listening closely to get a feel for the skill level of the commanders who were moving tanks and infantry fighting vehicles across the broad, dry plains southeast of Baghdad.
'Here's good news, Major,' the American lieutenant said, handing over a telex. The UIR SNIE had generated something positive for a change.
Two hundred miles northwest of Kuwait, at a spot five miles south of the 'berm' — actually a man-made dune— that marked the border between the Kingdom and the UIR, a deuce-and-a-half truck stopped. The crew got out, attached the extension to the launch ramp and fired up their Predator drone. But «drone» was an obsolete term. This mini-aircraft was an Unmanned Aerial Vehicle, or UAV, a blue-gray-colored, propeller-driven spy. It took about twenty minutes to attach the wings, run diagnostics on the electronics, and spin up the engine, and then it was launched, the annoying buzz of its engine fading rapidly as it climbed to its operating altitude and headed north.
The product of three decades of research, Predator was fairly stealthy, difficult to detect on radar due to its small size, the inclusion of radar-absorbing material in its design, and the fact that its operating speed was so slow that modern computer-controlled radars, if they caught it at all, classified it as a bird and erased it from the operator's scope. The paint covering the airframe was the same IR-suppressive product the Navy had taken to using. It was both ugly and prone to provide a sticky home to anything that touched it—the technicians had to brush sand off their baby all the time—but that was balanced by the fact that the color blended in with the sky exceedingly well. Armed only with a TV camera, this one soared up to ten thousand feet, and cruised north under the control of another team at STORM TRACK, the better to keep an eye on the UIR exercises. It was a technical violation of the new country's sovereignty, but two pounds of explosive in the UAV would ensure that if it hit the ground in the wrong place, no one would be able to tell what it was. A directional antenna beamed the «take» from the camera to receivers in the Kingdom.
The fiber-optic data link crossloaded the same signal to PALM BOWL, and when a USAF enlisted woman switched on the room's monitor, they were looking down at a nearly featureless landscape while the Predator was guided to its destination by its operators.
'It'll be good to see if they know what they're doing,' the lieutenant observed to Major Sabah.
'Better if we see that they don't,' the Kuwaiti officer replied thoughtfully. Other members of his extended family were increasingly concerned. Enough so, the major thought, that their country's military was quietly ramping up to a very high state of readiness. Like the Saudis, the
Kuwaiti citizens who'd flocked enthusiastically to man the best equipment that their small but wealthy country could obtain felt that maintenance of their tanks was a task for lesser men, but, unlike their Saudi cousins, they had experience with being on the bottom side of conquest. Many of them had lost family members, and a long memory was characteristic of this part of the world. For that reason, they trained with a will. They weren't yet near the level of the Americans who taught them or the Israelis who held them in distant contempt, Major Sabah knew. His countrymen had first of all learned how to shoot. They'd burned out at least one gun tube per tank in the pure joy oflearning that skill, and they had been firing real rounds, not just practice—war shots fly straightter and farther— as they combined a diverting hobby with a national survival skill. Able now to hit their targets, their current task was to learn to maneuver and fight on the move. Again, they couldn't do it well, not yet, but they were learning. The developing crisis put emphasis on their training, and even now his countrymen were leaving their banking, oil, and trading offices to mount their vehicles. An American advisory team would take them into the field again, give them a battle problem, and watch their performance. While it pained the major that his countrymen, many of them relatives, were not yet ready, it was a source of pride to him that they were making a real effort. Bright as he was, however, it never occurred to him how close his military was to the Israeli model: citizen soldiers learning to fight after the harsh lesson of not having known.
'SWORDSMAN IS AWAKE,' Andrea Price heard in her earpiece. They were in the kitchen, the Detail commander with her sub-detail chiefs, standing and sipping coffee around one of the stainless-steel countertops used for preparing food. 'Roy?'
'Another routine day,' Special Agent Altman said. 'She's got three procedures scheduled for the morning, then a lecture to some Spanish docs in the afternoon— University of Barcelona, ten of them, eight males, two females. We checked the names with the Spanish police. They're all clean. No special threats reported against SURGEON. Looks like a normal day at the office.'
'Mike?' she asked Special Agent Michael Brennan, principal agent to Little Jack.
'Well, SHORTS TOP has a first-period biology test today and baseball practice after school. Pretty good with a glove, but his batting needs help,' the agent added. 'Otherwise, same-o same-o.'
'Wendy?' Special Agent Gwendolyn Merritt was principal agent for Sally Ryan.
'Chemistry exam for SHADOW in third period today. She's getting very interested in Kenny. Nice kid, needs a haircut and a new tie. She's thinking about going out for the girls' lacrosse team.' A few faces winced at that revelation. How do you protect someone being chased by teenagers with sticks?
'What's the family background on Master Kenny again?' Price asked. Even she couldn't remember everything.
'Father and mother both lawyers, tax stuff mainly.'
'SHADOW needs better taste,' Brennan observed to general amusement around the counter. He was the joker on the crew. 'There is a potential threat there, Wendy.'
'Huh? What?'
'If POTUS gets the new tax laws passed, they're in the shitter.'
Andrea Price made another check mark on her morning list. 'Don?'
'Today's routine is the same as usual, Introductory Crayon. I'm still not happy with the setup, Andrea. I want some more people, one more inside, and two more for overwatch on the south side,' Don Russell announced. 'We're too exposed. We just don't have enough defensive depth there. The outer perimeter is essentially the only one, and I am not comfortable with that.'
'SURGEON doesn't want us to overpower the place. You have yourself and two agents inside, three for immediate backup, and one surveillance agent across the road,' Price reminded him.
'Andrea, I want three more. We're too exposed there,' Russell repeated. His voice was reasonable and professional as ever. 'The family has to listen to us on professional questions.'
'How about I come over tomorrow afternoon to look things over again?' Price asked. 'If I agree, then I go to the Boss.'
'Fine.' Special Agent Russell nodded.
'Any more problems with Mrs. Walker?'
'Sheila tried to get a petition drive started with the other Giant Steps parents—get SANDBOX out of there, that sort of thing. It turns out that Mrs. Daggett gets a lot of repeat business, and more than half the parents know the Ryans and like 'em. So, that crapped out in a hurry. You know what the only real problem is?'
'What's that, Don? '
He smiled. 'At that age—sometimes I turn around and the kids move and when I turn back I can't tell which one SANDBOX is. You know there's only two kinds of haircuts for little girls, and half the mothers there think Oshkosh is the only brand of kid's clothes.'
'Don, it's a woman thing,' Wendy Merritt observed. 'If the First Toddler wears it, it has to be fashionable.'
'Probably the same thing with the hair,' Andrea added. 'By the way, I forgot to tell you, Pat O'Day wants a little match with you,' she told the Detail's most senior member.
'The Bureau guy?' Russell's eyes lit up. 'Where? When? Tell him to bring money, Andrea.' It occurred to Russell that he was due to have some playtime of his own. He hadn't lost a pistol match in seven years—his last bout with the flu.
'We all set?' Price asked her senior agents.
'How's the Boss doing?' Altman asked.
'They're keeping him pretty busy. Cutting into his sleep time.'
'Want me to talk to SURGEON about it? She keeps a good eye on him,' Roy told her.
'Well—'
'I know how. Gee, Dr. Ryan, is the Boss doing okay? He looked a little tired this morning…,' Altman suggested.
