Dreamland

“Is she going to make it?” Gleason asked.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.

SMITH POPPED UP ON HER RIGHT SIDE, EASING THE F-15E away. It would have been a hell of a lot more convenient to have a working radio, but Knife’s backseater gave them a thumbs-up. The wheels were locked for landing.

“Gear set,” said Chris. “We can trust the idiot lights and HUDs.”

“I’d rather not,” Brea

“Maybe we can get Parsons to crawl out on the wing and fix that,” said Chris.

“If we asked, he probably would.” Brea

Wonder of wonders, she came out of the turn lined up perfectly with the main runway.

“You’re lucky today,” said her copilot.

“I was going to blame that one on you.”

“Two miles,” said Chris. “We’re redlining Engine Three.”

“I can glide from here,” she lied.

A very small percentage of people in the world were born to be pilots. Some fluke of genetics, some mystery of biochemistry, enabled them to fly by sheer instinct. They had some sort of sense about them, could tell exactly where they were and what the plane was doing without consulting instruments.

Brea

Somewhat similar, not exactly the same. There was no way to duplicate the whining complaint of the one good engine as it dragged more than 200,000 pounds of plastic, steel, and flesh through the thin desert air.

And no way to duplicate the flutter in her stomach as she passed the point of no return.

“We’re going to make it,” Chris yelled as they came down. “Oh, yeah.”

“With extra frosting,” she said, sensing she was right at stall speed, sensing she had it, sensing the wheels were about to slap against the cement. She felt good; she was in control.

Had Jeff felt that way right before the Flighthawk clipped his wing?

The thought evaporated as the big bomber’s wheels hit against the surface of Runway One. They sprang upward, but she had it, she was on top of it, letting the plane roll as she applied the brakes gently, not wanting to blow the tires, knowing there was more than enough runway to stop safely, and in one piece.

ZEN SAT IN THE SHADOW OF THE HANGAR, EYES planted firmly on the ground as the sirens wailed. He could hear the support vehicles roaring out to Runway One as the stricken Megafortress came in. Everyone on the base was watching.

“She’s down! She’s down! They landed okay!” someone yelled. Zen rolled his chair forward to see, then followed as everyone started ru

Had they done this when he’d gone down?

No. That had been a tragedy. This—this had somehow turned instantly into a triumph. People were yelling and shouting and high-fiving. The big EB-52 was rolling free and easy.

Anyone who thought Ken James, the bastard Russian traitor, had killed this place would be stu

She was alive, thank God.

He was relieved. More than that. He did still love her. He hadn’t stopped.

The Megafortress stopped just short of the hangar area, mobbed by the crowd. The ventral entry hatch and ladder snapped open.

“Make them walk the gangplank!” somebody yelled.

They cheered as the first passenger, a staff sergeant from the motor pool, ducked out from under the plane. The President wouldn’t have gotten a warmer welcome than Brea

Zen started to wheel forward. He was about five yards from the bottom of the stairs when Mack Smith ran up. Smith had escorted Fort Two down in his Eagle, landing moments after her.

Zen stopped. Smith caught Brea

One or two people near Zen turned and stared at him. He pretended not to notice.

He’d managed to unclench his teeth by the time she appeared before him. She was smiling, unaware of what he’d seen.

“Jeff,” she said.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he told her as she put her arm around his neck. He realized as he pulled back that his mouth tasted of metal again.

“YOU DID A HELL OF A JOB LANDING THAT PLANE,” Brea

She felt a shudder of cold run through her body, as if the air conditioner had just kicked on high. Everything was starting to hit her now.

“I think Sergeant Parsons saved us,” she said softly. “Him and Rubeo. They figured out how to bypass the blown circuitry.”

“Fu

Brea

“I’ll tell you, Bree,” he started. “I’ll tell you—”

He obviously intended to go on, but the words simply died.

“You did a hell of a job, Captain,” he said finally.

“Thanks, Daddy,” she said, spi

Washington, D.C.

10 October, 2030

JED BARCLAY PULLED HIS ARMS AROUND HIS THIN jacket, trying to keep warm as he waited outside the posh Georgetown restaurant. He contemplated going and waiting inside, but realized that his presence might inadvertently tip off any number of D.C. denizens that something serious was up. His boss, National Security Advisor Deborah O’Day, wouldn’t like that.

Barclay had spent the last two winters in New England—Harvard, to be exact—and told himself he shouldn’t feel cold at all; October in Washington was balmy by Massachusetts standards. But his twenty-two-year-old frame was practically trembling with the cold.

Finally, O’Day’s Marine Corps bodyguard emerged from the restaurant. The woman tensed as she spotted him, then gave him a disapproving frown.

“Jed, what are you doing here?” said Ms. O’Day, emerging behind her.

“I, uh—you’re going to want to see this,” he said.

He unfolded his hands to reveal a yellow manila envelope. O’Day took the envelope and moved over to the yellowish light thrown by a faux-antique streetlight. Meanwhile, her date—Brad Elliot, a recently retired three-star Air Force general—emerged from the building. Jed nodded at the general, who nodded back semi-affably.