that?’ asked Mack.
‘We’re deploying to Brunei, first thing in the morning,’ Dog told him. ‘I’ll go into details if you’re in. Otherwise, good night.’
‘Colonel, is she coming?’
‘Colonel Cortend? No. Her investigation’s here.’
‘Sign me up,’ said Mack, so relieved he looked as if he’d won the lottery.
‘We have to leave at 0400.’
‘Whatever. I’ll scrub toilets if you need it. Just take me with you.’
Dreamland Personnel Building Two 2105
By the time she got back to her apartment, Jennifer’s hands were shaking so badly that she had trouble with the lock. Inside, she dropped her glass as she filled it with water from the faucet in the kitchenette; fortunately, it was plastic and didn’t break, rebounding instead across the room.
The expression on his face when he saw her – anger and surprise …
Hate?
No, he couldn’t hate her. He couldn’t.
Did he think she was a traitor? How could he think that?
What had Dog been doing with that she-bitch Cortend? Had he put her up to this?
Dog?
It couldn’t possibly be. There was no way. No way.
But Cortend was in his office.
Of course she was. Dog was the base commander; there were a million reasons for her to be there.
Dog, everyone, thought she was a traitor.
She was just tired, overwrought.
The bitch Cortend was playing with her mind.
Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
She wasn’t a traitor. She wasn’t.
That had to be what they were thinking. Even Dog?
Even him.
The phone rang. Jennifer took a step toward it, then stopped.
What if it was Cortend, asking for more questions?
God no, she told herself. No more. Not tonight.
She let the phone ring until it stopped. As she stared at it, she realized her hand and shirt were wet, and so was the floor, but she couldn’t remember why.
Negra Brunei Darussalam (Kingdom of Brunei, Abode of Peace) 9 September 1997, 0900
‘A couple of hours in paradise and already you’re sleeping late,’ Zen told Lieutenant Kirk ‘Starship’ Andrews as the young Flighthawk pilot sat down at the table across from him. Starship’s breakfast tray contained two large cups of coffee and nothing else.
‘My body’s still back in Dreamland,’ mumbled Starship.
‘You sure it’s not with the hospitality people?’ said Lieutenant James ‘Kick’ Colby, the other Flighthawk pilot Zen had taken on the deployment.
‘It wants to be,’ said Starship.
‘Natives are off-limits,’ said Zen. ‘You can look but you cannot touch. Got that? And be careful how you talk to them.’
‘How about the State Department liaison?’ asked Kick. ‘She’s hot.’
‘Out of your league,’ said Zen.
‘Mack Smith’s eyeing her already,’ said Starship.
‘Oh there’s serious competition,’ said Kick.
‘I’ll take one of the waitress babes,’ said Starship, lifting his gaze toward the buffet at the front of the room. Six of the most gorgeous women in Asia stood at attention behind the table. Zen had his back to them, but he could practically feel the warmth of their smiles beaming across the room.
The Dreamland pilots and crew were being housed at a hotel just outside the airfield where they’d set up operations. ‘Mess’ consisted of a lavishly appointed private room – thick tablecloths, hand-woven silk rugs, paint that seemed to contain speckles of gold – on the ground floor of the hotel. The room was part of a restaurant that back in the States would rate four stars – the wine list was a little too restricted to make five.
For breakfast, the Dreamland personnel – crew dogs and officers alike – had sorted through an all-you-can eat array of various meats, cooked-to-order eggs and omelets, a pyramid of exotic fruits, and enough donuts, rolls, and pastries to make a small town diabetic.
Zen had chosen his usual oatmeal and bananas, though he had made a concession to local tastes by sampling the pinkish-green juice. It was sweet, but tomorrow he’d go for the orange.
The coffee, however, was a real keeper. He might have to arrange for a pipeline back home when the mission ended.
‘So are all the deployments like this?’ asked Kick. He’d come to Dreamland from an assignment as a Hog ‘driver,’ piloting A-10As. The story went that his nickname came from early flight training, when he needed a kick to get going; if so, that need had long since disappeared.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Zen. ‘In terms of food?’
‘The hotel rooms, the women. Everything.’
‘Usually it’s cots and tents,’ said Zen. ‘Brunei’s just a special place.’
Starship and Kick had been with the program only a short time; neither man had logged a hundred hours with the robot aircraft. But Fentress had been the only other pilot with real experience. While the two youngsters had their drawbacks, both could handle a single plane reasonably well, and consistently scored high in the simulations and exercises. It was time for them to take the next step.
‘Paradise,’ mumbled Starship.
‘You have a hangover, Lieutenant?’ asked Zen.
‘Uh, no, sir. Whacked on the time difference, though. My body thinks it’s yesterday.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Kick. ‘Nine o’clock is five o’clock last night tomorrow.’
‘Huh?’ asked Starship.
‘I’ll give you an example. 2200 here is 0600 at Dreamland, same
