Strike Zone

“Maybe we can get some earthmovers from the city,” suggested Da

“God knows how long it’ll take to get them here.”

Da

The rest of the facility had now been searched; it seemed a good bet that the nuke was down there.

If they blew the concrete to bits, would they blow up the bomb as well?

No—because if it weren’t safed against accidental explosions, it would have gone off already.

Assuming it was there.

Go with a minimum charge.

“Set up the explosives,” Da

STONER PUSHED THROUGHthe dust, the dim beam from the flashlight dancing against the walls.

The path had taken two turns and gone down two flights of stairs, widening somewhat as it went.

The bunker had definitely been intended as more than a place to hide a nuke or two. As he walked, Stoner worried that he would run into guards. He’d retrieved his hideaway Glock from his leg—the Beretta had been lost in the blast—holding the gun in his hand. The flashlight was strapped to his wrist, casting the shadow of the gun ahead as he walked.

He walked slowly, stopping every second or third step, waiting, listening.

What was this place? he wondered. A cement hole in the ground, a hiding place?

He turned the corner and something flashed in his face. He fired his gun and felt incredibly cold.

Cement and the tang of gunpowder stung his eyes. No one was there—he’d tripped another EMP-shielded motion detector. He was at the entrance to a paneled room.

He took a step, then froze, belatedly thinking of booby traps.

Fortunately, there weren’t any.

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“My lucky fuckin’ day,” he said aloud.

The room itself was empty, except for a small couch. A Taiwanese flag hung on the wall. On the wall opposite it were some framed papers and scrolls. Most were in Chinese, but one was in Latin with a name written in Roman letters:

Ai Hira Bai

A diploma or certificate of some sort. He was in the professor’s lair.

A door on his right was ajar, revealing a bathroom.

To the left, a set of steps led downward. Stoner walked to them. Another light came on, but this time he was prepared.

The steps led to a small office dominated by a wooden desk with a glass top. Beneath the glass was a map of Mainland China. He reached for the top drawer, opening it gently. It was empty, except for an envelope with Chinese characters on it. Stoner’s ability to interpret ideographs was somewhat limited, but he thought the words meant “To the next generation.”

BOSTON WATCHED THEMarines set the charges amid the rubble. The passage was blocked by an extremely large and thick piece of the wall; to get it out of the way they had to use considerable explosives. There was simply no way of knowing what other damage it might do.

“How we looking down there, Boston?” asked Captain Freah.

“Uh, the charges are just about set,” the sergeant told him. “A good hunk of C-4.”

“Understood. Make sure you’re far enough away.”

“Yeah.”

“Something bothering you, Boston?”

“Uh—”

“Look, Sergeant, the thing about Whiplash is, you have an opinion, you share it. You got me? I didn’t pick you to join the squad because I thought you were stupid. I want to know what the hell it is you’re thinking. Talk to me.”

Boston had been in the Air Force for a while, but no officer had ever spoken to him exactly like that.

While there were definitely good officers around, the usual attitude toward NCOs and enlisted men in general edged more toward tolerance than partnership.

Was Freah different?

Maybe it was the fact that they were both black.

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Or maybe what he and Colonel Bastian and the others said was true—Dreamland was a team effort.

“I have a weird, weird idea,” offered Boston. “We could use that Osprey to pull some of these big suckers off. I saw this big crane helicopter do that once back home when this building—”

“Pull the charges out of there now,” said Freah, cutting him off. “Next time you get an idea, Sergeant, you share it right away, you got me?”

“Damn straight, sir,” said Boston. “Damn straight.”

Aboard Raven

0315

ZEN JUMPED INTO Hawk Four as the Chinese J-7 closed to within fifty miles of the Megafortress.

The J-7 was essentially a MiG-21, with all the pluses and minuses of the venerable Russian design. Zen could take it in a heartbeat; as a matter of fact, the computer itself could handle the plane if pressed—C3had shot down almost enough MiGs to rate as a bona fide ace.

The Chinese pilot repeated roughly the same challenge the others had, telling Raven they were in sovereign airspace and to get his Yankee butt home. Zen laughed; Chinese pilots seemed to think they could make up for the shortcomings of their aircraft by boasting. As a class, they had to rate among the most cocksure flyboys in the world—which was saying quite a lot.

Dog gave a bland reply and held to his course.

They had one more aircraft to check out, another 767 whose flight plan said it was heading for Beijing.

The ID had already checked out. Hawk Four was about forty miles behind it; overtaking it at the present speed would take nearly eighteen more minutes, by which time the plane would be nearing landfall just south of Shanghai.

“Controller’s telling that J-7 to hang with us,” said Wes. “He’s got fuel problems, though.”

“Any transmissions from the 767?” asked Zen.

“Negative.”

“Zen, be advised we have a ground radar trying to track us,” said the copilot. “You see that on your screen? Fan Song-style radar—getting some more action here.”

“Just flashed in,” said Zen as the icons indicating different ground intercept and guidance radars began to appear on his screens. The Fan Song radar was associated with Chinese V-75 SA-2 Guideline missiles, originally designed by Russia in the late 1950s but updated at regular intervals since. “Stealthy” did not mean “invisible”; the long-wave radar could detect the EB-52 at roughly ten miles. But unless the Megafortress had to fly directly over the site, it was unlikely to be successfully targeted. The Flighthawk was even more difficult to detect.

“We’re out of their range,” noted Delaney. “Fresh flight of Mirages en route from Taiwan coming up behind us, uh, should be on the radar in ten, a little less. Look here, J-7’s turning around. Looks like the skies are friendly once more.”

“Roger that,” said Zen, jumping back into Hawk Three and pressing toward the 767.

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On the Ground in Kaohisiung

0320

WHILE THEOSPREYwas brought in to move the debris, Da

The Taiwanese were angry but Da

While there were now more than a dozen Marines at the entrance to the site, the Americans would soon be outgu