“Whose is it?” asked the secretary of state.

Jed shook his head. “Dr-Dr-Dreamland is still working on it. We have Space Command and NSA r-reviewing sensor data in the area, and that’s under way. But the first review of the earlier sighting didn’t yield anything, so we’re not sure what will come up.”

He had to get rid of the damn stutter or no one would trust anything he said. It made him sound like too much of a jerk. Fortunately, Jed had some handouts summarizing the data Dreamland had compiled, and he passed them out.

“So it’s not as capable as our craft?” asked Chastain.

“Well, it depends on your cr-criteria,” said Jed. “The experts think it’s not as f-f-fast. But it can carry a heavier load, which would mean a couple of things.”

“Did the Chinese get all this information?” asked Balboa.

“No,” said Hartman. “They know there was another craft involved. And that we’re trying to track it.”

“If they believe us,” said the admiral, “and that’s a big if, then we’re in race with them to find this thing.

Because if they grab it—”

“The Dreamland people will get there first,” said Martindale. He rose. “Right, Jed?”

“They’re getting closer.”

“Close doesn’t count,” said Balboa. “We need results. Now.”

Dreamland

1900

DANNY KNOCKED ONthe door to Jennifer’s small apartment twice without getting an answer. He turned and looked at the two airmen who had accompanied him, then reached into his pocket for the master key he’d brought along. He was just about to insert it in the door when a faint voice asked from inside who it was.

“Captain Freah,” he told her. “Hey, it’s Danny, Jen. Can I come in?”

She didn’t answer.

“Jen?” he said.

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He heard her footsteps and then her hand at the chain, pulling it open. She stood in the doorway wearing a bathrobe, though below it she had on jeans and a sweatshirt.

She’d cut her hair.

God, had she cut her hair—it looked as if she’d hacked it off with a knife.

Danny decided it was best to ignore it. He tried not to stare.

“Hey, you’re off the hook. Completely,” he told her. “Those conferences—we got information from the FBI and the security review at the time that clears you completely. Are you okay? Can I come in?”

She didn’t answer, turning away instead. Danny glanced back at his men in the hall, then stepped inside by himself, closing the door behind him.

“Colonel Bastian’s been trying to get ahold of you,” he told her. “And Chief Gibbs. How come you don’t return their calls?”

“How do you know I don’t return their calls?” she said, twisting around in a fury. “Do you have a tap on my phone? You think you can just listen in to anything you want any time you want?”

Danny was authorized by the security regulations covering Dreamland to do just that, but this clearly wasn’t the time to say so. “Of course not.”

She pursed her lips. The lower one started to quiver.

“Jen, I know this has been tough for you. It’s been tough for me,” said Danny.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be considered a traitor,” she said.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s got to suck.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She frowned, but then she started to cry. Danny found himself hugging her awkwardly, patting her back, telling her it would be okay.

Southeast Thailand

12 September 1997

1650

EVEN THOUGH HEhadn’t had much sleep last night, Boston found it impossible to nap on the plane.

While he had a special set of headphones to drown out the sound of the engines, the small plane shuffled up and down every so often, just enough to keep him awake. He spent his time leafing through a book he’d brought along and trading audio tapes with Bison, who unfortunately seemed to like the Grateful Dead considerably more than Boston would have thought possible.

Boston’s adrenaline shot up as soon as Colonel Bastian announced that they were within sight of the airfield. He strapped his seat belt on and waited as the plane banked and then circled over the small strip.

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While they undoubtedly cleared the nearby jungle by a good margin, to Boston it seemed like the wingtip came perilously close to the top of the nearby trees. He struggled not to close his eyes as the airplane turned hard and legged down onto what looked more like an unkempt driveway than an airfield. The strip didn’t have any lights or even a fence nearby; the only structures Boston saw as he stepped down the stairs were a telephone pole with a windsock and a two-story pillbox with a flat roof.

Boston put on his Smart Helmet and did a quick search of the area, using its composite view, which cobbled together IR, radar, and optical inputs to identify weapons and individuals. There was no one around.

“Yo, Boston, help me with the bikes,” said Bison from inside. The sergeant went back and manhandled the small dirt bike out of the rear cabin, barely clearing past the seats. They had taken along several cans of gas as well as guns and radios. Everyone on the team wore civilian dress, authorized by the colonel because of the nature of the mission.

Colonel Bastian and Stoner met the two Whiplash ops on the hard-packed dirt.

“I want someone to stay here with me and watch the plane,” said the colonel. “And let me emphasize, we show no military gear.”

“I think we have to wear vests,” said Stoner.

“All right,” said Bastian. “Be as discreet as possible.”

“Who’s better at riding a motorbike?” said Stoner.

Boston looked at Bison, who looked at him. Both men shrugged. While riding a motorcycle was not part of the Whiplash job requirements, everyone on the squad had done so at one time.

“Flip a coin,” said Dog.

Boston won the toss.

THE WIND WHIPPEDhard against Stoner’s face as he drove up the winding trail toward the fabrication plant. The sat photos he’d seen of it, part of a routine series covering the area, along with some background research provided by analysts back at the CIA, indicated that it had been abandoned about six months before. Already the jungle had begun closing in. Nature’s relentless march had broken up the edges of the road leading to the site; what two years ago had been a row of small, hastily built houses was now a collection of scavenged foundations.

Stoner would have preferred that the plant was still in operation. Getting information then would have been considerably easier—go in as a prospective client and look around, set up a tap into their computers, maybe even do a little B&E routine. Now all he could do was nose around and see what he could come up with. He had a digital camera and a chemical “sniffer” in his backpack, as well as a collection of programs on computer disks that would allow him to examine any computer he found. But as the building came into view, he realized he wasn’t going to be finding much of anything.

The parking lot and helipad had been overgrown by vegetation, and the weeds were so thick that Stoner had to stop his bike about twenty yards from the front of the building. He got off and took the IR viewer Page 126

from his backpack, using it to check around.

“We should cover the road,” said Boston, who’d taken his MP-5 from his ruck.

“Anyone who’s interested in us isn’t going to use the road,” said Stoner.

Built of cinderblocks, the one-story building had a row of windows at the front and side. Most of the windows were broken; the interior of the building had been stripped, not just of the valuable tools and machinery, but also of most of the sheetrock, ceiling tiles, and electrical wire. Stoner used his elbow to break enough of one of the windows so he could slip in easily.

A thick coat of reddish jungle clay covered the floor, swept in from the lot by the wind. There were tracks from another window at the side, but in the dim light Stoner couldn’t tell how recent they might be.