Strike Zone

by Dale Brown

Cheese shrugged. “Anyway, they’d make something for you. They’re desperate. Or they were.”

  “Were?”

  “I believe they’re bankrupt, now that Chen cashed out.” Cheese jumped up. “I got to hit the treadmill down the hall. You guys want to come or are we done? I got sweats if you want. Shower when you’re done.”

  Stoner looked at Conrad. His red face had turned beet red at the prospect of exercise.

  “I think we’re done,” said Stoner. “If I can get that list.”

  Aboard Raven, over the South China Sea

  1245

  “THEY’RE TELLING THE Sukhois to the south to come home,” said Captain Justin Gander, one of the intercept officers upstairs who was listening in via the Elint gear on the plane. A translation unit in the computer could give on-the-fly transcripts of voice messages.

  Zen checked the counter in the screen on the left, noting that they were now about thirty seconds beyond the designated launch time for the dummied-up Hellfire. He wasn’t sure why Starship had missed the launch.

  “Sukhois are saying—having a little trouble with the translation—they’re going to inspect another aircraft.”

  “What aircraft?” asked Zen. The Sukhois were a good seventy miles south and back further to the west.

  “They’re calling it a Xian. Hang on—all right, registry is Brunei, uh, Badger belonging to the air force. Has a utility role according to our index. Uh, looks like it’s on a routine patrol, just kind of flying around but not an official part of the exercise. Oh—VIP plane. Prince bin Awg flies it. Sight-seeing.”

  “Great place for sight-seeing,” said Zen. “Our ghost clone show yet?”

  “Nada. Got a lot of traffic out near Taiwan. We’re reading pretty far.”

  Zen grunted, preparing to bank the Flighthawk as they came to the end of their orbit.

  “Zen, looks like they held off on the Hellfire launch because of civilian traffic,” said Merce Alou, who was piloting the plane. “They’re giving positions to the Australian frigate.”

  “Not a problem,” said Zen. He dipped Hawk Two into a shallow bank. As he took the turn he watched the view from the rear-facing video cam, which was using a computer-enhanced mode to show the antenna, whose silvery metal was nearly invisible to the naked eye. The web crinkled a bit as the direction changed, but Zen was able to keep it stretched out by nudging downward a little more.

  “Turn complete,” he told Alou, who was timing his own maneuvers to the Flighthawk.

  Aboard Penn, over the South China Sea

  1246

  STARSHIP SAW HIS position drift toward the Chinese border over the ocean. He applied light pressure to the stick but couldn’t seem to master it, the nose of the small robot stubbornly edging northward.

  “You’re going over their line,” said Kick.

  “No shit.”

  Starship gave up on the light hand, jerking the aircraft sharply to get back on course. The Flighthawk responded as it was programmed to do, veering sharply and changing course. The pilot cursed to himself but kept his cool, sliding back onto the dotted line provided by the computer.

  “What are we doing, Hawk One?” asked Colonel Bastian.

  “Controls getting a little twitchy,” said Starship.

  He swore he heard Kick chortling to himself.

  “The controls or you?”

  “Me, sir.” Starship felt his cheeks burn.

  “The Chinese are scrambling additional planes. We definitely have their attention,” said Dog, his voice calm. “Resume the countdown on the Hellfire and launch when you’re ready.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re at thirty seconds.”

  Aboard Brunei Badger 01,

  over the South China Sea

  1324

  MACK COULD SEE the idiot Chinese pilots coming toward them from the north, riding a quick burst from their Saturn AL-31FM turbos. The planes they were flying were license-built Sukhois Su-27s, known in China as J-11s and virtually identical to the Russian model, whose design dated to the late seventies and early eighties. Essentially an attempt to keep up to the frontline F-14 and F-15, the Sukhoi was a very good and capable aircraft, but even gussied up with a glass cockpit and thrust vectoring tailpipe, it didn’t impress Mack. Zen could nail one of those suckers with his little bitty robot planes, which as far as Major Smith was concerned, said it all.

  The lead Chinese pilot challenged them, calling them “unidentified Xian H-6” and asking what unit they were with.

  “Usual Chinese bullshit,” grumbled Mack.

  “What’s going on, Major?” asked Miss Kelly.

  “He’s just jerking our chain,” Mack told her. “Pretending to think we’re a Chinese aircraft. It’s a game. They make believe they don’t know who we are, so they can fly up close and show off. Goes on all the time. Macho posturing. Don’t be impressed.”

  The interceptors started a wide turn, obviously planning to swing around and come across their wings.

  “The Chinese can be quite aggressive,” said bin Awg. “They don’t believe that Brunei should have an air force.”

  “They don’t think anyone should have an air force,” said Mack.

  “They are precisely why we need an air force.”

  “You got that straight, Prince,” said Mack. “Jerks. Don’t let ’em push you around.”

  Bin Awg broadcast his ID, course, and added a friendly greeting, all in Mandarin.

  The Chinese didn’t bother acknowledging.

  Mack pulled out his large map of the area, working out how far the planes had come. The Sukhois were large aircraft and could carry a decent amount of fuel; even so, he figured these two jokers must be out near bingo—they’d have to go home soon.

  The J-11s had slowed considerably, and as Mack had predicted split wide so they could bracket the Badger. Painted in white, the double-finned planes were trimmed in blue. They had what appeared to be R-73 Russian-made heat-seekers tied to their wings. Known as Archers in the West, the short-range missiles were roughly comparable to Sidewinders.

  “Frick and Frack,” said Mack as the planes pulled alongside.

  Miss Kelly laughed.

  The backseater in the J-11 on the right had a camera. Mack resisted the impulse to give him the finger—it would be posted on the Internet tomorrow if he did. No sense giving the Chinese jerks the satisfaction.

  The Sukhoi on the right swung across the Badger’s path, a few yards away. The prince struggled to hold his big, fussy aircraft steady and not hit the idiot. Bin Awg was a good pilot, but the J-11’s bulky mass presented a case study in wake turbulence. Nor was the other commie giving him much room to work with.

  The RWR bleeped on and off. The Chinese jocks were really pulling their chain, activating their radars as if intending to target them.

  “They’re lucky we don’t have air-to-air missiles,” grumbled the prince.

  That gave Mack an idea. He threw off his restraints and climbed back to the gunner’s station. It took a moment to get the hang of the gear, but though ancient it was straightforward enough that even a zippersuit could figure it out. Mack felt the gears chattering behind him as it turned. He put his face down into the old-fashioned viewer, surprised to find that it was actually a radar screen, not an optical feed. As he did so, the pilot had to push down to avoid the Sukhoi’s tailpipe. Losing his balance, Mack grabbed for a handhold. His finger found the gun switch, and to his shock and surprise, a stream of bullets flew not just from the top guns but from all three of the antiair stations.

  For one of the few times in his military career, Mack Smith was utterly speechless. He hadn’t thought the weapons were loaded—bin Awg hadn’t given any indication that they were. Nor would he have guessed that they could be fired so easily, or that all three weapons could be commanded from one station.

  Of course, had he been trained as a weapons operator, a glance at the panel would have told him all this. But then if he’d been a real weapons operator, he wouldn’t have been fooling aroun
d in the first place.

  Actually, the same might be said for a pilot, or any officer of the U.S. Air Force, Navy, or Army, whose duty might reasonably be said to include restrictions against being a bonehead in a potential war zone.

  Without saying anything, without breathing, Mack slid back into his copilot’s seat, sure that his career in the U.S. Air Force had just ended.

  At least he hadn’t shot down the planes. The J-11s pulled off to the north, making tracks.

  No one else said anything as he pulled on his headset. Mack glanced toward the prince. His face was red.

  Probably, he couldn’t be jailed for what was just a dumb-ass mistake. Court-martialed, sure.

  But jailed?

  If they did jail him, would it be in Brunei or the U.S.?

  A communication came in from the Australian frigate.

  Mack listened as the prince gave his position and intentions; they were homeward bound.

  “Scared those buggers off, mate,” said the Australian. “Good for you.”

  Obviously, it wasn’t a flag officer talking. Bin Awg acknowledged with his ID, but said nothing else.

  “I, uh, I—” started Mack. He intended to apologize, but apologies had never exactly been his strong suit. His tongue froze in his mouth.

  “Major?” said the prince.

  “Um.”

  “Major Mack Smith, you have just done something I wish I had the guts to do ten years ago. You sent the devils packing. This is a great moment. A very, very great moment.”

  If Mack had had trouble speaking a moment before, he was utterly speechless now. He wanted to tell the prince that, in all honesty, he was exaggerating by a country mile.

  Then he thought he’d apologize, say he hadn’t thought the gun was loaded, and throw himself on the mercy of the court. Maybe the prince might say a few words on his behalf.

  But nothing came out of his mouth.

  Bin Awg turned to him. “Well done. Well, well done.”

  “Uh, thanks,” was all Mack could manage to get out of his mouth.

  Aboard Penn, over the South China Sea

  1424

  DOG CHECKED THE SITREP. They had Chinese J-11s to the south of them, J-11s to the west, a big ol’ Russian Coot, and even a U.S. Navy P-3—but no ghost clone, at least not that they could see. He hoped Raven was having better luck.

  “They’re getting to be at bingo now, sir,” said the copilot, whom Dog had asked to keep track of the Flighthawk status. “Bingo” in the Flighthawk referred to the point at which they had to refuel.

  “Hawk One, this is Penn. How’s your fuel state?” said Dog.

  “Getting edgy,” replied Starship.

  “What’s edgy?”

  “Uh, we’re getting there.”

  Dog shook his head. The nugget was like a kid who’d been swimming in a pool all afternoon and didn’t want to get out even though his lips were chattering and his body was blue. As long as he didn’t admit being cold, he wouldn’t be.

  Didn’t work that way with jet fuel, though.

  “Hawk One, have you discovered the secret to perpetual motion?” Dog asked.

  “Um, excuse me, Colonel?”

  “Time for you to refuel, no?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m ready.”

  “All right, let’s radio the fleet that we’re breaking off and going home,” Dog told the entire crew.

  STARSHIP SLID BACK in his seat as the computer took the Flighthawk in and began the refuel.

  He was tired and more than a bit frustrated. All that flying and no sight of the ghost clone.

  Not to mention the fact that the Chinese fighters had stayed well clear of him.

  “Tired?” Kick asked.

  “Nah,” said Starship.

  “Zen’s probably tracking him right now.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You hear what happened with the Brunei Badger?”

  “Something happened?” Starship had been too intent on his own mission to bother with anything that didn’t concern him.

  “Couple of J-11s buzzed them just about an hour ago. Mack Smith sent them packing with a burst of cannon fire across their bow.”

  “Live gunfire?”

  “No shit,” said Kick.

  “Wow. He allowed to do that?” Starship’s ROEs strictly forbade him from firing except in the most dire of circumstances, and if he had tried that Zen would have found a way to kick his butt back to Dreamland.

  “Got away with it. Nobody’s complaining.”

  “Those the planes we saw earlier?”

  “Yup.”

  “They were probably just out of fuel,” said Starship. “They were operating at the edge of their range.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not the way the Brunei prince sees it. They’re sending airplanes out to escort them back to a hero’s welcome. I’m not making this up.”

  “Man, I wish I had Mack Smith’s life,” said Starship as the computer buzzed him. The refuel complete, he took over from the electronic brain, ducking down and then zooming ahead of the Pennsylvania to lead her back to the base.

  Dreamland

  10 September 1997

  2344

  DANNY FREAH GOT up from his desk in the security office, his eyes so blurry that he couldn’t read any of the papers on his desk. He’d been staring at computer reports along with summaries of regulations, laws, and previous investigations for over four hours.

  For all that, he probably knew less now than when he’d started. As head of security at Dreamland, Danny had extraordinary powers to investigate possible espionage; he didn’t even have to rely on Colonel Bas-tian’s authority in most cases. Everyone who worked at the base had to sign long, complicated agreements that essentially stripped him of privacy and made Danny Freah Big Brother. If events warranted, he could tap their phones, read their mail, even enter their homes.

  But what he needed in this sort of case was the ability to read people’s minds. Because it just wasn’t clear to him that anyone—Jennifer Gleason especially—had betrayed his country, knowingly or unknowingly.

  Occasionally during the Cold War, technology theft was straight-out obvious—the Soviet Union produced a four-engine bomber based on a B-29 a few months after the plane landed in the country’s Far East, for example. But much more often, the theft was considerably more subtle and nuanced.

  The Soviet Tu-95 bomber, for example, had probably been influenced by American designs—yet it did not directly correspond to anything in the American inventory. Were similarities between American jets and advanced MiGs and Sukhois due to similar design requirements and constraints, or espionage? When was a copycat simply that—and when was it an act of treachery?

  Danny needed more extensive data about the ghost clone before he could even decide whether there might be a case here. Even then, he’d need really, really hard evidence to take to Colonel Bastian—or to Bastian’s superiors, if Danny decided the colonel couldn’t be unbiased.

  Cortend, on the other hand, worked on the premise that espionage had occurred, and therefore she would find it. She didn’t really care what effect she had on the base, much less on the people she was grilling. And because she wasn’t conducting an official investigation—not yet, anyway—she could ignore a lot of the standard rules and procedures designed to prevent abuses. She bullied people into cooperating “voluntarily” and then screwed them, or tried to.

  Danny wasn’t like that. He didn’t nail people without damn good reason to do so.

  Should he?

  Maybe Jennifer did know something, or had done something really wrong. She was pretty antagonistic, and hadn’t been acting particularly, well, innocent.

  She’d answered all the questions, though. She claimed she didn’t remember the conferences or the paperwork.

  Probably that was true. He couldn’t remember back a few years himself. And as for paperwork…

  It was bullshit. The files were full of contact reports that no one ever looked at. Truth of it was, Jen
nifer Gleason rarely left the base, not even to go home, not even for a vacation. She was about as far away from being a spy as you could get. Knowledge, yes, but little opportunity, and dedication probably unmatched even at Dreamland.

  Were his emotions getting in the way of his judgment? He liked Jennifer, and even more importantly, he liked Dog; if Jennifer were guilty, it would kill the colonel.

  To his credit, Dog wasn’t interfering. Clearly he didn’t think Jen was guilty, but he wasn’t interfering.

  Danny glanced at his watch and decided he’d go catch some Z’s. Maybe tomorrow one of the scientists here would come up with some new gizmo that would let him read minds.

  UNABLE TO SLEEP, Jennifer pushed herself out of bed. Her legs and neck felt numb. She folded her elbows against the sides of her chest, then bent at the waist, stretching her muscles. The numbness stayed with her.

  She walked from the small bedroom to the slightly larger living room, which had a kitchenette at the side. She sat on the couch, staring at the TV on the wall near the door but not bothering to turn it on. Jennifer pulled her feet up onto the couch, looking at her toes.

  The numbness affected even them.

  Was she going to stay in this hole the rest of her life?

  Jennifer jumped off the couch, pacing across the small room. Cortend, Danny, Dog—they were all against her, weren’t they?

  They were all against her.

  Did she deserve that?

  Maybe she did.

  Jennifer found herself at the small sink. A large paring knife sat at the bottom, next to a coffee cup from a few days before.

  Did she deserve that?

  She picked the knife up and felt the blade with the edge of her thumb. Only when she pushed hard against it did the numbness dissipate.

  Blood trickled from her finger. She stared at the red dots, watched the flow swell.

  Slowly, she brought the knife upward toward her neck. She ran it up against her chin and then the cheek, the way a barber would drag a safety razor.

  Was there no way to make the numbness go away?

  With a jerk, she grabbed a bunch of her long hair between her fingers and the sharp blade of the knife. She tugged. The hair gave way.