my drift.”
“Both planes are taking off at 0700 tomorrow,” Dog told Mack. “There’s no time for a demonstration flight tomorrow.”
“Next day then,” said Mack. “Hey, Zen brought his nuggets with him. Hey, boys.”
As Mack walked off, Dog reminded himself that he had personally tagged the major to come along. While he’d made the choice largely because Mack was one of the few officers at Dreamland he could actually spare for a do-nothing job, it was nonetheless a decision that could not be cited as one of his best. Smith was an excellent pilot, but outside of the cockpit, he was a class-one boob.
Dog turned back to find bin Awg talking up Miss Kelly, who was flashing her full smile on him.
“We are very much in the mind frame of expanding our air force,” said the prince. “At present we have the Hawk 100s and 200s but, well, without disparaging our British friends — I fear the ambassador is within earshot — we are certainly in the market for upgrades.”
“We use a version of the Hawk ourselves,” said Dog. “It’s a competent aircraft.”
“Yes, the Goshawk T-45A, as a trainer for the Navy,” said bin Awg. “Very suitable in that role. But as compared to an F/A-18 or a Mikoyan MiG-29… Well, Colonel, I leave the judgment to you.”
“You’re thinking of buying Russian planes?” asked Miss Kelly.
Bin Awg smiled apologetically. “They are so desperate for hard currency these days that the price can be very attractive.”
“I’d think there’d be no comparison between the F/A-18 and a MiG-29,” said Dog.
Again, the prince flashed his apologetic smile. “The difficulty is perhaps with the export regulations. Sometimes these are not easily overcome.”
“Have you considered F-16s?” asked Miss Kelly.
“An admirable design,” said the prince.
“Better than the MiG,” said Dog.
“Yes,” said bin Awg. “To be candid with you, Colonel, our true desire is for an aircraft with much longer range. The F-15; that would be most desirable.”
“It is a good aircraft,” said Dog.
It was also a difficult one to obtain; Congress didn’t relish the idea of the country’s frontline fighter serving under other flags. Only the Japanese, Israelis, and Saudis had been allowed to buy it, and in each case the decision involved considerable political wrangling.
“We are very much in the market for aircraft,” said bin Awg. “Perhaps we can talk tomorrow, when we are aboard the Megafortress.”
“I’m afraid we’re not going to be available for a flight tomorrow,” said Dog as apologetically as he could. “We have orders from Washington to have both aircraft in the exercises. I’m sorry.”
The barest flicker of displeasure passed over the prince’s face.
“I’m afraid Major Smith made the commitment without checking with me,” added Dog.
“A raincheck perhaps,” said the prince.
“Definitely,” said Dog. “Definitely.
Zen listened to the Australian ambassador lecturing on the weakness of China.
“A few cruisers and a pair of submarines could hold the communists at bay,” said the diplomat. “They’re a shadow of themselves. A shadow of a shadow. That’s why they’re willing to talk to Taiwan. Their day is over.”
Zen had everything he could do to keep from rolling his eyes. Granted, Mainland China had suffered some reverses over the past few months; the country remained a potent military force. Forget the ghost clone: It had several hundred more aircraft than the ambassador’s country, along with several new pocket aircraft carriers capable of projecting power throughout the region. Toss in cruise missiles, nuclear submarines, and undoubtedly a long-range bomber or two that the intelligence boys hadn’t caught on to yet, and you had a serious military power.
Not quite in America’s class, but nasty nonetheless.
Shadow indeed.
Stoner, standing across from Zen, nodded like a metronome as the ambassador continued.
Finally, Zen could take no more and wheeled himself away.
He found Kick standing by himself at the edge of one of the tables.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” he said to the Flighthawk pilot. “Where’s your partner in crime? Did he leave to catch up on his beauty rest?”
“Yeah right,” said Kick.
“You don’t like Lieutenant Starship?” asked Zen.
“He’s all right,” said Kick. “I think he headed out with Mack.”
Zen asked for a fruit drink from the waiter behind the table. There was no alcohol at the event; Brunei was an Islamic nation, and the sultan was a devout believer who would not have countenanced a violation of his religious principles.
“You sore because Starship is going to take the decoy flight tomorrow?” asked Zen.
“No, sir.”
Zen smiled at the obvious lie.
“It’s all right to be pissed,” he told the lieutenant. “If I were in your shoes, I’d be mad too. Come to think of it, I have been in your shoes. And I was pissed.”
Kick seemed surprised by Zen’s response and looked at him as if trying to figure out whether he was being tested. “Starship’s background with the F-15s means he has a little more experience. Right?”
“Just a little. You’ll catch up.”
Zen took a sip of his drink. Maybe, he thought, there was something more, something in their personalities. It seemed to him Kick was trying hard to be nice. He wouldn’t have.
Maybe that was all for show. Make nice to the boss.
“How’s your wife?” asked the lieutenant, trying to change the subject.
“Don’t know. She’s sleeping every time I call her,” said Zen.
“How’s the punch?” asked Stoner, coming over.
“It’s punch,” said Zen. “You agree with that crap the Australian was putting out?”
“Of course not,” said Stoner, taking a drink for himself.
“You didn’t argue with him,” said Zen.
“You think I could have changed his mind?”
Zen shrugged, though of course he didn’t.
“If I don’t listen to what people tell me, I won’t know what they’re thinking,” said Stoner. “It’s useful.”
“Man, I could never be a spy,” said Zen.
“Some of us are just born slimy,” said Stoner, his voice deadpan. “Right, Lieutenant?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
Stoner looked down at Zen, smirking. Despite the fact that he still didn’t like the SOB, even Zen had to laugh along with him.
Jennifer lay on the couch, watching as the channels on her television clicked by, a melange of infomercials, talking heads, and crashes filling the screen. She had been here for an hour or so, unable to sleep, not really up to leaving the apartment for her usual early-morning run. She was still locked out of her computers, and it seemed pointless to go anywhere or do anything.
Finally she saw the start of an old Warner Bros. Bugs Bunny cartoon and stopped. She observed scientifically as Bugs made his way out of the hole and began tormenting Elmer Fudd.
Wabbits. He sounded a bit like Ray.
But at least Rubeo had been fighting for her. He’d told Cortend exactly what he thought. More than she could say about any of her other so-called friends.
The phone rang.
Maybe it was Dog, calling to see how she was. If it was, did she want to talk to him? Why should she? What
