“I’ll bet,” he said, interpreting her words as a euphemism for sex.
“We were at the police ministry,” she said. “We tried calling you”
“Police ministry? What’d you do? Get nailed for speeding?”
Mack listened, dumbfounded, as Breanna explained what had happened that afternoon on the beach. It seemed farfetched. People here left their doors unlocked and keys in their cars.
“This for real, Bree?” he asked.
“Bet your ass it was real,” growled Zen from the other side. “Who were these jokers?”
“Police weren’t sure,” said Breanna. “Possibly guerillas from Malaysia trying to kidnap tourists. There are Muslim extremists trying to take over the Malaysian part of the island.”
“Not on that beach. That’s the prince’s beach,” said Mack. “Maybe they missed the sign,” said Zen.
“Maybe they were trying to get the prince,” said Mack. “Police said that was impossible,” said Breanna.
“That’s because they don’t think it’s possible,” said Mack. “They don’t think that way—they don’t think like you and me.”
“Listen, about the exercise tonight, we’re going to have to call it off,” said Breanna. “The State Department wants to interview me.”
“What?” said Mack.
“They asked me to go over to see one of their intelligence people for a debriefing. I told them fine”
“Well, sure, after the exercise.”
Breanna shook her head. “Sorry. We’re already late. And I haven’t had anything to eat, either.”
Mack had enough experience with Breanna to know it was useless to argue. “How about tomorrow night?”
“Fine,” said Breanna.
“Oh wait, I can’t do it tomorrow night. I have some dinner with the prince.”
“Blow it off,” said Zen sardonically.
Mack pretended he didn’t hear. “How about early the next morning, just before dawn? Say four or five?”
“Dawn?”
“Yeah, that would work,” said Mack. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Bree. You owe me”
“Owe you? How?”
“I got you that beach,” said Mack.
“Oh there’s a debt to be repaid,” said Zen.
“I’ll do it. We’ll set it up tomorrow,” said Breanna.
“Great,” said Mack. “Just great.”
Washington, D.C.
6 October 1997 (7 October Brunei), 0743
“Hey, Coloneclass="underline" ’ said Jed Barclay, pulling up in front of the suburban motel where Lieutenant Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian had been waiting. “Sony I’m running a little late.”
“It’s okay,” said Dog, aware that his voice probably suggested the opposite.
“Want to grab a coffee?” asked Barclay.
“I had breakfast”
“Yes, sir.”
Barclay pulled out into the traffic. Though he looked like he belonged in college—if that—Jed was the National Security Council’s assistant director for technology and the right-hand man for national security advisor Philip Freeman. He was the unofficial go-between used by the president and the NSC for directing Dreamland’s “Whiplash” operations, and just about Dog’s only real ally in Washington. The colonel felt bad about snapping at him, but he was in a foul mood; his daughter and son-in-law had been involved in some sort of incident in Brunei, of all places. While they were fine, the call he’d gotten a few hours ago about it had cost him the last sliver of sleep he’d been counting on before this morning’s meeting with the president. Brunei and Washington were exactly twelve hours apart; when it was day there it was night here, and vice versa.
“Hotel okay?” asked Jed.
“Fine. Listen, I didn’t mean to bark at you there. I just don’t want to be late for the meeting.”
“Well, we won’t be,” said Jed. “I got a heads-up. The president is running behind.”
“I thought I was his first appointment.”
“You were. But they slid in some domestic stuff and the chief of staff called last night to slide back the appointment. We’re not on until nine-thirty. And given the way things usually go …”
Dog curled his hands in front of his chest. The president was the president, and you waited for him, not the other way around. And surely there were many important things on his plate.
But this wasn’t a good sign.
“I didn’t have time for breakfast myself,” added Jed.
“Let’s get something then,” said Dog, acceding.
Jed described the restaurant as a “coffee place,” but if that was true, it was the fanciest coffee place Dog had ever been in. A hostess greeted them and escorted them across a thick, plush carpet to a table covered with three layers of thick linens. Dog recognized two senators and one of the aides to the vice president at different tables along the way.
“The NSC’ll pay, don’t worry,” said Jed before Dog opened the thick, leather-bound menu.
That prepared him, somewhat, for the prices. Dog told the waitress he just wanted coffee. She nodded, men turned to Jed. “Feta omelet. Light toast. Right?” she asked.
Jed nodded.
“You come here a lot?” said Dog.
“Uh, Mr. Freeman does. And so, because of that, I do.”
“He’s going to drop in on us?”
“He might,” admitted Jed.
“You might have warned me,” said Dog, finally understanding that Jed’s delays and hunger were part of a prearranged plan.
“I am warning you,” said Jed. He closed his mouth as the waitress approached, not continuing until she left. “Look, the president has already made up his mind on Brunei.”
“Brunei doesn’t need a fleet of fighter jets. Or Megafortresses, for that matter,” said Dog.
“The president isn’t going to reverse the Megafortress decision, Colonel. Not even for you. The two other planes are to go to Brunei as soon as they’re ready.”
“With Flighthawks?”
The Flighthawks, or U/MF-3s, were among Dreamland’s most prized possessions. “U/MF” stood for “unmanned fighters.” The Flighthawks were highly capable interceptors, typically launched from the wings of the Megafortress and used for a variety of tasks, from defending the big plane to attacking ground targets. About the size of a Miata sports car, they could go nearly the speed of sound and could be controlled up to twenty miles from the mother ship.
“That’s still to be decided,” said Jed.
“We have to protect our technology, Jed.”
“I don’t disagree. But it’s not my call.”
“You’re not in favor of any of this, are you? Rewarding their cooperation in dealing with China is one thing, but giving our technology away to countries that don’t need it and have their own agendas—”
“They are allies.”
“For now.”
“It’s not my call,” said Jed. “I think we’ll hold the line on the Flighthawks. And probably the F-15s. But they do have a legitimate need for surveillance aircraft, and for more modern fighters. And they’ll buy from the Russians if not us.”
“Did you try pushing LADS?” asked Dog. “They could buy that system with the money they’ll spend on jet fuel for one Megafortress over the course of a year.”
“I did. State did, too. Very hard”
“That’s what they need. It’s low-cost, and we could work with them. It’d be useful to us as well. Let them keep the one Megafortress for sea patrols, and use LADS to guard the kingdom’s borders.”
“Blimps aren’t sexy,” said Jed. “However much they make sense.”
Dog frowned, but he couldn’t argue. LADS stood for Lighter-than-Air Defensive Surveillance system, and at its heart it was simply a blimp—or more accurately, a network of blimps. Outfitted with millimeter and phased array radar as well as infrared and optical sensors, the small airships could be posted over the ocean and kept on station for weeks for about the cost of a Megafortress sortie. The system was scaleable—in other words, blimps could be added almost indefinitely, increasing the area to be covered without overly taxing the system. (The theoretical limit of inputs for the present system was 164°, far above the practical limitations that would be imposed by the coverage area itself.) The blimps could be pre-positioned to cordon off a patrol area several hundred miles wide, or deployed ahead of a mission team.