had sold Flighthawk secrets to a foreign government — obviously had her deeply troubled. The scientists took seats at the consoles a row down from him, Jennifer forcing a smile as she sat.
Colonel Bastian entered, trailed by Danny Freah and Mark Stoner, a CIA officer who had worked with Dreamland during the Piranha deployment.
Zen didn’t particularly like Stoner. He had to fight to prevent a frown from clouding his face as the spook looked at him and nodded. He managed to nod back, then took another sip of coffee, hoping the caffeine would chase off his bad mood.
“And you must be Major Stockard.”
Zen spun his head around and found a tall, thick-shouldered woman eyeing him. She wore a visitor’s badge on her uniform and stood so straight he could almost see the broomstick extruding from her behind — obviously the colonel from the Air Force Office of Special Investigations.
“People call me Zen,” he told her.
“Yes,” said Colonel Cortend, her tone implying that there were a large number of insane idiots in the world that couldn’t be accounted for. “I’d like to speak to you after this conference a little later. My inquiries are informal, though cooperation is advised. Strongly advised.”
“Not a problem.”
“I understand you’re the project officer on the Flighthawks?”
“That’s correct,” answered Zen, meeting her icy tone with one of his own.
“I’ve been reviewing the personnel attached to the project,” she told him. “Quite a collection.”
It was clear she didn’t mean it as a compliment.
“You bet your ass it is,” said Zen. He turned his attention to the front of the room.
“The simulation you’ve just seen represents our best guess as to the capabilities and configuration of the ghost clone,” said Dog. “As you can see, it’s very, very similar to a first-generation Flighthawk. As such, it could be used for a variety of purposes. Air-launched from a bomber, or even a civilian transport, it could attack an urban area with a variety of weapons. It would be difficult to see on radar.”
Dog hit the remote control to restore the lighting.
“We have two tasks. We have to find the clone, figure out who’s operating it and what its actual capabilities are. And number two, we have to determine if our own security has been breached. We’ll have help,” said Dog, brushing past the implication that a traitor was among them. “Most of you are familiar with Mr. Stoner, who is an expert on Asian technology and high-tech deployment. He was responsible for identifying the Indian sub-launched weapons.”
Dog turned toward Colonel Cortend, who was beaming laser animosity from both eyes.
“And Colonel Cortend has joined us from the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. For those of you who haven’t dealt with OSI before, they’re a thorough, professional group,” said Dog.
The flattery, of course, only deepened her glare.
“I expect everyone will cooperate to the fullest of their ability,” added Dog, looking toward Rubeo. The scientist had already lodged a complaint about the investigator, who apparently had arrived unannounced at his quarters at 0700 for an interview.
“Questions?” said the colonel, knowing his tone would ward any off. He gave them three seconds, then dismissed them.
“So you alone are responsible for the coding?”
Jennifer flicked the hair back behind her ear. “Of course not,” she told Cortend. The colonel had two bleary- eyed technical experts and a pair of bright-faced lieutenants standing behind her, but none of them had uttered a peep.
“I work with a team of people,” said Jennifer. “Depending on which project and what we’re talking about, the team could have a dozen or more people. Six people handled the compression routines for C3.”
“C3 is?”
“The computer system that helps fly the Flighthawks. The communication sequences have to—”
“And any of these six people could have given the secrets away.”
“No one gave the secrets away,” said Jennifer.
“Someone did, my dear. Someone.”
“Let me explain how the compression works. See, the algorithms themselves aren’t necessarily secret —”
“Everything you work on is secret,” said Cortend. She rose. “I think we have enough for now. We’ll be back.”
“Peachy,” muttered Jennifer beneath her breath.
Major Mack “The Knife” Smith adjusted his swagger as a quintet of officers came out of the computer lab. Mack had recently returned to Dreamland after a series of temporary assignments had failed to get him the squadron command he so ardently desired — and, in his unprejudiced opinion, deeply deserved. He accepted a position as temporary test officer for a project dubbed Micro-Mite, a twenty-first century fleet of interceptors no larger than cruise missiles that would use energy beam weapons to bring down their opponents.
Or maybe lasers, or railguns, or some as-yet unperfected Flash Gordon zap weapon. That was the beauty of the assignment — four weeks of blue-sky imagining with a bunch of pizza-eating eggheads, who would spit out sci-fi concepts for him to consider as they worked feverishly over their laptops on simulations. They were all recent grads of MIT, RPI, and Berkeley — or was it Cal Tech? In any event, the pimple-faced pizza eaters looked to him as the voice of reality and experience. With his combat experience and superior flying and fighting skills, he was their god, and they bowed down before him.
Figuratively, of course. Which was the way he wanted it. For alas, while there were six females among the chosen, the eggheads’ bodies were no match for their brains. Even mixing and matching their best attributes would still leave the composite far short of Jennifer Gleason, Dreamland’s resident brain babe. He was in fact on his way to see her now, hoping she might be available to give his acolytes a few pointers about the value of working with the military. They really didn’t need to hear another pep talk — he had that under control himself — but it would give Mack an excuse to admire her assets — er, abilities — for a good twenty minutes or more.
Mack had tried several times to steer her into his quarters for an up-close examination of her charms. Of late, though, he’d had to settle for watching from afar. Jennifer was seeing the base commander, and even Mack knew better than to cross the boss, especially when he required Dog’s connections and good word to help steer him toward the command he deserved. With any luck, Dog would come through and deliver him a tasty squadron post in the next week or so. The colonel’s star was rising in Washington, and surely he owed Mack a bit of largesse.
“Halt,” said a tall, rather striking if formal woman at the rear of a three-man formation that had buzzed into the hallway.
She had been speaking to the drones behind her, but Mack momentarily thought the command was meant for him. Taken by surprise, he stopped and gazed at the woman, realizing with his connoisseur’s eye that, if properly undressed, this frame and face might be fittingly attractive. It was tall for a woman, with shoulders that were admittedly manly. But the starched trousers sheathed long, undoubtedly athletic legs, and there was no hiding the voluptuous breasts standing guard above the slim waist.
“Can we help you?” barked the breasts’ owner.
“You must be from OSI,” said Mack. He extended his hand. “Mack Smith.”
“Major.”
The drones hovered, unsure whether their master was being greeted or attacked.
Mack gave them nods — lieutenants, mere children — then turned toward their leader.
“I’m available for background,” Mack told her. “I’ve been here awhile. I know where the bodies are buried.”
“I see.”
She looked him over. Mack pushed his shoulders back.
“Perhaps we’ll arrange something,” said the officer, turning to go.
