“We’re still trying to figure it out.”
“Thank you, Colonel. We’ll take it from here,” said Freeman. “Keep us advised.”
The connection broke. Dog resisted the temptation to punch out the video tube. No matter what he did, it would never be enough for Balboa.
He got up, glancing at his watch. He needed to do about twenty million things, including get the latest Dreamland updates and prep a flight to Taiwan so he could support the mission.
But he also wanted to find out what the hell Mack was doing.
“Boston?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Find Mack Smith and bring him to me. Fetch Lieutenant Andrews as well.”
“On my way, sir.”
Mack Smith was enjoying yet another retelling of his exploits when the beautiful if stuck-up Miss Kelly entered the reception hall, trailed by a member of the Whiplash security team. Though the tall, bulky sergeant wore civilian clothes, he was instantly recognizable as a Dreamland trooper by his swagger and bulk.
“Miss Kelly, a pleasure,” said Mack. “Very sharp suit, Sergeant,” he added to her escort. “Boston, right?”
“Sir, Colonel Bastian wants to see you yesterday.”
“If he wants to see me yesterday, he’ll have to settle for videotape, won’t he? Or maybe fly back to Dreamland. I think with the dateline it’s yesterday there when it’s today here.”
“Yes, sir. I need Lieutenant Andrews as well.”
“Starship,” said Mack, calling over to the other end of the lounge. Starship emerged from the small pack of European women he had been fraternizing with. “The master beckons.”
Twenty minutes later, Dog interrupted his latest update from Ax to give Starship the sort of stare no lieutenant should ever have to endure from his commander.
It made an impression — for about half a second. Then the lieutenant’s fighter jock smile returned.
“Where the hell have you been?” the colonel demanded.
“Sir, you had told me to, uh, see if there was anything Major Smith needed. And so I went to it.”
“That was yesterday, Starship. Did you get that handle because your head was out in orbit?”
“Nah.”
“Go get your gear, and get over with the Flighthawk personnel and make sure your aircraft is ready to fly.”
“All right! Kick ass.”
The lieutenant slapped his hands together, twisted on his heel, and practically ran from the trailer.
“As for you, Major, we’re under a Whiplash order,” Dog told Mack. “We have an operation tonight.”
“Great.” Mack stood, but then a quizzical look appeared on his face. “What am I flying?”
“Nothing. You’re going to stay at the trailer to liaison with us.”
“Liaison?” said Mack. “But—”
“We have some Air Force security police heading over from the Philippines to pull security, but they’re not cleared to enter the trailer. You got that? It’s just you. They have to take a leak, they have to go across the street.”
“You want me to act as communications sergeant? I mean, all I’m doing is babysitting the gear?”
“You have the general idea, Mack. The security detail will be armed and under orders to shoot if there are any problems. Nobody in and out.”
Mack’s face had turned white.
“I’d like you in uniform before they get here,” Dog added. “I believe you have about ten minutes.”
Chen Lo Fann had known there were enough parts for another UAV.
The bomb was another matter.
“It was created five years ago,” explained Professor Ai. “Your grandfather foresaw the day when this would occur. The Russians were desperate, and opportunity presented itself. Even so, it has taken considerable work. The bomb has only been ready within the past month.”
“Your visits to your aunt?”
“I regret that I found it necessary to lie to you,” said Ai, bowing his head slightly as a gesture of remorse. Chen Lo Fann knew it was a sham, and said nothing.
“The bomb will kill the people in the target area, but not damage the buildings,” said the scientist. Fann knew Ai was exaggerating slightly — buildings very close to the blast would be damaged and possibly destroyed by the neutron bomb his grandfather had had built. Still, unlike a “normal” atomic weapon, the large cylinder before him would cause relatively little damage to the capital.
Should he use it?
His concerns had nothing to do with the deaths the bomb would cause — he cared nothing for the communists, who clearly deserved to die. While undoubtedly many innocent victims would be caught up in their destruction, their deaths were completely justifiable, an honorable part of the necessary equation. Regrettable, lamentable — but necessary.
Chen’s concern was with what would happen next. The communist military leaders who survived would no doubt wish for revenge.
Would the Americans step in and prevent it?
He was unsure.
And if they did, then what?
An uneasy truce? Things would continue as they had for the past fifty years.
That would be an even greater failure.
Perhaps he should wait, and try and build other bombs, enough to obliterate every last communist.
Chen Lo Fann thought of his grandfather, whose body he had just come from cremating.
The letter in the old man’s desk — a letter Ai knew of, though he seemed not to have read — directed that the meeting between the two heads of state be stopped at all costs.
What was his duty as Chen Lee’s grandson? Should he use the weapon as Lee clearly wished? Or should he choose his time?
Duty demanded he carry out his grandfather’s wishes. The way was clear.
The endless surging of the universe, as he interpreted the Tao, or “way.”
Life and death were as one, different stages in the never-ending river. His grandfather’s death, his own — these were meaningless. Duty was constant. Duty lasted longer than the poor clay and ashes of a single day.
“Prepare,” he told Professor Ai. “We will strike during the meeting, as my grandfather wished.”
Jennifer got up from the computer station and bent her head straight back. Her vertebrae all seemed to crack at once. She felt a surge of energy, and if it weren’t for the fact that they were close — very, very close — to a breakthrough, she would go for a run. Instead, she stretched and twisted her way across the lab to the coffee counter. A fresh pot had just finished sifting through into the carafe; she poured herself a cup and took a few slow sips.
Dog’s voice had surprised her during the video conference earlier that morning; he seemed to have aged ten years since she’d last seen him.
Maybe that meant she was over him.
Good.
She went back to the computer, which had just finished running a search of an NSA database. The computer had deposited three lines of hexadecimals on her screen; not taking any chances, she recorded them on the blank yellow pad at the station, then entered each one into the second search program she and an assistant had customized earlier in the day. A set of computers across the country at Fort Meade, the NSA headquarters, began
