Strike Zone. Dale Brown

shirt were wet, and so was the floor, but she couldn’t remember why.

II

       Paradise

      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 day. 0900 here would be 1700 there – but they’re back a day. So while we’re out on a day patrol, they’re sleeping. 1200 is 2000 yesterday there. Or 2300 in Washington, DC’

      Starship blinked at him. ‘You do weather and traffic, too?’

      ‘Fifteen hours’ difference. Would be sixteen, except the States are on Daylight Saving Time,’ said Kick. ‘You know it’s Saving, not Savings?’

      ‘Eat hardy, gentlemen,’ Zen said, pushing away from the table. ‘We brief at 1000, and we’re in the air at 1300. And watch the alcohol, Starship. Those clubs are not officially sanctioned. No matter what Mack Smith says.’

      Brunei IAP, Field Seven 0910

      Boston slid his hand along his M-16A3 and rolled his head on his neck. He figured he didn’t hate guard duty any more than the next guy – but that meant he hated it pretty bad.

      From what the others on the Whiplash team were telling him, guard duty was about all he was going to be doing for the next six months. He hoped they were just busting his chops because he was the team nugget, or new guy. He’d clearly drawn the worst assignment – he’d been standing out here since four A.M. local, and had another hour to go.

      And when that was over, he wouldn’t be hitting the sack – he was supposed to report to the Whiplash trailer, known as Mobile Command, and get himself educated on the high-tech communications gear they used. Whiplash team members were expected to act as communications specialists during the deployment.

      All that SF training, and basically he was a radio operator and a guard dog.

      In fact, he wasn’t even a guard dog. The real sentries were high-tech sensor arrays placed at the edge of the field where they were assigned. The arrays were monitored in the trailer (at the moment, Egg Reagan had the con). A special computer screened video, infrared, motion, and sound detectors. Those inputs could be piped into Boston’s Smart Helmet, supplementing the helmet’s own infrared, short-range radar, and optical sensors.

      The thing was, the helmet was pretty damn heavy and hot besides. Fortunately, Egg had told him it wasn’t necessary to wear it; he’d alert him to any problem. The helmet was clipped to his belt.

      Boston wasn’t the only flesh-and-blood sentry. A battalion of Brunei soldiers blocked access to the area Dreamland had been assigned. There was also an honor guard – a mixed unit built around British Gurkhas, a storied unit of foreign troops that had originated in Nepal – which conducted a ceremonial changing of the guard on the apron twenty yards away every fifteen minutes, or so it seemed.

      ‘Yo, Boston, trucks coming,’ said Egg in his earbud.

      ‘Another ceremony?’ asked Boston. His mike was clipped to the top of his carbon-boron bulletproof vest; it was sensitive enough so that he could whisper and be heard over the Dreamland com system.