“So are all the deployments like this?” asked Kick. He’d come to Dreamland from an assignment as a Hog “driver,” piloting A-10As. The story went that his nickname came from early flight training, when he needed a kick to get going; if so, that need had long since disappeared.
“What do you mean?” asked Zen. “In terms of food?”
“The hotel rooms, the women. Everything.”
“Usually it’s cots and tents,” said Zen. “Brunei’s just a special place.”
Starship and Kick had been with the program only a short time; neither man had logged a hundred hours with the robot aircraft. But Fentress had been the only other pilot with real experience. While the two youngsters had their drawbacks, both could handle a single plane reasonably well, and consistently scored high in the simulations and exercises. It was time for them to take the next step.
“Paradise,” mumbled Starship.
“You have a hangover, Lieutenant?” asked Zen.
“Uh, no, sir. Whacked on the time difference, though. My body thinks it’s yesterday.”
“Tomorrow,” said Kick. “Nine o’clock is five o’clock last night tomorrow.”
“Huh?” asked Starship.
“I’ll give you an example. 2200 here is 0600 at Dreamland, same day. 0900 here would be 1700 there — but they’re back a day. So while we’re out on a day patrol, they’re sleeping. 1200 is 2000 yesterday there. Or 2300 in Washington, D.C.”
Starship blinked at him. “You do weather and traffic, too?”
“Fifteen hours’ difference. Would be sixteen, except the States are on Daylight Saving Time,” said Kick. “You know it’s Saving, not Savings?”
“Eat hardy, gentlemen,” Zen said, pushing away from the table. “We brief at 1000, and we’re in the air at 1300. And watch the alcohol, Starship. Those clubs are not officially sanctioned. No matter what Mack Smith says.”
Boston slid his hand along his M-16A3 and rolled his head on his neck. He figured he didn’t hate guard duty any more than the next guy — but that meant he hated it pretty bad.
From what the others on the Whiplash team were telling him, guard duty was about all he was going to be doing for the next six months. He hoped they were just busting his chops because he was the team nugget, or new guy. He’d clearly drawn the worst assignment — he’d been standing out here since four A.M. local, and had another hour to go.
And when that was over, he wouldn’t be hitting the sack — he was supposed to report to the Whiplash trailer, known as Mobile Command, and get himself educated on the high-tech communications gear they used. Whiplash team members were expected to act as communications specialists during the deployment.
All that SF training, and basically he was a radio operator and a guard dog.
In fact, he wasn’t even a guard dog. The real sentries were high-tech sensor arrays placed at the edge of the field where they were assigned. The arrays were monitored in the trailer (at the moment, Egg Reagan had the con). A special computer screened video, infrared, motion, and sound detectors. Those inputs could be piped into Boston’s Smart Helmet, supplementing the helmet’s own infrared, short-range radar, and optical sensors.
The thing was, the helmet was pretty damn heavy and hot besides. Fortunately, Egg had told him it wasn’t necessary to wear it; he’d alert him to any problem. The helmet was clipped to his belt.
Boston wasn’t the only flesh-and-blood sentry. A battalion of Brunei soldiers blocked access to the area Dreamland had been assigned. There was also an honor guard — a mixed unit built around British Gurkhas, a storied unit of foreign troops that had originated in Nepal — which conducted a ceremonial changing of the guard on the apron twenty yards away every fifteen minutes, or so it seemed.
“Yo, Boston, trucks coming,” said Egg in his earbud.
“Another ceremony?” asked Boston. His mike was clipped to the top of his carbon-boron bulletproof vest; it was sensitive enough so that he could whisper and be heard over the Dreamland com system.
“Negative,” said Egg. “These are customized SUVs. Not military.”
“I hear them,” said Boston. He brought his gun up, though there was no way any intruder could get by the Brunei soldiers, whose weapons included several antitank missiles.
Unless, of course, they stood back and let the trucks pass.
“What’s this?” Egg said in his ear.
The first truck — a large black Chevy Suburban with a block of lights across the top and enough chrome to make a drug dealer jealous — roared straight toward Boston.
“If he doesn’t stop, I’m taking him out.”
“Careful. I think they’re VIPs,” said Egg.
“If he doesn’t stop, I’m taking him out,” repeated Boston. He drew back, squaring as if to fire.
The driver of the SUV slammed on his brakes and swerved, stopping a few yards away. Two other SUVs pulled in alongside.
The doors of the vehicles flew open together. Men in lightweight civilian suits emerged from the trucks. Bruisers all, they were clearly bodyguards, with vests under their jackets.
“No weapons,” said Egg, giving him the read from the monitor.
“If you say so,” said Boston.
A short, slightly paunchy man stepped forward from the other side of the middle vehicle. He was obviously a local, and was wearing what seemed to be relatively expensive clothes.
“Hello,” said the man with a jovial smile.
“I’m sorry,” said Boston, his voice hard enough to make it clear that was a lie. “No one is allowed past this point. No one.”
The man laughed.
“Sir, no one is allowed past this point,” said Boston. “Not even the sultan.”
“Oh well,” laughed the man. “I’m just his nephew.”
Thoroughly confused, Boston had the man covered. Someone else got out of the SUV from the other side.
“Colonel Bastian is on his way,” said Egg. “Oh, I see now — that’s Mack Smith.”
“Who’s Smith?” Boston said.
“Major Smith — he’s ours. The guy getting out of the SUV. Colonel Bastian brought him as a political officer.”
The somewhat bedraggled man came out from around the truck and approached Mack.
“It’s all right,” he told Boston. “They’re with me.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Boston. “I have very strict orders. No one gets past me. I’m authorized to shoot,” he added, as Mack continued to within a few feet of him.
Smith squinted at him. “You know who this is?”
“The sultan’s nephew, sir.”
“A prince,” said Mack. “His Royal Highness Pehin bin Awg. Very, very important man in Brunei.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir. But he’s not coming past unless my orders change.”
“You really going to shoot?” asked Mack, taking another step forward.
“Bet your ass. Sir.”
“Jeez.”
Bin Awg laughed. “No need for an upset, Mack. We can come back another time.”
“Colonel Bastian’s at the gate,” said Egg.
“Sir, my colonel is on his way,” Boston told bin Awg. “I apologize, but my orders are very explicit.”
“Let’s have breakfast, then come back,” the prince said, turning back to his vehicle. “Come on, Mack.”
Smith frowned. Boston caught a whiff of perfume, stale cigarettes, and even staler alcohol as the major walked back to the SUV.
“That was really Smith?” asked Boston.
“The one and only.”
