“The Whiplash team can operate discreetly,” said Danny.
“It hasn’t in the past,” said Newhaven pointedly.
That was out of line, and the President cut the Secretary of State off.
“I think the Office of Special Projects has an admirable record,” said the President quickly.
“You put high-tech gear in there and you might just as well tell the Chinese to triple their aid to the rebels,” said Newhaven. “Plus, if these things are being flown by the rebels, then they’ll be after them, too.”
“Assuming they don’t already belong to the Chinese,” said Reid.
“The CIA ought to know who owns them,” snapped Newhaven.
“I understand your point, Mr. Secretary,” said the President. “We have to find a way to get the job done without calling much attention to it. Even among our own people.”
That was a veiled reference to Congress, which was dead set against giving more aid to the Malaysians. If the oversight committees found out there was a full-blown Whiplash mission to the island, objections would be quickly raised. Todd was willing to deal with the political fallout, but it seemed premature at this point; there was no firm evidence that UAVs were even there — as she understood the data, it could have been missiles.
“We have a small group of Marines set to support the Malaysians in that area,” said the National Security Advisor, Michael Blitz. “Can we fold this operation into them?”
“Any Whiplash presence is too much,” said the vice president.
Todd held her tongue. Her contempt for her vice president was well known. Nonetheless, it was obvious as the discussion continued that he was expressing a view that seemed to be shared by the rest of the council and the cabinet members present. The evidence didn’t seem to warrant the risks that a Whiplash deployment would entail politically.
“All right,” said the President after her scheduling aide pointed at his watch. “As I said at the outset, I have a breakfast meeting to attend. I expect a recommendation by the time I return to the White House.” She rose. “Colonel, thank you for coming. Ms. Stockard, perhaps you’ll walk with me upstairs.”
Breanna, surprised at the invitation, felt her cheeks burn. She pulled her things together and waited in the hallway for the President, who was stopped by some aides just outside the door and given information about an explosion in a coal mine that morning.
Danny nodded as he passed; Breanna gave him a thumbs-up.
“Good job,” she said.
“Thanks.” He beamed. For some reason the colonel was more nervous about public speaking than facing combat.
“So, Breanna, how is your daughter?” asked the President as she sailed up the hallway. Breanna had to practically leap to stay up with her. Christine Todd was very much like a sleek sailboat when she moved. Whatever other effect the job had had on her, her energy was undiminished.
“She’s great.”
“If she’s half as smart as her mother and father, she’s got quite a future.” Todd smiled and stepped into the waiting elevator. She was alone with Breanna, except for her two Secret Service escorts. A man and a woman, they were well practiced at pretending not to hear what the President or anyone with her said.
“I have a few too many enemies in Congress at the moment,” said Todd. “Whatever you do to investigate this further, it will have to be done within the Marine contingent. No Whiplash troop or aircraft presence.”
“Then maybe the CIA or the Air Force themselves should continue the investigation,” offered Breanna.
“No, the parallels to our technology are too provocative. I want the experts working on it. I just want it done quietly. If your full team’s presence is warranted, then we won’t hesitate.”
“If you’re sure—”
“And the senator?” asked the President, abruptly changing the subject.
“Same old Zen.”
“Yes.”
“You know, someone mentioned the other day that Zen would make an excellent President,” said Todd.
“Who said that?”
“It was a party person.” Todd gave her a grin the Cheshire cat would have been proud of. “I was forced to agree.”
“I don’t think he wants to be President,” said Breanna.
“That would be a pity.”
The elevator door opened and the President abruptly exited, leaving Breanna to wonder what the real purpose of the exchange had been.
4
At roughly the same time Danny Freah was running the video of the Malaysian air force’s encounter with the unknown UAV, Ray Rubeo was staring at the same image. It was playing in the screen on the left side of his desk; the screen next to it was showing a simulation he had constructed that revealed what he thought the program governing the aircraft’s movements was doing. Though he had adapted the simulation from one of his company’s own programs, it had nonetheless taken him considerable time to construct.
Three hours.
He was dismayed. Years ago it would have been less than half that. His brain, he was convinced, was starting to slow down.
There were still several hours before the sun would come up over his isolated Arizona ranch, but Rubeo wasn’t interested in sleep. He never was when there was a problem to be solved. And this problem was more vexing than most, the issue of his getting older aside.
He turned his attention to the monitor on the right. It was showing an analysis of the code in the middle screen, computing the amount of resources needed for it to run under various systems. The screen was broken into four quadrants, displaying the performance of four different possibilities. The bottom left assumed the program was in the system originally designed for the Flighthawks, some fifteen years before; the chart was off the scale. So was the one next to it, which displayed the system that had replaced it a few years later.
Rubeo was not surprised. Both systems were primarily intended as backups to a human pilot, and the decisions that the computer had to make in controlling a complex airframe were very primitive.
The top two screens were what bothered him. The left showed the system used by the Tigershark in “guiding” its UAV escorts. The Tigershark was Dreamland’s own aircraft, and the system it used to guide the UAVs was the most advanced currently in existence.
According to the program, the maneuvers and the decisions that the computer had to make to guide the aircraft they had reconstructed at the speed it had flown taxed this system near the breaking point as well. Only the fourth quadrant showed a system that could handle the plane confidently through the complex maneuvers.
It was an experimental system that used custom-made organic processing chips. It had never been built.
He got up from the computers. Rubeo’s house was a combination retreat and high-tech lab. Located in a remote area of the desert, it matched his personality — austere and yet at the same time expansive. He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee, then went out on the back deck.
The wind had died. The clear black sky and sparkling stars foretold a brilliant day.
The abilities of the aircraft were one thing. The behavior was something else. Rubeo’s people had pieced together the engagement between the mysterious UAV and the Malaysian Sukhois. There were gaps, but the pattern looked very, very similar to an attack that had been mapped out and preprogrammed for the original service Flighthawks a decade before.
Impossible. Or at least highly unlikely.
Rubeo sighed, and took a sip of coffee.
And then there was this: the material from the fuselage Danny Freah had recovered was made of a carbon-titanium alloy similar to that used in the Flighthawks and the more modern Sabre UAVs. It was the product of a rare and very expensive process, one thought to be well beyond the reach of the Chinese or the Russians, let alone a third-world country.