Dreamland

Smith groaned in reply, then sank to the floor, starting to nod off.

MACK FOUGHT TO KEEP HIS EYES OPEN. THE BASEMENT smelled like a cross between a biology lab and the kitchen of an Indian restaurant that hadn’t been cleaned in a week. Knife held his elbow right below his injured rib, pushing it in to keep himself from puking.

A medical attendant—the man clearly had not been a doctor—had roughly taped the rib after prodding him harshly a few times upstairs. He’d also offered some painkillers, but Smith hadn’t dared to take them.

Knife knew he should be coordinating strategy or pla

The door opened. He saw three men coming down, carrying a fourth. They seemed to float over him.

The fourth man was dumped on the ground.

It was Jackson. Melfi went to him as the others retreated back upstairs.

“I feel better,” Jackson was saying on the ground. Sergeant Melfi helped him upright. “They gave me morphine. I don’t feel shit.”

“You fuckin’ druggie,” said Melfi. He flashed a grin to Mack, letting him know it was a joke.

“There’s another pilot,” said Jackson. “They’re going to move us soon. Tonight.”

“That’ll be our chance,” said Gu

“Oh, yeah, sure. We’ll kill them all,” said Mack, feeling his head slip back as darkness fell over him.

Naples, Italy

22 October, 1405 local

TO JED BARCLAY’S UNTRAINED EYE, THE PLANE LOOKED like a 707. And in fact, the JSTARS E-8C was indeed a former commercial airliner that had been almost completely rebuilt. It had extensive command and control equipment, not to mention heavy security. The NSC staffer had been issued special code-word clearance just to board the craft.

Which impressed the Army major standing and barring his way at the entrance not a whit.

“But I’m Cascade,” Jed repeated.

“Good for you,” said the major. “You’re also too young to shave.”

“I get a lot of that,” said Jed. “If you just let me take the retina scan—”

“What makes you think there’s a retina sca

Two Navy officers trotted up the steps. The major nodded at them and let them pass into the interior of the plane.

“You didn’t even ask for their creds,” said Jed.

“This is a Navy operation,” said the major. “I’m only providing tactical assistance. Besides, they beat the pants off me in a poker game last night.”

“Actually, this isn’t a Navy operation at all,” Jed told him, momentarily wondering if he might get further by suggesting he played poker as well. “We’re still working with Madcap Magician.”

Jed was fudging—overall command of the operation was due to shift to the Navy as soon as the command staff could arrive, which wouldn’t be for a few hours.

“And you think that’s going to make a difference?” said the Army officer.

“To be honest, it makes no difference,” said Jed. “Listen, Major, no offense, but I spent several hours this morning talking to the ambassadors of Egypt and Saudi Arabia about their refusal to allow U.S. planes to use their bases. Then I had to listen to an Iranian cleric, obviously a madman, denounce me for a half hour. Even more frustrating was talking to the State Department’s Middle Eastern desk, trying to explain to them why quick military action and not diplomacy was required. To be honest with you, I’m in a really pissy mood.”

The major frowned at him, but finally moved back from the door. There was no retina scan—in fact, there was no security device at all.

“You don’t want my NSC card at least?” Jed asked him.

“I’ll throw you in the ocean if you don’t check out,” said the major, pushing him into the operations area. “Don’t touch anything. These monitors here—”

“Are slaved to different parts of the SAR, which gives you approximately a sixty-degree view of a selected battlefield area. Smearing of the image is countered through interferometry calibration, as well as the Litton LR-85A Inertial Measurement System. There are a total of eighteen consoles aboard this craft, which is an upgrade from the original twelve and the seventeen powered stations in the first production models, though of course one could argue that there are never enough. Frankly, the main concern with JSTARS is not the physical operation of the battlefield view and coordination system, which demonstrated its potential in the Gulf War, but rather the temptation to use the craft to micromanage the battlefield, robbing individual officers, ground- and air-based, of their decision-. making role. The same concern was raised—and to some degree remains valid—with AWACS operations. And I’d be up for any poker games you do manage to organize. I assume we’re not taking off for hours, right?”

The major frowned, but said, “You’ll do,” before turning and walking away.

Northeastern Ethiopia

22 October 1996, 2000 local

“WE’RE NOT STOPPING.”

“I know that,” Bree snapped, working to hold the Megafortress on the rain-slicked tarmac. Flaps, brakes, reverse thrust, and a hurried Hail Mary seemed to have little effect as the big plane hurtled rapidly toward the end of the runway. Shapes loomed left and right, lights streaming with the rain. Brea

Finally the plane’s forward momentum eased, the brakes or maybe the prayer catching. Brea

“That wasn’t four thousand feet,” said Chris. “Let alone six. And I thought it never rained in Ethiopia before January.”

Brea

The runway had had minimal lighting, and this access ramp had none; Fort Two’s lights provided a narrow cocoon for her to steer through. Brea

“Must be the place,” said Chris, spotting the military transport. “We’re going to have a hell of a time taking off in this rain,” he added.

“We’ll round up some volunteers to push,” she told him, watching their guide truck disappear to the right. Brea

Four large Pave Lows and a civilian DC-8 airliner were parked at the far end of a group of buildings that looked more like warehouses than hangars. The Hummer spun off and blinked its lights; Bree began to swing the plane around into the designated parking area. Two Marines with M-16-and-grenade-launcher combos appeared from one of the buildings, sauntering up as if they landed Megafortresses here all the time.