Текст книги "Strike Zone"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“Who’s investigating?” asked Dog, deciding to cut to the quick. Balboa was the head of the Joint Chiefs and a general pain in the butt when it came to anything concerning Dreamland.

“Air Force Office of Special Investigations,” said Jed. “They’re sending a woman out this afternoon. Her name is Cortend, and she’s a bitch with wings. Um, pardon my French.”

“Didn’t sound very French to me, Jed.” Dog sighed and took another sip of his coffee. “Who is she?”

“Full-bird colonel. She’s, uh, she’s going to answer to the chief of the Air Force directly because—uh, Page 11

do you want all the political interplay, or just the shorthand?”

“Shorthand’s fine.”

“They want to make sure this isn’t a replay of the Russian situation a few years ago,” said Barclay, making an oblique reference to the spy scandal that had preceded Dog’s arrival at the base. “Defense Secretary Chastain got Balboa to sign off on her because she did the, uh, she found the fraud at J&D on the propulsion contract last year, and the Chinese spy at the Alaska contractor. She’s tough. But even so, this is just like a preliminary, unofficial, I mean, she has full powers, but it’s—”

“Thanks, Jed. I get the picture,” said Dog. Basically, they were sending someone there with the power to turn the base upside down, but because she was only coming on an informal or unofficial basis, she wouldn’t have to play by any of the rules meant to keep things fair.

So be it.

“There’s a couple of people who want your scalp,” added the NSC official. “Uh, I know you don’t care for the politics but, uh—”

“I don’t.”

“They may, uh—you have to watch the way you handle it,” said Barclay. “Because they have their knives out.”

“I appreciate the warning, Jed. Really. It’s all right. I can take care of myself. So can the rest of the people here.”

“There was something else,” added Jed.

“Fire away.”

“The President wants to talk to you personally. He’s concerned about China. You probably ought to expect his call around midnight our time. You know how he burns the midnight oil.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dog hung up the phone. The President had personally ordered Dreamland to intervene between China and India. The unit’s stock—and Dog’s—were extremely high with the White House. But if a spy had delivered Flighthawk technology to the Russians or Chinese or anyone else, that would change quicker than the stock market had on Black Tuesday.

If a spy had penetrated the U/MF project, he or she was undoubtedly still at Dreamland. Dog didn’t think it possible.

Then again, General Brad Elliott, the last commander of Dreamland, probably didn’t think any of his people had been spies either. And he’d been proven wrong.

General Elliott. God rest his soul. He had given his life to stop China from taking over Taiwan and engulfing the U.S. in a major war. A true American hero.

Page 12

Dog took another sip of the strong black coffee. He gave himself thirty seconds to enjoy it, and then went back on the offensive, tackling the paper before him.

Dreamland Ground Range Three

1500

DANNYFREAH NODDEDat the twelve men dressed in full combat gear, then began his short speech.

“It’s live fire. I don’t want anyone hurt. Sergeant Liu will go over the objectives. You’ve all been through the Army Special Forces Q Course, so I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with this.”

Freah glanced at Liu, who was suppressing a smirk. The exercise had been designed with the help of two Army SF veterans with the express intention of making it much more difficult than the SF qualifying exercise, no picnic in itself. It wasn’t really a matter of physical exertion. The men would be slogging nearly thirty miles in the next twenty-four hours with full rucks, addressing a number of objectives that ranged from taking out a machine-gun post to helping a little girl find her doll. (This was a particularly perverse exercise: The girl was in the middle of a simulated minefield. Once rescued, the doll contained a radio-activated bomb that had to be disarmed. Throwing it away was not an acceptable solution, since it would set off all the mines.)

The difficult aspect of the exercise was the fact that it was impossible to succeed. Everyone in the exercise—everyone—would wash out at some point. That was when the true test began.

The men here were in excellent physical shape. Most had worked as PJs, members of the illustrious

“pararescuer” community that had saved countless Air Force and civilian lives. Several had jumped behind enemy lines in Iraq during the Gulf War to direct close combat support. All were volunteers, and in fact Danny had chosen them all as part of the elite security force that kept Dreamland safe. The final cut—a trooper to replace Sergeant Powder on the Whiplash action team—would be made by the present members of the deployment squad themselves.

The recruits were divided into four three-man teams, each matched with a Whiplash trooper, who would rotate to a new group after six hours. Liu, as team sergeant, would move between the teams.

“All right. You have your orders,” said Danny. “Sergeant Liu.”

Liu stepped forward. At five-six and maybe 140 pounds, he hardly seemed the typical hard-assed special operations soldier. Indeed, most of the men in front of him outweighed him by a hundred pounds.

But he could have taken any of them with one hand tied behind his back, even the three men who, like Liu, had black belts in Tae Kwon Do.

“Team One up,” said Liu.

As he did, he pressed a button on the remote control in his pocket. An M/V-22 Osprey gunship revved from the other end of the range, bullets spilling from the pair of Avenger Gatling guns in its belly.

As bullets began splashing twenty yards away, the first team joined up with Sergeant Kevin Bison and began running toward a helicopter that had been set up to simulate a hostage rescue situation. Danny was pleased to see that none of the men flinched as the massive shells from the guns landed.

That would no doubt change by the end of the day, but it was good to see that they were starting well.

Page 13

Dreamland

2010

COLONELVICTORIAMARGARETCortend folded her arms impatiently as the Dolphin transport helicopter strode in toward its landing dock at the top-secret base, a series of automated landing and auxiliary lights popping on. Nearby, an I-HAWK or Improved HAWK surface-to-air missile battery swung around, keeping the approaching aircraft well in its sights; Cortend suspected that the missile had been situated primarily to impress visitors, as any intruder would have been blasted out of the sky by the more sophisticated laser defenses at the base perimeter.

Bozos. Just the sort of arrogant waste of resources she detested. It was typical in the special commands.

Weeding out the problems here would be a pleasure.

Cortend waited until the chopper settled down on the cement, then with a brisk snap undid her restraint and climbed out of the helicopter. A staff sergeant grabbed at the door. She stared at him until he finally stood back and snapped into a salute. Returning it, she walked toward the pair of Air Force security personnel posted nearby. The men had the good sense to challenge her, and after a very proper exchange she was cleared to proceed to the Jimmy with its flashing blue light a short distance away.

The same sergeant who had held the door earlier ran to grab her bag; Cortend dismissed him with a glare and proceeded to the SUV. She had long ago learned that it was a serious mistake to allow anyone– anyone—to touch her things. She did not ask for assistance, nor did she accept it. While being a colonel brought with it certain prerogatives of rank, having a slouch-man—her term—was one she could do without.

If all colonels, and generals, followed her example, the military would be a much leaner and meaner organization. As it should be.

“Colonel Cortend,” said the driver, stepping from the car. His salute was sloppy, but recognizable.

“Is that a question, Sergeant?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. I just, uh—I’m here to take you to your quarters.”

“I’m not going to my quarters. Take me to the commander’s office.”

“The Taj?”

“Young man, if you don’t know where the commander’s office is, why were you assigned as my driver?”

“Um, I do know, ma’am. I mean, uh—”

He tried to open the door for her but she was too annoyed to allow it.

Dreamland had a certain reputation back East. Obviously it was overinflated.

The airman got into the truck and began driving away from the Dolphin portal.

“The Taj? As in the Taj Mahal?” said Cortend, suddenly understanding what the airman had said.

Page 14

“Well, uh, yes, ma’am. Officially, it’s Administrative Building Two, but uh, everyone just kinda calls it the Taj.”

“Everyone except me. Take me there,” said Cortend.

“COME,” SAIDDOG,hearing the knock on his door. Thinking it was Ax or maybe one of the scientists, he continued scribbling the last thread of his thoughts about the project he’d just reviewed. It involved further testing of a space-based laser weapon; while Dog was all for the weapon, the tests would cost several hundred million dollars at least, money that he frankly thought would be better spent on next-generation UAVs. But that wasn’t his call; he said the tests were a reasonable step if money could be found.

“Lieutenant Colonel Bastian.”

Dog put down the pen. Colonel Cortend was standing in the doorway; the sergeant assigned as her escort shifted nervously behind her.

“Colonel Cortend,” Dog said, rising. “Welcome to Dreamland.”

Cortend stood in the doorway, frowning. The frown deepened as he extended his hand; she looked at it as if it contained a dead fish, then extended her own. She grabbed about halfway and squeezed—an old Pentagon trick, Dog knew, to make a firm grasp seem life-threatening.

Frankly, Cortend didn’t look as if she needed any tricks. She had shoulders that would cow an NFL

linebacker.

“Are your quarters satisfactory?” said Dog, trying to break the ice as Cortend surveyed the boat of a desk and the matching cherry bookcases that graced his office. He’d inherited the furniture from General Elliott, who had paid for it himself.

“I expect they will be,” said Cortend.

The frost in her voice removed any last doubt Dog might have had about how pleasant the colonel’s stay might be. He put on his Pentagon face and told her that she was welcome to go where she wanted, and that everyone at the base would fully cooperate in any way possible.

Cortend’s scowl deepened. “I’ll see the computer labs and the Flighthawk hangar first. Then I want an office. My staff will be arriving at 0800.”

It was rather late for a tour, but Dog didn’t bother arguing with her. “Security detail will take you around. Chief Gibbs has already set everything up and will personally make sure that you’re squared away in the morning. We’ve allocated a pair of rooms on the first level of the building. There’s a conference room as well. The chief has a handle on the badges, phones, computers, everything you need.

Ax is really incredible. You’ll be impressed.”

“Ax?”

“That would be Chief Gibbs. One of the best, believe me.”

Dog ignored her scowl and rose, intending that as her cue to clear out. She didn’t take it.

Page 15

“I’m afraid I’ve been away,” said Dog. “And I have a few things to attend to before turning in.”

“I see.” Cortend frowned, but didn’t move as Dog sat back down.

“Colonel?” he asked.

“Are you going to get this Chief Ax, or should I locate him myself?”

“Uh, it’s a little late in the day—”

“You, Lieutenant Colonel, are working. Why is your staff not?”

Dog stifled his instinctive response, trying to turn it into a joke. “I don’t like paying overtime,” he told her.

“Hmph,” said Cortend.

“Would you like some advice?” Dog asked. He ignored her frown and continued anyway. “You have to remember, Colonel, Dreamland is not like most other military commands. There are a lot of civilians here.

A lot of scientist types. And we don’t have the sort of bureaucratic infrastructure that a lot of the military has. I’m not critcizing other commands at all; I’d love the personnel slots, believe me. But we’re a bit different. And because of that, the atmosphere takes a little getting used to.”

“You seem to have adjusted.”

“You mean that as a compliment or a criticism?”

Dog had controlled his temper for a remarkably long time, but the implied slur on the people who worked for him was simply too much.

“Take it as you wish,” said Colonel Cortend, not giving an inch. “Now let me give you some advice, Lieutenant Colonel. I’m here informally, but if anyone interferes with my work—you especially—”

Dog’s anger had built to such a level that even he would have been unable to stifle an outburst had the phone not rung.

“I’m afraid I have to take this behind closed doors. The security detail will see to your needs,” he told Cortend, struggling to keep his voice neutral. “The sergeant will give you access to your quarters and to your office; the phone lines, computers, they’re all ready to go. Believe me, when Chief Gibbs sets something up, it works. And that goes for everyone here. Now you’ll have to excuse me.”

Cortend frowned, but stepped into the outer office, closing the door behind her.

“Bastian,” said Dog, picking up the encrypted phone.

“Colonel, it’s Jed Barclay. Stand by for the President.”

President Kevin Martindale’s voice practically jumped through the phone when the connection finally went through.

Page 16

“Tecumseh, I’m sorry I couldn’t come out there myself for your ceremony.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You did a fine job in the Pacific. A very good job. The Navy’s jealous. You should see Admiral Balboa. Just about apoplectic.” The President laughed, but his tone changed quickly. “We’ve spent a bit of time reviewing the situation in South Asia. The consensus seems to be that the Chinese will leave the Indians alone for a while.”

“I hope so.”

“Makes two of us, Tecumseh. Now tell me about the Flighthawk you discovered. Whose is it?”

“Sir, we’re not sure it’s a Flighthawk. We have only a few seconds’ worth of intercepts and a minuscule amount of radar on it. But it’s highly capable, probably as advanced as our own aircraft.”

“I understand there’s some sort of computer coding that is the same?”

Dog gave the President a brief overview of the latest analysis. “Very similar,” he concluded. There was no sense being anything less than candid.

The President said nothing for a few moments. “I’m also told that there’s a chance that your gear was mistaken. The information came from the aircraft that was shot down.”

“Yes, sir. But we believe the data was very good.”

“How is your daughter?” asked the President, changing the subject.

“She’s doing very well. Should be out of the hospital any day now.”

“If she’s anything like her father, she’ll be back on active duty in a week,” said the President.

Dog smiled. In fact, he had talked to Breanna earlier in the day, and she insisted she would be back home next week.

Home being Dreamland, of course.

“I want you to get to the bottom of the situation right away,” the President said. “I want you to find out who has the other aircraft. Given the volatility of Asia right now, a weapon such as the Flighthawk would greatly complicate the chances for peace.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I realize there’s a possibility the design was stolen,” said Martindale. “That has to be explored as well.”

Dog nodded silently to himself. The President was being tactful, but nonetheless making it clear that he was on top of the situation. Dog admired that—even though the implications might not be pleasant.

“We will, sir.”

“You’ve done well, Tecumseh. We’ve spent much of the evening reviewing your work in the South Page 17

China Sea. Another home run. No matter what the Navy says. I won’t forget. But let’s get this other matter straightened out.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dog told the President, but Martindale had already hung up.

Dreamland Lecture Center Two

5 September 1997

0845

MAJORJEFF“ZEN”Stockard rolled his wheelchair next to the free console in the small auditorium, trying not to spill his coffee. He was surprised and relieved that he wasn’t late. While he didn’t have to worry about getting a place—the station was specially designed for a wheelchair, and he was the only one on the base in one—he hated having everyone stare as he wheeled himself in.

“Hey, Zen,” said Major Alou, one of the Megafortress pilots. “How’s Bree?”

“Claims she’ll be home next week,” said Zen.

“Yeah, what’s she doing? Soaking sun on the beach.”

“That and taking hula lessons,” said Zen.

Alou laughed and sat down.

Breanna had told Zen last night that she was ready to come home but the doctors wouldn’t release her.

Doctors meaning her mother, who by some bad fortune happened to be a muckety-muck on the hospital surgical staff. Worse—much worse—said mother was taking a position at Medici Hospital just outside Las Vegas, which would put her within interference range of her favorite—and only—daughter.

It wasn’t that Zen had a bad relationship with his mother-in-law. He had no relationship, and would have preferred it that way. It was bad enough that Breanna’s father ran Dreamland. Now he was going to have her mother looking over his other shoulder.

Not that the Dog was a bad commander, or that he interfered with their personal lives. It was just—claustrophobic.

Ray Rubeo and Jennifer Gleason entered the room wearing deep frowns. Rubeo scowled habitually; the muscles in his face refused to unclench even when he ate. Jennifer, though, could be counted on for a cheery smile even after working for sixty straight hours. The appearance of the “ghost clone”—and the implications that someone had sold Flighthawk secrets to a foreign government—obviously had her deeply troubled. The scientists took seats at the consoles a row down from him, Jennifer forcing a smile as she sat.

Colonel Bastian entered, trailed by Danny Freah and Mark Stoner, a CIA officer who had worked with Dreamland during the Piranha deployment.

Zen didn’t particularly like Stoner. He had to fight to prevent a frown from clouding his face as the spook looked at him and nodded. He managed to nod back, then took another sip of coffee, hoping the caffeine would chase off his bad mood.

“And you must be Major Stockard.”

Page 18

Zen spun his head around and found a tall, thick-shouldered woman eyeing him. She wore a visitor’s badge on her uniform and stood so straight he could almost see the broomstick extruding from her behind—obviously the colonel from the Air Force Office of Special Investigations.

“People call me Zen,” he told her.

“Yes,” said Colonel Cortend, her tone implying that there were a large number of insane idiots in the world that couldn’t be accounted for. “I’d like to speak to you after this conference a little later. My inquiries are informal, though cooperation is advised. Strongly advised.”

“Not a problem.”

“I understand you’re the project officer on the Flighthawks?”

“That’s correct,” answered Zen, meeting her icy tone with one of his own.

“I’ve been reviewing the personnel attached to the project,” she told him. “Quite a collection.”

It was clear she didn’t mean it as a compliment.

“You bet your ass it is,” said Zen. He turned his attention to the front of the room.

“THE SIMULATION YOU’VEjust seen represents our best guess as to the capabilities and configuration of the ghost clone,” said Dog. “As you can see, it’s very, very similar to a first-generation Flighthawk. As such, it could be used for a variety of purposes. Air-launched from a bomber, or even a civilian transport, it could attack an urban area with a variety of weapons. It would be difficult to see on radar.”

Dog hit the remote control to restore the lighting.

“We have two tasks. We have to find the clone, figure out who’s operating it and what its actual capabilities are. And number two, we have to determine if our own security has been breached. We’ll have help,” said Dog, brushing past the implication that a traitor was among them. “Most of you are familiar with Mr. Stoner, who is an expert on Asian technology and high-tech deployment. He was responsible for identifying the Indian sub-launched weapons.”

Dog turned toward Colonel Cortend, who was beaming laser animosity from both eyes.

“And Colonel Cortend has joined us from the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. For those of you who haven’t dealt with OSI before, they’re a thorough, professional group,” said Dog.

The flattery, of course, only deepened her glare.

“I expect everyone will cooperate to the fullest of their ability,” added Dog, looking toward Rubeo. The scientist had already lodged a complaint about the investigator, who apparently had arrived unannounced at his quarters at 0700 for an interview.

“Questions?” said the colonel, knowing his tone would ward any off. He gave them three seconds, then dismissed them.

Page 19

Dreamland Computer Lab One

1100

“SO YOU ALONEare responsible for the coding?”

Jennifer flicked the hair back behind her ear. “Of course not,” she told Cortend. The colonel had two bleary-eyed technical experts and a pair of bright-faced lieutenants standing behind her, but none of them had uttered a peep.

“I work with a team of people,” said Jennifer. “Depending on which project and what we’re talking about, the team could have a dozen or more people. Six people handled the compression routines for C3.”

“C3is?”

“The computer system that helps fly the Flighthawks. The communication sequences have to—”

“And any of these six people could have given the secrets away.”

“No one gave the secrets away,” said Jennifer.

“Someone did, my dear. Someone.”

“Let me explain how the compression works. See, the algorithms themselves aren’t necessarily secret—”

“Everything you work on is secret,” said Cortend. She rose. “I think we have enough for now. We’ll be back.”

“Peachy,” muttered Jennifer beneath her breath.

MAJORMACK“THEKnife” Smith adjusted his swagger as a quintet of officers came out of the computer lab. Mack had recently returned to Dreamland after a series of temporary assignments had failed to get him the squadron command he so ardently desired—and, in his unprejudiced opinion, deeply deserved. He accepted a position as temporary test officer for a project dubbed Micro-Mite, a twenty-first century fleet of interceptors no larger than cruise missiles that would use energy beam weapons to bring down their opponents.

Or maybe lasers, or railguns, or some as-yet unperfected Flash Gordon zap weapon. That was the beauty of the assignment—four weeks of blue-sky imagining with a bunch of pizza-eating eggheads, who would spit out sci-fi concepts for him to consider as they worked feverishly over their laptops on simulations. They were all recent grads of MIT, RPI, and Berkeley—or was it Cal Tech? In any event, the pimple-faced pizza eaters looked to him as the voice of reality and experience. With his combat experience and superior flying and fighting skills, he was their god, and they bowed down before him.

Figuratively, of course. Which was the way he wanted it. For alas, while there were six females among the chosen, the eggheads’ bodies were no match for their brains. Even mixing and matching their best attributes would still leave the composite far short of Jennifer Gleason, Dreamland’s resident brain babe.

He was in fact on his way to see her now, hoping she might be available to give his acolytes a few pointers about the value of working with the military. They really didn’t need to hear another pep talk—he had that under control himself—but it would give Mack an excuse to admire her assets—er, Page 20

abilities—for a good twenty minutes or more.

Mack had tried several times to steer her into his quarters for an up-close examination of her charms. Of late, though, he’d had to settle for watching from afar. Jennifer was seeing the base commander, and even Mack knew better than to cross the boss, especially when he required Dog’s connections and good word to help steer him toward the command he deserved. With any luck, Dog would come through and deliver him a tasty squadron post in the next week or so. The colonel’s star was rising in Washington, and surely he owed Mack a bit of largesse.

“Halt,” said a tall, rather striking if formal woman at the rear of a three-man formation that had buzzed into the hallway.

She had been speaking to the drones behind her, but Mack momentarily thought the command was meant for him. Taken by surprise, he stopped and gazed at the woman, realizing with his connoisseur’s eye that, if properly undressed, this frame and face might be fittingly attractive. It was tall for a woman, with shoulders that were admittedly manly. But the starched trousers sheathed long, undoubtedly athletic legs, and there was no hiding the voluptuous breasts standing guard above the slim waist.

“Can we help you?” barked the breasts’ owner.

“You must be from OSI,” said Mack. He extended his hand. “Mack Smith.”

“Major.”

The drones hovered, unsure whether their master was being greeted or attacked.

Mack gave them nods—lieutenants, mere children—then turned toward their leader.

“I’m available for background,” Mack told her. “I’ve been here awhile. I know where the bodies are buried.”

“I see.”

She looked him over. Mack pushed his shoulders back.

“Perhaps we’ll arrange something,” said the officer, turning to go.

“What was your name?” he asked.

“It’s Colonel Cortend,” whispered one of the underlings.

“First name?” said Mack.

Cortend whirled around. “Why would you need to know my first name?”

“For future reference,” said Mack.

The colonel frowned in his direction, then turned and set off so quickly that her minions had difficulty keeping up.

Mack felt his face flush. By the time he started moving again, his palms were so sweaty that he had to Page 21

wipe them on his pants, and he was so obsessed with Cortend that he forgot what he’d come to see Jennifer about.

Dreamland, Flighthawk Hangar Offices

1300

“NO WAY THISis a Chinese Project,” Stoner told Zen as the briefing session broke up. “No way.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d know about it.”

Zen, Rubeo, and several of the other civilian experts involved in the Flighthawk project had just finished giving Stoner a comprehensive briefing on the technologies involved in the U/MF-3. They had emphasized three areas—materials, propulsion, and communications—which until the discovery of the clone had appeared to be Dreamland monopolies.

“I’ve dealt with the Chinese,” said Zen. “They’re pretty damn competent. I wouldn’t underestimate them.”

“I’m not underestimating them. I just don’t think they did this. Consider their aircraft technology. Their most advanced aircraft is the Shenyang F-8IIM. It’s basically a very large MiG-21. If they were able to construct lightweight carbon fiber wings, for example, they’d be building something closer to the F-22.”

“So who? The Russians?”

“They’re much more capable than anyone gives them credit for,” said Stoner. “I wouldn’t rule out the Indians either. You saw their sub-launched cruise missile. That was a pretty serious weapon.”

“The technology here is more advanced,” said Zen.

“In some ways, certainly.” Stoner folded his arms. “What about the Japanese?”

“The Japanese?”

“Forget the technology a minute,” said Stoner. “Look at the way the craft was used. It wasn’t taking part in the battle. It was watching what was going on. It was a spy plane. It stayed far away from the action.”

“That doesn’t rule China out,” said Zen.

“Sure it does. If the Chinese had this weapon, wouldn’t they have been using it to scout the Indian forces?”

“Maybe they did and we didn’t see it. The Flighthawks are very difficult to pick up on radar,” said Zen.

“You think this thing flew over the Navy task force without being detected?”

Zen shrugged. He didn’t, but he didn’t feel like admitting it to Stoner.

“My guess is it’s a third-party player,” said Stoner. “Japan, Russia—someone interested, but not directly Page 22

involved.”

“My money’s still on China,” said Zen. “I don’t trust them.”

“And they don’t trust us,” said Stoner. “But that’s good.”

“Why?”

“Makes them predictable.”

FOR AN EGGHEADnerd, Rubeo set a good clip, and Stoner had trouble catching up with him as he cleared through the underground maze back toward his laboratories.

“Doc, can I talk to you?”

“You seem to be making an effort to do so,” said Rubeo, not pausing.

“Who really could develop this?”

Rubeo stopped at a locked door and put in his card. The door clicked and buzzed, but didn’t open.

“Your ID,” said Rubeo. “In the slot.”

Stoner complied. The door opened. Rubeo stepped through and resumed his pace.

“We can. The Japanese maybe. The Chinese. Not the Russians.”

“That’s it?”

The scientist stopped outside one of the lab doors. Despite his high clearance, Stoner was not allowed into the room, which contained the terminals used for work on the Flighthawk control computers, as well as a myriad of other projects. Rubeo frowned at him, then touched his earring. He seemed to be trying to figure out exactly what to tell him. Stoner wasn’t sure whether he was trying to translate complicated scientific data into layman’s terms—or if he just didn’t trust him.

“Plenty of countries have unmanned vehicles, don’t they?” prompted Stoner.

“Forget the mechanical aspects,” said Rubeo. He glanced down the hallway, making sure they were alone. “It’s the computers that are important. Yes, anyone can build a UMV—we could go to Radio Shack and buy a radio-controlled model that’s about ninety percent as advanced as Predator.”

“Ninety percent?”

“Well, eighty-five.” Rubeo smirked. “Building the aircraft is not the difficult part. The problem is to transfer data quickly enough to control the plane in aggressive flight. This craft seems to have done that.

And if it’s used as a spy plane—well, then you have an enormous data flow, don’t you?

Bandwidth—you understand what I’m talking about.”

Stoner nodded. The scientists had emphasized earlier that massive amounts of data flowed back and forth very quickly between the Flighthawks and their mother ships. To be honest, Stoner didn’t completely get it—what was the big deal about some video and flying instructions? But it was enough to Page 23