Strike Zone

‘Uh, I’m calling off the r-record,’ he said.

‘Jed, I know it’s bad news, so don’t sugarcoat it,’ Dog told him.

‘I wasn’t going to, Colonel. I wouldn’t sugarcoat anything.’

‘Don’t bullshit me either.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So?’

‘The NSC and the Joint Chiefs, they put their heads together in a way – well, you know how Admiral Balboa is, and what they want is an outsider. We cut them off a bit and got a compromise but –’

‘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, 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 deliered 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 US in a major war. A true American hero.

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

Danny Freah nodded at 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 ‘para-rescuer’ 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.

Dreamland 2010

Colonel Victoria Margaret Cortend 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?’