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—
Maybe he should just come out and tell her that.
Of course, that was the one thing he
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?”
