Nerve Center

No offense intended to the Israelis.

His rage was so great, Mack began racking his brain to see what he really was angry about. Not having a job—that was the problem.

And really, he’d been hard on Bastian the other day. He ought to apologize. And see if maybe Bastian had something for him yet.

Fresh off the helo, Mack headed to Bastian’s office, jostling past the obnoxious Sergeant Gibbs and sailing into Dog’s i

“I was a jerk the other day, cutting in front of the egghead,” he told Bastian, waiting for the colonel to quickly persuade him that he was wrong.

“Why are you here?” Bastian replied.

“I was a jerk,” Mack told him, still waiting.

Bastian glanced toward the door, where Sergeant Gibbs was standing.

“I will have a cup of coffee, Sergeant,” said Smith, following the glance. “That’d be nice.”

The barest hint of a frown appeared on Gibbs’s face before he retreated into his own domain.

“They broke the mold,” said Mack, gesturing toward Gibbs. “Fortunately.”

“Yes,” said Dog. Even ramrod straight in his chair, Bastian was not a tall man. Still, he dominated the space, his eyes hard in a face that seemed squared at the edges. He wasn’t particularly handsome, Mack thought, but looking at him you could tell he was the kind of guy who made a decision and stuck to it.

The colonel slowly reached for his coffee. He took a sip, then spoke.

“As a matter of fact, Mack, I have made a few calls on your behalf, despite our recent interview.”

“Oh?”

“There’s nothing immediate that comes up to your level of expertise.”

“Thanks, Colonel.” Mack smiled, expecting Bastian to go on, but he didn’t.

Sergeant Gibbs appeared with the coffee.

“Two lumps, huh, Major?”

“I like it sweet, yes,” said Mack, taking the cup. He stirred the metal spoon around, tapped it a few times, then took a sip.

Have to give this to the sergeant—he made a mean cup of joe.

“You’re on base early this morning,” noted Bastian.

“Yes, sir. Ru

“You still working with ANTARES?”

“Don’t know that they’re flying again today,” said Mack. “But if they want me, I’m ready. We’re about to shut down Sharkishki anyway. Couple more flights at most.”

Someone must have told Bastian about his son-in-law’s screwup yesterday, Mack realized. No wonder he was in a bad mood.

Time to change the subject.

“Obviously, I’d like to command a squadron, even if that’s not possible right away,” Knife told Bastian. “What I thought might work would be to go in as number two somewhere, you know, with a guy about to move out. Probably over in CentCom,” he added, referring to Central Command, which had charge of a number of tactical squadrons and where, he believed, Dog had numerous co

“Might work,” said Bastian. “In the meantime, I have something for you. It’s a political plum—temporary assignment with the Department of Energy, inspecting test facilities that are either slated to be closed or already are. They need a report on their suitability for Air Force bases. You can guess what the report’s supposed to say,” the colonel added.

“Sounds kind of like a—”

“It’s definitely a holding pattern, definitely bullshit, but you’ll interface with some Pentagon brass along the way,” continued Bastian. “If that goes well, I may be able to swing something much better.”

“Like?”

“Everything in due time,” said Dog.

Mack fought down the impulse to try and wheedle more information.

Hell, he had been a jerk, getting down on the Air Force. Even playing ground FAC with some dusty Army unit in Korea would be a million times better than becoming a civilian. Quit the service and he’d end up flying 727’s and learning to play golf.

No disrespect intended.

Mack jumped up, took a long swig of the coffee, and placed the half-full cup on the colonel’s desk. “It better be a kick-ass one or I’ll farm myself out as a free agent,” he joked. “Maybe I’ll go to Brazil—some old geezer tried to recruit me last month as a consultant.”

Bastian said nothing.

Mack laughed. “Hell, maybe I’ll go to work for the Russians. I can fly their planes too. Don’t you think, Dog?”

Still nothing from the colonel. Some guys were just humor-impaired.

“Well, listen, Colonel, I won’t keep you,” said Knife, backing his way toward the door. “I appreciate your trying to help me. Anything you can do, I appreciate it.”

Dreamland Flighthawk Hangar

19 February, 0630

“YEAH, RIGHT,” SAID SCHNEIDER WITH A LAUGH AS ZEN wheeled into the Flighthawk hangar. “Like you could hit a barn from that distance.”

“I did it,” insisted Foster.

The two techies were responsible for the robot planes’ engine systems. A few other members of the maintenance and prep team were hanging around, reviewing their punch lists and warming up to the day with coffee and some Danishes.

“Hey, Major,” said Schneider, turning to Jeff. “Foster here claims he nailed a buck between the eyes from five hundred yards last November back in Pe

“Three hundred yards, with a Remington rifle,” said Foster.

“I could believe that,” said Zen, helping himself to some of the coffee but skipping the sweets.

Tough, though. A pineapple Danish practically winked at him.

“And I didn’t shoot it in the eyes,” added Foster. “You don’t aim at a deer’s head if you want to hit it.”

“You mean you hit it by accident?” said Schneider.

Foster waved his clipboard at his friend. “Twenty-one points, and that’s no lie,” he told Zen. “You hunt, Major?”

Foster tried to swallow his words; Schneider shuffled his legs nervously. One or two of the other men glanced toward Jeff’s wheelchair.

“I’m not much of a hunter,” said Jeff, sipping his coffee as nonchalantly as possible. “Freezing my butt off in the woods isn’t my idea of recreation. Chair’s cold enough as it is.”

“Yeah.” Foster laughed nervously.

Jeff took a sip of his coffee. When he had first returned to active duty, the awkward silence would have a

If he’d been in a better mood—if he’d gotten more sleep—he might have made another joke, probably at Schneider’s expense; doubtless the coffee fiend couldn’t hit anything he was aiming at, starting with the urinal in the bathroom. But Zen just changed the subject, asking what kind of shape the planes were in. The crew dogs fell to with quick and very positive status reports. Four Flighthawks were now considered at full flight status; two more would join them late next month, with another pair ready for static tests and check-flights the month after. Components for additional U/MFs were said to be en route; by summer Dreamland would boast enough Flighthawks to mount a full squadron.

Satisfied, Zen pushed himself over to the elevator, riding down to the lab level and his office in “Bunker B.” One of the project members had tacked a large poster of a Frankenthaler painting on the door; he’d thought it pretty weird when he first saw it, and his opinion hadn’t changed all that much. It was called “The Human Edge,” and he supposed it was meant to be a metaphor or something. All he saw were some colors splotched on a large sheet of paper; not too much human about that.

Zen opened the door and spun his wheelchair sideways to angle through the narrow passageway. He left the door open while he checked for e-mail. Je