Strike Zone

‘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 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

Major Jeff ‘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.’

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’ve just 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.

Dreamland Computer Lab One 1100

‘So you alone are responsible for the coding?’