While LADS had several Dreamland-style features that made it unique, including technology that made its vehicles nearly invisible to the naked eye, it was only one of a number of lighter-than-air systems being developed by the U.S. military and defense contractors. Airships could handle tasks from cargo transport to geostationary surveillance. Relatively inexpensive and extremely dependable, the old technology had a bright future, except for one thing: blimps weren’t sexy.
“I was thinking I might suggest F/A-18s if we turn down the F-15s,” added Jed. “A package similar to Malaysia’s.”
“It’s still overkill for their needs. What about selling them more A-37s?” asked Dog. “Very versatile and reliable aircraft. Perfect for their needs.”
“They’re pushing hard, and they have friends in Congress,” said Jed. “Assuming we can stop the F-15s and the Flighthawks, do you think F/A-18s are too much?”
“A dozen F/A-18s, along with three Megafortresses, would make them a pretty potent power,” said Dog. “They could threaten Malaysia and Indonesia”
“Malaysia has F/A-18s and MiG-29s already,” said Jed.
“But they’re on the peninsula, more than a thousand miles away. Indonesia’s forces are also too far to threaten Brunei. Besides, they’re all allies.”
“We want a counterbalance to the Chinese, and we have to reward the sultan,” said Jed. “Those are the real issues.”
“That sounds a lot like your boss talking, Jed.”
Jed glanced up, then held his coffee cup out for a refill as the waitress approached. Dog, sensing it was going to be a long morning, slid his over for a refill as well.
* * *
“TECUMSEH, GET IN HERE!”
The walls practically shook with the president’s loud greeting. Dog followed Jed and NSC advisor Freeman into the Oval Office, doing his best to guard against the schoolboy awe he inevitably felt upon meeting the president. He’d met Kevin Martindale twice since he’d been elected, and talked to him on average at least three times a month. But this did nothing to lessen the slightly giddy sensation he felt in the presence of the President of the United States.
Call it a by-product of military training, old-fashioned patriotism, or a side effect of his deep appreciation of the country’s history, but Dog still felt honored—deeply honored—to shake the president’s hand. He even blushed slightly as the president praised him in front of Arthur Chastain, the secretary of defense, and National Security Advisor Freeman.
“What you did in China makes you a hero ten times over,” said President Martindale. “And everyone in the world knows it. A million people are alive today because of you, Tecumseh. We won’t forget it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have some good news. The Pentagon has worked things out with the bean counters. The Megafortress program, the Unmanned Bomber Program, and the airborne laser arrays will all be funded. As will the next generation Flighthawk program.”
“That is good news,” said Dog, who hadn’t expected all of the programs to survive.
“You’ll have to nip and tuck here and there,” added the president, “but Arthur will help you on that. Won’t you, Mr. Secretary?”
“Yes, sir, of course” The defense secretary smiled at him for the first time ever.
“You’re here to tell me Brunei shouldn’t have Megafortresses and F-15s,” said Martindale. “You’re mad about it, and you wanted to talk to me in person before the deal is finalized.”
“Mad would be not the right word, sir,” said Dog.
“But you don’t approve.”
“I just feel that giving Brunei—giving anyone—our technology, is a problem.”
“Let’s stop right there,” said Freeman, the national security advisor. “Because number one, we’re not giving them anything. They’re paying for the privilege. And that payment is going to help us develop the next generation of weapons and aircraft at Dreamland. It’s one reason we can go ahead with your work there.”
“A small reason,” objected Defense Secretary Chastain.
“We’re not giving them our most advanced technology,” said Freeman. “The basic structure of the EB-52 is older than I am.”
“But sir, with respect, that’s like saying the basic structure of a newborn is older than its mother,” said Dog. “The Mega-fortresses have been completely rebuilt. Their wings are different, the fuselage is more streamlined and stealthy, the engines, the control surfaces—a B-52 would never have made it that far into China.”
“The Old Dog made it into Russia,” said President Martindale. Years before Dog had joined Dreamland, a B-52 had helped avert war with the Soviet Union with a daring—and officially unauthorized—mission over the heart of Soviet defenses. Immortalized in the press as “The Flight of the Old Dog,” the incident had been every bit as daring—and suicidal—as Bastian’s over China. Martindale had been a governor then, but it was well known that he admired the people who had pulled off the mission; he’d told Dog he kept a copy of the book detailing their exploits on his reading table upstairs in the White House.
“You have reservations about Brunei?” President Martindale asked Dog. “Can they be trusted?”
“It’s a beautiful country,” said Dog. “But it’s not a democracy”
“Give it time,” said Freeman.
“It’s not just that,” said Dog. “If we give them Mega-fortresses and F-15s, then what do we give the Malaysians and Indonesians? They share that island. What about the Philippines?”
“Those countries haven’t asked for EB-52s,” said the national security advisor.
“They will,” said Dog. “What do we tell them? They’re not as important as Brunei? What if they ask for F-22s?”
“They’re not getting F-22s. No one is,” said the president. “They’re not getting F-15s, either. Not F-15Cs, or F-15Es. But if we don’t give them something, they’ll simply buy from the Russians. The world is becoming more complicated, Colonel. Very much more complicated.”
“I appreciate that. I just don’t want my weapons systems making things worse.”
“Neither do I,” said the president. “We’ll have to work hard to see that they aren’t.”
Malay Negara Brunei Darussalam
7 October 1997, (local) 0802
In Zen’s opinion, the official Brunei reaction to the incident on the beach was schizophrenic beyond belief. On the one hand, they clearly didn’t consider it, or didn’t want to consider it, as anything but an isolated and freakish incident.
On the other hand, they considered it an insult to the country, which prided itself on being the perfect host. Because of this, the authorities felt obliged to apologize in person, and therefore Breanna and Zen had been invited to breakfast at the Royal House, an exclusive club used only by very high-ranking government officials just outside of town.
Zen might not have minded it except that he was due to catch a flight home at one o’clock, which meant rather than spending the next few hours alone with his wife he had to sit stiffly through a long and formal breakfast. He even had to wear a civilian jacket and tie, purchased specially for him by the State Department liaison, due to some obscure protocol that he didn’t understand.
“Oh, you look handsome. Stop complaining,” said Breanna.
“I’m sorry, but it really is necessary to present the proper image,” said Brenda Kelly, a state department liaison who had been sent over to help smooth the Stockards past the protocol hazards. It was at least the third time she’d apologized. “And wearing your uniform might have sent the wrong message”
“I wasn’t going to wear my uniform,” said Zen.
“You’ll have to excuse my husband,” said Breanna. “He thinks wearing a clean T-shirt is dressing up.”
“I’m on vacation, Bree. It’s not that advanced a concept.”