Strike Zone

III Chips

Dog had just stripped and turned on the water to take a shower before dinner when his secure satellite phone buzzed. Thinking — hoping — it might be Jennifer, he grabbed it off the sink and looked at the LED window on the top, which was like a caller ID device indicating which node of the Dreamland secure system had originated the communications. He was surprised to find that the alphanumeric was Z-99—Zen.

“Bastian,” he said, wrapping a towel around himself.

“Colonel, we have a problem. We found the ghost clone, but before we could get to it, it shot down the Chinese aircraft. It took off before we could apprehend it.”

Dog reached back into the tub to turn off the shower as Zen continued, explaining what had happened.

“There’s a merchant ship about twenty minutes away,” Zen added. “He’s en route. We can see debris on the water, but no survivors.”

“No survivors?”

“We’re still looking,” said Zen.

He added that the Chinese had additional assets en route. The final transmission from the H-5 was garbled, and it wasn’t clear to them what happened.

“The Chinese know the plane is down?” asked Dog.

“Yes, sir. A J-8 was coming down to hook up with it and escort it home. The J-8 radioed us shortly after the shootdown when it didn’t show on radar. We told them we were refueling but would come up and look for them. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. We just left out some of the details.”

There was a knock on his door. Dog ignored it. “What are you doing now?” he asked Zen.

“I’d like to stay around until the ship gets there at least.”

“Any possibility of finding the clone?”

“We can try, but the trail’s pretty cold. Alou won’t complain, but his crew’s been at it a pretty long time.”

Whoever was at the door knocked again. Dog thought it must be Mack, who’d promised to give him a ride over to the palace.

“All right,” Dog told him. “Stay aloft until the Chinese have the area covered. Offer whatever assistance you can. After that, head back. I’ll meet you in the trailer.”

“The Chinese are going to think we shot them down,” said Zen.

“I know.”

Dog hit the End button and pulled the towel tighter around his waist. But instead of Mack he found Miss Kelly.

“Colonel, you’re not dressed yet,” she said.

“I’m afraid there have been new developments,” said Dog. He decided to give her a brief overview of what had happened.

“I have to check with Washington to see precisely how they want to handle this.”

“It’s not good,” she said.

“No, it’s not,” said Dog. “I’m going to have to miss dinner with the sultan.”

“You can’t.”

“This is much more important.”

“Not showing up will be interpreted as an insult.”

“I’m afraid it can’t be helped.”

“Colonel, you can’t snub the sultan.”

“I’m not snubbing him. I just don’t have time for diplomatic bullshit,” he told her. “You’re the State Department. You fix it.”

“But—”

He slammed the door before she could finish her sentence.

The storm cloud approached from the east, rushing in like a tempest sent from the gods. Low to the water, riding in the thick band of the setting sun, it seemed to kick up fire and ash rather than steam as it came toward the Dragon Prince. Suddenly a black cloud furled from behind and it settled onto the waves, skimming the surface.

The Dragon had returned. The small robot plane taxied on its skis toward the ship, its speed steadily dropping. Professor Ai watched from the rail as the computer on the plane jettisoned the parachute it had used to slow and then spun the plane around the ship with its last bit of momentum, ready to be picked up. The skis that it rode on held it above the water, but just barely, and the recovery had to be completed quickly once the aircraft stopped moving.

Professor Ai had found that his presence on the deck helped the process, as the crew inevitably moved even faster. There was little danger that the craft would sink, but the longer it sat in the unfriendly salty water, the more maintenance it required. Already the coating of its composite hull and skin had to be reapplied every second or third flight.

Dragon Prince had lowered a boat earlier to help in the recovery. It approached the small robot plane now, helping as the hoist was secured to its fuselage. Within minutes, the crank on the edge of the ship began to groan.

Professor Ai had wanted to name the robot plane Xi Wang Mu after the goddess in Chinese mythology who was said to be the Queen Mother of the West. She was the patron of immortality, a beneficent figure.

To most. Professor Ai, however, knew that the earliest texts mentioning Xi Wang Mu referred to her as a monster — part human, part tiger. She ruled over demons and the plague answered her command. The kinder image had evolved over the centuries.

Ai Hira Bai’s own history had drawn him to the story of Xi Wang Mu. It was not a coincidence that his middle name was Japanese — Ai had been born during the Japanese occupation of Manchuria during World War II. His father had died shortly after his birth — or at least that was what his mother had been told. A native of Shanghai, she had returned to the city after the war. But her neighbors and relatives considered her a collaborator and would have nothing to do with her; in her anguish she had fled the country after the war. She had worked hard to raise her son, though she had died before he reached twenty.

Ai wanted war not to liberate the stolen provinces, but as a measure of vengeance. Soon, he thought, he would have it.

As long as the communists reacted as they should, interpreting the destruction of the innocent SAR flight as a wanton act by the Americans. Professor Ai did not particularly care for the Americans either, though he did not hate them as he hated the Mainlanders.

“A successful mission,” said Chen Lo Fann nearby.

The professor nodded to the young man. “Now it is up to the mongrels to play their role.”

“Yes,” said Chen Lo Fann.

Jed Barclay heard the phone ring and realized something big was up — it was his encrypted line, installed at the NSC director’s request in his home office.

Since Jed lived in a one-room studio apartment, his home office was also his bedroom, family room, and dining area, so he didn’t have to lean far from his foldout couch to grab it.

“Barclay,” he said, not quite awake yet.

“Jed, the Chinese are claiming that we’ve shot down one of their planes,” said his boss. “Get over to the White House right away.”

“Shot down one of their planes?”

“Find out if it’s true while you’re at it. Call me back. I’m still confined to bed.”

“Yes, sir.”

An hour later, Jed walked through the West Wing basement flanked by a pair of Secret Service agents. With the help of Colonel Bastian and briefings from the NSA and CIA, he had managed to pull together a pretty fair understanding of what had happened. Unfortunately, understanding the situation and being able to do something about it were two different things.

“Barclay,” said Admiral Balboa, spotting him in the hallway outside the situation room. “What the hell is that cowboy Bastian up to now?”

“He’s not up to anything,” Jed told the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Whoever is operating the ghost clone shot down a Chinese flying boat while it was trying to make a rescue. They’re trying to provoke a war.”

“Gentlemen, let’s discuss this in the situation room,” said the defense secretary, coming in behind them. “Come on.”

Balboa grimaced but said nothing. The secretary of state and the President were already inside, along with the other service chiefs and the head of the CIA. Balboa’s broadside had a positive effect on Jed — he got through his quick overview of the situation with only a single stutter.

“The Chinese are on alert now. They’re threatening to retaliate,” he said, turning to Jeffrey Hartman, the secretary of state. “You might, uh, want to cover that.”

“Actually, I have some fresh data on the Chinese units that are standing by,” said General Victor Hayes, the Air Force chief of staff. “As well as ours.”

Jed stole a glance at the President. Some months before, Kevin Martindale had threatened the Chinese with war over Taiwan. He’d backed the threat up with covert action, and only the Chinese really knew how close the world had come to a nuclear exchange. But that conflict seemed justifiable and even reasonable, the result of a series of aggressions and countermoves by America.

This was almost an accident — a crazy, chaotic accident.

Or not. Whoever was operating the ghost clone wanted war. World War III.

“How much do the Chinese know?” asked Martindale.

It took Jed a second before realizing the President was speaking to him.

“We don’t think they know about the ghost clone at all. Circumstantially — we were there at the time. I, uh, uh, if it were me… ” Jed’s voice trailed off. His tongue was threatening to revolt again.

“Go on, Jed,” said the President calmly.

“I would reach the same conclusion the Chinese did,” said Jed. “B-b-because based on the evidence they have, we did it.”

“Maybe we should add to their evidence,” suggested Martindale.

“Tell them about the UAV?” asked Chastain.

“Why not?” said the President. “Jed, what do we have?”

“We have video of the c-c-collision itself, and of the shootdown. Radar stuff, sensor data. Uh, but, but—”

Jed felt them all staring at him.

“Very sensitive,” he continued, managing to blurt out the words. “Giving them all the information we have would show the Flighthawks’ capabilities. And, uh, the, uh, uh,Raven ’s, the Elint c-c-capable Megafortress.”

“I doubt they’ll believe us at this point anyway,” said the secretary of state. “Or rather, that they’ll admit that they believe it.”

“My feeling is we should just ignore their threats,” said Balboa. “They’re just flexing their muscles. They won’t move against us.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said the President. “At the moment, I don’t feel like taking a chance. Jed, prepare the data, minimize the exposure to our technology. They know we have good sensors; we won’t give away the store by letting them see a blurry shot or two. Let Defense review it before it comes over to me. Once I have it, I’ll decide whether to use it or not. Jeffrey, get the Chinese ambassador and have him meet me in my office. I’ll clear all my other appointments.”

The President rose and started to leave the room. But when he got to the door, he stopped and turned back.

“And Jed — tell Colonel Bastian he’s past due on finding out who’s operating this so-called ghost clone.”

Dog stared at the video screen, where a very tired Ray Rubeo updated the latest information from the team studying the Raven ’s intercepts back at Dreamland. The members of the team had been able to sketch a tentative model based on the captured telemetry and video. The aircraft was roughly the length of a Flighthawk, but with a radically different airfoil; in fact, it looked closer to a Boeing design dating before the Flighthawks and originally intended as a one-off to test low-cost stealth concepts. The flight data suggested that the aircraft’s top speed was slower than the Flighthawk’s, but the analysis had concluded there were two cannons aboard, and the fuselage was wide enough to carriage a good-sized air-to-ground missile.

“The difference in the physical design should eliminate any suspicion of spying by the physical team,” added Rubeo at the end of his brief. He seemed to be alone in the Dreamland Command Center, except for a skeleton crew. “Perhaps that will act as an enticement for our inquisitor to leave at least those people alone.”

“Come now, Ray, Colonel Cortend can’t be that bad,” said Dog.

“The colonel has completely changed my opinion of the Spanish Inquisition,” said Rubeo. “I now recognize it was a charitable organization.”

“What’s controlling it?” asked Zen, who was sitting next to Stoner behind Dog in the trailer’s communications center. “Where’s its control aircraft? We never saw it on the radar.”

“That remains a mystery,” said the scientist. “We are working on it, Major.”

According to the information from Raven, the only aircraft that had been in the area were Chinese — and it didn’t make sense that they had shot down their own plane.

“Ray, what’s the possibility that the clone is being controlled from a ship?” asked Dog.

“At this point, I wouldn’t rule anything out.”

“The closest ship was that civilian vessel that searched the area of the crash,” said Zen. “We overflew him. There’s no way he launched the clone, let alone recovered it.”

“We’ll look into all of the ships that were in the area,” said Rubeo. “But if they’re controlling it from a vessel, they’re using a system we don’t know about.”

No kidding, thought Dog. He started to ask if anyone else had anything when Stoner interrupted.

“Doc, getting back to the UAV for a second. You said it would have a lot of computing power aboard, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Stoner. Considerable computing power.”

“Gallium-arsenide chips?” asked Stoner. “Custom- made?”

“Perhaps.”

“I think I know where they were manufactured,” said Stoner. “I’d like to check it out. I need some information on what to look for.”

“You want a course in chip manufacturing?” said the scientist in a tone even more sour than usual.

“What the machines would look like, the plans, byproducts, that sort of stuff.”

“Do you have six months? You’re asking for a graduate seminar.”

“I have a plant that supposedly manufactured chips used for VCRs. I want to see if it could have done anything else.”

“VCRs,” said Rubeo. “Might just as well look for vacuum tubes.”

“Ray, maybe Jennifer can give Mr. Stoner a few pointers,” said Dog.

“Jennifer is not available,” said Rubeo. “She’s confined herself to quarters. She says she’s sick.”

“What?”

“In any event, her security status is still in doubt. She’s not allowed to use the computers, and she can’t go into sensitive areas. Which would preclude her from using the command center.”

“Is she all right?” asked Dog.

Rubeo put his lips together in one of his twisted scowls. Dog resisted the urge to press further — he didn’t want to mix his personal concerns with business.

Still, it was difficult to keep quiet. The briefing dragged on a bit, with updates on the Chinese military — every unit was on standby alert, and there were threats from Beijing about war. The top leaders were all blaming America for the shootdown.

“At the moment, we’re grounded,” said Dog. “We don’t want to incite the Chinese any further.”

“I hope somebody’s going to tell these jokers it wasn’t us,” said Zen.

“Washington will,” the colonel told him. “But they have to be careful about how much information they can give the Chinese about our own systems. Too much and we may jeopardize future missions.”

“Too little and these idiots will start shooting the next time they see us,” said Zen.

“Yeah, right now all they’re doing is trying to run into you,” said Stoner.

The CIA officer was so deadpan it took a second for everyone to realize he meant it as black humor and start to laugh.

After the session broke up, Dog tried again to get ahold of Jennifer. But she wasn’t answering the phone, either at her apartment or at the lab. He decided not to bother leaving a message — with the investigation still under way, it was bound to be misinterpreted.

Most likely that was why she hadn’t bothered emailing or leaving a message on his personal voice mail. Come to think of it, they usually didn’t talk much during deployments anyway. She knew he was busy and didn’t want to bother him.

Not that he considered talking to her a bother. Not at all.

Hell, he’d really like to hear from her right now.

Dog started to punch the numbers on the phone, thinking this time he’d leave a message and Cortend be damned, but then hung up.

Personal concerns came after duty. If he couldn’t get his priorities straight, how could he expect anyone under him to?

“Mack Smith.”

“Colonel Bastian!” Mack nearly knocked over the table jumping to his feet, surprised — astounded — that Dog had tracked him to the small club on the outskirts of the city. He’d come with Stoner and was wearing civilian clothes.

“Boy, you missed a hell of a dinner,” Mack told him.

“Thanks for filling in for me. Can Mr. Stoner and I sit down?”

“Colonel, of course. Ladies?” Mack gestured to the women who’d been fawning over him. As luck would have it, there were exactly three of them. Their eyes blinked as they did the math. One by one they took up positions.

“Actually, we’d like to be alone for a while,” said Dog.

Mack feared that the colonel was about to lower the boom for his accidental firing of the Badger’s machine gun. He told the women he’d see them later, then took a gulp of his drink as a final fortification against the inevitable onslaught.

“You just missed Prince bin Awg,” said Mack, wishing he had left with his host.

“The prince approves of this?” said Dog.

“Oh sure.”

“How about his uncle the sultan?” asked Stoner.

“Well, uncles, fathers, you know how that goes. Right, Colonel?”

Dog gave him a very disapproving frown.

“I don’t know that I saw any alcohol touch the prince’s lips,” said Mack, sticking up for his host.

“Mack, I need you to do me a favor. Or rather, I need the prince to do me a favor, I want you to help me ask him.”

“A favor?”

“We need to get to Thailand tomorrow, but not attract any attention,” said Stoner. “Bin Awg has a fleet of aircraft at his disposal. We’d like to use one.”

“Is that all? Hell, not a problem,” said Mack.

Was that really it? Was that all the colonel had come for?

Mack felt as if he’d been plucked from a den of jackals and delivered back to paradise.

Paradise being Brunei, of course. There was no more beautiful spot on the planet, especially if you were considered a national hero.

“Can do, Colonel. How about the Badger? It’s like driving an old Caddy, swear to God. Pickup’s a little slack, but it’ll remind you of the fifties. Not that you were around in the fifties, but if you were, I mean. It’s a great plane.”

“I don’t want a Caddy,” said Dog. “I understand he has a Beech King Air.”

“Uh, I guess.”

“That’s the plane we’d like to borrow.”

The Beech King Air — formally known as Beech Model 100 King Air B100—was an extremely reliable and sturdy workhorse, an excellent design that could carry fifteen passengers fifteen hundred miles or more. It was relatively cheap to operate, and testimony to the solid design and production skill of “small” American aviation companies.

It was also about as unspectacular a plane to fly as Mack Smith could imagine. A two-engined turboprop, the plane had been designed as a no-nonsense civilian flier, and that’s what it was. It wasn’t even a jet, for cryin’ out loud.

“But, Colonel, I’m serious, you take the wheel of the Badger. You aren’t going to… ”

Mack’s voice trailed off as he saw Dog’s scowl.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Should I ask now, or do you want to wait for morning?”

“Whatever’s better,” said Dog, rising. “We’ll be at the airport at 0800.”

It had been a while since Dog had piloted a civilian turboprop, and while he couldn’t have asked for a more predictable and stable craft, his unfamiliarity with the plane did cross him up a bit. The King Air’s maximum takeoff weight was perhaps two percent of what the Megafortress could get off a runway with, and while there were clear advantages to the plane’s small size — its ability to land on a small, unimproved runway was specifically important here — the cabin nonetheless felt like an overloaded canoe to him. Still, it was obvious why the army had chosen the type in the early seventies as a utility and reconnaissance craft, and the solid state of the aircraft showed why it remained in the Army’s inventory when it could easily have been traded in for a newer model. The Garrett turboprops — fitted specially to the B100 model — hummed along in harmony as Dog and his team trekked northward across the ocean, their eventual destination a small airport in southern Thailand.

The strip lay about a half mile from the fab plant Stoner wanted to check out. Besides the CIA agent, Dog had brought along two members of the Whiplash security team, Sergeant Bison and Sergeant Rockland. The plant was in an area near the Cambodian border where rebels had been reported over the past six months. It wasn’t even clear whether the plant was operating. Stoner had bought two small dirt bikes to use to get to the plant; they were stowed in the back of the plane.

Clear skies and a calm sea meant flying was a breeze, and Dog’s hardest job was not getting too complacent at the wheel — or bored. There were only so many times he could check his instruments and look at the map to make sure he had the course nailed. Stoner, sitting next to him, wasn’t very big on conversation. Inevitably, Dog began thinking of Jennifer, who still hadn’t returned his calls.

Was she more upset over this investigation business than he’d thought? Cortend surely was a pain in the ass, but Jennifer ought to understand that the colonel’s presence there was mostly a political thing; it wasn’t directed at her and eventually would go away. Whatever minor violations of the rules she had committed—if she had committed any — would be outweighed by her value to the program. Any baboon would realize that.

Maybe he should just come out and tell her that.

Of course, that was the one thing hecouldn’t do as her commanding officer. It would be interfering with Danny, who had to have absolute autonomy, absolute authority to do the real investigation, Cortend be damned.

Dog checked his course, then looked at his watch. Bin Awg had modified the aircraft to increase the amount of fuel it could carry; in theory, they could have flown directly to the strip at Nanorpathet. But that would leave them with few contingencies, and so he had decided to refuel at Songkhla in the southern extension of Thailand on the Malay Peninsula. At 250 knots and better than eight hundred miles to go, it was going to be a long haul.

Maybe Mack had been right about taking the Badger.

It was so obvious — so painfully obvious — that Rubeo very nearly smacked his head in derision as he realized it.

Most of the intercepted code was nonsense.

Not nonsense, exactly — mirrored bits of their own code, randomly sliced and diced, then spit back to camouflage the actual transmissions.

And that made all the difference.

Rubeo got up from the computer bank and walked to the counter where Mr. Coffee normally kept at least a half carafe warm. The fact that there was no coffee in the pot reminded him of Jennifer, and that in turn reminded him of his stupidity.

Not that telling Cortend what he had just now realized would stop the Inquisition. Cortend was the expression of a vast and infinitely stupid machine, the dark enemy of knowledge. It had stripped Oppenheimer of his status and fame. It had pursued Galileo; it had gotten Socrates to drink poison. Cortend herself was a puny ant, a cog in the machine of ignorance.

A bad cog in a machine that couldn’t even serve a useful function, like making coffee.

Rubeo measured out some grains and filled Mr. Coffee with water. As the liquid began to hiss downward, he went back to his secure phone and called the Command Center, requesting to be put through to Colonel Bastian. But Bastian wasn’t immediately available, according to the sergeant handling the communications system in the Whiplash trailer, aka Dreamland Mobile Command.

“I can get a patch through to his sat phone if you want,” said the sergeant.

“Oh never mind. Tell him to call me when he lands.”

“Here or there?”

“Whatever.” The sergeant started to say something but Rubeo didn’t have time for him; he killed the line and dialed Danny in the security office.

“I want to talk to Captain Freah. This is Rubeo.”

“Uh, the captain’s on another line and, uh, he’s overdue at the handheld weapons lab to check out the updates to the Smart Helmets and some of the—”

“Tell him to see me when he’s done playing with his toys,” said the scientist, slamming down the phone.

At the very moment Rubeo was slamming down the phone, Danny was fuming as well. He’d been on hold now for nearly five minutes, waiting for Jed Barclay to come back on the line. The NSC assistant had called Danny — then asked him to wait without saying another word.

“Sorry about that,” said Jed, finally coming back on the line. “My boss has been sick and they’re running me ragged. This China crap — they’re crazy over there.”

“What’s up?” said Danny. He tried to be friendly but he knew there was a hard edge in his voice.

“Um, I wanted to tell you something, but, it’s like, it’s got to be off the record.”

“Yeah?”

“The official channels’ll come later.”

“Let’s go. What?”

“I talked to an FBI counterintelligence officer in charge of the Far East. Your scientist is off the hook.”

“How’s that?”

“Jennifer Gleason did follow procedure but her name was misspelled and reversed in the records. Dr. Rubeo figured it out. And she was a student on the date of the first conference and there wasn’t even a formal requirement for her to register.”

Danny wanted to reach through the phone and give Jed a high-five. But instead he gave the NSC official his standard security officer: “Are you absolutely sure about all this?”

“Yeah. Uh, like you’ll get a paper report. I also told the FBI guy to contact Colonel Cortend. I figured she’d be really routing up people’s butts.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot. Really. I really appreciate it,” said Danny.

“Listen, I got to go — could you pass a message to, uh, Dr. Rubeo?”

“What’d he do, take your head off?” said Danny.

“He was going on about, um — well, you don’t really want to hear it.”

“Accused you of being part of the Inquisition?”

Jed laughed. “That part was a compliment compared to everything else. I, uh, really don’t have time to uh, deal with him, but I need a favor. Not a favor really, but—”

“Tell me what you need, Jed, and I’ll get it.”

Jed explained that he needed yet another update on the ghost clone for a meeting with the President scheduled in a half hour. Danny realized that, besides being angry about Jennifer, Rubeo was probably pissed that he had to keep updating Washington every few hours. But that was tough nuggies.

Besides, the news about Jennifer would put him in a better mood.

“He’ll have to get me via sat phone. But I really need the latest. Really.”

“Jed, I will personally make sure that Dr. Ray calls you. I will hold a gun to his head and make sure. I’m going right there now.”

“Um, uh, that wouldn’t, uh, be, uh—”

“It’s a joke, Jed. He’ll call.”

Ten minutes later, Danny walked through the Megafortress hangar, down the long ramp that led to the elevators. He put his hand flat on the reader and waited for the car. When the door opened, Colonel Cortend and two of her lieutenants nearly flattened him.

“Colonel, just the person I wanted to talk to,” said Danny. “Looks like Ms. Gleason is off the hook for those minor security violations.”

“No security violation is minor,” said Cortend.

Danny explained what had apparently happened, and told her that the FBI agent would be getting in touch with her.

“Good,” said Cortend, in a tone so severe Danny momentarily regretted that he wasn’t wearing body armor. She glanced at her minions, who snapped to and rushed to open the door ahead — even though it was operated by a motion detector.

Downstairs, Danny found Ray Rubeo talking to himself as he pounded the keys on one of his computers.

“Hey, Doc,” said Danny.

“Hmph,” said Rubeo.

“I have good news about Jennifer,” said Danny, summarizing what Jed had told him.

“Did you tell it to the hangman?”

Danny stifled a smirk. “If you’re referring to Colonel Cortend, yes I did.”

“Did she understand it?”

“What’s to understand?”

“Precisely.Precisely.” Rubeo slashed at the computer keys, then hit a combination at the top to save his work. “You don’t want to read this,” he said, getting up.

“Top secret?”

“It’s a letter to my congressman about idiots and numbskulls,” said Rubeo.

“Present company excepted?”

“I tried to explain the significance of what’s been found about the clone so far,” said Rubeo. “I started with the very basics — completely different aircraft. I didn’t even get to the transmission. Do you know what she told me? Do you know what she told me?”

“Uh, good job?”

“She told me that this was compartmentalized information, and she wasn’t authorized to hear it. Not authorized to hear it! Not authorized to hear it!”

“Hey, uh, Doc, go easy, all right? I don’t know how good my CPR is.”

Rubeo shook his head. Volcanoes appeared calmer before eruptions.

“I believe in security too,” he said. “You know that. You understand that. You’ve been here — you know what kind of operation we run. But. But—”

“Sure,” said Danny.

“This is obscene. This is harassment. I don’t think she’s coming back. She’ll resign.”

“Who? Cortend?”

“Jennifer Gleason.” Rubeo’s entire body shuddered.

“Look, Jennifer is off the hook for those meetings. The paperwork was misplaced. As for the rest of this, well, obviously we have to look very carefully, but—”

“Listen. I’m going to explain what they’re doing. Just nod your head if you don’t understand,” said Rubeo. “Humor me. The reason the code is similar to ours is because it is ours — we’re receiving a mirrored stream of data. Not all our data, just little bits. Their actual code uses an encryption that’s twenty years old. They were using it when most of the scientists here were in diapers.”

Before Danny could say anything, Rubeo marched over to a table lined with printouts. His fingers flew over them as he explained what he had found. Danny didn’t quite catch it all — Rubeo made a big deal out of signal erosion curves and then somehow segued from that into how canon law made torture necessary during the Middle Ages because two eyewitnesses were always necessary for a conviction in the absence of a confession. But the bottom line was clear: No one at Dreamland was a traitor.

No one.

“The mirroring process is interesting in and of itself,” continued Rubeo. “It’s a real-time technique that uses a sampling sequence we haven’t seen before. There have been only two papers published on it, and they’re both several years old. Either the person behind the clone read those papers — or he wrote them.”

“Great,” said Danny. “Give me copies.”

Rubeo blinked at him. “You understand what I’m saying?”

“No, but I get the gist. Can you get me those papers?”

“Gladly,” said Rubeo. Somehow, his customary sarcasm seemed to lack the bite it had once had. It seemed almost — friendly. “You do read Chinese, don’t you?”

“Chinese? As in the People’s Republic of China?”

“No. As in Taiwan. The papers were written there by a man named Ai Hira Bai. If his name is any indication, he has both Chinese and Japanese ancestors, but he lived or lives on Taiwan. An adamant enemy of the communists. And a man who hasn’t been heard from since shortly after the last paper was published. There are no academic listings of him anywhere.”

“Interesting.”

“Even more interesting is the fact that his expenses to the conference were paid by a company owned by a man named Chen Lee. A billionaire who hates the communists and who has access to a wide range of technology.”

“How do you know this?”

“Well, if Colonel Cortend isn’t going to investigate anything beyond her nose, don’t you think someone better?”

President Martindale had a state dinner scheduled to honor the ambassador from France, who was retiring and returning to Paris after a decade’s worth of service in America. The President, whose relations with France were as testy as that of any administration since John Adams’s, was only too happy to throw a big party for the departing buffoon.

The dinner also allowed him the opportunity to get off on a good foot with his successor, a Mademoiselle Encoinurge. Encoinurge was an improvement in several respects, not least of all physically, and the President found it necessary to engage in a little personal diplomacy. This made it difficult for him to sneak away as planned, and so Jed Barclay and the others who were supposed to be meeting with him were ushered upstairs to wait. The secretaries of defense and state had been at the meeting and were dressed in tuxedoes. Jed, wearing his best pinstriped suit and a brand-new tie, felt underdressed. They were sitting in the dark and ornate Treaty Room on the third floor, next to the Lincoln Bedroom. A massive chandelier hung down from the center of the room like a beehive on fire. Though sturdy, Jed’s wooden chair creaked as he sat in it; it was at least a hundred years old, and he worried that he might break it if he got up too quickly.

Nonetheless, he jumped to his feet as President Martindale bounded into the room, several strides ahead of two aides and Admiral Balboa, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

“Gentlemen, Jed, good; we’re all here then. I’m looking forward to better relations with France,” the President told the secretary of state. “The ambassador actually seems to have a head on her shoulders.”

“It’ll make up for China,” said Hartman.

“One step at a time. Would you like to brief us on the situation?”

“The Chinese are still officially blaming us for shooting down their aircraft,” said the secretary of state. “But the premier was impressed that you called the ambassador and is willing to take your call on the matter sometime this afternoon. We’re still working on the details. Jed’s pictures helped.”

Jed felt his face flush slightly.

“Good work, Jed,” said the President. “Maybe we’ll tell Mr. Freeman to stay in bed another week.”

“Uh—”

“Philip is feeling much better,” Martindale told the others. “I think he just didn’t feel like having anything to do with France tonight. All right, back to China.”

“The premier is in a conciliatory mood,” said Hartman, picking up where he had left off. “Or at least he’s prepared to be, if you say you’re in favor of the summit between him and the president of Taiwan.”

“I am.”

“He’d like a sign of encouragement. He may suggest you attend.”

“That’s not going to happen,” said Martindale.

“The vice president? He’s in Japan.”

The President frowned. “Let’s think on that. Jed, what else do we know about the clone?”

“I have some data from Dreamland,” said Jed. He reached for his briefcase. “I just have to boot up my laptop, and, uh—”

“No, let’s skip the presentation,” said Martindale. “Give us an overview. Quick one. I have to get back.”

Until that moment, Jed hadn’t thought about his stutter — and hadn’t stuttered hardly at all. Now that he was on the spot, however, it came back with a vengeance.

“Well, um, we, uh, know from the wing configuration it’s, uh, different than ours,” he said. “The experts have some, uh, more, uh, more technical data to go through, and they still have a lot of questions. But at the moment it looks slower, like maybe 450 knots—”

“Whose is it?” asked the secretary of state.

Jed shook his head. “Dr-Dr-Dreamland is still working on it. We have Space Command and NSA r-reviewing sensor data in the area, and that’s under way. But the first review of the earlier sighting didn’t yield anything, so we’re not sure what will come up.”

He had to get rid of the damn stutter or no one would trust anything he said. It made him sound like too much of a jerk. Fortunately, Jed had some handouts summarizing the data Dreamland had compiled, and he passed them out.

“So it’s not as capable as our craft?” asked Chastain.

“Well, it depends on your cr-criteria,” said Jed. “The experts think it’s not as f-f-fast. But it can carry a heavier load, which would mean a couple of things.”

“Did the Chinese get all this information?” asked Balboa.

“No,” said Hartman. “They know there was another craft involved. And that we’re trying to track it.”

“If they believe us,” said the admiral, “and that’s a big if, then we’re in race with them to find this thing. Because if they grab it—”

“The Dreamland people will get there first,” said Martindale. He rose. “Right, Jed?”

“They’re getting closer.”

“Close doesn’t count,” said Balboa. “We need results. Now.”

Danny knocked on the door to Jennifer’s small apartment twice without getting an answer. He turned and looked at the two airmen who had accompanied him, then reached into his pocket for the master key he’d brought along. He was just about to insert it in the door when a faint voice asked from inside who it was.

“Captain Freah,” he told her. “Hey, it’s Danny, Jen. Can I come in?”

She didn’t answer.

“Jen?” he said.

He heard her footsteps and then her hand at the chain, pulling it open. She stood in the doorway wearing a bathrobe, though below it she had on jeans and a sweatshirt.

She’d cut her hair.

God, had she cut her hair — it looked as if she’d hacked it off with a knife.

Danny decided it was best to ignore it. He tried not to stare.

“Hey, you’re off the hook. Completely,” he told her. “Those conferences — we got information from the FBI and the security review at the time that clears you completely. Are you okay? Can I come in?”

She didn’t answer, turning away instead. Danny glanced back at his men in the hall, then stepped inside by himself, closing the door behind him.

“Colonel Bastian’s been trying to get ahold of you,” he told her. “And Chief Gibbs. How come you don’t return their calls?”

“How do you know I don’t return their calls?” she said, twisting around in a fury. “Do you have a tap on my phone? You think you can just listen in to anything you want any time you want?”

Danny was authorized by the security regulations covering Dreamland to do just that, but this clearly wasn’t the time to say so. “Of course not.”

She pursed her lips. The lower one started to quiver.

“Jen, I know this has been tough for you. It’s been tough for me,” said Danny.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be considered a traitor,” she said.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s got to suck.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She frowned, but then she started to cry. Danny found himself hugging her awkwardly, patting her back, telling her it would be okay.

Even though he hadn’t had much sleep last night, Boston found it impossible to nap on the plane. While he had a special set of headphones to drown out the sound of the engines, the small plane shuffled up and down every so often, just enough to keep him awake. He spent his time leafing through a book he’d brought along and trading audio tapes with Bison, who unfortunately seemed to like the Grateful Dead considerably more than Boston would have thought possible.

Boston’s adrenaline shot up as soon as Colonel Bastian announced that they were within sight of the airfield. He strapped his seat belt on and waited as the plane banked and then circled over the small strip. While they undoubtedly cleared the nearby jungle by a good margin, to Boston it seemed like the wingtip came perilously close to the top of the nearby trees. He struggled not to close his eyes as the airplane turned hard and legged down onto what looked more like an unkempt driveway than an airfield. The strip didn’t have any lights or even a fence nearby; the only structures Boston saw as he stepped down the stairs were a telephone pole with a windsock and a two-story pillbox with a flat roof.

Boston put on his Smart Helmet and did a quick search of the area, using its composite view, which cobbled together IR, radar, and optical inputs to identify weapons and individuals. There was no one around.

“Yo, Boston, help me with the bikes,” said Bison from inside. The sergeant went back and manhandled the small dirt bike out of the rear cabin, barely clearing past the seats. They had taken along several cans of gas as well as guns and radios. Everyone on the team wore civilian dress, authorized by the colonel because of the nature of the mission.

Colonel Bastian and Stoner met the two Whiplash ops on the hard-packed dirt.

“I want someone to stay here with me and watch the plane,” said the colonel. “And let me emphasize, we show no military gear.”

“I think we have to wear vests,” said Stoner.

“All right,” said Bastian. “Be as discreet as possible.”

“Who’s better at riding a motorbike?” said Stoner.

Boston looked at Bison, who looked at him. Both men shrugged. While riding a motorcycle was not part of the Whiplash job requirements, everyone on the squad had done so at one time.

“Flip a coin,” said Dog.

Boston won the toss.

The wind whipped hard against Stoner’s face as he drove up the winding trail toward the fabrication plant. The sat photos he’d seen of it, part of a routine series covering the area, along with some background research provided by analysts back at the CIA, indicated that it had been abandoned about six months before. Already the jungle had begun closing in. Nature’s relentless march had broken up the edges of the road leading to the site; what two years ago had been a row of small, hastily built houses was now a collection of scavenged foundations.

Stoner would have preferred that the plant was still in operation. Getting information then would have been considerably easier — go in as a prospective client and look around, set up a tap into their computers, maybe even do a little B&E routine. Now all he could do was nose around and see what he could come up with. He had a digital camera and a chemical “sniffer” in his backpack, as well as a collection of programs on computer disks that would allow him to examine any computer he found. But as the building came into view, he realized he wasn’t going to be finding much of anything.

The parking lot and helipad had been overgrown by vegetation, and the weeds were so thick that Stoner had to stop his bike about twenty yards from the front of the building. He got off and took the IR viewer from his backpack, using it to check around.

“We should cover the road,” said Boston, who’d taken his MP-5 from his ruck.

“Anyone who’s interested in us isn’t going to use the road,” said Stoner.

Built of cinderblocks, the one-story building had a row of windows at the front and side. Most of the windows were broken; the interior of the building had been stripped, not just of the valuable tools and machinery, but also of most of the sheetrock, ceiling tiles, and electrical wire. Stoner used his elbow to break enough of one of the windows so he could slip in easily.

A thick coat of reddish jungle clay covered the floor, swept in from the lot by the wind. There were tracks from another window at the side, but in the dim light Stoner couldn’t tell how recent they might be. He took out his sniffer and started walking toward the back of the large open room, holding the long sensor wand ahead of him as he went.

The metal skeleton of a wall stood about twenty feet from the front. A jungle of twisted metal studs and beams lay beyond it, marking the actual fabrication areas. Much of the ductwork remained, though parts of it had been pulled out. Stoner followed the long runs as they snaked back into the bowels of the large plant. He nearly tripped over a row of pipes that jutted out of the cement floor, the last remains of a restroom. Pushing past a twisted wall brace, he entered a section of the plant that had been used as a clean room.

The sniffer picked up silicone and traces of gallium arsenide, along with a long menu of materials. There was no question the plant had been used to manufacture chips, and that its products were more advanced than the sort of circuitry needed to power a television or VCR.

When Boston was a kid, he’d lived in a bad section of town, and he and his friends would sometimes wander through abandoned buildings about two blocks from where he lived. One building in particular held endless fascination for the nine- and ten-year-olds. Once a sewing factory, it was filled with ancient machines and all manner of pulleys and gears, many still hanging from the high ceiling. A mannequin sat in a shadowy corner; they liked to scare unsuspecting friends with it.

The afternoon visits ended abruptly when the building was taken over by crack smokers. Boston remembered them now as he worked through the skeletons of stripped walls, unsure exactly what they were looking for. He had his night-vision gear on, a special viewer designed by Dreamland that was much lighter than the normal-issue AN-PVS-7 and strapped on like a pair of swimming goggles. A light enhancer rather than an IR viewer, the device wasn’t as powerful and versatile as the viewer integrated into the Whiplash Smart Helmet. But it provided more than enough light here.

Boston got a touch of the willies as a shadow passed along the metal struts where the wallboard had been removed. He knew it was just Stoner, but he couldn’t rid himself of the tingle of fear bouncing in his chest. Then he heard something, or thought he heard something, outside.

Quickly, the Whiplash trooper retraced his steps out of the bowels of the building, pausing by a side window. He eased himself out of the opening and moved quietly toward the front the factory. Sliding toward the bottom to peer around the corner at the overgrown parking area, he told himself he was being ridiculous; there was no one there.

Then he heard the bike engines kick to life.

Stoner was just scooping up some small bits of discarded chip material from one of the fab rooms when he heard the bike engine. Cursing, he stowed the sample and the sniffer in his ruck.

Boston had already gone outside.

He pulled out his pistol and ran to cover him.

There were three of them, two on one bike and one on the other. Boston leaped to his feet, running toward them like a madman. He managed to grab one of the thieves by the back of the shirt and tossed him to the side, upending the other rider and the bike at the same time. A slap of MP-5 against the man’s skull knocked him senseless. The would-be driver, meanwhile, scrambled in the dirt and managed to escape into the jungle.

Boston scooped up the motorbike, and reacting rather than thinking, he hopped on it and started to chase down the other thief.

Colonel Bastian had emphasized that they were not in enemy territory, and that their weapons were to be used only if their lives were threatened, and then only as a last resort. Did this situation qualify for deadly force?

Probably not.

Definitely not.

But Boston swore to himself that he’d upend the bastard and give him a good kick in the head when he caught him.

Just as he started to gain on the thief, the bike turned off a trail to his right. Boston skidded on the uneven surface, nearly losing the vehicle out from under him as he took the turn. He revved up the trail, came to a rise and found himself airborne; when he landed, the bike went one way and he went the other. By the time he got back to his feet, the thief was so far away Boston could barely hear the engine of the bike he’d taken.

By the time Stoner got outside, the only one in the lot was a scrawny ninety-pounder, shaking like he was a puppy caught peeing on a rug. The kid looked to be about fourteen; whether he was Thai or Cambodian, Stoner couldn’t tell.

“What’s your story?” demanded Stoner. He repeated the question in Mandarin and then Cantonese Chinese, finally switching to standard Thai, a language he knew so little of that he could only ask what the man’s name was and whether he could speak English.

The man said nothing in response to any of his questions, clearly frightened and probably believing he was going to die.

One of the motorbikes revved in the distance, returning. The CIA officer held on to the thief until he was sure that it was Boston on the bike, then threw the man down and told him, in English, to run. The man blinked at him.

“Jàu hòi!”Stoner said in Chinese.Get away. Go.

Finally the kid began crawling backward toward the jungle.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Stoner told Boston, climbing on the back of the bike.

“He a guerrilla?”

“I don’t know. Probably just a thief. Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“You done inside?”

“For now. Go. Go!”

Historically, Thailand sat at the crossroads of southeast Asia. The land had played host to various migrations for many thousands of years. This history had left a rich culture, but it had also greatly complicated the language situation. Thai was spoken by more than half of the country’s population, but its various dialects and local accents made it difficult for a foreigner to understand, even when that foreigner was communicating with the help of a language expert who could listen in with the help of a small but powerful mike setup.

“I think what he’s telling you is it’s dangerous,” said the Thai-Kadai language expert back in Dreamland as he tried to decipher the words Dog was repeating through his sat phone.

“Well, I kind of figured that,” said Dog.

The man had arrived on bicycle after they’d been on the ground a half hour. He seemed to be a maintenance worker or caretaker; he had explained in heavily accented Thai that the administrator and staff had left some time before — though whether “some time” meant earlier in the day or weeks ago wasn’t entirely clear.

“Why don’t I let you talk to him directly?” Dog asked his translator.

“Sounds okay to me,” said the man.

Dog had to coax the Thai worker into taking the phone. But he was soon chattering away, and Colonel Bastian thought he’d have a hard time getting the phone back.

“He says he hasn’t been around too long,” the translator told Dog. “He comes every day. The only other aircraft have been army helicopters. The Cambodian guerrillas hide when they come, but there are at least a few dozen armed insurgents nearby, and it sounds like they control the area. Most of the people who live in the jungle there are refugees, or were refugees and have just kind of squatted.”

“Did he say anything about the factory?” Dog asked.

“Didn’t know anything about it. Hard to tell how sincere he’s being, Colonel. He may be scared of you and be telling you what he thinks you want to hear. Or he might be a guerrilla and be lying outright. Or he might just be telling the truth.”

Dog looked at the middle-aged man. It seemed to him unlikely that the man was a guerrilla, but of course there was no way of knowing. The Thai government did not actively condone the guerrilla movement against the Cambodian government, but it didn’t entirely discourage it either. The guerrillas were occasionally harassed, but the Thai government did not consider them a big enough threat to kick them out of the country. Historically, there had been plenty of animosity between Thailand and Cambodia, and if it weren’t for the refugees who crowded their borders, the official line toward the guerrillas might have been openly encouraging.

“He offered to take you to his house for something to eat,” added the Dreamland translator. “Pretty high honor.”

“How do I say thanks but no thanks?” asked Dog. “We have to hit the road soon. Stoner should be just about wrapping up.”

As they passed the point where the thief had turned off, Boston saw something flash in the jungle on the opposite side of the road. He hunkered toward the handlebars, pushing the throttle for more speed though he already had the engine red-lined.

Stoner shifted on the bike behind him. Boston yelled at him to stop moving; he was afraid of losing his balance. But the CIA officer was oblivious, and Boston nearly lost the bike as the trail clambered across the side of a ravine before flattening out.

Someone was shooting at them.

Bullets flew on both sides of the road, dirt exploding in small wavelets.

And then there was a loud boom behind him.

Somehow, Boston managed to keep the bike upright. The small village near the airstrip lay just ahead.

Stoner thumbed the tape off another flash-bang as they sped down the hill toward the village. The grenade he’d tossed off had temporarily slowed their pursuers, but he knew that it was just a matter of time before they closed in again. They had a jeep or something like a jeep as well as the other motorbike.

A group of children playing in the road ahead scattered as the bike approached. Stoner saw someone crouching near a building and realized he had a gun. Before he could do anything, he found himself flying through the air.

He realized he’d lost the M-84 stun grenade a half second before it exploded.

Boston hit the dirt so hard his teeth slammed into his tongue. The pain made him scream; he jumped to his feet, head spinning in the dust. Someone grabbed him from behind, and he shoved his elbow hard into his side, fishing for his ruck and the submachine gun.

“Come on, come on,” yelled the man who’d grabbed him. “The airport. Come on.”

Stoner.

As Boston started to run, the bark of a heavy machine gun resonated off the nearby walls.

As soon as Dog heard the gunfire and explosions in the distance, he turned and ran back toward the airplane and Bison, who was standing guard near the wing.

“I’ll get the engines going and turn around so we can take off,” said Dog. “Get them aboard.”

He didn’t wait to hear an answer. He clambered into the cockpit, just barely patient enough to bring both engines on line before spinning the aircraft around. As he did, he caught sight of two figures running across the open field behind the blockhouse. Bison ran toward them, firing at something in the distance.

“Come on, damn it,” Dog yelled.

The plane stuttered, its brakes barely holding it down.

“Move! Move!”

Boston turned and saw a jeep bouncing across the edge of the road behind him. A machine gun had been mounted in the rear.

He leveled his MP-5 in the bastard’s direction and emptied the clip. The front of the truck exploded and the vehicle flipped over, the gunner jumping out.

“In! Go!” Stoner yelled, pulling him toward the borrowed King Air.

Bison jumped up into the open rear doorway. Stoner yelled something, then threw himself inside the plane.

Boston took a look back. Two men were moving at the far end of the runway.

One was dragging a small sewer pipe with him.

No — he had a shoulder-launched missile.

The Whiplash trooper stopped, slapping a new magazine into his gun. By the time he had it ready to fire — no more than a few seconds later — the two men had disappeared.

There was a block building near the end of the runway.

The plane began moving behind him, but Boston couldn’t worry about it now — he couldn’t let the bastards shoot his people down. He heard the engines revving as he started toward the building.

Where’d the bastards go?

Ordinarily, he would have taken the corner slowly — ordinarily, he would have had a squad with him, flanked the SOBs, maybe used grenades and machine guns and every piece of ordnance known to modern man.

But there wasn’t time for finesse.

Boston ran to the side of the building, finger edged against the trigger of his gun.

He saw them, the oversized blowpipe on the shoulder of the taller man.

Boston fired his MP-5 as the missile launcher exploded. For a moment, he saw everything stop; for a split second, he was part of the museum tableau, a display in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum.

And then everything turned red. Then black.

Dog had already started down the runway when Bison yelled that Boston had gone back. He had too much momentum to stop; instead, he took the plane off the end of the runway, winging back quickly to land.

As he legged around, he saw smoke rise in a misshapen cloud, covering the building near the end of the runway.

He steeled himself for the worst as he touched down.

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.

“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.

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.”

“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.

“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.”

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 secretary 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.

“Yes?”

Jed looked to his boss and then the President before giving the unofficial findings of the AFOSI. “They can’t rule it out, but everything points to no penetration.”

“A weapon such as the Flighthawk in the hands of the Taiwanese — whether it’s the government or not, makes no difference — is going to anger the Mainland-ers,” said Hartman. “It will make the situation extremely volatile.”

“If they have it, how come we haven’t figured it out until now?” asked Martindale.

Jed — one of the people responsible for figuring such things out — looked down toward the table before speaking.

“It may be that it’s been developed entirely outside of the ordinary military channels,” he said. “As a matter of fact, that seems most likely. Because otherwise, we’d have had indications. The Taiwan connection took the CIA totally by surprise.”

“It takes the Air Force by surprise as well,” said the defense secretary. It seemed to be a jab at the service chief, who hadn’t offered anything in the discussion — a sound political move, in Jed’s opinion.

“This is all very interesting, but it’s not going to contribute anything to our decision on what to do about the summit,” said Hartman.

The secretary of state got the discussion back on track, arguing for an American presence in the capital during the meeting. Chastain responded by pointing out that many of Taiwan’s neighbors were taking a very cautious approach. Japan in particular had yet to weigh in on its opinion of the meeting, a clear sign that it viewed it with suspicion at best. There was also the danger that high-level U.S. presence in Beijing at the time of the meeting would raise expectations beyond a reasonable level.

As the debate continued, Jed watched President Martindale. His face gave no hint of which argument he agreed with. Jed knew from experience that he liked to gather as much information as possible before delivering a pronouncement. This often made for a fairly long fact-finding period, though once the President decided, he never wavered or second-guessed himself. Jed admired that; he himself often worried after he made a decision, and even something as simple as picking a tie might be revisited three or four times.

“The real question is whether rapprochement is in our interests or not,” said Freeman. “At this point, I frankly feel the answer is not.”

“Long term it is,” said the secretary of state.

“I agree with the national security advisor,” said Balboa.

Jed thought he ought to pull out his pocket calendar and record the date — the admiral and his boss rarely agreed on what to have for dinner, let alone anything substantive.

“I don’t think we can actively discourage peace,” said Chastain. “But I do argue for caution.”

The President raised his hand.

“I think we have to encourage peace in Asia,” said Martindale. “At this point, we want the dialogue to go ahead. Obviously, we want to monitor events there very, very closely. And we don’t want any developments that would derail it.”

There was more debate, but Jed could tell the President had already made up his mind. Martindale let everyone take one more shot at having his say, then ended the discussion for good.

“The vice president will arrange his schedule to visit Beijing on the first day of the conference,” he said. “But he will not attend it, or offer any comment on it. He will visit the Chinese premier and the president of Taiwan privately. That is absolutely as far as we can go.”

“It’s pretty far,” said Chastain.

“Anything else, gentlemen?” said the President, rising.

There was, of course, nothing else.

“Feeling better?” he asked the national security advisor as Freeman and Jed started to leave.

“Getting there,” said Freeman. “No cigars for a while.”

“Your wife must be glad of that,” laughed Martindale. He turned to Jed. But instead of joking, his voice was once more dead serious. “I want you to tell Dreamland to nail this down.”

“Yes, sir. But—”

“I don’t like buts, Jed.”

“Um, they’re going to want to go in-country and look around,” said Jed. “Colonel Bastian already suggested it.”

“Tell them to do so,” said Martindale. “Quietly. Very quietly.”

“If the Taiwanese have such a weapon, what do we do?” asked Freeman.

“We worry about it when we’re sure they have it,” said Martindale.