by Dale Brown
“What?” A dull chill ran through Kundrin’s head. He had assumed that because the person on the radio used the proper code name and was on the proper encrypted frequency that he was who he said he was and gave a valid order—he didn’t wait to see if the authentication code checked…
…and he realized that he had just told whoever it was on the other end of that channel exactly where Fanar was located!”
He frantically raised his radio to his lips: “Security, this is Tsentr, cancel deployment, get those trucks back in hiding!” he shouted. “Repeat, get them into—!”
But at that exact moment there was a flash of light, and milliseconds later an impossibly thunderous explosion, followed by several more in quick succession. Kundrin and Sokolov were blown off their feet by the first concussion, and they frantically crawled away as crashing waves of raw heat roiled over them. They could do nothing but curl up into protective balls and cover their ears as the explosions continued one after the other.
It seemed to last an entire hour, but it was actually over in less than twenty seconds. Kundrin and Sokolov, their ears ringing from the deafening noise, crawled over to the shattered front of the administration building and peered out across the runways. The entire area north of the runways was on fire, centered on the firefighting training pad. The fire on the pad itself—obviously the burning chemicals used by the laser—seemed so hot and intense that it was radioactive. The alert aircraft parking area to the southeast had been hit too—every helicopter and transport was on fire.
Then they heard them, and in the brilliant reflection of the fires they soon saw them too, as plainly as if in daytime: a pair of American B-1 bombers, flying right down the runway. They obviously knew that all of the air defense units had been ordered to shut down their systems and not open fire. The first one wagged its wings as it passed by the administration building, and the second actually did an aileron roll, flying less than two hundred feet aboveground. When they finished their little airshow spectacle, they ignited afterburners, sped off into the night sky, and were soon out of sight.
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
THAT SAME TIME
Stacy Anne Barbeau loved casinos, and she spent quite a bit of time in them on the Mississippi River in Louisiana and on the Gulf Coast in neighboring Mississippi. But this was the first time in many years that she had been in a big Las Vegas casino, and she was impressed. They were much more than gambling halls now—they were spectacular destinations, a sensory bombardment not only of lights, colors, and sounds, but of scenery, landscaping, architecture, and art that was truly amazing. The last time she was here, the decorations seemed cheesy and campy, almost Disneyesque. Not anymore. It was definitely Las Vegas elegant—bright, a little gaudy, loud, and extravagant, but it was elegant nonetheless.
“You know what I love the most about these places, darlin’—you can be completely anonymous so easily, even dressed like this,” Barbeau said to her assistant Colleen Morna as they strode from the hotel elevators through the wide, sweeping hallway and across the rich red carpeting of a very large Italian-themed casino on the Strip in Las Vegas. She was wearing a silvery cocktail dress, diamond earrings and necklace, and carrying a mink stole, but except for the frequent and appreciative glances, she felt as if she was just another part of the scenery. “So where is ‘Playgirl’?”
“Private poker room in the back,” Morna said. She produced what appeared to be a thick ruby-encrusted brooch and pinned it to Barbeau’s dress. “This is all you need to get in.”
“It’s ugly. Do I have to wear it?”
“Yes. It’s an identification and tracking transponder—an RFID, or radio-frequency identification tag,” Morna said. “They’ve been tracking us ever since I picked it up a half hour ago while you were getting dressed. They track all your movements; it sends information to all the cashiers, croupiers, maître d’s, security, hotel staff, and even to the slot machines about who you are, what you play or do, and—more importantly to them, I’m sure—how much is left in your account. The security staff watches you with their cameras and automatically compares your description to their database to keep an eye on you while you’re on the property. I think if you took more than one or two wrong turns anywhere around this place, they’d send a couple hospitality guys after you to steer you in the right direction.”
“I like the sound of that—‘hospitality guys,’” Barbeau cooed. “I don’t much like the idea of being tagged like a brown bear in the woods, though.”
“Well, keep it with you, because it’s your room key, access to your line of credit, your charge card, and your admission pass to all the shows and VIP rooms—again, you don’t need to know a thing because these guys will escort you everywhere you want to go. Anywhere.”
“But they don’t know who I am, do they?”
“I would assume they know exactly who you are, Senator,” Morna said, “but this is Vegas—here, you are whoever you want to be. Tonight you’re Robin Gilliam from Montgomery, telecommunications and oil money, married but here alone.”
“Oh, do I have to be from Alabama?” she deadpanned. Morna rolled her eyes. “Never mind. So how did I get into this private poker room if I’m not who I say I am?”
“A fifty thousand dollar line of credit is the best way to start,” Morna said.
“You used the billing codes from the White House for this trip for a line of credit in the casino? Smart girl.”
“It’s just to get us in the door, Senator—don’t actually use any of it, or the sergeant at arms will crucify you,” Morna said.
“Oh, pish on him—he’s an old fuddy-duddy,” Barbeau said.
Morna rolled her eyes, silently hoping she was kidding. Washington careers were ended by a lot less. “Everything is all set. The management is as attentive as they are discreet. They’ll take good care of you. I’ll be in the room next door to yours if you need me, and I’ve got a casino employee bought and paid for that will tell me exactly where you are at all times.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need a wingman tonight, darlin’,” Barbeau said in her best man-slaying voice. “Captain Hunter ‘Boomer’ Noble will go down as easy as catching catfish in a barrel.”
“What do you plan to do, Senator?”
“I plan to show Captain Noble the best way to get ahead in the United States Air Force, which is very simple: Don’t cross a United States senator,” she said confidently. She stuck out her chest and moved the mink aside. “I’ll show him a couple advantages of pleasing me instead of opposing me. You’re sure he’s here?”
“He checked in last night and has been playing poker all day long,” Morna said. “He’s doing pretty well too—he’s up a little.”
“Oh, I’ll make sure he’s up, all right,” Barbeau said. “Trust me.”
“I know where his suite is—it’s right down the hall from ours—and if he takes you there my guy will tell me,” Morna went on.
“Any other ladies with him?”
“Just a few that have stopped by briefly at the table—he hasn’t invited any of them to his room.”
“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” Barbeau said. “Don’t wait up, sugar.”
Exactly as Colleen said, the casino staff knew she was coming without a word being spoken. As Barbeau left the main casino floor and began walking toward the ornate gold entryway of the private poker room, a man in a tuxedo with a communications earpiece in one ear smiled, nodded, and said, “Welcome, Miss Gilliam,” as she passed by.
As she approached the doors she was met by a tall, good-looking man in a tuxedo and a woman in a tuxedo suit and skirt, carrying a beverage tray. “Welcome, Miss Gilliam,” the man said. “My name is Martin, and this is Jesse, who will be your attendant for the rest of the evening.”
“Why thank you, Martin,” Barbeau said in her best Southern accent. “I’m quite taken by this extraordinary level of attention.”
“Our goal is to assist you in any way possible to have the best even
ing while a guest at the hotel,” Martin said. “Our motto is ‘Anything at All,’ and I will be here to be sure all your desires are met tonight.” The waitress handed her the glass. “Southern Comfort and lime, I believe?”
“Exactly right, Martin. Thank you, Jesse.”
“My job is to make you comfortable, get any dinner or show reservations you may like, get you a seat at any gaming table you’d prefer, and make any introductions while you’re in the private hall. If there’s anything at all you’d like—anything at all—please do not hesitate to tell Jesse or myself.”
“Thank you, Martin,” Barbeau said, “but I think I’d like to just…you know, prowl around a little bit to get comfortable. That’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Of course. Whenever you need anything, just motion to us. You don’t have to look for us—we’ll be looking out for you.”
It was a very secure feeling, Barbeau thought, to know that she was being watched every second. She took her drink and began to stroll around the room. It was plush and ornate without being too ostentatious; there was just a hint of cigar smoke, not too bad, almost pleasant and reassuring. A room in the back had several sports games on huge wide-screen flat-panel monitors, with women who definitely didn’t look like spouses hanging onto the shoulders of the spectators—male and female alike.
What happens in this place, Stacy thought as she took a sip of her drink, definitely stays in this place.
After a short hunt she finally found him, at a card table in the back: Hunter Noble, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, with a single thick-link gold chain around his neck, an old-style metal POW bracelet on one wrist, and a black nylon Velcro watchband on the other wrist with its protective watch flap closed. He had an impressive stack of chips in front of him, and only two players and the dealer at the table with him—and the other players definitely looked perturbed, their chip stacks much lower than his, as if they were frustrated at being beat by this young punk. One of the other players had a cigarette in an ashtray beside him; Noble had an ashtray beside him too, but it was clean and empty.
Now that she saw him in his “native habitat,” she liked what she saw. He was the perfect cross between lean and muscular—a naturally toned body without having to do a lot of weight lifting, not like McLanahan’s chunky muscularity. His hair was short and naturally teased, without having to mousse it, which had to be the most unmanly thing Stacy had ever seen in her life. His movements were slow and easy, although she noticed his quick eyes when cards and chips started flying across the table in front of him. He certainly didn’t miss much…
…and at that moment his eyes rested on her…and he didn’t miss anything there, either. He smiled that mischievous naughty-boy smile, and his quick eyes danced, and she instantly felt herself being visually undressed once more—then, just as quickly, his attention was back to his game.
It was not too long afterward that Barbeau saw Martin supervising the dealer counting up Noble’s winnings. He saw him ask Martin a question, the host responded, and soon he sauntered over to her table with a drink and a cigarette in his hand. “Pardon me, Miss Gilliam,” he said, speaking very formally but with that same mischievous smile, “but I took the liberty of asking Martin who you were, and I thought I’d introduce myself. My name is Hunter Noble. I hope I’m not intruding.”
Barbeau sipped her drink but eyed him over the rim of the glass, making him wait while she surveyed him. He simply stood before her patiently with that playful boyish smile on his face, standing casually but provocatively as well, as if he had no doubt that she would invite him to sit down. Well, shit, she thought, the guy flies hypersonic spaceplanes for a living—a mere woman isn’t going to rattle him. “Of course not, Mr. Noble. Would you care to sit down?” Barbeau responded just as formally, enjoying playing the game of being strangers.
“Thank you, I would.” He took a chair beside her, set his drink down, then leaned toward her. “Senator Barbeau? Is that you?”
“Captain Hunter ‘Boomer’ Noble,” she said in response. “Fancy meeting you here, sir.”
“Fancy nothing, Senator. Did you track me down here?”
“I don’t know whatever you mean, Captain,” Barbeau said. “The assistant hotel manager here happens to be a friend of mine, and he invited me to this wonderful VIP room when I came to town.” She looked him over once again. “Where’s your RFID tag, Captain?”
“I don’t wear those things—I like tipping in cash and I can unlock my own room door without Big Brother doing it for me.”
“I think it’s fun, being surveilled all the time. Makes me feel very secure.”
“You’ll get tired of it,” he said moodily. “You’re here to shut down Dreamland, aren’t you, Senator?”
“I’m here to talk with the SEALs who tried to assault the place, speak with General Luger about his actions, and report to the President,” she replied.
“Then why are you here? Are you spying on me?”
“Why, Captain Noble, you sound like a man with something to hide,” Barbeau said. “But I am surprised, quite frankly, to find a young Air Force captain who makes less than seventy thousand dollars a year before taxes here in a VIP gambling room, where the price of admission is usually a fifty-thousand-dollar line of credit with the casino, with such a large stack of chips in front of him.”
“Playing poker for money is not against Air Force regulations, Senator. Neither is spending a good deal of my bachelor take-home pay on playing cards. Do you investigate guys who spend that much on cars or cameras?”
“I don’t know of anyone who’s been blackmailed by bookies or loan sharks because they buy camera gear,” Barbeau said. “Being a habitual gambler certainly does look…how shall I say it, unseemly? For someone in such a highly critical job as yours, being such a gambling devotee—or perhaps even a gambling addict?—might look very suspicious to some.”
“I’m not addicted to gambling,” Boomer said defensively. The senator’s eyes twinkled—she knew she had hit a nerve. “But why this charade, Senator? Why this campaign to destroy the program? You’re opposed to the Black Stallion and the space station—fine. Why take the political opposition so personally?”
“I’m not an opponent of the XR-A9 project, Captain,” Barbeau said, sipping her drink. “I think it’s a remarkable piece of technology. But the space station has many very powerful opponents.”
“Like Gardner.”
“Many opponents,” Barbeau repeated. “But some of the technology you use is of great interest to me, including the Black Stallion.”
“Not to mention scoring some points with folks in the White House and dozens of defense contractors, too.”
“Don’t try to play politics with me, Captain—my family invented the game, and I learned from the best,” Barbeau said.
“I see that. You’re more than willing to destroy military careers for your own political gain.”
“You mean General McLanahan? Perfect example of a smart, dedicated guy wading into political waters that were way over his head,” she said dimissively, taking another sip. She was finally starting to feel relaxed, immersed in an atmosphere in which she was very comfortable…no, not just comfortable: one in which she was in control. McLanahan had destroyed himself, and because Hunter Noble cared about him, he was going to go down next.
Captain Hunter Noble was pretty, and obviously smart and talented, but this was business, and he would become just another one of her victims…after she had a little fun with him!
“He’ll come out okay—as long as he backs off and lets me tell the White House what is best for the Air Force,” Barbeau went on casually. “McLanahan’s a war hero, for God’s sake—everybody knows that. Very few people know what happened in Dreamland and Turkey.” She snapped her fingers with a wave of her wrist. “It can be swept under the rug like that. With my help and with his maximum cooperation, he’ll get off with a general court-martial and loss of his pension. But then he can get on with his life.”
/> “Otherwise, you’ll let him rot in prison.”
Stacy Anne Barbeau leaned forward, giving him a good look at her bosom underneath her silvery low-cut neckline. “I’m not here to make anyone miserable, Captain—least of all you,” she said. “The truth is, I would like your help.”
“My help?”
“Next to McLanahan, you’re the most influential person attached to the space project,” she said. “The general is done for if what he’s done in Dreamland and in Turkey gets leaked out. I don’t think he’ll cooperate with me. That leaves you.”
“What is this, a threat? You’re going to try to destroy me too?”
“I don’t want to attack you, Captain,” she said in a low voice. She looked him straight in the eye. “To be honest, I’m quite taken by you.” She saw the look of surprise in his face and knew she had him by the balls. “I’ve been attracted to you since I first saw you in the Oval Office, and when I saw you here, looking at me like you were—”
“I wasn’t looking at you,” he said defensively, not too convincingly.
“Oh yes you were, Hunter. I felt it. You did too.” He swallowed but said nothing. “What I’m trying to say, Hunter, is that I can take your career in a whole new direction if you’d let me. All you need to do is let me show you what I can do for you.”
“My career is just fine.”
“In the Air Force? That’s fine for eggheads and Neanderthals, but not for you. You’re smart, but you’re savvy and in control. Those are special qualities. They will get suppressed in the military under layers upon layers of old-school bullshit and endless, faceless bureaucracy—not to mention the possibility of dying in combat or up in space, flying a jet built by the lowest bidder.
“I’m offering you a step out of that hellish cattle-call existence, Hunter,” Barbeau went on in a low voice, pumping as much sincerity into it as she could. “How do you think other men and women rise above corporate Pentagon mediocrity and advance their futures?”