Strike Zone d-5

by Dale Brown

  It took forever for Bison and Stoner to get out of the plane. When he saw they were out, Dog took off the brakes and trundled around once more, heart pounding — not because he worried that more guerrillas or whoever they were would appear, but because he dreaded having lost another man.

  It was his fault. He could have worked with the Thai government. He should have.

  He’d chosen not to because it would have involved politics and bullshit and delay.

  His impatience had cost him a man.

  Where the hell were the others?

  “Go!” yelled Stoner finally, rushing into the forward cabin. “Go!”

  “Boston?”

  “Go!”

  Bison appeared behind the CIA officer. “He’s okay. He just can’t hear. The SA-7 flew into the side of the building and exploded. He shot the bastard just as he fired, and the missile went off course.”

  Dog punched off the brakes and slammed the engines to full power.

  Brunei

  1800

  “After you get a little more experience under your belt,” Mack told Starship, “you’ll see exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t know, Major.”

  “Call me Mack, kid.”

  Mack smiled at the young pilot. Even though the kid had the bad luck to be working for Zen, Starship was all right. Balls-out Eagle jock, just like Mack.

  Well, not quite as good a pilot. But who was?

  “Single-malt Scotch,” said Mack, raising his shot glass as he continued the young man’s education. They were sitting in a reception room that was part of Prince bin Awg’s lavish home. A butler had shown them here, and then vanished. “This is what real drinking is about.”

  “Guess I can’t argue with that,” said Starship, downing his glass.

  “Sip. Sip,” said Mack. “Like you’re going to be doing it for a while.”

  “You sure we’re allowed to be drinking his Scotch?”

  “Why do you think they parked us in this room?” said Mack, refilling the glasses. “You don’t understand Eastern hospitality, kid. It’s subtle, but it’s immense.”

  “Immense and subtle at the same time?”

  “Drink up.”

  “There you are, Mack,” said the sultan’s nephew, entering the room. “And you’ve brought Lieutenant Andrews.”

  The prince ignored Mack’s gesture toward the Scotch — he himself was an abstainer.

  “The sultan wants you to attend dinner tonight,” said bin Awg. “He has been thinking over things.”

  “Always up for dinner with the big guy. Right, Starship?”

  “Um, I really have to get back.”

  “No, no, Lieutenant, you come along as well,” said the prince. “Major Smith, His Majesty has a special surprise for you.”

  “What’s that?” asked Mack.

  “He’s going to ask you to take charge of the air force.”

  “Which air force?” said Mack.

  “Our kingdom’s. We wish to modernize, and with a man of your stature, this could be easily accomplished.”

  Mack began to protest that he was happy as a member of the U.S. Air Force.

  “But I’m sure we could make you happier,” said the prince. “The sultan will be able to work things out with your government, of course. We would merely borrow you. I believe a somewhat similar arrangement was made with General MacArthur and the Philippines, prior to the World War. That might be the model.”

  MacArthur?

  Head of the Brunei air force?

  Why not?

  “Well, it’s an interesting idea,” said Mack.

  “Of course, you would be free to choose your own staff,” said bin Awg.

  “Starship can be chief of staff,” said Mack.

  “Um,” said Starship.

  “Please, there’s much time to work on the arrangements directly,” said the prince. “Your secretary of defense is an old friend of the sultan’s. I’m sure he could arrange — what would you call it? A furlough?”

  “I don’t know,” said Starship.

  “And the arrangements would be quite generous,” said bin Awg.

  “Maybe I oughta talk to Colonel Bastian,” said Starship.

  “By all means. Mack?”

  “Sign me up,” said Mack, thinking of how many babes he might be able to get on staff.

  Taipei, Taiwan

  1900

  Heads turned as Chen Lee walked slowly into the large reception hall. He smiled and nodded at the government dignitaries and businessmen, making his way slowly through the crowd.

  His granddaughter’s silk dress rustled against his leg as they walked. He did not actually need Kuan’s support, but her presence was always a balm to him, making more palatable the false smiles and lies that he found it necessary to countenance. The fidelity of his family strengthened and comforted him; a mortal man could hope for no greater achievement than the unqualified love of his offspring, and the girl’s willing presence at his side signified how truly rich he was.

  “They are bowing to you, Grandfather,” whispered Kuan. “They know you are a great man.”

  Chen Lee did not answer. He would not trouble the girl with the harsh reality that most of these men would be glad to see him pass on. They were appeasers, willing to sell their souls to the devil communists. For what? A few pennies and false promises. They were fools, and none so hardy as the president, who was holding court at the far end of the room, behind a phalanx of sycophants and bodyguards. Chen Lee waded in the other direction — let the president come to him, he decided.

  Chen Lee had not heard from his grandson Chen Lo Fann, but he knew the young man’s mission had failed. The Chinese had lost three aircraft — Fann’s doing, no doubt — but aside from their usual hotheaded rhetoric, there had been no move against the United States, and no action to prevent the coming summit.

  Chen Lee could not believe it. Had the generations that followed him become so weak, so puerile, that they did not recognize an act of war when they saw one? Did men wear dresses as well as false smiles now?

  “Mr. Chen Lee, it is a great honor that you are here,” said the British cultural attaché. The reception was ostensibly being held to commemorate the arrival of a British acting troupe in the capital, though of course it had many other purposes.

  “You are too kind,” Chen said humbly.

  The attaché introduced him to another British citizen, Colonel Greene, who smiled benignly. Chen Lee turned and began to survey the crowd. Greene attempted to start a conversation by saying that the politics in the country had entered a difficult stage.

  “Yes,” said Chen Lee. It was necessary to be polite, but he did not want to encourage the foreigner.

  “A shame so many people do not realize the danger of the situation,” said Greene.

  Chen Lee turned and looked at the colonel. He was dressed in civilian clothes, so it was impossible to tell if the title was honorary or not. The British seemed to be so overrun with retired colonels that they were exporting them to Asia by the planeload.

  “Even the Americans seem blinded by the talk of peace,” said Greene.

  “The Americans have been allies for a long time,” said Kuan. She had accompanied her grandfather to enough occasions such as this that she knew he wanted the foreigner drawn out.

  “The Americans are endorsing the meeting in Beijing, and doing everything to keep it on schedule,” said Greene.

  “And how is that?” asked Kuan.

  “They’ve told the communist pigs they were not responsible for the shooting down of the rescue aircraft in the South China Sea. They claim to be investigating and will present evidence that it was someone else. There are various rumors.”

  Kuan glanced at her grandfather. He did nothing — which she knew was a signal to continue.

  “What sort of rumors?” she asked.

  “The initial crash was an accident, yes,” said Greene. “But the other plane — it seems doubtful.”

&n
bsp; “Who would have been involved?”

  “Not Taiwan, I would think.”

  “We are not aggressors.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You are very well informed, Colonel Greene,” Chen Lee said.

  The colonel smiled. It was obvious now that he was part of British intelligence, though Chen Lee had never heard of him before.

  “I am not so well informed as I would hope,” said Greene. “But one hears rumors and has questions. And I for one would never trust the communists.”

  “Perhaps the British shot down the aircraft to disrupt the meeting in Beijing,” said Chen Lee, staring into the colonel’s eyes.

  “Her Majesty’s government is in favor of the meeting. Unfortunately.”

  Chen Lee smiled.

  “So who would want to disrupt it?”

  “It’s not so much a question of whom,” said the colonel, “but how. The Americans were the only ones in the area, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Then perhaps the Americans are better allies than I’ve been led to believe,” said the old man.

  Dreamland Command Trailer, Brunei

  2100

  “The material could have been a byproduct from any chip manufacturing process,” Rubeo told Stoner over the secure video link as the others looked on in the trailer. “You will need more proof.”

  “I have people working on running down the ownership and digging through contracts,” said Stoner. “What’s important is that they could have made advanced chips there. These weren’t for VCRs.”

  “Gallium arsenide is not wasted on entertainment applications.”

  “A company owned by a man named Chen Lee was apparently behind the factory when it was set up,” said Stoner. “I’m looking into it right now, but I don’t know what if anything we can run down. Chen is one of the most common names in Taiwan.”

  “Taiwan?” asked Rubeo.

  “Yeah.”

  “Chen Lee is a prominent businessman — he hates the communists.”

  “They all do,” said Stoner.

  “Yes.” The scientist scowled. “There’s a Taiwanese scientist who’s done considerable work on the mirroring system I believe was used in the intercepted transmissions. And he has a connection to Chen Lee, whom any Internet search will show is one of the most ardent anticommunists in Taiwan and a very rich, rich man.”

  “Is the clone the scientist’s?”

  “You’re the investigator, not me, Mr. Stoner. Doing your legwork is getting a little tiresome.”

  “I’m sure it’s appreciated,” said Colonel Bastian.

  “What’s the scientist’s name?” asked Stoner.

  “Ai Hira Bai,” said Rubeo. “He has not taught anywhere, or shown up at a conference, or published a paper, in at least eighteen months, perhaps more.”

  “Can you upload enough information for me to track him down?” said Stoner.

  “Gladly.”

  “Bottom line here, Doc,” said Colonel Bastian. “Could this Chen Lee guy build a Flighthawk?”

  “It’s not a Flighthawk,” said Rubeo with pronounced disdain.

  “Could Bai build something like we found?” asked Stoner.

  “It depends entirely on his motivation and financing.”

  “What about the government?” asked Zen.

  “No. If it was a government thing, I’d know about it,” said Stoner. “Believe me. We’ve really checked into it. We’re plugged into the Taiwanese military.”

  “I don’t see a private company, or a couple of individuals doing this,” said Alou. “What? Try to start a war between China and us? No way. Not without government backing.”

  “Some things are easier without the government involved,” said Rubeo. “Much easier.”

  Dog glanced at his watch as Stoner and the scientist traded a few more barbs as well as ideas on where the UAV might have been built. The Taiwan connection was the overwhelming favorite, so much so that Dog knew he had to tell Jed what was going on. The others, meanwhile, seemed as if they were ready to pack it in for the night.

  “All right, I’ll tell you what,” said Dog, interrupting them, “let’s call it a day on this side. I’ll talk to the NSC and tell them what we think. Ray, you and your people keep working on the data. Stoner—”

  “There’s a hundred people sifting the tea leaves back at Langley for us, Colonel,” said the officer, referring to CIA headquarters. “We’ll see if the NSA can come up with anything for us as well.”

  “Good,” said Dog. “All right, let’s—”

  “Colonel, I’d like a word in private,” said Rubeo before Dog could shut down the line.

  “Well I’m out of here,” laughed Zen. The others followed him from the trailer.

  “Just you and me now, Doc,” Dog said when they were gone. “What’s up?”

  “Jennifer Gleason has submitted her resignation,” said Rubeo.

  “She can’t do that,” said Dog.

  “Well, she has a different opinion about that than you do.”

  “She can’t leave,” insisted Dog.

  “Her contract—” started Rubeo.

  “I understand she’s not in uniform,” said Dog. “I mean, she can’t leave. We need her. And she’ll screw herself, her career, I mean—”

  “None of those things seem to be considerations,” said Rubeo. “As I was starting to tell you, her contract states that she may return to teaching at any time with sixty days’ notice, and she’s submitted papers indicating that she wants to do that. It’s not a formal resignation, but it’s what she has to do to be in position to submit a formal resignation.”

  “Damn it Ray. God damn it.”

  Rubeo blinked at him. “Yes, Colonel. Damn it. Damn it all to hell.”

  Washington, D.C.

  0915

  (Brunei, 2115)

  Jed Barclay slid into the backseat of the car when the secure satellite phone he carried rang.

  “Barclay,” he said, swinging up the antenna so sharply that it cracked against the bulletproof glass of the limo.

  “Jed, this Colonel Bastian. Can you talk?”

  “Uh, yes, sir.”

  “We think the ghost clone may have been made by Taiwan, possibly by a private company. We’re looking into it now.”

  “Taiwan?” Jed leaned back against the seat. “Taiwan?”

  “That’s what it looks like. We’re not positive yet, though.”

  “I’m going to talk to the President about Taiwan,” said Jed. “There’s a high-level conference between the premier of Mainland China and the president of Taiwan next week. We’re thinking of sending the vice president.”

  “I don’t think that has anything to do with this,” said Bastian. “This is just one little airplane.”

  “I don’t think the President’s going to agree,” said Jed.

  * * *

  Fortified by antibiotics and a shelf’s worth of vitamins, Jed’s boss walked shakily into the paneled conference room in the basement of the West Wing. Jed hovered nearby, ready to lend his arm or shoulder in case Philip Freeman suddenly ran out of energy.

  Freeman’s presence made Jed feel considerably more relaxed than he had been over the past few days; there’d be no need to speak, except to his boss. While Colonel Bastian’s assessment that the Taiwanese were involved was bound to shock most of those at the meeting, Freeman would bear the brunt of the questions.

  The President and most of the invited Cabinet members had already arrived, along with half of the service chiefs. They were already discussing the summit between China and Taiwan.

  “We have to encourage the meeting, and the best way to do so is by sending the vice president,” said Hartman, the secretary of state. “He’s already in Japan. It won’t take anything for him to go to Beijing.”

  “Too much too soon,” said Chastain. “Especially since the Chinese are still blaming us for shooting their aircraft.”

  “The official protest has been withdrawn,” said the se
cretary of state. “The rest is just for internal consumption. It’s posturing.”

  “I’d like to show them posturing,” said Balboa. He looked at Jed as he said it and winked.

  “If we’re not there, we run the risk of being left on the sidelines,” said the secretary of state. “The vice president can say that he’s going to Beijing to discuss the unfortunate crash of the Chinese aircraft in the South China Sea.”

  “Let’s not do that,” said Martindale. “If we go, we go. No baloney playing. Have we figured out what happened yet?”

  All eyes turned to him.

  “The Dreamland team has come up with a theory,” said Jed. “But we need more information.”

  Jed could feel his face turning red as the others waited for him to continue. Jed glanced at his boss, who nodded. He’d already told Freeman in the car on the way over.

  “It looks like Taiwan. Or actually, a private company working without the knowledge of the government,” said Jed.

  “Taiwan?” said Hartman.

  “We just got the information on the way over,” said Jed. “Colonel Bastian and the Dreamland team are looking for permission to enter the country to do more research.”

  “Taiwan? Not Mainland China?” asked Martindale.

  “Taiwan does make sense,” said Freeman, his voice raspy. “If it’s one of the old hard-liners, not the new government.”

  “But a private company?” asked Martindale. “How? Who?”

  “We’re still trying to gather data,” said Jed, “but the CIA expert working with Dreamland believes the plane was developed by a businessman who’s at odds with the present government. The companies that seem to be responsible are owned by a man named Chen Lee. He’s pretty old — he fought in Chiang Kai-shek’s army. The embassy says he’s one of a handful of hard-liners against the summit next week. Like I say, we’re still gathering information. This is really new, as of a few hours ago.”

  “You sure this isn’t something Bastian cooked up to make himself look good, young Jed?” asked Balboa.

  “I don’t think so, Admiral.”

  “Colonel Bastian’s not like that,” said Freeman.

  “What’s the status of the investigation into Dreamland?” asked Chastain.

  “Unofficial investigation,” said Jed.