model—hummed along in harmony as Dog and his team trekked northward across the ocean, their eventual destination a small airport in southern Thailand.

The strip lay about a half mile from the fab plant Stoner wanted to check out. Besides the CIA agent, Dog had brought along two members of the Whiplash security team, Sergeant Bison and Sergeant Rockland. The plant was in an area near the Cambodian border where rebels had been reported over the past six months. It wasn’t even clear whether the plant was operating. Stoner had bought two small dirt bikes to use to get to the plant; they were stowed in the back of the plane.

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Clear skies and a calm sea meant flying was a breeze, and Dog’s hardest job was not getting too complacent at the wheel—or bored. There were only so many times he could check his instruments and look at the map to make sure he had the course nailed. Stoner, sitting next to him, wasn’t very big on conversation. Inevitably, Dog began thinking of Jennifer, who still hadn’t returned his calls.

Was she more upset over this investigation business than he’d thought? Cortend surely was a pain in the ass, but Jennifer ought to understand that the colonel’s presence there was mostly a political thing; it wasn’t directed at her and eventually would go away. Whatever minor violations of the rules she had committed— if she had committed any—would be outweighed by her value to the program. Any baboon would realize that.

Maybe he should just come out and tell her that.

Of course, that was the one thing he couldn’t do as her commanding officer. It would be interfering with Danny, who had to have absolute autonomy, absolute authority to do the real investigation, Cortend be damned.

Dog checked his course, then looked at his watch. Bin Awg had modified the aircraft to increase the amount of fuel it could carry; in theory, they could have flown directly to the strip at Nanorpathet. But that would leave them with few contingencies, and so he had decided to refuel at Songkhla in the southern extension of Thailand on the Malay Peninsula. At 250 knots and better than eight hundred miles to go, it was going to be a long haul.

Maybe Mack had been right about taking the Badger.

Dreamland

11 September 1997

1800

(South China Sea, 12 September, 0900)

IT WAS SOobvious—so painfully obvious—that Rubeo very nearly smacked his head in derision as he realized it.

Most of the intercepted code was nonsense.

Not nonsense, exactly—mirrored bits of their own code, randomly sliced and diced, then spit back to camouflage the actual transmissions.

And that made all the difference.

Rubeo got up from the computer bank and walked to the counter where Mr. Coffee normally kept at least a half carafe warm. The fact that there was no coffee in the pot reminded him of Jennifer, and that in turn reminded him of his stupidity.

Not that telling Cortend what he had just now realized would stop the Inquisition. Cortend was the expression of a vast and infinitely stupid machine, the dark enemy of knowledge. It had stripped Oppenheimer of his status and fame. It had pursued Galileo; it had gotten Socrates to drink poison.

Cortend herself was a puny ant, a cog in the machine of ignorance.

A bad cog in a machine that couldn’t even serve a useful function, like making coffee.

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Rubeo measured out some grains and filled Mr. Coffee with water. As the liquid began to hiss downward, he went back to his secure phone and called the Command Center, requesting to be put through to Colonel Bastian. But Bastian wasn’t immediately available, according to the sergeant handling the communications system in the Whiplash trailer, aka Dreamland Mobile Command.

“I can get a patch through to his sat phone if you want,” said the sergeant.

“Oh never mind. Tell him to call me when he lands.”

“Here or there?”

“Whatever.” The sergeant started to say something but Rubeo didn’t have time for him; he killed the line and dialed Danny in the security office.

“I want to talk to Captain Freah. This is Rubeo.”

“Uh, the captain’s on another line and, uh, he’s overdue at the handheld weapons lab to check out the updates to the Smart Helmets and some of the—”

“Tell him to see me when he’s done playing with his toys,” said the scientist, slamming down the phone.

AT THE VERYmoment Rubeo was slamming down the phone, Danny was fuming as well. He’d been on hold now for nearly five minutes, waiting for Jed Barclay to come back on the line. The NSC assistant had called Danny—then asked him to wait without saying another word.

“Sorry about that,” said Jed, finally coming back on the line. “My boss has been sick and they’re running me ragged. This China crap—they’re crazy over there.”

“What’s up?” said Danny. He tried to be friendly but he knew there was a hard edge in his voice.

“Um, I wanted to tell you something, but, it’s like, it’s got to be off the record.”

“Yeah?”

“The official channels’ll come later.”

“Let’s go. What?”

“I talked to an FBI counterintelligence officer in charge of the Far East. Your scientist is off the hook.”

“How’s that?”

“Jennifer Gleason did follow procedure but her name was misspelled and reversed in the records. Dr.

Rubeo figured it out. And she was a student on the date of the first conference and there wasn’t even a formal requirement for her to register.”

Danny wanted to reach through the phone and give Jed a high-five. But instead he gave the NSC official his standard security officer: “Are you absolutely sure about all this?”

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“Yeah. Uh, like you’ll get a paper report. I also told the FBI guy to contact Colonel Cortend. I figured she’d be really routing up people’s butts.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot. Really. I really appreciate it,” said Danny.

“Listen, I got to go—could you pass a message to, uh, Dr. Rubeo?”

“What’d he do, take your head off?” said Danny.

“He was going on about, um—well, you don’t really want to hear it.”

“Accused you of being part of the Inquisition?”

Jed laughed. “That part was a compliment compared to everything else. I, uh, really don’t have time to uh, deal with him, but I need a favor. Not a favor really, but—”

“Tell me what you need, Jed, and I’ll get it.”

Jed explained that he needed yet another update on the ghost clone for a meeting with the President scheduled in a half hour. Danny realized that, besides being angry about Jennifer, Rubeo was probably pissed that he had to keep updating Washington every few hours. But that was tough nuggies.

Besides, the news about Jennifer would put him in a better mood.

“He’ll have to get me via sat phone. But I really need the latest. Really.”

“Jed, I will personally make sure that Dr. Ray calls you. I will hold a gun to his head and make sure. I’m going right there now.”

“Um, uh, that wouldn’t, uh, be, uh—”

“It’s a joke, Jed. He’ll call.”

Ten minutes later, Danny walked through the Megafortress hangar, down the long ramp that led to the elevators. He put his hand flat on the reader and waited for the car. When the door opened, Colonel Cortend and two of her lieutenants nearly flattened him.

“Colonel, just the person I wanted to talk to,” said Danny. “Looks like Ms. Gleason is off the hook for those minor security violations.”

“No security violation is minor,” said Cortend.

Danny explained what had apparently happened, and told her that the FBI agent would be getting in touch with her.

“Good,” said Cortend, in a tone so severe Danny momentarily regretted that he wasn’t wearing body armor. She glanced at her minions, who snapped to and rushed to open the door ahead—even though it was operated by a motion detector.