Strike Zone

“Can we help you?” barked the breasts’ owner.

“You must be from OSI,” said Mack. He extended his hand. “Mack Smith.”

“Major.”

The drones hovered, unsure whether their master was being greeted or attacked.

Mack gave them nods—lieutenants, mere children—then turned toward their leader.

“I’m available for background,” Mack told her. “I’ve been here awhile. I know where the bodies are buried.”

“I see.”

She looked him over. Mack pushed his shoulders back.

“Perhaps we’ll arrange something,” said the officer, turning to go.

“What was your name?” he asked.

“It’s Colonel Cortend,” whispered one of the underlings.

“First name?” said Mack.

Cortend whirled around. “Why would you need to know my first name?”

“For future reference,” said Mack.

The colonel frowned in his direction, then turned and set off so quickly that her minions had difficulty keeping up.

Mack felt his face flush. By the time he started moving again, his palms were so sweaty that he had to Page 21

wipe them on his pants, and he was so obsessed with Cortend that he forgot what he’d come to see Je

Dreamland, Flighthawk Hangar Offices

1300

“NO WAY THISis a Chinese Project,” Stoner told Zen as the briefing session broke up. “No way.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d know about it.”

Zen, Rubeo, and several of the other civilian experts involved in the Flighthawk project had just finished giving Stoner a comprehensive briefing on the technologies involved in the U/MF-3. They had emphasized three areas—materials, propulsion, and communications—which until the discovery of the clone had appeared to be Dreamland monopolies.

“I’ve dealt with the Chinese,” said Zen. “They’re pretty damn competent. I wouldn’t underestimate them.”

“I’m not underestimating them. I just don’t think they did this. Consider their aircraft technology. Their most advanced aircraft is the Shenyang F-8IIM. It’s basically a very large MiG-21. If they were able to construct lightweight carbon fiber wings, for example, they’d be building something closer to the F-22.”

“So who? The Russians?”

“They’re much more capable than anyone gives them credit for,” said Stoner. “I wouldn’t rule out the Indians either. You saw their sub-launched cruise missile. That was a pretty serious weapon.”

“The technology here is more advanced,” said Zen.

“In some ways, certainly.” Stoner folded his arms. “What about the Japanese?”

“The Japanese?”

“Forget the technology a minute,” said Stoner. “Look at the way the craft was used. It wasn’t taking part in the battle. It was watching what was going on. It was a spy plane. It stayed far away from the action.”

“That doesn’t rule China out,” said Zen.

“Sure it does. If the Chinese had this weapon, wouldn’t they have been using it to scout the Indian forces?”

“Maybe they did and we didn’t see it. The Flighthawks are very difficult to pick up on radar,” said Zen.

“You think this thing flew over the Navy task force without being detected?”

Zen shrugged. He didn’t, but he didn’t feel like admitting it to Stoner.

“My guess is it’s a third-party player,” said Stoner. “Japan, Russia—someone interested, but not directly Page 22

involved.”

“My money’s still on China,” said Zen. “I don’t trust them.”

“And they don’t trust us,” said Stoner. “But that’s good.”

“Why?”

“Makes them predictable.”

FOR AN EGGHEADnerd, Rubeo set a good clip, and Stoner had trouble catching up with him as he cleared through the underground maze back toward his laboratories.

“Doc, can I talk to you?”

“You seem to be making an effort to do so,” said Rubeo, not pausing.

“Who really could develop this?”

Rubeo stopped at a locked door and put in his card. The door clicked and buzzed, but didn’t open.

“Your ID,” said Rubeo. “In the slot.”

Stoner complied. The door opened. Rubeo stepped through and resumed his pace.

“We can. The Japanese maybe. The Chinese. Not the Russians.”

“That’s it?”

The scientist stopped outside one of the lab doors. Despite his high clearance, Stoner was not allowed into the room, which contained the terminals used for work on the Flighthawk control computers, as well as a myriad of other projects. Rubeo frowned at him, then touched his earring. He seemed to be trying to figure out exactly what to tell him. Stoner wasn’t sure whether he was trying to translate complicated scientific data into layman’s terms—or if he just didn’t trust him.

“Plenty of countries have unma

“Forget the mechanical aspects,” said Rubeo. He glanced down the hallway, making sure they were alone. “It’s the computers that are important. Yes, anyone can build a UMV—we could go to Radio Shack and buy a radio-controlled model that’s about ninety percent as advanced as Predator.”

“Ninety percent?”

“Well, eighty-five.” Rubeo smirked. “Building the aircraft is not the difficult part. The problem is to transfer data quickly enough to control the plane in aggressive flight. This craft seems to have done that.

And if it’s used as a spy plane—well, then you have an enormous data flow, don’t you?

Bandwidth—you understand what I’m talking about.”

Stoner nodded. The scientists had emphasized earlier that massive amounts of data flowed back and forth very quickly between the Flighthawks and their mother ships. To be honest, Stoner didn’t completely get it—what was the big deal about some video and flying instructions? But it was enough to Page 23

know that they said it was significant.

“All of that is going to take custom-designed chips, both for the communications and for the onboard computer. Because it will have to have an onboard computer,” said Rubeo. “That’s what you have to look for. That’s the defining characteristic.”

“Okay, so who could do that?” said Stoner.

Rubeo shook his head. “Weren’t you paying attention? We can. The Japanese. The Chinese. Not the Russians.”

“No one else?”

Rubeo fingered his earring again. “Maybe India. Some of the Europeans, possibly. There are good fab plants in Germany. They’ve done memory work there as well. The processor, though.”

Rubeo seemed to be having a conversation with himself that Stoner couldn’t hear. He segued into contract factories or fabs that fabricated chips for custom applications. A small number of concerns could manufacture specially designed chips. They needed special clean rooms and elaborate tools, but if there was enough money, existing machinery could be adapted.

“What if I look for those?” Stoner asked Rubeo.

“You don’t really suppose they’re going to tell you what they’re doing, do you?”

“I’m in the business of gathering information,” said Stoner.

Rubeo made a noise that sounded a bit like the snort of a horse. “There are several facilities in America that could do the work. More than two dozen that I can think of off the top of my head. Any of them would be willing to design the proper chips for a foreign government if the price were right.”

“I’ll check them first,” said Stoner. “Unless they’re already doing work for us.”

“Why would that be a limiting factor?” said Rubeo, the cynical tone in his voice implying that greed would motivate any number of people to sell out their country.

Dreamland Ground Range Three

2100

SERGEANTBEN “BOSTON”Rockland got to his feet slowly. The rest of his team lay around him, officially “dead.” Their objective—carrying a small amount of radioactive soil back from enemy lines for testing—had not been met.

Boston—as the nickname suggested, the sergeant was a Beantown native—picked up the ruck containing the soil. The desert before him was dotted with small rubber balls with nails sticking out from them—simulated cluster bomblets, representing air-dropped antiperso