran to the dock area. He stopped, pulling his flippers out of his pack, but then jumped into the water with his shoes, figuring it would be safer to change in the water. In his haste he fumbled with his gear and nearly lost one of the flippers; a mouthful of putrid water reminded him he wasn’t a SEAL.

“Let’s go,” hissed Stoner.

“I am,” said Danny, stroking out after him. He could hear voices on the shore, curses, he thought; something loud ripped behind him.

A machine gun?

“Our boat’s coming in!” yelled Stoner.

The warning came just in time—Danny pushed himself back as the hull of the speedboat passed within a few yards. Water churned everywhere; there were more shouts; Danny felt himself being lifted out of the water and then flying away, hustled from an exploding typhoon.

“What the hell happened?” Sergeant Liu asked.

“One of the guards must have seen Captain Freah up on the pile,” said Stoner. “He fired a flare.”

“They were shooting at you,” said Liu.

“Guess we found the right place, huh?” asked Danny, finally pushing himself upright. “Anybody got a towel?”

Over the Southern Taiwan Strait

2135

WHILEZEN’S FLAREShad served their purpose in momentarily distracting the guards from Danny and Stoner, they had also attracted the attention of the local authorities. The CKKC as well as the local police and harbor authorities were rushing to investigate; Zen and Major Alou discussed whether they should admit they’d launched the flares as a mistake during their flight. But it would be difficult to explain how the small incendiaries had managed to travel nearly twenty miles from where the Megafortress—clearly visible on radar—was flying, and for the time being at least it seemed better to say nothing.

By the time a CKKC controller came onto their frequency to ask for help searching for “possible communist intruders,” Zen realized he’d blundered. They played through, joining a search off the coast.

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“Want me to take the stick for a while?” asked Kick.

“Let me hold on to it,” said Zen. Then he reconsidered—the kid needed the time a heck of a lot more than he did, and it wasn’t like they were really going to encounter anyone.

“Yeah, good idea, Kick,” he told him, and they initiated the swap.

The radar capabilities of Pennsylvania made it virtually impossible for an airplane to fly anywhere within two hundred miles of it without the EB-52 catching a whiff, but the CKKC pilots didn’t know that. They assumed that the Megafortress was equipped similarly to regular B-52s, which of course had very good radar, but weren’t outfitted as a mini-AWACS. Zen felt a bit embarrassed as the pilots swept southward; he realized now how seemingly innocent misunderstandings during the Cold War had nearly led to hostilities several times.

“Hawk leader, we have a contact on the surface that’s not supposed to be there,” said Penn’s copilot, Kevin McNamara. “We’re wondering if you can check it out.”

“Roger that,” said Zen. The information was fed in from the Megafortress, indicating two small boats—or possibly submarines—thirty miles directly to the west. “Kick—hop to it.”

“On it,” said the pilot.

WHILE IT WASpitch black outside, the Flighthawk visor gave Kick a view as detailed as he would have if it were high noon. Synthesized from its radar as well as IR and optical feeds, the screen showed the sky as a light gray and the water a deep blue; if he wanted, Kick could choose any of a dozen preset schemes or even customize it with a 64,000-color palette.

A bit too much choice as far as he was concerned, but what the hell.

Kick pushed forward in his seat. It was difficult to square the movements of the Megafortress with the path of the plane he was controlling. Most of Kick’s airtime had been in the cockpit of A-10As. While the Hog—the popular, though unofficial nickname had been shortened from Warthog—wasn’t particularly fast, it was highly maneuverable, and a Hog driver got used to taking g’s real fast. But this was different, bizarre in a way—he pushed his stick left and slightly forward, and his stomach began to climb nearly straight up.

“I have a shadow on the surface,” he told McNamara, the Megafortress copilot. “Feeding you visual.”

The shadow lengthened into the thick thumb of a submarine. Upstairs on the flight deck, the copilot had taken the image and presented it to the onboard computers, which searched for identifying marks and then compared these to an onboard databank. In this case, the mast configuration, along with a small fin toward the bow of the craft and a rounded nub at the conning tower, told the computer the submarine was a Chinese diesel boat, a member of the Romeo class originally designed by the Russians in the late 1950s. Though competent, the sixty-man submarines were hardly technological marvels.

“Good work,” Zen told Kick. “Look for the other further west.”

“On it.”

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“I have a patrol vessel approaching from the east,” said the copilot. “I’m handing off the information.”

Kick changed his view to IR, thinking he could pick up the thermal trail of the submarine. But the change in the screen disoriented him.

“Use preset two,” prompted Zen. “The IR takes the lower left window next to the sitrep and you still have your main view on top. Watch your altitude.”

“Right,” said Kick. He nudged upward and asked the computer for the proper screen configuration. As it came in he got a distance warning. He backed off the throttle slider so abruptly he nearly flamed the engines. Disoriented, he pulled up out of his search pattern, afraid he was going to stall the U/MF right into the waves.

“Go back again,” said Zen.

“Okay,” managed Kick.

“It’s all right. You did all right. Best thing to do sometimes is just take a deep breath. The system throws a lot of information at you and you have to learn to process it.”

“I’m all right,” insisted Kick. He immediately regretted the sharp tone in his voice, but there was no way to take it back; instead, he concentrated on getting himself back into position to resume the search.

ZEN FOLDED HISarms in front of him, watching the Flighthawk screens with one eye and Kick with the other. The kid had just passed through a crisis, and how he handled himself now was key. If he got himself back on the horse—put the Flighthawk back into the search pattern, went after the other sub, didn’t fuck up worse—there’d be hope for him.

This was exactly the sort of experience that could be the making of him. You had to fail, Zen thought; you had to taste the bitterness of screwing up in your mouth, and then get beyond it. And it was infinitely better to fail in little ways, as Kick just had, than to wait for one big blowout failure to end all failures as Zen had.

There was no way to teach that, no way to simulate it in exercises. Kick—and Starship, for that matter—had to learn it for themselves. His job was to somehow get them to the point where they could.

“Team is recovered and heading back to the hotel,” reported Major Alou. “We can head back whenever you want.”

“Soon as Kick gets over that other contact, we can head back for the barn,” said Zen.

“Got it at two miles. It’s diving,” said the Flighthawk pilot.

The submarine was similar to the other one they had seen. Data recorded, Alou set a course for home.

“Keep your eye out for an unidentified aircraft firing flares over the city,” added the pilot.

“If we see it, you’ll be the first to know,” said Zen.

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Dreamland Control

0700

RUBEO STOOD BACKfrom the computer screen, rubbing his temple fiercely. They had taken all the inputs from Danny’s viewer and compiled them into a model, supplementing them with information from the Flight-hawk flyover and earlier satellite data.

“Problem, Doc?” asked Natalie Catsman.

“It’s not an airplane.”

Major Catsman looked at the three-dimensional mockup of Shed Building Two, which included legends showing items in the facility. The area next to the wall looked like a machine shop, with several stations set up that looked to contain presses and drills. Further back were large banks of some sort of computer equipment, though the Dreamland system could not render it with much precision.

“Recycling?” asked Catsman.

“You wouldn’t need computer-controlled machinery for recycling,” said Rubeo. “This material here. It’s a portable wall. It’s shielding.”

“Shielding what?”

“Yes,” said Rubeo. “This piece here came from a centrifuge. Or could have. They’re making bombs here. I believe they’re nuclear weapons.”

Catsman, still new to Dreamland and the high-tech gear at its disposal, frowned as if she were overwhelmed.

“We need more data,” said Rubeo. “But look at this.”

He pulled up another screen filled with a row of numbers.

“The lottery?” Catsman laughed.

“Readings from Captain Freah’s Geiger counter. They are above normal background levels. Material was taken through here, and there was an accidental spill. Small, but it contained minute traces of plutonium.”

“We have to tell Colonel Bastian about this right away,” said Catsman.

“Absolutely,” said the scientist.

Brunei

2220

MONITORING THE OPERATIONfrom the Dream Command trailer, Dog watched the fuss over the flares at the site and the subsequent patrols. Taiwan and Mainland China might be on the verge of historic discussions, but tensions were still very high—the wrong match at the wrong time, and they could just as well be exchanging gunfire as greetings. And war wouldn’t be confined to the two Chinas. Units all Page 165

across Asia had hiked their alert status.

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

JEDBARCLAY HADjust 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.

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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

RUBEO SLAMMED HIShand 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.”

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“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?”