Piranha

The colonel nodded. “There is something I need you to do, or at least get a start on.”

“What’s that?”

Dog hesitated. “The disc you picked up from Captain Dolk—it’s a record of all the radar contacts.”

“Uh-huh?”

“There was a Flighthawk profile on the disk that we can’t explain.”

“I’m not following, Colonel.”

“Well, the scientists are still analyzing it.”

Dog heard footsteps coming down the hall. He took Da

“It looks like, or it may be, that someone was flying another Flighthawk. Not one of ours,” Dog told Da

“A Flighthawk?”

“Either a clone or something very, very similar. Some of the scientists think it’s just a reflection or a problem in the equipment; it’s at long range and the disc itself isn’t in the best shape, but Dr. Rubeo is convinced. That’s pretty convincing in and of itself. Given Dreamland’s history,” added Dog, “this will require thorough investigation.”

“If someone else has a Flighthawk,” said Da

“Not necessarily,” said Dog. “Several countries have unma

“Agreed.”

“Don’t let this stand in your way,” Dog told him. “If there was a security breach, it would’ve been earlier than your assignment here. It’s no reflection on you. It wouldn’t have been on your watch. You should run for Congress. Do it.”

Da

He’d make a damn fine Congressman. He’d have Dog’s vote, no hesitation.

Maybe he shouldn’t have told him at all. Let him start the paperwork, at least.

Dog was preoccupied second-guessing himself and missed Brea

A vaguely familiar, vaguely enticing voice.

“How are you, Tecumseh?” said his ex-wife, standing at their daughter’s bedside.

“I’m fine, Karen,” he said, letting the door close behind him.

“So what do you think of the news?” she added. She fingered her stethoscope—she was a doctor on staff, and had arranged for Brea

“What news?”

“I just got an offer as chief of the medical staff at St. Simon’s out in Las Vegas. We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.” She curled her hand around his. “Maybe we can get Bree and her husband working on a new addition. What do you say?”

Dog shot a glance at Brea

“Isn’t that a great idea?” said Karen.

“Peachy,” said Dog, glancing toward his daughter and trying to smile.

Medical Facility, Barbers Point NAS, Hawaii

August 31, 1997, 1836 local

“Major Stockard?”

Zen spun his wheelchair around so quickly that he nearly knocker over the doctor.

“I’m Stockard.”

“Hi, I’m Dr. Johnson. You wanted to see Mr. Stoner?”

“I’ve been waiting nearly two hours now.”

“Relax, Major,” said the Navy doctor. “He’s just regaining consciousness. We have him on painkillers, but he really just needs rest. He has some deep bruises, the concussion, and he’s very dehydrated, but he should be walking around tomorrow.”

As the Doctor said the word walking, he glanced at Zen’s wheelchair and turned red, embarrassed. Zen was so used to that sort of reaction—and so intent on seeing Stoner—that he hardly noticed, instead pushing down the hall toward the room. He pivoted precisely as he reached the doorway and pushed in, leaning over to lift the kick-stop on the door and shut it behind him.

“Hello,” said Stoner from the bed.

“She’s mine, Stoner,” he told him. “Don’t fuck with me. You got that?”

“What?”

“I saw you kiss Brea

“Zen?” Stoner blinked his eyes.

“I’ll fight for her. I will.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” said Stoner.

Zen wheeled backward a half stroke. His anger balanced on the edge of a knife blade. He knew what he had seen.

“Is Bree all right?” Stoner asked.

“Yeah.”

“Where is she?”