It ought not to have surprised him, he realized. She had been the lead scientist on the project. Whoever had stolen the coding and presumably the plans it was part of had taken her work files and used them with little or no alteration.
Rubeo was an unemotional man, but he felt his stomach queasy and his hands trembling. Jennifer Gleason had been his prize pupil, his best employee, and in many ways his best friend.
Few people could have had access to her work files, which not even Rubeo could see without running a long bureaucratic gamut of checks, balances, and obstructions.
And according to the records office, no one had, since they were sealed shortly after her death.
He saw the expression on her face, her death mask — she’d been beheaded.
Rubeo leaned his head down, shattered by the memory.
Finally, almost unconsciously, he took out his satellite phone and called one of the few people whom he could speak to about her, the one person closer to Jennifer than he was.
Tecumseh Bastian answered on the third ring.
“Hello, Ray,” he said. “What’s going on that you’re calling this late?”
“I…” Rubeo stopped speaking. It took a moment for him to regroup. “I think someone stole some of the work we did at Dreamland,” he told his former commander. “I need — I just wanted to bounce some names off you.”
“Shoot.”
“Lloyd Braxton.”
“Hmmmph,” said Bastian.
“I know you don’t like him.”
“I have good reason. What has he taken?”
“I don’t know if it’s him,” said Rubeo. He was lying — it had to be Braxton, who was not only a genius but had left Dreamland just before Jennifer’s death, and under difficult circumstances. Just saying his name out loud convinced Rubeo he was right.
“So, why are you calling, then?” asked Bastian.
“I need to talk this out with someone I trust.”
“Talk.”
“I’d… I’d like to come up in person.”
“I’m too busy, Ray. Talk now.”
Rubeo knew Bastian wasn’t busy; he hadn’t been busy since he left the Air Force following Jennifer’s death. He just didn’t like interacting with the world, even with Rubeo, who was probably his only friend from the Dreamland days still in touch. Bastian didn’t even talk to his daughter, Breanna Stockard.
“I wonder if Braxton could have left with the computer files on the Gen 4 Flighthawk project,” said Rubeo.
“I doubt it.”
“He might have stolen them before he was cashiered,” said Rubeo.
“That’s possible,” said Bastian. “But I doubt he could have taken much.”
“He might not need much,” said Rubeo. “A chip, early prototypes. He’d be able to remember much of what he did — he had a phenomenal brain.”
“You know he’s rich, right? He owns that company.”
“I’ll have to do a little background work,” said Rubeo. “I lost track of him.”
“He has a whole foundation,” continued Bastian. “He’s an anarchist.”
“An anarchist?”
“You never were much of a people person, Ray,” said Bastian. “That’s why I liked you.”
Rubeo had nothing to say to that.
“Tell you what — I’m going back to bed. If you want to talk, you know where I am.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m not your commander anymore, Ray.” Another man might have chuckled, but Bastian simply hung up.
9
Turk told Basher flight what was going on, then got up and ran to Captain Deris and his Malaysians. The soldiers were advancing warily up the hill as the Marines came down with the captured rebels.
“Pick one of them to question,” Turk suggested. “And hold the rest for pickup.”
Deris chose the oldest rebel, and led the group down to the road to Captain Thomas and the Senior Marine NCO, “Gunny” Smith. The trio started questioning him, with Deris acting both as inquisitor and interpreter. Turk stood by, listening to the halting dialogue — Deris peppered the man with questions, the rebel answered in monosyllables, Deris translated.
“No more alive, he says. I don’t trust him,” Deris told the Marines.
“Ask him the size of the force,” said Gunny Smith. “We can work the rest out for ourselves.”
Deris asked a question. When the rebel answered by shaking his head, Deris began shouting at him.
“Ease up, ease up,” said Thomas. “That’s not getting us anywhere.”
“I have to make him talk.”
“He’ll just lie to get you off his back,” said the captain. “Get someone else. We got three more.”
“This one was a squad leader. The others are frightened children. They’ll know nothing. Not even their prayers.”
Gunny Smith reached into one of the pockets on his tac vest and took out a candy bar. He tossed it to Deris.
“Try making friends and see if that works,” suggested the sergeant.
Deris frowned, but started to hand the bar to the rebel. The rebel backed away.
“Tell him it’s food,” said the Marine.
Another round of shouting ensued.
“He thinks we’re trying to poison him,” explained Deris finally.
Gunny Smith took the bar back, broke it in two and pulled off the wrapper. Then he began eating half of it.
“Not bad,” he said, holding the other half out to the prisoner.
The rebel batted it away. Deris swung his fist, hitting the man in the side of the head.
Turk jumped forward and grabbed the Malaysian captain around the chest. The Malaysian was shorter than him but powerfully built, and Turk had to struggle to hold him off the POW.
“Hey, hey, none of that,” said Thomas. “Relax. These fuckers are prisoners of ours. We can’t be hitting them.”
“He’s a criminal,” said Deris.
“You’re right,” said Smith. “But we have to follow the law. Capisce?”
“Law? What law? He is criminal and killer.” Deris looked up at Turk, who was still holding him. “Why are you protecting him, Turk? He killed my men. He tried to kill you. Why would you protect him?”
Turk stuttered, unable to find an answer — in truth, he agreed with the Malaysian captain emotionally, even though he knew he was not permitted to strike a prisoner. It was Gunny Smith who spoke up.
“Listen, I’d love to slam the son of a bitch myself,” he said. “It’d feel pretty damn good. But we need the bastard for interrogation. Intel. This way other people don’t get hurt. If that means laying off, not belting him — that’s what we got to do. Damn. We’re just saving other lives. Maybe people we love, you know?”
“He’s right,” agreed Turk, wishing he’d been the one to say it.
Deris didn’t look impressed. He said something in Malaysian, then put up his hands, signaling to Turk that he wouldn’t struggle any more. Turk let him go.
Deris yelled something at the rebel — Turk guessed it was along the lines of, You’re lucky these guys held me back or you’d be dog meat by now — then turned and stalked back to his men.
“Kind of a hothead, huh?” Gunny Smith smiled at Turk. Then raised his rifle at the prisoner. “Don’t try anything or I’ll shoot your balls off.”
The man may not have understood English, but he certainly understood the threat. He put up his hands. When Gunny Smith gestured for him to sit down, he quickly complied.
“Can you hold on to him while I get some cuffs?” the Marine asked Turk.
“Sure.” Turk raised his rifle.
Gunny took a step back, then another, making sure the prisoner wouldn’t try anything. Turk steadied the gun on the prisoner. Dirty and exhausted, the rebel looked even younger than the Malaysians. He stared at Turk with hard eyes, defiant. Turk wondered if he was thinking of trying to run — not to actually escape, but to get shot and die like his friends had.