In the book, things went off the rails when one of the proles stopped taking his medicine. Unlike standard sci-fi fare, where the rebel prole would have been the good guy rebelling against a jackbooted society, in Braxton’s book he was the bad guy, hunted to the end and eventually killed.
Asked by a reporter whether the book encapsulated his philosophy of life, Braxton demurred. “Fiction is fiction,” he’d said. “Things happen in fantasy that don’t in real life.”
But his portfolio of investments — carefully researched by Rubeo when he suspected the connection — suggested otherwise. Braxton bought out a number of small high-tech companies, and was rumored to have purchased land offshore. He had also become very media-adverse; a thorough search of Web news turned up no articles on him in the past eighteen months, and no public statements by him in the past twenty-four.
“This is a new sort of threat,” said Breanna, “an extragovernmental organization stirring up trouble in a foreign country. We’ve never faced this before.”
“There are precedents in the nineteenth century,” said Rubeo.
“Is he capable of funding all this without backing from China or Iran?” asked Reid.
“It would appear so.”
“The Islam connection,” said Reid, referring to the fact that the 30 May Movement in Malaysia was Sunni Muslim. “Maybe Saudi Arabia and some of the Gulf states are helping.”
“Braxton doesn’t care for religion,” said Rubeo. “It’s the opiate of the people, to borrow the phrase from Marx. He despises religion nearly as much as governments.”
“It’s hard to believe private people could put this together,” said Reid. “And why?”
Rubeo gestured at his computer. “If you want to read their manifestos, be my guest. In any event, he is certainly capable intellectually of guiding the construction of this technology. He had access to the data. And he has the money to pull it all off.”
“I think we have to lay this out for the President,” said Breanna.
“Agreed,” said Reid.
“You two always present me with interesting problems,” said the President when they reached her via secure video a half hour later. She was in her private office at the White House, due to leave for Air Force One in an hour. She was heading that morning to a NASA facility in Texas to unveil the start of a manned mission to Mars.
“Regardless of what the intentions are here,” said Reid, “the technology is impressive, and in the wrong hands will present considerable problems. Used as terror weapons, these aircraft would be difficult to stop.”
Reid detailed more of the possible links to Dreamland, which had already been suspected and outlined. The connection to Ray Rubeo and his billion-dollar companies — even if it was indirect — would undoubtedly become a weapon for the administration’s political enemies. Rubeo and his company’s lucrative contracts had lately become a target for critics. There was absolutely nothing untoward going on, but the secrecy the firms operated in and Rubeo’s prickly and hermitlike public personality made for easy speculation.
But that was a matter for the future.
“The Chinese are not directly involved?” asked the President.
“We believe not,” said Reid. “But I would have to assume they will grow more and more curious. We can’t rule out a situation where they cut some sort of deal with either Braxton or perhaps the Malaysians to capture the technology, as they did with Iran and the stealth drone.”
“So, Breanna, Jonathon, what are we proposing?” asked the President.
“We want to pursue them,” said Breanna. “Wherever that may take us.”
“We’re not sure who is protecting them,” explained Reid. “And the Chinese carrier task force that was north of the area has moved south. We’ll try to avoid a confrontation with them, but we can’t make any guarantees.”
“Avoid confronting the Chinese, if at all possible,” said the President. “I have enough problems with Congress. But get to the bottom of this. And if it’s our technology, get it back. I’ll deal with the Chinese, and Congress, if it comes to it.”
13
Danny hadn’t slept in close to forty hours, and while that was nowhere near his record, he was so tired that his arms ached when he raised them. Rubbing his eyes, he refilled his coffee cup, then walked to a table at the far corner of the mess tent. Pulling his tablet computer from his pants pocket — the machine and its seven-inch screen fit snuggly, but it did fit — he sat down, pressed his thumb on the reader and stared at the camera just long enough for the retina scanner to ID him and show the password screen.
It took two tries and three sips of coffee before he got the password in right; the screen popped to life and he started scanning his secure e-mail.
The first message was from Breanna: the Tigershark and the ground team were en route, due to arrive within twenty-four hours, as was another surveillance aircraft. They would operate out of Sibu airport, about ninety miles north of the Marines in an area considered far less open to guerrilla attack.
The next e-mail was from Breanna and Reid, a formal authorization allowing Danny to call on the Marines for help in an assault on any base believed to be harboring or controlling the UAVs. It included the name of a Pentagon official who had been tasked as a liaison. This was a bit of bureaucracy Danny didn’t particularly care for — in effect, a general several thousand miles away had been assigned as a gatekeeper and de facto impediment to the people who were actually on the scene.
Breanna had clearly anticipated that Danny would object to this, and added two sentences to the effect that, once the overall plan was agreed to, General Grasso could be consulted if there were additional roadblocks.
The general is a facilitator only, Breanna wrote. Danny had to smile — he could hear her saying that in his head as he read the words. But keep him in the loop.
“Hey, Colonel.” Turk sat down across from him, a tray full of fresh bacon, scrambled eggs, and potatoes in his hands.
“Where’d you get the chow?” Danny asked. “I thought the kitchen was closed.”
“Cowboy’s friends with the cook. Want some?”
“Sure.”
“Take mine. I’ll be right back.”
Turk was up and gone before he could object. Danny spun the tray around but waited until he saw Turk returning from the kitchen area, a big grin on his face and an even heavier tray in his hands.
“These Marines know how to take care of their people,” said the pilot, plopping down. “Even found me a cinnamon roll.”
“You joining the Corps now?” joked Danny, digging into his eggs.
“I might. If they always eat like this.”
Danny thought of bringing up Turk’s request for a transfer but decided this wasn’t the time. He scanned the rest of his e-mails quickly; they were routine reports on training and procurement, nothing exciting, even if they were critical to the operation of the ground team. Whiplash was in the middle of an expansion program and so many details had to be taken care of that Danny needed another administrative aide. In fact, he’d already been approved for one, but had simply not been able to find the time to begin interviewing.
“So, any word from Washington?” asked Turk after Danny shut the tablet down and put it aside.
“Whiplash Team Two and the Tigershark will be here in twenty-four hours,” said Danny. “We have other surveillance assets en route. I want to set up an assault plan that will let us go in as soon as we know where they’re flying from.”