Dale Brown - Strike Zone

‘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.’

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.

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