secretaries of defense and state had been at the meeting and were dressed in tuxedoes. Jed, wearing his best pinstriped suit and a brand-new tie, felt underdressed. They were sitting in the dark and ornate Treaty Room on the third floor, next to the Lincoln Bedroom. A massive chandelier hung down from the center of the room like a beehive on fire. Though sturdy, Jed’s wooden chair creaked as he sat in it; it was at least a hundred years old, and he worried that he might break it if he got up too quickly.
Nonetheless, he jumped to his feet as President Martindale bounded into the room, several strides ahead of two aides and Admiral Balboa, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“Gentlemen, Jed, good; we’re all here then. I’m looking forward to better relations with France,” the President told the secretary of state. “The ambassador actually seems to have a head on her shoulders.”
“It’ll make up for China,” said Hartman.
“One step at a time. Would you like to brief us on the situation?”
“The Chinese are still officially blaming us for shooting down their aircraft,” said the secretary of state. “But the premier was impressed that you called the ambassador and is willing to take your call on the matter sometime this afternoon. We’re still working on the details. Jed’s pictures helped.”
Jed felt his face flush slightly.
“Good work, Jed,” said the President. “Maybe we’ll tell Mr. Freeman to stay in bed another week.”
“Uh—”
“Philip is feeling much better,” Martindale told the others. “I think he just didn’t feel like having anything to do with France tonight. All right, back to China.”
“The premier is in a conciliatory mood,” said Hartman, picking up where he had left off. “Or at least he’s prepared to be, if you say you’re in favor of the summit between him and the president of Taiwan.”
“I am.”
“He’d like a sign of encouragement. He may suggest you attend.”
“That’s not going to happen,” said Martindale.
“The vice president? He’s in Japan.”
The President frowned. “Let’s think on that. Jed, what else do we know about the clone?”
“I have some data from Dreamland,” said Jed. He reached for his briefcase. “I just have to boot up my laptop, and, uh—”
“No, let’s skip the presentation,” said Martindale. “Give us an overview. Quick one. I have to get back.”
Until that moment, Jed hadn’t thought about his stutter — and hadn’t stuttered hardly at all. Now that he was on the spot, however, it came back with a vengeance.
“Well, um, we, uh, know from the wing configuration it’s, uh, different than ours,” he said. “The experts have some, uh, more, uh, more technical data to go through, and they still have a lot of questions. But at the moment it looks slower, like maybe 450 knots—”
“Whose is it?” asked the secretary of state.
Jed shook his head. “Dr-Dr-Dreamland is still working on it. We have Space Command and NSA r-reviewing sensor data in the area, and that’s under way. But the first review of the earlier sighting didn’t yield anything, so we’re not sure what will come up.”
He had to get rid of the damn stutter or no one would trust anything he said. It made him sound like too much of a jerk. Fortunately, Jed had some handouts summarizing the data Dreamland had compiled, and he passed them out.
“So it’s not as capable as our craft?” asked Chastain.
“Well, it depends on your cr-criteria,” said Jed. “The experts think it’s not as f-f-fast. But it can carry a heavier load, which would mean a couple of things.”
“Did the Chinese get all this information?” asked Balboa.
“No,” said Hartman. “They know there was another craft involved. And that we’re trying to track it.”
“If they believe us,” said the admiral, “and that’s a big
“The Dreamland people will get there first,” said Martindale. He rose. “Right, Jed?”
“They’re getting closer.”
“Close doesn’t count,” said Balboa. “We need results. Now.”
Danny knocked on the door to Jennifer’s small apartment twice without getting an answer. He turned and looked at the two airmen who had accompanied him, then reached into his pocket for the master key he’d brought along. He was just about to insert it in the door when a faint voice asked from inside who it was.
“Captain Freah,” he told her. “Hey, it’s Danny, Jen. Can I come in?”
She didn’t answer.
“Jen?” he said.
He heard her footsteps and then her hand at the chain, pulling it open. She stood in the doorway wearing a bathrobe, though below it she had on jeans and a sweatshirt.
She’d cut her hair.
God, had she cut her hair — it looked as if she’d hacked it off with a knife.
Danny decided it was best to ignore it. He tried not to stare.
“Hey, you’re off the hook. Completely,” he told her. “Those conferences — we got information from the FBI and the security review at the time that clears you completely. Are you okay? Can I come in?”
She didn’t answer, turning away instead. Danny glanced back at his men in the hall, then stepped inside by himself, closing the door behind him.
“Colonel Bastian’s been trying to get ahold of you,” he told her. “And Chief Gibbs. How come you don’t return their calls?”
“How do you know I don’t return their calls?” she said, twisting around in a fury. “Do you have a tap on my phone? You think you can just listen in to anything you want any time you want?”
Danny was authorized by the security regulations covering Dreamland to do just that, but this clearly wasn’t the time to say so. “Of course not.”
She pursed her lips. The lower one started to quiver.
“Jen, I know this has been tough for you. It’s been tough for me,” said Danny.
“You don’t know what it’s like to be considered a traitor,” she said.
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s got to suck.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She frowned, but then she started to cry. Danny found himself hugging her awkwardly, patting her back, telling her it would be okay.
Even though he hadn’t had much sleep last night, Boston found it impossible to nap on the plane. While he had a special set of headphones to drown out the sound of the engines, the small plane shuffled up and down every so often, just enough to keep him awake. He spent his time leafing through a book he’d brought along and trading audio tapes with Bison, who unfortunately seemed to like the Grateful Dead considerably more than Boston would have thought possible.
Boston’s adrenaline shot up as soon as Colonel Bastian announced that they were within sight of the airfield. He strapped his seat belt on and waited as the plane banked and then circled over the small strip. While they undoubtedly cleared the nearby jungle by a good margin, to Boston it seemed like the wingtip came perilously close to the top of the nearby trees. He struggled not to close his eyes as the airplane turned hard and legged down onto what looked more like an unkempt driveway than an airfield. The strip didn’t have any lights or even a fence nearby; the only structures Boston saw as he stepped down the stairs were a telephone pole with a windsock and a two- story pillbox with a flat roof.
Boston put on his Smart Helmet and did a quick search of the area, using its composite view, which cobbled together IR, radar, and optical inputs to identify weapons and individuals. There was no one around.
