“And?”
“I have a number of technical questions that I’d like answered,” said Cortend, completely changing the subject.
Capitulation?
Or another one of her tactics?
“They have to do with compartmented areas, and I need to know what can be broached and what can’t be,” Cortend continued. “If you wish, it can wait until morning.”
She didn’t get up, and it was clear she wouldn’t until he answered the questions.
“I have orders from the President. We’re deploying at 0400.”
If Cortend was impressed, she gave no hint.
“We’ll discuss it informally first,” she told him. “Then I can bring my people in. I want to be careful to delineate the areas, as my report will be read by—”
A knock at the door interrupted her.
“Come,” said Dog.
Mack Smith opened the door. The major looked a little tired, walking rather than bounding as he normally did. When he saw Cortend he blanched.
“You wanted to see me, Colonel?”
“Yes, come in, Mack. Colonel, this will only take a minute.”
“Of course,” said Cortend, getting up. As she left, she gave Mack the look one might use to dismiss a whipped dog.
“Watch her, Colonel,” said Mack as the door was closed. “She’s evil.”
“I’m sure she’s just doing her job,” Dog said.
“No.”
Mack didn’t offer any other explanation. Dog decided it wasn’t worth pursuing — it was pretty clear that Cortend got off on intimidating people. Smith ordinarily wasn’t easy to intimidate; maybe he’d ask her for some pointers when she came back in.
That would be the day.
“I need a political officer,” Dog told Mack. “A liaison, actually.”
“How’s that?” asked Mack.
“We’re deploying to Brunei, first thing in the morning,” Dog told him. “I’ll go into details if you’re in. Otherwise, good night.”
“Colonel, is she coming?”
“Colonel Cortend? No. Her investigation’s here.”
“Sign me up,” said Mack, so relieved he looked as if he’d won the lottery.
“We have to leave at 0400.”
“Whatever. I’ll scrub toilets if you need it. Just take me with you.”
By the time she got back to her apartment, Jennifer’s hands were shaking so badly that she had trouble with the lock. Inside, she dropped her glass as she filled it with water from the faucet in the kitchenette; fortunately, it was plastic and didn’t break, rebounding instead across the room.
The expression on his face when he saw her — anger and surprise…
Hate?
No, he couldn’t hate her. He couldn’t.
Did he think she was a traitor? How could he think that?
What had Dog been doing with that she-bitch Cortend? Had he put her up to this?
It couldn’t possibly be. There was no way. No way.
But Cortend was in his office.
Of course she was. Dog was the base commander; there were a million reasons for her to be there.
Dog, everyone, thought she was a traitor.
She was just tired, overwrought.
The bitch Cortend was playing with her mind.
Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
She wasn’t a traitor. She wasn’t.
That had to be what they were thinking. Even Dog?
Even him.
The phone rang. Jennifer took a step toward it, then stopped.
What if it was Cortend, asking for more questions?
God no, she told herself. No more. Not tonight.
She let the phone ring until it stopped. As she stared at it, she realized her hand and shirt were wet, and so was the floor, but she couldn’t remember why.
II
Paradise
“A couple of hours in paradise and already you’re sleeping late,” Zen told Lieutenant Kirk “Starship” Andrews as the young Flighthawk pilot sat down at the table across from him. Starship’s breakfast tray contained two large cups of coffee and nothing else.
“My body’s still back in Dreamland,” mumbled Starship.
“You sure it’s not with the hospitality people?” said Lieutenant James “Kick” Colby, the other Flighthawk pilot Zen had taken on the deployment.
“It wants to be,” said Starship.
“Natives are off-limits,” said Zen. “You can look but you cannot touch. Got that? And be careful how you talk to them.”
“How about the State Department liaison?” asked Kick. “She’s hot.”
“Out of your league,” said Zen.
“Mack Smith’s eyeing her already,” said Starship.
“Oh there’s serious competition,” said Kick.
“I’ll take one of the waitress babes,” said Starship, lifting his gaze toward the buffet at the front of the room. Six of the most gorgeous women in Asia stood at attention behind the table. Zen had his back to them, but he could practically feel the warmth of their smiles beaming across the room.
The Dreamland pilots and crew were being housed at a hotel just outside the airfield where they’d set up operations. “Mess” consisted of a lavishly appointed private room — thick tablecloths, hand-woven silk rugs, paint that seemed to contain speckles of gold — on the ground floor of the hotel. The room was part of a restaurant that back in the States would rate four stars — the wine list was a little too restricted to make five.
For breakfast, the Dreamland personnel — crew dogs and officers alike — had sorted through an all-you-can eat array of various meats, cooked-to-order eggs and omelets, a pyramid of exotic fruits, and enough donuts, rolls, and pastries to make a small town diabetic.
Zen had chosen his usual oatmeal and bananas, though he had made a concession to local tastes by sampling the pinkish-green juice. It was sweet, but tomorrow he’d go for the orange.
The coffee, however, was a real keeper. He might have to arrange for a pipeline back home when the mission ended.
