Текст книги "Strike Zone"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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The J-11s, meanwhile, were near bingo.

“The Chinese want to know if we can stay aloft over their pilots while they go and refuel,” said Alou.

“They’re just about out of gas.”

“Well, what the hell did they send them down here for if they didn’t have enough fuel to do anything but spin around and go home?” asked Zen.

“You’re asking me to explain the logic of the Chinese command system?”

“Do we have enough fuel ourselves?”

“Tight. We’ll have to try and arrange a refuel as we head south,” said Alou. “We can do it, though.

Mission commander’s call.”

“Well let’s not run out of fuel ourselves,” said Zen. “But you better tell that Z-5 to get a move on—Commander Won doesn’t look like much of a swimmer, even with his lifejacket on.”

COLONELBASTIAN WASseveral hundred miles away, about to enter Brunei airspace, but his voice came through loud and clear on the Raven’s flight deck. Major Alou switched into the private Dreamland circuit, which used a dedicated satellite network to provide around-the-globe encrypted transmissions.

“ Raven here. Major Alou.”

“Bastian. What’s the situation?”

Alou filled him in. The J-11s had taken a quick look and gone home; the Chinese rescue plane was still a good half hour off.

“We’ve asked Texaco to come up and stand by,” Alou added, referring to a KC-10 tanker asset operating in Brunei with the Dreamland team. Its tanks were filled with a special Dreamland jet fuel; though the planes could use the ordinary J-8 blend, the tiny Flighthawks operated better with a slightly tweaked mixture, and whenever possible Dreamland used its own tankers and support crew.

“That’s fine. You say you have video on the Chinese planes’ collision?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve already downloaded it to Dream Command.”

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“Good,” said Dog. “I’ll talk to Major Catsman and Jed Barclay. We’re about to land,” he added.

“Keep me informed. Penn out.”

“ Raven.”

THEHARBINZ-5was a monstrous four-engine seaplane, a big flying amphibian that had been designed as a replacement for the Russian Beriev Be-6. The Z-5 had no American equivalent; it looked a bit like a Consolidated PB2Y from the World War II era, with the fuselage lengthened and slimmed down and the wings set very far back. While slow and ponderous, it was well suited for long-range and tedious SAR

missions over the ocean. It could stay aloft for at least fifteen hours, carried an eight-man crew, and had a pantry full of rescue gear.

By the time the Harbin made contact with Raven, the raftless Commander Won had managed to get his rescue radio working. Zen passed along a message that the pilot was tired but alive. When the Z-5 came in sight, Zen rode Hawk Two out to meet it, looping around and bird-dogging the big flying boat in toward the pilot. He pulled off and watched the lumbering plane touch down, splashing against the water as it came in. The ocean was as calm as a bird bath, and the airplane had no problem coasting near its man to facilitate the rescue.

“They’re saying thank you, and they can take it from here,” said Alou. “Our tanker’s en route to the rendezvous. Good time to split.”

“Well, at least the SAR guys know their manners,” said Zen, climbing so they could tank and begin the long trek home.

Brunei

1630

BY THE TIMEDog returned to the base, the adulation for Mack Smith had reached comical proportions. The Brunei officials spoke in tones that suggested the major might have a national holiday named after him. Even Mack seemed a bit embarrassed by the reaction of the Brunei officials, though this hadn’t stopped him from giving two interviews to the state-run media in a special lounge over in the international airport terminal.

“What happened, Mack?” said the colonel when the major finally managed to pull away from the horde of officials and bureaucrats trying to congratulate him.

“Colonel, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Take your best shot.”

Dog listened as Smith told him how the cannons had fired on their own when he turned the radar on.

“They fired on their own?” said Dog. “You didn’t hit the armament panel and then push the trigger?”

“I don’t believe that was the case, sir.”

“Mack, you really don’t expect me to believe that, do you? Didn’t you know the weapons were loaded?” demanded Dog.

“No, sir. Not at all. I swear to God. I did not know they were loaded.”

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The last bit—but only the last bit—seemed sincere.

“You know what would have happened if you hit one of those planes?” Dog asked.

Mack held out his hands.

“This is a serious screw-up,” said Dog.

“Prince bin Awg doesn’t think so,” said Mack. “He thinks I’m a hero. And Miss Kelly says it’ll probably help the alliance.”

“This is the sort of thing I’d expect out of a lieutenant,” Dog told him. “A lieutenant who was maybe about to be bounced down to airman. Not a major. Not someone who has serious responsibilities and wants to command a squadron someday.”

Mack’s face blanched.

“Colonel, honest to God, I didn’t know the cannons were loaded. I thought I’d just spin the gun around.

I was, it was, I just thought—”

“What did you think?”

“It’s hard to say what I was thinking now,” said Mack. “It’s hard even to say I was thinking at all.”

“You got that right.”

There was a knock on the door.

“No more interviews,” Dog told him. “Don’t say anything. Nothing. Not one word until I speak to Washington.”

He turned and went to the door himself. He pulled it open, thinking he would find one of the local press people, but instead found bin Awg.

The sultan stood a few feet behind him.

“Your Highness,” said Dog, bowing his head in respect.

“Colonel Bastian.”

“Your Excellency, let me apologize,” said Dog. “I deeply regret the trouble we’ve caused.”

“Apologize?” said bin Awg.

The sultan put up his hand. “The Chinese have been taught a lesson,” said the ruler. “There is no need for apology. I hope you and Major Smith will be our guests this evening for a private dinner.”

As Dog started to say he couldn’t, he saw Miss Kelly in the background. She was nodding her head emphatically.

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“I um, I’ll try, Your Excellency.”

The sultan smiled. “Try very hard,” he said before turning to leave.

Aboard Raven, over the South China Sea

1800

LIEUTENANTDECIGORDONstudied the displays on his console, looking at a graphical representation of the many different electrical signals in the air around Raven. While the complex array of sensors lining the Megafortress’s hull could pick up everything from rocket telemetry to cell phone conversations, the computer had been programmed to look for a very narrow band of transmissions in the same power range as that used by the Flighthawk. The graphical representation of the scan—custom-designed for the EB-52 and still being refined—looked something like an undulating sand dune, with narrow symmetrical lines formed by an unseen rake. His eyes hunted the ever-shifting sands for a blue triangle—the indicator that would show the ghost clone’s broadcast. Though he had told the computer to alert him if it was detected, Gordon trusted his own mark-one eyeballs more than the computer. He stared at the screen and worked his equipment, changing different parameters and the capture patterns in hopes of finding something.

Trained as both an electronic warfare and Elint specialist—traditionally separate though linked roles Raven itself combined—Gordon was a next-generation whizzo, a backseater whose mastery of the radio waves allowed him to listen in on, confuse, or destroy transmitting devices from radars to cell phones and walkie-talkies. Typically, Raven carried two experts; generally in combat one would concentrate on radar intercepts and the other would work with enemy telemetry and communications. Deci’s specialty was radar, but both he and his workmate, Lieutenant Wes Brown, were cross-trained. In this case, both men were using different sets of the gathering gear to look for the clone.

Deci flipped his scan back to an overall capture pattern, showing the active radio transmissions within a two-hundred-mile radius of Raven. Purple starbursts representing the Chinese SAR effort appeared at the top left, with ASEAN transmissions to the southwest below and the radioed instructions from the tanker they were to meet in five minutes a nice lime green at the right. The colors had been selected from a list of preferences Gordon himself had set; he’d already decided the choices needed a bit more work, but any refinement would have to wait until he got back to Dreamland.

Gordon couldn’t wait for the refuel. A large submarine sandwich was waiting for him in Raven’s fridge, located in the galley area at the rear of the flight deck. He’d chow down as soon as they hooked up with Texaco.

He flipped back to the ghost clone monitoring screen, determined to take one last look. As he did, the computer sounded the “gotcha” tone in his ear.

It took a half second for him to spot the triangle, flickering at the very top edge of the screen. When he did, his finger shot toward it, tapping the touch-sensitive screen.

“Capture,” he said, “capture.”

“Crew, we’re zero five from the rendezvous with Texaco,” said Major Alou.

“Major, hold off! Hold off!” said Gordon, barely able to control his excitement. “I have something. I have it.”

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ZEN JERKED INhis seat. He pulled the Flighthawk back north, waiting as the information on the intercepted data flashed onto the sitrep screen, sent there from the data link upstairs.

“Yeah, yeah, looks good. Raven, I think we have a hot one,” said Zen.

“Hawk leader, our fuel state is getting toward critical,” said Alou.

“How critical?” asked Zen. He was roughly six minutes away from the ghost clone.

“We can give you ten minutes, no more,” said Alou. “Then we come back or we ask the Chinese for a link home.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Roger that. Texaco’s coming north with us, but even so, we’re cutting it close.”

Zen pushed the throttle slide up, increasing his speed. He shot a glance at his own fuel panel, just to double-check that he had enough petrol himself. The computer told him that at this speed he could go nearly fifteen more minutes before hitting his reserves.

Plenty of time, he told himself, nudging for more power.

Aboard the Dragon Prince,

in the South China Sea

1806

PROFESSORAIHIRABai saw the Communist Chinese aircraft at the bottom of the viewscreen as he approached. It looked like a burning cockroach sprawled across the water, its white hull glowing in the reflected sun. He brought up his weapons screen, though he was still a good distance from his target.

Professor Ai did not like to think of himself as a vengeful man, but as he began to close on his target and his heart pounded harder, he did start to feel a certain satisfaction rising in his chest. He tried to push it away, realizing it was a distraction—all emotion was a distraction—and yet he could not.

He wanted to kill. There was no question about that. He wanted to kill the men in the aircraft as surely as he wanted to breathe. He wanted to kill all the mongrels on the Mainland.

He would settle for these communist dogs.

The pipper crawled toward its target. The H-5 was taxiing, moving in the water.

Suddenly, the radar aboard the robot sounded a warning—another plane was approaching.

Professor Ai ignored it, leaning forward in his control screen.

Aboard Raven, over the South China Sea

1808

ZEN SAW THEChinese rescue plane before he saw the ghost clone. The H-5 was just starting to move at the top left of his screen; the unmanned airplane had to be somewhere just to its right, but he couldn’t see it yet on the visual.

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Zen realized what was happening a second before McNamara alerted him from the flight deck.

“We have his radar,” said McNamara. “They’re targeting the Chinese plane!”

“Warn them,” said Zen. “The AMRAAMs—can you target the clone?”

The interphone and radio circuits clogged as the pilots above tried to communicate with the Chinese plane and locate the clone at the same time. Zen continued on his course, powering up his own weapons.

An upside-down W appeared on the left side of his screen, whitish-gray in the harsh light above the waves. It was the clone.

Zen pushed his stick hard, trying to get it into his aiming reticule.

He was too far. He’d never get to it before the clone opened fire.

“Can you jam his radar?” Zen asked.

McNamara didn’t answer. Instead, C3gave a buzz indicating that Raven’s ECMs were being activated.

This was followed by a proximity warning—the electronic fuzz eroded the communications link between the mother ship and the Flighthawk. Zen had to throttle back or risk losing the connection.

Which gave him an idea.

“Get north,” he told Alou. “Get between the clone and its mother. Knock down its signal.”

Again, the only answer from the bridge was nonverbal—a quick jerk in the air as the heavy bomber lurched northward, trying to follow Zen’s directions.

Zen’s targeting cue began blinking, its color changing to yellow. He was lined up for a shot but too far away, the computer was telling him. He needed to wait until the cue blinked red.

The clone danced up and down, weaving through the air. Then it exploded—

No, it was firing.

Zen pressed the Flighthawk trigger, though he was still well out of range. The W-shaped boogie split off to the right, climbing. Zen turned hard and hit the gas, immediately getting a proximity warning.

“Turn off the ECMs. I have to follow him.”

“Zen, we’re at bingo. We’re beyond it—we have to refuel. We have to go back,” said Alou.

His voice was so stern Zen didn’t argue. He pulled around, looking in the direction of the H-5.

It was still on the water, taxiing he thought. Then the large tail seemed to fold backward, the massive airplane crumpled like a piece of origami caught in a tornado. Flames burst from the engines; in a matter of seconds, the entire aircraft had disappeared under the water.

“Oh shit,” said Zen.

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III

Chips

Brunei

11 September 1997

1829

DOG HAD JUSTstripped and turned on the water to take a shower before dinner when his secure satellite phone buzzed. Thinking—hoping—it might be Jennifer, he grabbed it off the sink and looked at the LED window on the top, which was like a caller ID device indicating which node of the Dreamland secure system had originated the communications. He was surprised to find that the alphanumeric was Z-99—Zen.

“Bastian,” he said, wrapping a towel around himself.

“Colonel, we have a problem. We found the ghost clone, but before we could get to it, it shot down the Chinese aircraft. It took off before we could apprehend it.”

Dog reached back into the tub to turn off the shower as Zen continued, explaining what had happened.

“There’s a merchant ship about twenty minutes away,” Zen added. “He’s en route. We can see debris on the water, but no survivors.”

“No survivors?”

“We’re still looking,” said Zen.

He added that the Chinese had additional assets en route. The final transmission from the H-5 was garbled, and it wasn’t clear to them what happened.

“The Chinese know the plane is down?” asked Dog.

“Yes, sir. A J-8 was coming down to hook up with it and escort it home. The J-8 radioed us shortly after the shootdown when it didn’t show on radar. We told them we were refueling but would come up and look for them. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. We just left out some of the details.”

There was a knock on his door. Dog ignored it. “What are you doing now?” he asked Zen.

“I’d like to stay around until the ship gets there at least.”

“Any possibility of finding the clone?”

“We can try, but the trail’s pretty cold. Alou won’t complain, but his crew’s been at it a pretty long time.”

Whoever was at the door knocked again. Dog thought it must be Mack, who’d promised to give him a ride over to the palace.

“All right,” Dog told him. “Stay aloft until the Chinese have the area covered. Offer whatever assistance Page 109

you can. After that, head back. I’ll meet you in the trailer.”

“The Chinese are going to think we shot them down,” said Zen.

“I know.”

Dog hit the End button and pulled the towel tighter around his waist. But instead of Mack he found Miss Kelly.

“Colonel, you’re not dressed yet,” she said.

“I’m afraid there have been new developments,” said Dog. He decided to give her a brief overview of what had happened.

“I have to check with Washington to see precisely how they want to handle this.”

“It’s not good,” she said.

“No, it’s not,” said Dog. “I’m going to have to miss dinner with the sultan.”

“You can’t.”

“This is much more important.”

“Not showing up will be interpreted as an insult.”

“I’m afraid it can’t be helped.”

“Colonel, you can’t snub the sultan.”

“I’m not snubbing him. I just don’t have time for diplomatic bullshit,” he told her. “You’re the State Department. You fix it.”

“But—”

He slammed the door before she could finish her sentence.

Aboard the Dragon Prince , South China Sea

1925

THE STORMCLOUD APPROACHEDfrom the east, rushing in like a tempest sent from the gods.

Low to the water, riding in the thick band of the setting sun, it seemed to kick up fire and ash rather than steam as it came toward the Dragon Prince. Suddenly a black cloud furled from behind and it settled onto the waves, skimming the surface.

The Dragon had returned. The small robot plane taxied on its skis toward the ship, its speed steadily dropping. Professor Ai watched from the rail as the computer on the plane jettisoned the parachute it had used to slow and then spun the plane around the ship with its last bit of momentum, ready to be picked up. The skis that it rode on held it above the water, but just barely, and the recovery had to be completed quickly once the aircraft stopped moving.

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Professor Ai had found that his presence on the deck helped the process, as the crew inevitably moved even faster. There was little danger that the craft would sink, but the longer it sat in the unfriendly salty water, the more maintenance it required. Already the coating of its composite hull and skin had to be reapplied every second or third flight.

Dragon Prince had lowered a boat earlier to help in the recovery. It approached the small robot plane now, helping as the hoist was secured to its fuselage. Within minutes, the crank on the edge of the ship began to groan.

Professor Ai had wanted to name the robot plane Xi Wang Mu after the goddess in Chinese mythology who was said to be the Queen Mother of the West. She was the patron of immortality, a beneficent figure.

To most. Professor Ai, however, knew that the earliest texts mentioning Xi Wang Mu referred to her as a monster—part human, part tiger. She ruled over demons and the plague answered her command. The kinder image had evolved over the centuries.

Ai Hira Bai’s own history had drawn him to the story of Xi Wang Mu. It was not a coincidence that his middle name was Japanese—Ai had been born during the Japanese occupation of Manchuria during World War II. His father had died shortly after his birth—or at least that was what his mother had been told. A native of Shanghai, she had returned to the city after the war. But her neighbors and relatives considered her a collaborator and would have nothing to do with her; in her anguish she had fled the country after the war. She had worked hard to raise her son, though she had died before he reached twenty.

Ai wanted war not to liberate the stolen provinces, but as a measure of vengeance. Soon, he thought, he would have it.

As long as the communists reacted as they should, interpreting the destruction of the innocent SAR flight as a wanton act by the Americans. Professor Ai did not particularly care for the Americans either, though he did not hate them as he hated the Mainlanders.

“A successful mission,” said Chen Lo Fann nearby.

The professor nodded to the young man. “Now it is up to the mongrels to play their role.”

“Yes,” said Chen Lo Fann.

Alexandria, Virginia, near Washington, D.C.

0640

JEDBARCLAY HEARDthe phone ring and realized something big was up—it was his encrypted line, installed at the NSC director’s request in his home office.

Since Jed lived in a one-room studio apartment, his home office was also his bedroom, family room, and dining area, so he didn’t have to lean far from his foldout couch to grab it.

“Barclay,” he said, not quite awake yet.

“Jed, the Chinese are claiming that we’ve shot down one of their planes,” said his boss. “Get over to the White House right away.”

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“Shot down one of their planes?”

“Find out if it’s true while you’re at it. Call me back. I’m still confined to bed.”

“Yes, sir.”

AN HOUR LATER,Jed walked through the West Wing basement flanked by a pair of Secret Service agents. With the help of Colonel Bastian and briefings from the NSA and CIA, he had managed to pull together a pretty fair understanding of what had happened. Unfortunately, understanding the situation and being able to do something about it were two different things.

“Barclay,” said Admiral Balboa, spotting him in the hallway outside the situation room. “What the hell is that cowboy Bastian up to now?”

“He’s not up to anything,” Jed told the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Whoever is operating the ghost clone shot down a Chinese flying boat while it was trying to make a rescue. They’re trying to provoke a war.”

“Gentlemen, let’s discuss this in the situation room,” said the defense secretary, coming in behind them.

“Come on.”

Balboa grimaced but said nothing. The secretary of state and the President were already inside, along with the other service chiefs and the head of the CIA. Balboa’s broadside had a positive effect on Jed—he got through his quick overview of the situation with only a single stutter.

“The Chinese are on alert now. They’re threatening to retaliate,” he said, turning to Jeffrey Hartman, the secretary of state. “You might, uh, want to cover that.”

“Actually, I have some fresh data on the Chinese units that are standing by,” said General Victor Hayes, the Air Force chief of staff. “As well as ours.”

Jed stole a glance at the President. Some months before, Kevin Martindale had threatened the Chinese with war over Taiwan. He’d backed the threat up with covert action, and only the Chinese really knew how close the world had come to a nuclear exchange. But that conflict seemed justifiable and even reasonable, the result of a series of aggressions and countermoves by America.

This was almost an accident—a crazy, chaotic accident.

Or not. Whoever was operating the ghost clone wanted war. World War III.

“How much do the Chinese know?” asked Martindale.

It took Jed a second before realizing the President was speaking to him.

“We don’t think they know about the ghost clone at all. Circumstantially—we were there at the time. I, uh, uh, if it were me … ” Jed’s voice trailed off. His tongue was threatening to revolt again.

“Go on, Jed,” said the President calmly.

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“I would reach the same conclusion the Chinese did,” said Jed. “B-b-because based on the evidence they have, we did it.”

“Maybe we should add to their evidence,” suggested Martindale.

“Tell them about the UAV?” asked Chastain.

“Why not?” said the President. “Jed, what do we have?”

“We have video of the c-c-collision itself, and of the shootdown. Radar stuff, sensor data. Uh, but, but—”

Jed felt them all staring at him.

“Very sensitive,” he continued, managing to blurt out the words. “Giving them all the information we have would show the Flighthawks’ capabilities. And, uh, the, uh, uh, Raven’s, the Elint c-c-capable Megafortress.”

“I doubt they’ll believe us at this point anyway,” said the secretary of state. “Or rather, that they’ll admit that they believe it.”

“My feeling is we should just ignore their threats,” said Balboa. “They’re just flexing their muscles. They won’t move against us.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said the President. “At the moment, I don’t feel like taking a chance. Jed, prepare the data, minimize the exposure to our technology. They know we have good sensors; we won’t give away the store by letting them see a blurry shot or two. Let Defense review it before it comes over to me. Once I have it, I’ll decide whether to use it or not. Jeffrey, get the Chinese ambassador and have him meet me in my office. I’ll clear all my other appointments.”

The President rose and started to leave the room. But when he got to the door, he stopped and turned back.

“And Jed—tell Colonel Bastian he’s past due on finding out who’s operating this so-called ghost clone.”

Dreamland Command Trailer, Brunei

2320

DOG STARED ATthe video screen, where a very tired Ray Rubeo updated the latest information from the team studying the Raven’s intercepts back at Dreamland. The members of the team had been able to sketch a tentative model based on the captured telemetry and video. The aircraft was roughly the length of a Flighthawk, but with a radically different airfoil; in fact, it looked closer to a Boeing design dating before the Flighthawks and originally intended as a one-off to test low-cost stealth concepts. The flight data suggested that the aircraft’s top speed was slower than the Flighthawk’s, but the analysis had concluded there were two cannons aboard, and the fuselage was wide enough to carriage a good-sized air-to-ground missile.

“The difference in the physical design should eliminate any suspicion of spying by the physical team,”

added Rubeo at the end of his brief. He seemed to be alone in the Dreamland Command Center, except for a skeleton crew. “Perhaps that will act as an enticement for our inquisitor to leave at least those Page 113

people alone.”

“Come now, Ray, Colonel Cortend can’t be that bad,” said Dog.

“The colonel has completely changed my opinion of the Spanish Inquisition,” said Rubeo. “I now recognize it was a charitable organization.”

“What’s controlling it?” asked Zen, who was sitting next to Stoner behind Dog in the trailer’s communications center. “Where’s its control aircraft? We never saw it on the radar.”

“That remains a mystery,” said the scientist. “We are working on it, Major.”

According to the information from Raven, the only aircraft that had been in the area were Chinese—and it didn’t make sense that they had shot down their own plane.

“Ray, what’s the possibility that the clone is being controlled from a ship?” asked Dog.

“At this point, I wouldn’t rule anything out.”

“The closest ship was that civilian vessel that searched the area of the crash,” said Zen. “We overflew him. There’s no way he launched the clone, let alone recovered it.”

“We’ll look into all of the ships that were in the area,” said Rubeo. “But if they’re controlling it from a vessel, they’re using a system we don’t know about.”

No kidding, thought Dog. He started to ask if anyone else had anything when Stoner interrupted.

“Doc, getting back to the UAV for a second. You said it would have a lot of computing power aboard, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Stoner. Considerable computing power.”

“Gallium-arsenide chips?” asked Stoner. “Custom– made?”

“Perhaps.”

“I think I know where they were manufactured,” said Stoner. “I’d like to check it out. I need some information on what to look for.”

“You want a course in chip manufacturing?” said the scientist in a tone even more sour than usual.

“What the machines would look like, the plans, byproducts, that sort of stuff.”

“Do you have six months? You’re asking for a graduate seminar.”

“I have a plant that supposedly manufactured chips used for VCRs. I want to see if it could have done anything else.”

“VCRs,” said Rubeo. “Might just as well look for vacuum tubes.”

“Ray, maybe Jennifer can give Mr. Stoner a few pointers,” said Dog.

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“Jennifer is not available,” said Rubeo. “She’s confined herself to quarters. She says she’s sick.”

“What?”

“In any event, her security status is still in doubt. She’s not allowed to use the computers, and she can’t go into sensitive areas. Which would preclude her from using the command center.”

“Is she all right?” asked Dog.

Rubeo put his lips together in one of his twisted scowls. Dog resisted the urge to press further—he didn’t want to mix his personal concerns with business.

Still, it was difficult to keep quiet. The briefing dragged on a bit, with updates on the Chinese military—every unit was on standby alert, and there were threats from Beijing about war. The top leaders were all blaming America for the shootdown.

“At the moment, we’re grounded,” said Dog. “We don’t want to incite the Chinese any further.”

“I hope somebody’s going to tell these jokers it wasn’t us,” said Zen.

“Washington will,” the colonel told him. “But they have to be careful about how much information they can give the Chinese about our own systems. Too much and we may jeopardize future missions.”

“Too little and these idiots will start shooting the next time they see us,” said Zen.

“Yeah, right now all they’re doing is trying to run into you,” said Stoner.

The CIA officer was so deadpan it took a second for everyone to realize he meant it as black humor and start to laugh.

AFTER THE SESSIONbroke up, Dog tried again to get ahold of Jennifer. But she wasn’t answering the phone, either at her apartment or at the lab. He decided not to bother leaving a message—with the investigation still under way, it was bound to be misinterpreted.

Most likely that was why she hadn’t bothered emailing or leaving a message on his personal voice mail.

Come to think of it, they usually didn’t talk much during deployments anyway. She knew he was busy and didn’t want to bother him.

Not that he considered talking to her a bother. Not at all.

Hell, he’d really like to hear from her right now.

Dog started to punch the numbers on the phone, thinking this time he’d leave a message and Cortend be damned, but then hung up.

Personal concerns came after duty. If he couldn’t get his priorities straight, how could he expect anyone under him to?

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Club Paradise, Brunei

12 September 1997

0023

“MACKSMITH.”

“Colonel Bastian!” Mack nearly knocked over the table jumping to his feet, surprised—astounded—that Dog had tracked him to the small club on the outskirts of the city. He’d come with Stoner and was wearing civilian clothes.