Читать книгу Strike Zone - Dale Brown - Страница 7

Sometimes it seemed like Dog’s whole life came down to paper. Reams of it sat on Colonel Bastian’s desk – reports, folders, notices. The computer at the corner held even more – emails, various attachments, all marked urgent, more urgent, or impossibly urgent. Dreamland’s command structure was perhaps the most streamlined in the military, yet it still killed more trees than Dog could count.

There was a familiar knock on the door. Fearing that it meant Chief Master Sergeant Terrence ‘Ax’ Gibbs was bringing yet another wagonload of paper for him to process, Dog growled ‘come’ in a voice that would have sent anyone else into retreat.

Ax, however, walked calmly into the room. He had taken the precaution of arming himself with a fresh carafe of coffee.

‘Thought you could use a refill,’ said the chief.

‘Thanks,’ said Dog, his mood lifting slightly.

‘Jed Barclay’s on line four over there,’ he added, pointing to the lit button on the black scrambled phone. ‘He’s got an off-the-record heads-up for you.’

‘Just great,’ said Dog, his mood once again diving into the depths.

He took a sip of the coffee, then punched the button. Ax thumbed through some of the paperwork on the desk, retrieving several items he needed, then left.

‘Jed? What can I do for you?’ asked Dog.

‘Colonel. Um, this is, uh, un-unofficial,’ said Barclay.

Barclay was the National Security Council assistant director for technology and the right-hand man of the NSC advisor, Philip Freeman. Jed’s responsibilities included acting as the de facto liaison between the White House and Dreamland. Though only in his early twenties, he’d been involved in several Dreamland missions and had proven that, despite his pimples, he could hang in there with the best of them.

It was a very bad sign, however, that he was stuttering. He usually only did that when a situation was red-lining.

‘Uh, I’m calling off the r-record,’ he said.

‘Jed, I know it’s bad news, so don’t sugarcoat it,’ Dog told him.

‘I wasn’t going to, Colonel. I wouldn’t sugarcoat anything.’

‘Don’t bullshit me either.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So?’

‘The NSC and the Joint Chiefs, they put their heads together in a way – well, you know how Admiral Balboa is, and what they want is an outsider. We cut them off a bit and got a compromise but –’

‘Who’s investigating?’ asked Dog, deciding to cut to the quick. Balboa was the head of the Joint Chiefs and a general pain in the butt when it came to anything concerning Dreamland.

‘Air Force Office of Special Investigations,’ said Jed. ‘They’re sending a woman out this afternoon. Her name is Cortend, and she’s a bitch with wings. Um, pardon my French.’

‘Didn’t sound very French to me, Jed.’ Dog sighed and took another sip of his coffee. ‘Who is she?’

‘Full-bird colonel. She’s, uh, she’s going to answer to the chief of the Air Force directly because – uh, do you want all the political interplay, or just the shorthand?’

‘Shorthand’s fine.’

‘They want to make sure this isn’t a replay of the Russian situation a few years ago,’ said Barclay, making an oblique reference to the spy scandal that had preceded Dog’s arrival at the base. ‘Defense Secretary Chastain got Balboa to sign off on her because she did the, uh, she found the fraud at J&D on the propulsion contract last year, and the Chinese spy at the Alaska contractor. She’s tough. But even so, this is just like a preliminary, unofficial, I mean, she has full powers, but it’s –’

‘Thanks, Jed. I get the picture,’ said Dog. Basically, they were sending someone there with the power to turn the base upside down, but because she was only coming on an informal or unofficial basis, she wouldn’t have to play by any of the rules meant to keep things fair.

So be it.

‘There’s a couple of people who want your scalp,’ added the NSC official. ‘Uh, I know you don’t care for the politics but, uh –’

‘I don’t.’

‘They may, uh – you have to watch the way you handle it,’ said Barclay. ‘Because they have their knives out.’

‘I appreciate the warning, Jed. Really. It’s all right. I can take care of myself. So can the rest of the people here.’

‘There was something else,’ added Jed.

‘Fire away.’

‘The President wants to talk to you personally. He’s concerned about China. You probably ought to expect his call around midnight our time. You know how he burns the midnight oil.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Dog hung up the phone. The President had personally ordered Dreamland to intervene between China and India. The unit’s stock – and Dog’s – were extremely high with the White House. But if a spy had deliered Flighthawk technology to the Russians or Chinese or anyone else, that would change quicker than the stock market had on Black Tuesday.

If a spy had penetrated the U/MF project, he or she was undoubtedly still at Dreamland. Dog didn’t think it possible.

Then again, General Brad Elliott, the last commander of Dreamland, probably didn’t think any of his people had been spies either. And he’d been proven wrong.

General Elliott. God rest his soul. He had given his life to stop China from taking over Taiwan and engulfing the US in a major war. A true American hero.

Dog took another sip of the strong black coffee. He gave himself thirty seconds to enjoy it, and then went back on the offensive, tackling the paper before him.