Strike Zone. Dale Brown
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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 Fash 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 scifi 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.
‘What was your name?’ he asked.
‘It’s Colonel Cortend,’ whispered one of the underlings.
‘First name?’ said Mack.
Cortend whirled around. ‘Why would you need to know my first name?’
‘For future reference,’ said Mack.
The colonel frowned in his direction, then turned and set off so quickly that her minions had difficulty keeping up.
Mack felt his face flush. By the time he started moving again, his palms were so sweaty that he had to wipe them on his pants, and he was so obsessed with Cortend that he forgot what he’d come to see Jennifer about.
Dreamland, Flighthawk Hangar Offices 1300
‘No way this is a Chinese project,’ Stoner told Zen as the briefing session broke up. ‘No way.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’d know about it.’
Zen, Rubeo, and several of the other civilian experts involved in the Flighthawk project had just finished giving Stoner a comprehensive briefing on the technologies involved in the U/MF-3. They had emphasized three areas – materials, propulsion, and communications – which until the discovery of the clone had appeared to be Dreamland monopolies.
‘I’ve dealt with the Chinese,’ said Zen. ‘They’re pretty damn competent. I wouldn’t underestimate them.’
‘I’m not underestimating them. I just don’t think they did this. Consider their aircraft technology. Their most advanced aircraft is the Shenyang F-8IIM. It’s basically a very large MiG-21. If they were able to construct lightweight carbon fiber wings, for example, they’d be building something closer to the F-22.’
‘So who? The Russians?’
‘They’re much more capable than anyone gives them credit for,’ said Stoner. ‘I wouldn’t rule out the Indians either. You saw their sub-launched cruise missile. That was a pretty serious weapon.’
‘The technology here is more advanced,’ said Zen.
‘In some ways, certainly.’ Stoner folded his arms. ‘What about the Japanese?’
‘The Japanese?’
‘Forget the technology a minute,’ said Stoner. ‘Look at the way the craft was used. It wasn’t taking part in the battle. It was watching what was going on. It was a spy plane. It stayed far away from the action.’
‘That doesn’t rule China out,’ said Zen.
‘Sure it does. If the Chinese had this weapon, wouldn’t they have been using it to scout the Indian forces?’
‘Maybe they did and we didn’t see it. The Flighthawks are very difficult to pick up on radar,’ said Zen.
‘You think this thing flew over the Navy task force without being detected?’
Zen shrugged. He didn’t, but he didn’t feel like admitting it to Stoner.
‘My guess is it’s a third-party player,’ said Stoner. ‘Japan, Russia – someone interested, but not directly involved.’
‘My money’s still on China,’ said Zen. ‘I don’t trust them.’
‘And they don’t trust us,’ said Stoner. ‘But that’s good.’
‘Why?’
‘Makes them predictable.’
For an egghead nerd, Rubeo set a good clip, and Stoner had trouble catching up with him as he cleared through the underground maze back toward his laboratories.
‘Doc, can I talk to you?’
‘You seem to be making an effort to do so,’ said Rubeo, not pausing.
‘Who really could develop this?’
Rubeo stopped at a locked door and put in his card. The door clicked and buzzed, but didn’t open.
‘Your ID,’ said Rubeo. ‘In the slot.’
Stoner complied. The door opened. Rubeo stepped through and resumed his pace.
‘We can. The Japanese maybe. The Chinese. Not the Russians.’
‘That’s it?’
The scientist stopped outside