“Miss Gleason,” insisted Cortend, “how long have you been at Dreamland?”
Jennifer realized that Cortend was trying to rattle her. She also knew the best thing to do was simply answer the questions and get on with her life. But something inside wouldn’t let her do that. She was just so put out, so angry with it all, that she had to fight back somehow.
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“I’ve been here too long, obviously,” she said. Then she answered the question, remembering the day in 1993 when as a freshly minted computer Ph.D.—she would go on to get another degree in applied micro circuitry, her weaker discipline—she had come off the Dolphin transport. General Brad Elliott had taken time from his schedule to show her around some of the base, and it was his tour that had cinched her decision to come here.
Poor General Elliott. A brave man, a true hero.
He’d been persecuted by people like Cortend. He was honored in the end, but it was too late for him by then—the brass had kicked him out.
The brass and people like Cortend.
“I asked, what is your specialty?” said Cortend.
“Long or short version?”
“Short.”
“Just the unclassified portions, Jen,” said Danny, clearly trying to play nice guy. “Just sum it up.”
“Computers. Mostly software, but on occasion I do hardware. I could have gotten around the lockout easily. If I were a scumbag traitor.”
“Just answer the questions, Miss Gleason.”
“I’m trying.”
Cortend asked a short series of questions regarding Jennifer’s education background and her contributions to the Flighthawk program. The questions skipped around, but none was particularly difficult, and in fact Jennifer had answered all or almost all the day before for one of the technical people assigned to Cortend’s team. But yesterday they had seemed informational; now even the simplest question felt like an accusation.
“June 7, 1993,” said Cortend.
“Excuse me?” asked Jennifer.
“June 7, 1993. What does that date mean to you?”
Jennifer shook her head. “Should it mean something?”
“Where were you that day?”
“Here?” said Jennifer.
“Let me refresh your memory,” said Cortend. She walked over to the side of the room and returned with a folder. “You were in Hong Kong.”
“A conference?” Jennifer stared at Cortend.
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“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“I honestly can’t remember where I was.”
“Your memory seems very convenient.”
“It’s not.”
Cortend made a snorting sound, a kind of animal chuckle that seemed to signify some sort of personal victory. “You don’t remember attending a conference in Hong Kong in June 1993?”
“I’ve attended many conferences.”
“How about September 1994?”
Jennifer turned to Danny. He had a worried look on his face.
“Another conference?” asked Jennifer.
“Did you obtain permission to attend those conferences?” asked Cortend.
“She doesn’t need permission,” snapped Rubeo.
“Did you register with the Department of Defense and your superiors here that you were attending those conferences?”
Jennifer saw Rubeo muttering under his breath.
“This interview is completely voluntary,” said Danny.
“I don’t really remember,” said Jennifer.
“So you didn’t,” said Cortend. “You’re best off being honest with me, Miss Gleason.”
“Ms.”
“Oh, yes. Mizz Gleason. Excuse me. Let’s be precise. Where were you that day? And what did you do?”
“I don’t remember. I know that sounds lame,” Jennifer added, realizing immediately that saying that only made her sound even lamer.
Cortend seemed to grin ever so slightly before continuing.
White House
1703
JEDBARCLAY TOOKhis place in the Oval Office nervously, sitting between Arthur Chastain, the secretary of defense, and Jeffrey Hartman, the secretary of state. Jed had been here dozens of times, but today felt different. Not because of the subject matter; the appearance of the UAV Dreamland had dubbed the ghost clone had enormous implications, true, but Jed thought the plan for drawing it out that Page 37
Colonel Bastian had outlined to him made a lot of sense. He also felt that it was unlikely another spy was at the base, though admittedly the fact that he knew most of the important players there might be blinding him.
What was bothering him was the fact that he was at the meeting in place of his boss, Philip Freeman, the national security director, who had been hospitalized with pneumonia.
Jed would have been at the meeting even if Freeman was well; Dreamland was his portfolio. He might even be sitting in this chair. But somehow, being here officially as Freeman’s replacement—temporary as it was—unnerved him.
He stuttered as he said hello to the President. Martindale smiled and started talking about a football game the week before that Yale, Jed’s alma mater, had lost.
Jed smiled and tried to say something along the lines of “can’t win them all.” But what came out was
“k-k-k-k.”
The President laughed, maybe thinking he was joking, and moved on to start the meeting. Jed reached into his briefcase and passed out the executive summary of the Dreamland plan, then fired up his laptop for a PowerPoint presentation, which he planned to present on the twenty-one-inch flat screen he’d brought with him. But the President stopped him.
“No slides, Jed,” said Martindale, who put more stock in honest opinions than zippy pie charts. “Tell us why this is important.”
“Well, um—” started Jed.
“If the Chinese have robot aircraft as capable as the Flighthawks,” said Admiral George Balboa, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, “they could conceivably use them to achieve first-strike capability in a war against Taiwan and even us. The UAVs are very difficult to detect unless you’re looking for them, and even then they can be close enough to initiate an attack before the defenses are alerted.”
Ordinarily, Jed might have bristled at Balboa’s taking over his presentation. But now he was grateful. In any event, the admiral was merely stating one of Jed’s own arguments.
“Yes,” said Jed. He didn’t stutter, a major victory.
Maybe he’d get through this after all. Why was he so unnerved? His boss would be back in a few days.
“The problem with this plan,” said Balboa, “is that it doesn’t go far enough. We need the Navy involved—if there is a UAV we have to take it out. Right away.”
“That m-m-might be premature,” said Jed.
“Nonsense.”
“Provoking the Chinese at this point is risky business,” said the secretary of state. “The meeting with the Taiwanese is set for two weeks from now. The rapprochement should take priority.”
“Why?” said Balboa bluntly. “Why is it in our interests?”
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Hartman’s face turned beet red. “Peace is always in our interest.”
“It depends on what the terms are,” said Chastain.
If Freeman were here, Jed thought, he would be mediating between the blustery Balboa and the more reticent Hartman. He’d also be pointing out that finding the UAV and dealing with it need not interfere with the summit between the two Chinas.
So why didn’t he say that?
He should.
Jed opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“What do you think, Jed?” asked the President.
“I, well—if the operation is run exactly the way Colonel Bastian outlined it, sir, it won’t provoke the Chinese any more than any routine mission would.” Jed took a breath and then pressed his fingers together, one of the tricks he had learned in high school when the stutter first became an issue. If he didn’t think about it, it wouldn’t be a problem.
The trick was not to think about it.
“I don’t think that, um, that the secretary of state is proposing that we stop gathering intelligence on the Chinese, or that we leave Asia,” said Jed.