“She saved me as much as I saved her,” said Stoner.
The chief smiled and pointed at him, then opened the door.
Dog nodded as the CIA officer entered his office, listening to Zen as he continued laying out the game plan — two Megafortresses, one to act as agent provocateur and the other hanging back to gather information. When the clone showed itself, Flighthawks from the second EB-52 would come forward. Operating at the far end of their range, they would gather information on the clone without its being able to detect them.
“We could even turn them loose,” said Zen. “We could program them to home in on their own, gather whatever information they can get, then return.”
“No — too risky,” said Dog. “I don’t want to chance losing one. But otherwise, this makes sense.”
“We need a remote base,” said Stoner. “I’d recommend the FOA in the Philippines we used last month.”
“It’s a good distance from the area you two have mapped out,” said Dog.
“We’re not quite sure where exactly the clone is flying from,” said Stoner. “If it’s China, this is far. But if it’s Thailand, say, or even off a ship—”
“The Philippines also limits our exposure,” said Zen. “We’ve been there already. And in terms of the operating radius, it’s the same.”
“Still a stretch,” said Dog.
“Better than locating in a country that has the clone,” said Stoner.
“As unlikely as that may be,” said Zen.
“Start working on a detailed deployment plan,” said Dog, ignoring the bite in Zen’s voice. “I’ll talk to Jed and get the wheels in motion. It may take a while to get approval.”
“This may not work,” said Stoner.
“Don’t be a pessimist,” said Zen. He wheeled himself backward and spun toward the door at the right side of Dog’s office, which had been widened so his wheelchair could easily fit through.
“I’m just being realistic,” said Stoner, standing.
He went to open the door for Zen, but the major had already gotten it himself.
“Play nice, boys,” said Dog as they disappeared.
“Name.”
“Minnie Mouse.”
The technician handling the lie detector suppressed a grin.
“Name,” repeated Colonel Cortend.
“Jennifer Gleason.”
“Age?”
“What’s yours?”
“Age?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Um—” said the technician, raising his finger.
“I’ll be twenty-five next month.”
“The needle was okay, but I saw the, I mean I knew the answer was wrong,” said the technician.
Cortend folded her arms. “Continue.”
“This needn’t be an adversary procedure,” said Danny, standing near Cortend.
“Thank you for your advice, Captain. Miss Gleason—”
“Ms. Gleason.”
“Miss Gleason, how long have you been at Dreamland?”
“You could at least call her by her proper name,” hissed Rubeo. “She’s a doctor. Her Ph.D. was a brilliant piece of work. Classified need-to-know, I might add.”
Rubeo had passed his own lie detector test earlier, which obviously had put Cortend in a bad mood. The colonel ignored him.
“Miss Gleason,” insisted Cortend, “how long have you been at Dreamland?”
Jennifer realized that Cortend was trying to rattle her. She also knew the best thing to do was simply answer the questions and get on with her life. But something inside wouldn’t let her do that. She was just so put out, so angry with it all, that she had to fight back somehow.
“I’ve been here too long, obviously,” she said. Then she answered the question, remembering the day in 1993 when as a freshly minted computer Ph.D. — she would go on to get another degree in applied micro circuitry, her weaker discipline — she had come off the Dolphin transport. General Brad Elliott had taken time from his schedule to show her around some of the base, and it was his tour that had cinched her decision to come here.
Poor General Elliott. A brave man, a true hero.
He’d been persecuted by people like Cortend. He was honored in the end, but it was too late for him by then — the brass had kicked him out.
The brass and people like Cortend.
“I asked, what is your specialty?” said Cortend.
“Long or short version?”
“Short.”
“Just the unclassified portions, Jen,” said Danny, clearly trying to play nice guy. “Just sum it up.”
“Computers. Mostly software, but on occasion I do hardware. I could have gotten around the lockout easily. If I were a scumbag traitor.”
“Just answer the questions, Miss Gleason.”
“I’m trying.”
Cortend asked a short series of questions regarding Jennifer’s education background and her contributions to the Flighthawk program. The questions skipped around, but none was particularly difficult, and in fact Jennifer had answered all or almost all the day before for one of the technical people assigned to Cortend’s team. But yesterday they had seemed informational; now even the simplest question felt like an accusation.
“June 7, 1993,” said Cortend.
“Excuse me?” asked Jennifer.
“June 7, 1993. What does that date mean to you?”
Jennifer shook her head. “Should it mean something?”
“Where were you that day?”
“Here?” said Jennifer.
“Let me refresh your memory,” said Cortend. She walked over to the side of the room and returned with a folder. “You were in Hong Kong.”
“A conference?” Jennifer stared at Cortend.
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“I honestly can’t remember where I was.”
“Your memory seems very convenient.”
“It’s not.”
Cortend made a snorting sound, a kind of animal chuckle that seemed to signify some sort of personal victory. “You don’t remember attending a conference in Hong Kong in June 1993?”
“I’ve attended many conferences.”
“How about September 1994?”
Jennifer turned to Danny. He had a worried look on his face.
“Another conference?” asked Jennifer.
“Did you obtain permission to attend those conferences?” asked Cortend.
“She doesn’t
“Did you register with the Department of Defense and your superiors here that you were attending those conferences?”
Jennifer saw Rubeo muttering under his breath.
“This interview is completely voluntary,” said Danny.
