Strike Zone

Da

Dog had already beaten him to it.

Stoner drove to a building owned by the American-Asian Business Coalition on Hsinyi Road not far from the American Institute, which handled American “concerns” in Taiwan on an officially unofficial basis. Despite the late hour, the coalition building was ablaze with lights, and Da

Stoner led the way downstairs to a secure communications center. In contrast to the Dreamland facilities, the unit was primitive, amounting to a set of encrypted phones and two computer terminals that had access to a secure network. The decor wasn’t even up to the command trailer’s standards: The walls were paneled with a wood veneer so thin it looked like plastic; the industrial carpet on the floor was old and ragged.

Stoner pulled out a rolling chair from the conference table at the side of the room and swung it next to the desk with the phone bank. He swept his hand for Da

“There are dissenting views,” said Pierce. “But at this point, the best guess is that the government knows nothing about the UAV project. And if this is a nuke, they know nothing about it.”

“You sure?” asked Da

“The real expert’s sitting next to you,” said Pierce, meaning Stoner. “But there are no intercepts from known CKKC units indicating any sort of operational control on the aircraft, let alone any indication of experimental work, no unit movement, nothing,” said Pierce. “The NSA group working on it for us has gone over it pretty well. And as for nukes, forget it. We’re pretty wired into the government; we’d know.

Believe me.”

Da

“The best evidence that they don’t have one is a conversation three weeks ago between the president and the defense minister debating whether they should start a program and what it would cost,” added Pierce. “It was partly that debate that led the president to make his overtures toward China.”

Brunei

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0600

DOG’S FOUR ORfive hours of fitful sleep made him feel more tired than ever. He cut himself shaving, then burned his finger on the in-room coffeemaker. His mood was so foul that even a message on his voice mail system at Dreamland that Cortend had returned to the Pentagon “and contemplated no formal report” failed to put a bounce in his step as he walked from his hotel room to his elevator. Instead, his brisk stalk warned off the security detail escorting him, even the normally loquacious Boston, heading the team. The men stood at stone attention during the brief ride to the lobby, fa

Miss Kelly, the State Department rep, was waiting near the door.

“Good morning, Colonel,” she said. “Breakfast?”

“No thanks. I have to check in with my people,” he told her.

“I wanted to apologize for being brusque the other day,” she said.

“Not necessary,” said Dog.

“I wonder if I could have a word,” she said, touching his arm to stop him and then glancing at the bodyguard detail.

“Fire away,” said Dog.

“The sultan would like a demonstration,” said Miss Kelly. “He’s heard so much about the Megafortress from his nephew, the prince—they would greatly appreciate a ride.”

“I thought Mack was entertaining them,” said Dog.

“He is,” said Miss Kelly. “But he made it clear that a ride, uh, a flight, was up to you.”

“I’ll bet he did.”

“He’s looking for a liaison and has asked Major Smith if he might stay on.”

“I have a mission here,” said Dog, starting back into motion. “Mack can deal with him.”

“I have a mission here as well,” said Kelly, who had trouble keeping up in her heels. “I will call Washington.”

“I’ll give you a quarter.”

THE COFFEE ATthe Dreamland Command trailer had been made hours before, and to compare the burned-out dregs to crankcase sludge would have been to defame engine oil everywhere. Boston volunteered to make a fresh pot; Dog made a mental note to add a personal commendation to the sergeant’s file at the earliest convenience.

He was on his second cup of coffee when Ray Rubeo’s face snapped onto the screen from Dream Command. Rubeo’s familiar frown was back, and even before the scientist stepped aside to reveal the others in the control room, Dog knew Je

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But what in God’s name had she done to her beautiful long hair?

“Good to see you back where you belong, Ms. Gleason,” he said.

She didn’t answer; it wasn’t clear that she had even heard.

“We’re sifting through a forest of radio transmissions,” said Rubeo, giving the latest update. “We’re still a distance from figuring it out.”

“Anything new on the bomb factory?”

“The video cameras that were placed show nothing unusual,” said Rubeo. “They’ve continued their standard security sweeps.”

“We have to assume they know something’s up,” said Stoner, who was in Taipei. “But we do have people watching both on land and out in the harbor, and there’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Even if the assessment is right and they do have a bomb, we haven’t found the delivery system yet,”

said Dog.

“Sure we have,” said Je

“They’re not big enough,” said Zen, who was on the circuit from Pe