Dale Brown's Dreamland--Strike Zone

by Dreamland--Strike Zone(Lit)

  That would no doubt change by the end of the day, but it was good to see that they were starting well.

  Dreamland

  2010

  COLONELVICTORIAMARGARETCortend 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?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I just, uh—I’m here to take you to your quarters.”

  “I’m not going to my quarters. Take me to the commander’s office.”

  “The Taj?”

  “Young man, if you don’t know where the commander’s office is, why were you assigned as my driver?”

  “Um, I do know, ma’am. I mean, uh—”

  He tried to open the door for her but she was too annoyed to allow it.

  Dreamland had a certain reputation back East. Obviously it was overinflated.

  The airman got into the truck and began driving away from the Dolphin portal.

  “The Taj? As in the Taj Mahal?” said Cortend, suddenly understanding what the airman had said.

  “Well, uh, yes, ma’am. Officially, it’s Administrative Building Two, but uh, everyone just kinda calls it the Taj.”

  “Everyone except me. Take me there,” said Cortend.

  “COME,” SAIDDOG,hearing the knock on his door. Thinking it was Ax or maybe one of the scientists, he continued scribbling the last thread of his thoughts about the project he’d just reviewed. It involved further testing of a space-based laser weapon; while Dog was all for the weapon, the tests would cost several hundred million dollars at least, money that he frankly thought would be better spent on next-generation UAVs. But that wasn’t his call; he said the tests were a reasonable step if money could be found.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Bastian.”

  Dog put down the pen. Colonel Cortend was standing in the doorway; the sergeant assigned as her escort shifted nervously behind her.

  “Colonel Cortend,” Dog said, rising. “Welcome to Dreamland.”

  Cortend stood in the doorway, frowning. The frown deepened as he extended his hand; she looked at it as if it contained a dead fish, then extended her own. She grabbed about halfway and squeezed—an old Pentagon trick, Dog knew, to make a firm grasp seem life-threatening.

  Frankly, Cortend didn’t look as if she needed any tricks. She had shoulders that would cow an NFL linebacker.

  “Are your quarters satisfactory?” said Dog, trying to break the ice as Cortend surveyed the boat of a desk and the matching cherry bookcases that graced his office. He’d inherited the furniture from General Elliott, who had paid for it himself.

  “I expect they will be,” said Cortend.

  The frost in her voice removed any last doubt Dog might have had about how pleasant the colonel’s stay might be. He put on his Pentagon face and told her that she was welcome to go where she wanted, and that everyone at the base would fully cooperate in any way possible.

  Cortend’s scowl deepened. “I’ll see the computer labs and the Flighthawk hangar first. Then I want an office. My staff will be arriving at 0800.”

  It was rather late for a tour, but Dog didn’t bother arguing with her. “Security detail will take you around. Chief Gibbs has already set everything up and will personally make sure that you’re squared away in the morning. We’ve allocated a pair of rooms on the first level of the building. There’s a conference room as well. The chief has a handle on the badges, phones, computers, everything you need. Ax is really incredible. You’ll be impressed.”

  “Ax?”

  “That would be Chief Gibbs. One of the best, believe me.”

  Dog ignored her scowl and rose, intending that as her cue to clear out. She didn’t take it.

  “I’m afraid I’ve been away,” said Dog. “And I have a few things to attend to before turning in.”

  “I see.” Cortend frowned, but didn’t move as Dog sat back down.

  “Colonel?” he asked.

  “Are you going to get this Chief Ax, or should I locate him myself?”

  “Uh, it’s a little late in the day—”

  “You, Lieutenant Colonel, are working. Why is your staff not?”

  Dog stifled his instinctive response, trying to turn it into a joke. “I don’t like paying overtime,” he told her.

  “Hmph,” said Cortend.

  “Would you like some advice?” Dog asked. He ignored her frown and continued anyway. “You have to remember, Colonel, Dreamland is not like most other military commands. There are a lot of civilians here. A lot of scientist types. And we don’t have the sort of bureaucratic infrastructure that a lot of the military has. I’m not critcizing other commands at all; I’d love the personnel slots, believe me. But we’re a bit different. And because of that, the atmosphere takes a little getting used to.”

  “You seem to have adjusted.”

  “You mean that as a compliment or a criticism?”

  Dog had controlled his temper for a remarkably long time, but the implied slur on the people who worked for him was simply too much.

  “Take it as you wish,” said Colonel Cortend, not giving an inch. “Now let me give you some advice,Lieutenant Colonel. I’m here informally, but if anyone interferes with my work—you especially—”

  Dog’s anger had built to such a level that even he would have been unable to stifle an outburst had the phone not rung.

  “I’m afraid I have to take this behind closed doors. The security detail will see to your needs,” he told Cortend, struggling to keep his voice neutral. “The sergeant will give you access to your quarters and to your office; the phone lines, computers, they’re all ready to go. Believe me, when Chief Gibbs sets something up, it works. And that goes for everyone here. Now you’ll have to excuse me.”

  Cortend frowned, but stepped into the outer office, closing the door behind her.

  “Bastian,” said Dog, picking up the encrypted phone.

  “Colonel, it’s Jed Barclay. Stand by for the President.”

  President Kevin Martindale’s voice practically jumped through the phone when the connection finally went through.

  “Tecumseh, I’m sorry I couldn’t come out there myself for your ceremony.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You did a fine job in the Pacific. A very good job. The Navy’s jealous. You should see Admiral Balboa. Just about apoplectic.” T
he President laughed, but his tone changed quickly. “We’ve spent a bit of time reviewing the situation in South Asia. The consensus seems to be that the Chinese will leave the Indians alone for a while.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Makes two of us, Tecumseh. Now tell me about the Flighthawk you discovered. Whose is it?”

  “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

  MAJORJEFF“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’VEjust 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 ALONEare responsible for the coding?”

  Jennifer flicked the hair back behind her ear. “Of course not,” she told Cortend. The colonel had two bleary-eyed technical experts and a pair of bright-faced lieutenants standing behind her, but none of them had uttered a peep.

  “I work with a team of people,” said Jennifer. “Depending on which project and what we’re talking about, the team could have a dozen or more people. S
ix people handled the compression routines for C3.”

  “C3is?”

  “The computer system that helps fly the Flighthawks. The communication sequences have to—”

  “And any of these six people could have given the secrets away.”

  “No one gave the secrets away,” said Jennifer.

  “Someone did, my dear. Someone.”

  “Let me explain how the compression works. See, the algorithms themselves aren’t necessarily secret—”

  “Everything you work on is secret,” said Cortend. She rose. “I think we have enough for now. We’ll be back.”

  “Peachy,” muttered Jennifer beneath her breath.

  MAJORMACK“THEKnife” Smith adjusted his swagger as a quintet of officers came out of the computer lab. Mack had recently returned to Dreamland after a series of temporary assignments had failed to get him the squadron command he so ardently desired—and, in his unprejudiced opinion, deeply deserved. He accepted a position as temporary test officer for a project dubbed Micro-Mite, a twenty-first century fleet of interceptors no larger than cruise missiles that would use energy beam weapons to bring down their opponents.

  Or maybe lasers, or railguns, or some as-yet unperfected Flash Gordon zap weapon. That was the beauty of the assignment—four weeks of blue-sky imagining with a bunch of pizza-eating eggheads, who would spit out sci-fi concepts for him to consider as they worked feverishly over their laptops on simulations. They were all recent grads of MIT, RPI, and Berkeley—or was it Cal Tech? In any event, the pimple-faced pizza eaters looked to him as the voice of reality and experience. With his combat experience and superior flying and fighting skills, he was their god, and they bowed down before him.

  Figuratively, of course. Which was the way he wanted it. For alas, while there were six females among the chosen, the eggheads’ bodies were no match for their brains. Even mixing and matching their best attributes would still leave the composite far short of Jennifer Gleason, Dreamland’s resident brain babe. He was in fact on his way to see her now, hoping she might be available to give his acolytes a few pointers about the value of working with the military. They really didn’t need to hear another pep talk—he had that under control himself—but it would give Mack an excuse to admire her assets—er, abilities—for a good twenty minutes or more.