Dreamland

It hurt to watch him wheel across the open cement. It made her want to cry, but that was the last, the very last thing she could do. It would be like kicking him in the face.

Brea

“Sir, your orders, sir,” snapped one of the two sergeants, his voice cold enough to chill the heart of a Russian paratrooper.

Zen scowled. The look was so familiar Brea

The first sergeant inspected the documents while the other sergeant remained watchful. “Sir, I have to ask you if you are armed,” said the man finally, holding the papers in his hand.

Before, Jeff would have smiled wryly and said something like, “The girls all think so.”

Now he stared straight ahead, his words snapping taut in the chilly morning breeze. “My personal weapon is in storage. I am presently unarmed.”

The guard handed him back his orders.

“Your bags, sir. I have to ask that you present them for inspection.”

Zen handed them over.

“If you’ll follow us, Major, we can complete the protocol inside. We require a retina scan. It’s a new procedure.”

The men turned smartly and began striding toward the hangar. One of them gave Brea

“Jeff.” The word slipped out faintly as he drew parallel to her. He didn’t answer; she put her hand gently on his upper arm, stopping him.

“I’m okay, Bree.”

“I know that,” she said.

She stepped back and watched him wheel into the hangar. An F-15C Eagle—coincidentally the one Mack Smith had been flying when the accident happened—sat at the far end. Jeff kept his head pointed straight ahead, following the two sergeants to the computerized security device.

Brea

“Yo, Zen. Good to have you back, Major. About goddamn time.”

Jeff snorted.

“Been a slew of changes around here during your R&R. Flighthawks only got back in the air two months ago. Civilian pilot—nice guy, but not for nothin’ his nickname’s ‘Rock.’ “ Greasy Hands offered Jeff the coffee. “Dab .a milk. Alzheimer’s hasn’t caught up with me yet.”

She couldn’t see Jeff’s face. He didn’t say anything, but did take the coffee. Jeff and Greasy Hands had gotten along particularly well before the accident, the sergeant looking after the pilot like a doting parent.

Parsons caught her gaze. “Megafortress’ll be ready for you in ten shakes, Captain. Just checked with the crew chief.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

The old geezer smirked. “Better watch out for Major Cheshire. Hear she’s on the rag today.”

Brea

“Your dad’s sure go

“A bee-whacker?”

“Really likes to whack the old bees’ nest,” explained the sergeant. “Shake things up. Got all the officers jumpin’, even the pilots.”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Bree.

“He’s a butt-kicker,” Parsons told Jeff. His admiration seemed genuine. “You best watch your fa

“So have I,” said Brea

He ignored her. It was pretty much what she expected; pretty much what he’d done in the hospital and all during rehab, after the doctors had told him he’d never walk again.

Not sure what else to do, she turned quickly and started for the Megafortress’s underground bunker.

COLONEL BASTIAN LOOKED UP AS AX MADE HIS WAY across the office.

“Cup number two, not quite as strong,” said the sergeant, placing down the coffee mug. “As per request.”

Dog grunted and rubbed his eyes. He’d gotten less than two hours of sleep last night, spending the rest of the time reviewing project notes and trying to correlate some of the reports with the Pentagon data he’d come west with. His desk was littered with folders, printouts, white pads, photocopies, notes, index cards, Post-its, and even a few old-fashioned carbons.

“Sunday Times crossword puzzle in that mess somewhere?”

“Very fu

“You want to run through the day’s agenda yet, Colonel? I figure we wait any longer the day’ll be over and then we’ll be behind.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dog took the coffee and leaned back in the well-padded leather chair. One thing about Ax’s coffee: Even the weak cups were gut-burning strong. And hot—Dog backed his lips off without taking a full sip.

“It’ll cool down,” said the sergeant.

“Thanks for the advice. Well?”

“Okay, let’s see. Number-one priority—hire a secretary. Preferably one who can make coffee.”

“Agreed.”

“Number-two priority, we need some typists, clerks, etc., etc. I can’t be expected to do real work forever, you know.”

Ax folded his arms in front of his chest. He was joking. Dreamland had a full complement of military and civilian clerks, probably more than the ever-efficient Ax needed. But instead of giving himself away with a laugh as he usually did, his expression turned serious.

“You okay, Colonel? Usually, you’re rolling on the floor by now.”

“This is a worse mess than I thought, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.” Ax ran his left hand up behind his neck, scratching an imaginary itch. Gibbs’s actual age was a closely guarded military secret, but he gave every impression of being old enough to be Bastian’s father. There were many times, like now, when he reminded Dog of the old man—kinder, without the temper. Maybe smarter, though Bastian’s father had been sharp enough to make admiral and get himself elected to Congress.

“Colonel, you’ve been in worse messes,” said the sergeant. “It’s just the paper-shuffling’s got you down.”

“Five of these programs have to go,” said Bastian, pointing to the papers. “Ms. O’Day is calling this morning for my recommendation.”

Deborah O’Day was the National Security Advisor and the reason Bastian was here.

“Eenie, meeney, minee, moe.”

Dog laughed.

“Finally,” said the sergeant. “I was begi

Dog smiled and took a sip of the coffee. The problem wasn’t deciding which programs should be cut. The problem was that the programs that should be cut were exactly the ones the brass, the White House, and the Congress wouldn’t cut. Worse, by recommending they be cut, all he would succeed in doing was anger people and administer the final coup de grace to Dreamland.