Strike Zone by Dale Brown

Zen, meeting her icy tone with one of his own.
    â€œI’ve been reviewing the personnel attached to the project,” she told him. “Quite a collection.”
    It was clear she didn’t mean it as a compliment.
    â€œYou bet your ass it is,” said Zen. He turned his attention to the front of the room.
    â€œT HE SIMULATION YOU’VE just seen represents our best guess as to the capabilities and configuration of the ghost clone,” said Dog. “As you can see, it’s very, very similar to a first-generation Flighthawk. As such, it could be used for a variety of purposes. Air-launched from a bomber, or even a civilian transport, it could attack an urban area with a variety of weapons. It would be difficult to see on radar.”
    Dog hit the remote control to restore the lighting.
    â€œWe have two tasks. We have to find the clone, figure out who’s operating it and what its actual capabilities are. And number two, we have to determine if our own security has been breached. We’ll have help,” said Dog, brushing past the implication that a traitor was among them. “Most of you are familiar with Mr. Stoner, who is an expert on Asian technology and high-tech deployment. He was responsible for identifying the Indian sub-launched weapons.”
    Dog turned toward Colonel Cortend, who was beaming laser animosity from both eyes.
    â€œAnd Colonel Cortend has joined us from the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. For those of you who haven’t dealt with OSI before, they’re a thorough, professional group,” said Dog.
    The flattery, of course, only deepened her glare.
    â€œI expect everyone will cooperate to the fullest of their ability,” added Dog, looking toward Rubeo. The scientist had already lodged a complaint about the investigator, who apparently had arrived unannounced at his quarters at 0700 for an interview.
    â€œQuestions?” said the colonel, knowing his tone would ward any off. He gave them three seconds, then dismissed them.
    Dreamland Computer Lab One
1100
    â€œS O YOU ALONE are responsible for the coding?”
    Jennifer flicked the hair back behind her ear. “Of course not,” she told Cortend. The colonel had two bleary-eyed technical experts and a pair of bright-faced lieutenants standing behind her, but none of them had uttered a peep.
    â€œI work with a team of people,” said Jennifer. “Depending on which project and what we’re talking about, the team could have a dozen or more people. Six people handled the compression routines for C 3 .”
    â€œC 3 is?”
    â€œThe computer system that helps fly the Flighthawks. The communication sequences have to—”
    â€œAnd any of these six people could have given the secrets away.”
    â€œNo one gave the secrets away,” said Jennifer.
    â€œSomeone did, my dear. Someone.”
    â€œLet me explain how the compression works. See, the algorithms themselves aren’t necessarily secret—”
    â€œEverything you work on is secret,” said Cortend. She rose. “I think we have enough for now. We’ll be back.”
    â€œPeachy,” muttered Jennifer beneath her breath.
    M AJOR M ACK “T HE Knife” Smith adjusted his swagger as a quintet of officers came out of the computer lab. Mack had recently returned to Dreamland after a series of temporary assignments had failed to get him the squadron command he so ardently desired—and, in his unprejudiced opinion, deeply deserved. He accepted a position as temporary test officer for a project dubbed Micro-Mite, a twenty-first century fleet of interceptors no larger than cruise missiles that would use energy beam weapons to bring down their opponents.
    Or maybe lasers, or railguns, or some as-yet unperfected Flash Gordon zap weapon. That was the beauty of the assignment—four weeks of blue-sky imagining with a bunch of pizza-eating eggheads, who would spit out sci-fi