The theory did explain some things, such as the many brief radar indications and the barrage missile launchings. But as Rubeo pointed out, it did not account for the uncanny accuracy of the missiles, most especially since some of them didn’t have their own terminal guidance and those that did should have been defeated or at least confused by ECMs.
Perhaps the guidance systems had been altered. Perhaps the barrage firings increased the relatively poor odds 132
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of a single missile finding its target. Perhaps the Iraqis were just lucky.
“And perhaps Pooh Bear is God,” Rubeo said.
But a laser also seemed farfetched. If the Iraqis had it, why didn’t they use it on everything in the air?
Whatever it was, the Dreamland team had to find it—and neutralize it.
“Really, Colonel, when are we going to get on with this?” asked Rubeo. “We are wasting time that even at government rates is not inexpensive.” Rubeo frowned and fingered his stubby gold earring. He was brilliant—half the gear in the room had been designed by him or one of the people who worked for him—but Dog thought that sometimes he pushed the eccentric scientist a bit too far.
“What are you reading there, Doc?” asked Dog, trying to change the subject.
“Commentary on Plato. Wrong-headed, but diverting.”
“High Top Base to Dreamland Command.” Major Alou’s voice boomed over the speaker system. “Colonel, do we have a connection?”
Dog turned toward the screen at the front of the room, even though he knew there would be no video; they were using the Megafortresses to communicate. The Whiplash portable command center, with its full suite of com gear, hadn’t even been delivered from the MC-17 yet. “Go ahead, Major.”
“You wanted to speak to us?”
“I have information that may be relevant. We’re going to try to get Jed Barclay on the line to sit in on this.” He nodded at the lieutenant handling the communications, who punched in the commands to connect the NSC secure line. A signal indicated that the line—which had been open just two minutes before—was now unavailable.
“Hi, Daddy,” said Breanna lightly. She sounded like a kid calling from college.
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“Captain.”
“Weather’s fine, if you like windchills approaching fifty below,” she told him.
“She’s exaggerating,” said Alou. “Windchill only makes it feel like thirty below.”
“Colonel, High Top came through on Channel B, the uncoded backup,” said the lieutenant at the com board. “I can only invoke eight-byte encryption.”
“Well switch it to the secure channel,” said Rubeo, whose tone suggested he considered the lieutenant about as intelligent as an earthworm.
“I’ve tried, sir. I don’t know whether it’s the satellite or something on their end.”
“Oh, just peachy,” said Rubeo, getting up from his console and walking toward the lieutenant.
It was unlikely that the Iraqis could intercept the communications signal, let alone break it. The Russians, on the other hand, were capable of doing both.
“I’m told we’re not secure,” said Dog.
“That is not correct,” said Rubeo. “And from a tactical point of view—”
“Excuse me, Doc, I’m talking here.” Dog gave the scientist a drop-dead frown. He couldn’t tell them about the laser; doing so would risk tipping the Russians off about Razor. “I have a matter that I want you briefed on. I’ll find a way of getting the information to you. In the meantime, we have to fix our communications glitch.”
“I’m working on it,” said the lieutenant.
“How long to fix this?” Dog asked.
“Sorry, sir. I’m not sure.”
Dog looked at Rubeo. The scientist shrugged. “Hours.
Days.”
“Better not be days.” Another thought occurred to him—was the glitch deliberate?
The idea obviously hit Rubeo at the same time.
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“We haven’t been compromised,” said the scientist.
“These are the difficulties inherent in new systems. Believe me, Colonel, it is perfectly safe to proceed.”
Rubeo was undoubtedly correct—and yet Dog couldn’t take that chance. Security at Dreamland had been blown disastrously once before.
Under General Elliott, as it happened.
“What’s up, Colonel?” asked Zen.
“I’m going to send you a visitor, I think,” said Dog, im-provising. “He has a theory I want you to hear about.”
“We’re not going to tell them anything?” said Rubeo.
“We’ve wasted all this time—”
“The line isn’t secure,” said Dog.
“Colonel, please, let me explain a bit about the encryption system we’re using as backup,” said Rubeo. “Once we invoke the key, even though—”
“Dr. Ray is rehearsing his vaudeville act,” said Dog.
“I’m sorry. I can’t explain.”
“At least give them perspective,” added Rubeo. “General Elliott’s assessment of technology has always been overly optimistic.”
“General Elliott?” asked Zen.
“I’m sorry, guys,” said Dog. He walked over to the lieutenant’s console and killed Rubeo’s input line. “I’ll get the information to you.”
“Okay,” said Alou.
“Dream Control out,” said Dog.
“Wait!”
Jennifer’s voice pulled his head back toward the screen.
Still blank, of course.
“How are you, Doc?” he asked.
“I’m kick-ass fine, Colonel. Yourself?”
Dog wrapped his arms around each other in front of his chest. “I’m doing well. Was something up?”
“Just to say hi.”
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“Yes.” He tightened his arms, squeezing them as if wringing a towel. “Dream Command out.”
A slight pop sounded over the circuit as the feed died, the sort of noise a staticky AM radio might make when the lights were switched on in a distant part of the house.
“The odds, Colonel, of the transmission being intercepted and decoded would surely be measured in range of ten to the negative one hundredth power,” said Rubeo.
“I can’t take any chance on that if we’re discussing Razor,” said Dog.
“We weren’t going to talk about Razor,” said Rubeo.
“Please, Colonel, give me some credit.”
“If I didn’t, I’d have you in front of a firing squad.”
“If you want to question my adherence to security protocols, Colonel, I welcome a formal inquiry.”
“Relax, Doc. Fix this coding thing.”
“I doubt it’s more than a switch in the wrong position,”
said Rubeo.
“Communication pending, sir,” said the lieutenant.
“NSC.”
“Secure?” asked Dog.
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s only the important communications that get screwed up,” said Rubeo.
“Connect,” said Dog.
The screen at the front flashed with color. Dog turned toward it as Jed Barclay appeared in the NSC secure room. His eyes were red and drooping, his hair disheveled even worse than normal. Uncharacteristically, he was wearing a suit that seemed to have been recently pressed, or at least dry cleaned.
“I’m ready,” said Jed. “Sorry for the delay.”
“That’s all right, Jed,” Dog told him. “We ran into some technical problems and we’re going to have to take another approach anyway. What’s the latest?”
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“Someone might suggest Major Smith sign up for some camera lessons. His photos were kind of blurry and the analysts all say inconclusive. The two F-15
shoot-downs clinch it for me, but the CIA’s still holding out.”
“Naturally,” said Rubeo.
“Meantime, we’re reassessing targets,” continued Barclay. “CentCom wants ground action to help the Kurds.
Your orders still stand.”
All of this could have been prevented, Dog thought, if we’d simply nailed Saddam when we had the chance.
Calling off a war simply because a hundred hours had passed—what a wheelbarrow of bullshit.