Strike Zone by Dale Brown Page A

concepts for him to consider as they worked feverishly over their laptops on simulations. They were all recent grads of MIT, RPI, and Berkeley—or was it Cal Tech? In any event, the pimple-faced pizza eaters looked to him as the voice of reality and experience. With his combat experience and superior flying and fighting skills, he was their god, and they bowed down before him.
    Figuratively, of course. Which was the way he wanted it. For alas, while there were six females amongthe chosen, the eggheads’ bodies were no match for their brains. Even mixing and matching their best attributes would still leave the composite far short of Jennifer Gleason, Dreamland’s resident brain babe. He was in fact on his way to see her now, hoping she might be available to give his acolytes a few pointers about the value of working with the military. They really didn’t need to hear another pep talk—he had that under control himself—but it would give Mack an excuse to admire her assets—er, abilities—for a good twenty minutes or more.
    Mack had tried several times to steer her into his quarters for an up-close examination of her charms. Of late, though, he’d had to settle for watching from afar. Jennifer was seeing the base commander, and even Mack knew better than to cross the boss, especially when he required Dog’s connections and good word to help steer him toward the command he deserved. With any luck, Dog would come through and deliver him a tasty squadron post in the next week or so. The colonel’s star was rising in Washington, and surely he owed Mack a bit of largesse.
    â€œHalt,” said a tall, rather striking if formal woman at the rear of a three-man formation that had buzzed into the hallway.
    She had been speaking to the drones behind her, but Mack momentarily thought the command was meant for him. Taken by surprise, he stopped and gazed at the woman, realizing with his connoisseur’s eye that, if properly undressed, this frame and face might be fittingly attractive. It was tall for a woman, with shoulders that were admittedly manly. But the starched trousers sheathed long, undoubtedly athletic legs, andthere was no hiding the voluptuous breasts standing guard above the slim waist.
    â€œCan we help you?” barked the breasts’ owner.
    â€œYou must be from OSI,” said Mack. He extended his hand. “Mack Smith.”
    â€œMajor.”
    The drones hovered, unsure whether their master was being greeted or attacked.
    Mack gave them nods—lieutenants, mere children—then turned toward their leader.
    â€œI’m available for background,” Mack told her. “I’ve been here awhile. I know where the bodies are buried.”
    â€œI see.”
    She looked him over. Mack pushed his shoulders back.
    â€œPerhaps we’ll arrange something,” said the officer, turning to go.
    â€œWhat was your name?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s Colonel Cortend,” whispered one of the underlings.
    â€œFirst name?” said Mack.
    Cortend whirled around. “Why would you need to know my first name?”
    â€œFor future reference,” said Mack.
    The colonel frowned in his direction, then turned and set off so quickly that her minions had difficulty keeping up.
    Mack felt his face flush. By the time he started moving again, his palms were so sweaty that he had to wipe them on his pants, and he was so obsessed with Cortend that he forgot what he’d come to see Jennifer about.
    Dreamland, Flighthawk Hangar Offices
1300
    â€œN O WAY THIS is a Chinese Project,” Stoner told Zen as the briefing session broke up. “No way.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause I’d know about it.”
    Zen, Rubeo, and several of the other civilian experts involved in the Flighthawk project had just finished giving Stoner a comprehensive briefing on the technologies involved in the U/MF-3. They had emphasized three areas—materials,